Knife Edge (6 page)

9.24 A.M.

    Doyle didn't know the names of the two men with him.

    He didn't care.

    They were both uniformed and in their late twenties. One fresh-faced and slightly built, the other broader across the shoulders. The bulletproof waistcoats which they both wore added to the bulk.

    Doyle had seen both of the policemen inspecting him as Calloway had briefed them and then he'd heard names mentioned.

    Scott and Wilde? Something like that.

    Who cared?

    They both carried Sterling 81 rifles.

    Doyle held a two-way radio in his hand, the volume turned down as low as possible.

    The three men were less than fifty yards from number ten London Road, ducked low as they sprinted towards number six, passing other policemen, some of whom were crouched down behind the many parked cars which clogged the street.

    Doyle saw more guns.

    The counter terrorist slowed his pace when he reached the short path leading towards the front door of number six. There was a high fence to one side of the house which would shield their approach. It also hid the garden from view should anyone be looking from a rear window of number ten.

    Doyle knew that Neville would have ensured he could see in all directions. He would have picked his vantage points carefully.

    That's what Doyle himself would have done.

    He smiled to himself.

    The gate which led to the rear of number six was open and Doyle eased up the latch and beckoned the two policemen to follow him.

    The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown, the flowerbeds infested with weeds. A child's swing was at the bottom of the garden, the seat swaying gently back and forth in the wind, the rusty chains creaking noisily.

    The fence which separated this garden from that of the next house was six feet tall, weather-beaten, rotten in places.

    Doyle gripped the top and hauled himself up, glancing swiftly over into the garden of number eight.

    Beyond it there was a low privet hedge.

    'Fuck it,' hissed Doyle, dropping back down.

    'What's wrong?' asked Scott, the larger of the two armed policemen.

    'Don't fuck about when you get over this fence,' Doyle said sharply 'There isn't much cover. Just head straight for the back door and keep your heads down, otherwise you're likely to get them blown off.'

    Doyle pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide, chambering a round before slipping it back beneath his left arm.

    Wilde looked at his companion then at Doyle.

    'What if Neville opens fire?' he asked nervously.

    'You're wearing body armour, aren't you?' Doyle said. 'Just hope he doesn't aim for your head.'

    'Do we return fire?' Scott wanted to know.

    Doyle shook his head.

    'Then what's the point in us having these?' Wilde blurted, holding up the rifle.

    'Just do what you're told,' Doyle snapped, turning towards the fence once again.

    He gripped the top, dragged himself up and over it, landing lightly on the other side. As soon as he hit the ground he ducked down and scuttled towards the rear of the house, casting a swift cautionary glance towards one of the back windows of number ten.

    No signs of movement.

    Had Neville seen them approaching?

    Cat and fucking mouse.

    Doyle saw Scott heaving himself over the fence, the rifle slung around him.

    He jumped down, landed heavily and overbalanced, sprawling on the grass.

    'Get up, you prat,' Doyle hissed under his breath as the policeman hurried across to join him.

    Wilde followed a moment later, banging the fence hard with one foot as he swung himself over.

    Doyle looked up towards the back of number ten.

    
Are you waiting for us, Neville?

    Doyle half expected to hear a shot ring out, to see Wilde fall.

    Instead the policeman sprinted over to join the other two men. He was breathing hard and Doyle suspected that it wasn't the exertions which were causing it.

    The younger man's face was pale.

    'Now what?' said Scott.

    'We get inside,' Doyle told him.

    'But Neville's in number ten,' Wilde protested.

    'Do you want to go and ring his fucking doorbell then?' Doyle snapped.

    The younger man lowered his gaze, contenting himself with staring around the garden instead.

    There was still washing on the line. Just a solitary blouse and, for some reason, a single white sock.

    A plastic tricycle lay overturned on the well-manicured lawn. Close to it a black and white football.

    Children's possessions, thought Wilde.

    He could feel his heart pounding hard against his ribs and he gripped the rifle tightly.

    Doyle was staring at the back door, which was wooden with glass panels in the top half.

    Using one elbow he broke the panel above the lock and snaked his hand through, turning the key.

    He pushed open the door, took one last look up at the rear of number ten, then ushered the two armed policemen inside ahead of him.

    If Neville had seen them arrive he was keeping quiet about it, thought Doyle.

    What little surprises have you got in store, you fucker?

    Doyle stepped inside number eight and flicked on the two-way.

    'Calloway, it's Doyle, come in, over.'

    The radio hissed and crackled and Doyle fiddled with the buttons on it.

    He heard the DI's voice.

    'Doyle, this is Calloway. Over.'

    The counter terrorist held the two-way close to his mouth.

    'We're inside number eight,' he said.

9.29 A.M.

    Robert Neville sat on one end of the sofa and poured himself another glass of Scotch.

    'Join me?' he said, smiling crookedly at his wife.

    Julie shook her head and looked away from him, shifting position. She could feel the first twinges of cramp in her left calf and began to massage the affected area slowly.

    Neville suddenly got to his feet and crossed to her, gripping her chin in his hand, forcing her head around so that she was compelled to look into his face. Into his eyes.

    They locked stares, then he released his grip and walked towards the window, whisky glass in one hand.

    'Bob, just promise me one thing.'

    Neville turned to look at her.

    'Promise me you won't hurt Lisa. I don't care what you do to me but-'

    'Don't you?' he said sharply. 'You really don't care. What's the matter? Do you put that little value on your own life? I thought it was just me you didn't give a shit about.'

    She sighed resignedly. 'I know you'll kill me if you want to, I'm just asking you not to hurt Lisa. She is your daughter, in case you'd forgotten.'

    'So, you want me to promise?' he said cryptically.

    She watched as he downed what was left in the glass then crossed to the wooden sideboard and refilled the tumbler.

    There was a photo perched on top of the mahogany cabinet.

    A wedding photo.

    Neville picked it up and studied the figures in it.

    Himself and Julie. So long ago. How long? He could barely remember.

    Neville in his uniform. Julie resplendent in a knee-length blue dress.

    Nine, ten years ago.

    Jesus, where had the time gone?

    The photo had been taken outside Camden Register Office. There'd been fewer than a dozen people there. Family, what little they had. Friends, those who'd bothered to turn up.

    Neville replaced the photo.

    'It hasn't all been bad, has it?' he asked softly, eyes still fixed on the picture.

    'What?'

    'Our life together.'

    'No. We've got Lisa.'

    'We just never had each other, did we?' he said, his tone hardening rapidly.

    'You were never here, Bob.'

    'I was doing a job, for Christ's sake. You knew what I did when you met me. You knew I was in the army.' He turned to face her.

    'You were different then,' she told him.

    'Bullshit.'

    'We were both different people, Bob.' She opened her mouth to speak again but he held up a hand to silence her, his ears attuned to the slightest noise.

    He moved across the room, towards the living-room wall, then he cupped a hand to it and listened.

    Movement on the other side.

    He leaned closer, trying to distinguish the sounds.

    Then, silence.

    He wondered if the noise had come from the front of the house, but something told him his initial instinct had been correct.

    Sounds of movement from the house next door?

    Neville retreated from the living room for a moment.

    When he returned he was carrying the MPi 69, his face set in a stern expression.

    Julie looked at the automatic weapon and shuddered involuntarily.

    Neville slipped off the safety catch.

    It seemed the waiting was over.

9.41 A.M.

    Doyle noticed that there were still cups and plates on the kitchen table of number eight. Even a bottle of milk was propped in the centre of the table, bowls of half-eaten cornflakes close by.

    The resident must have been evacuated during breakfast.

    On one of the plates a fried egg had congealed along with several rashers of bacon and a couple of sausages.

    The counter terrorist picked up one of the sausages and pushed it into his mouth, chewing hungrily.

    He looked around the room. Crayon drawings were stuck to the cupboard doors with Blu-Tack. Fridge magnets in the shape of letters had been placed randomly on the white metal of the cold unit.

    Wilde noticed some small metal cars on the floor beneath the table, discarded by their owner during the flight from the house.

    The room smelled of cooking.

    He and Scott followed Doyle through into the living room, which looked slightly less chaotic.

    The television was still on, the sound turned down.

    Beneath it the digits of the video, he noticed, were set at the wrong date and time.

    There were photos on the wall showing the family who had fled.

    Mother, father and two children.

    The parents were in their late twenties, he guessed, the kids about eight or nine. A boy and a girl.

    Doyle glanced around the room, also taking in the details, then he crossed to the front window and peered out.

    The view he had was roughly the same as that of Neville in the building next door. Uniformed policemen, a number of cars. Even the Portacabin which he'd left not so long ago was just visible from here.

    The counter terrorist saw a door behind him and assumed it led to the hallway.

    He pushed open the door and found that his assumption was right.

    As Scott and Wilde watched, he closed the door again then flicked on the two-way.

    'Calloway, it's Doyle, come in.'

    There was a sharp hiss of static then he heard the policeman's voice.

    'What have you got, Doyle?'

    'Any sign of movement from Neville?'

    'Not yet.'

    'If there is, you let me know straight away, got it?'

    Doyle flicked off the two-way then pushed open the hall door once more, edging towards the stairs, climbing them cautiously, cursing under his breath when the first one creaked alarmingly.

    The two policemen followed him, also treading carefully

    As they reached the landing, Doyle looked up and saw a trapdoor leading to the attic.

    The four doors which faced the three men were all closed. He nodded towards Wilde, then the closest door.

    Scott searched the other two rooms.

    'Nothing,' Scott whispered, joining Doyle who was still gazing up at the trapdoor.

    Wilde rejoined them a moment later and merely shook his head.

    'Give me a leg up,' Doyle said quietly and Scott clasped his hands together, stirrup-like, allowing the counter terrorist to put one booted foot there, then he lifted.

    Doyle pushed the opening of the trapdoor with one hand, using the other to grip the side of the attic entrance, then he swung himself up into the gloom of the loft.

    The darkness up there was impenetrable, the dust thick.

    It clogged in his nostrils but he put a hand over his mouth to stop himself coughing.

    Doyle reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter, striking it, holding it high above his head.

    The sickly yellow light it gave off was barely sufficient to cut through the inky blackness and it only gave him a puddle of brightness about a foot in diameter in which to move.

    He picked his way slowly across the attic floor, the lighter growing hot in his hand.

    There were boxes everywhere, piled high, some overflowing. He saw magazines, tools, clothes and even old blankets stuffed into them. Some of the boxes were ripped, their contents having spilled out on to the dusty floor of the attic.

    A pile of old copies of Men Only stood close by and Doyle glanced down approvingly at the face of the young woman who adorned the cover, her features covered by a film of dust.

    There was a loud squeak from beneath his foot and he froze.

    
Shit.

    The sound seemed to be dulled by the dust in the air but, to Doyle, the noise sounded deafening.

    He looked down to see that he'd trodden on a plastic rabbit. Another child's toy. As he removed his foot it squeaked again, almost protestingly.

    
Fucking thing.

    The wall which separated the attic of number eight from the attic of number ten was about six feet away now.

    Doyle could see that the bricks there were still bare, untouched by paint, encrusted only with dust and grime.

    He stood close to the wall and pressed the flat of one hand to the cold bricks.

    These houses were more than eighty years old. The walls must be at least a foot thick, he mused, tapping a brick with the knuckle of his finger.

    If they were going to get into the house next door through here they'd need to blast the fucking thing.

    
So much for plan A,
Doyle mused, turning and heading back towards the hatch.

    It was then that the two-way crackled into life.

    He snatched it from his pocket, turning the volume down as low as it would go.

    'Doyle, this is Calloway, come in.'

    The counter terrorist took two swift steps towards the hatch.

    'Doyle…'

    'Shut it for fuck's sake, I can hear you,' Doyle rasped. 'I'm in the attic of number eight, Neville will hear you too if you don't keep it down.' He crouched on the edge of the hatch, the two policemen looking up at him. 'What the hell's going on?'

    'Something's happening,' Calloway told him. 'The door to number ten is open. Someone's coming out.'