Knife Edge (9 page)

11.06 A.M.

    Neville slowed down as he approached the red light.

    Inside the helmet his own breathing sounded laboured and he flipped up the visor, allowing some exhaust-choked air inside.

    He could feel the reassuring bulge of his weapons against each side, hidden beneath his jacket.

    As he drew up at the lights at the junction of Kilburn High Road and Belsize Road, Neville glanced at the vehicles aligned on either side of him.

    A pale blue Volvo driven by a woman who was constantly turning around to bellow at two kids in the back seat.

    Behind her a red Astra driven by a man with a haggard expression who was speaking animatedly into a mobile phone, alternately glancing at his watch and the lights which seemed to be stuck on red.

    A white Transit van was on the other side of him, loud music blasting from inside.

    The driver, a Jamaican wearing a baseball cap with the letter X emblazoned on it, regarded him balefully.

    Neville met his gaze.

    The Jamaican jerked his head up and down as if offended by the motorcyclist's gaze.

    'What you lookin' at, man?' he said sharply.

    Neville didn't answer. He continued to stare.

    
Nigger bastard.

    The light had changed to red and amber, engines revved.

    Neville kept his eye on the driver.

    Neville gunned the throttle and sped off, swerving in front of the van, causing the driver to brake hard.

    In his wing mirror he caught sight of the Jamaican gesturing angrily after him.

    Neville smiled to himself, guiding the bike effortlessly through the traffic, moving along Belsize Road at a steady speed.

    He didn't want to attract attention to himself.

    Not yet.

    There was a police car ahead of him.

    
So fucking what?

    They had no idea who he was, who this leather-clad rider was.

    More traffic lights ahead.

    The police car was slowing down.

    They couldn't know who he was.

    Could they?

    Neville wondered for fleeting seconds if he should speed around the police car, shoot across the lights. He thought better of it.

    Another red light was coming up.

    The police car had stopped too.

    Neville pulled up alongside it and glanced quickly in at the driver.

    Young, fresh-faced.

    The driver glanced at him and at the bike then he nudged his companion, pointing to the Harley.

    Neville swallowed hard.

    They knew.

    They
fucking
knew.

    The light was still on red.

    The driver was winding down the window now, his companion leaning across also.

    Neville kept his gaze straight ahead, one hand fumbling gently with the zip of his jacket. He only had to ease the.459 free. Three or four shots into the car would do it. He was less than two feet from them.

    Any minute now.

    The driver had wound down the window fully by now.

    Neville eased the zip further down.

    'Excuse me,' the driver said.

    Neville ignored him, his hand closing over the butt of the automatic.

    'I say, excuse me,' the policeman persisted.

    Neville turned to look into his eyes.

    
You're dead
, he mused.

    The driver held his gaze. 'It's a nice bike. Harley, isn't it?'

    Neville looked puzzled momentarily.

    'Harley Davidson,' the driver continued. 'It's not an Electra Glide, is it?'

    Neville shook his head.

    'Tour Glide,' he answered.

    'Told you,' said the driver, turning to his companion.

    Neville kept his hand around the butt of the.459.

    'Cheers,' the driver said and wound the window back up.

    The lights turned green, the police car moved off.

    Behind him, Neville heard a loud blast on a hooter and he too pulled away, drawing alongside the police car again then swinging right into Chalk Farm Road.

    The police car moved off in the opposite direction.

    
Get a grip.

    
They couldn't know. Not yet.

    Neville was angry with himself for his own nervousness.

    
Just calm down.

    
You've got a good headstart on them. They don't even know what they're looking for.

    He smiled.

    And by the time they do, it'll be too late.

    He glanced at his watch.

    It should take him another fifteen minutes to reach Euston.

11.12 A.M.

    Doyle recognised the voice immediately and a slight smile flickered on his lips as he leaned against the plastic shell of the phone cubicle.

    A nurse glanced fleetingly at him as she passed by and Doyle wrinkled his nose as he caught a scent of the contents of the bedpan she was carrying.

    'Are you OK, Doyle?' asked Major John Wetherby, his voice sounding metallic at the other end of the phone.

    'You heard what happened?'

    'It was difficult to miss it. Why didn't you kill Neville when you had the chance?'

    'There was no fucking chance, Wetherby, that's why the cunt's still breathing. Now listen to me, I need your help.'

    'How inconvenient for you,' Wetherby sniggered.

    'Cut the bullshit, will you, just listen. I spoke to Neville's wife and-'

    'She doesn't know who you are, does she?' Wetherby interrupted.

    'She knows I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit, what the fuck was I supposed to tell her? That her husband had won nutter of the year award and I was presenting it on behalf of the army?'

    'Does she know why you want Neville?'

    'No.'

    'And the police?'

    'Neither do they. Now will you shut the fuck up and listen to me.'

    'This mustn't get out, Doyle. If-'

    'I know that,' the counter terrorist snarled. 'Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me, Wetherby. Now listen to me. Neville's missus reckons he was a bit of a loner but there was one guy he was friendly with. A para by the name of Kenneth Baxter. I need to know as much about Baxter as you can tell me. If he's still serving. If he is then where? If he isn't then I need to know where I can find him. All the usual shit.'

    'Why the interest in Baxter?'

    'If he's a friend of Neville's it's not out of the question Neville might try and find him.'

    'Why?'

    'For fuck's sake, Wetherby, do I have to spell it out?' Doyle spat out exasperatedly. 'For support, for somewhere to hide out, to have a cuppa and a piece of fucking cake with. What the hell do you think? Neville might be trying to figure out his next move, it'd help him if he had some friendly faces around him, wouldn't it?'

    'I should think Neville knows exactly what he's going to do next,' Wetherby said smugly.

    'Just find Baxter for me, will you? I'll call back in thirty minutes.'

    'Doyle, have you any idea where Neville is now?'

    'If I had, would I be standing here talking to you?'

    Doyle hung up.

11.22 A.M.

    As Doyle approached the door he slowed his pace, listening for any sound from inside the room.

    There was none.

    He eased the handle down gently and stepped in.

    Julie Neville was sitting close to the bed where her daughter slept.

    To Doyle it looked as if both of them were in the same position as when he'd first entered the room. As if his conversation with Julie had never happened. As if a moment of time had been acted out and simply discarded.

    This time when she turned towards him, she smiled.

    A wide, bright smile.

    Welcoming.

    The counter terrorist said nothing, crossed to the bed and looked down at the sleeping form of Lisa Neville.

    The long honey-blonde hair, one small hand gripping an edge of the sheet which was pulled up to her neck.

    Doyle reached out and touched that small hand.

    Julie watched him, a mixture of bewilderment and surprise on her face.

    She studied the scars on his face. Deep scars.

    She wondered how he'd got them.

    There was even one on the hand which had reached out to touch her daughter.

    'She looks like you,' Doyle said quietly, his eyes never leaving the child.

    'You never had kids then?' Julie asked.

    Doyle smiled. 'No need,' he said. 'No need, no time, no inclination.'

    One more person to worry about. One more to lose.

    'What about your girlfriend? The one that was killed, didn't she…'

    'I never found out if she had much of a maternal streak,' he said bitterly.

    'You said you worked together, was she in the same line of work? Counter terrorist?'

    He nodded. 'She was the best I ever worked with,' he said softly.

    Right. That's enough of the bullshit.

    He ran a hand through his long hair as if the gesture was designed to wrench him from this mood.

    
Get a fucking grip.

    'Neville loved her, didn't he?' Doyle said nodding towards Lisa who stirred slightly in her sleep.

    'More than anything.'

    'More than you?'

    She looked shocked.

    'After all, you were the one he strapped the bomb to, not her,' Doyle said.

    'He would have done anything for Lisa.'

    Doyle reached for his cigarettes, lit one, then offered the packet to Julie.

    She declined.

    'What did he say to you when he was holding you hostage? What did he talk about?'

    'He was angry.'

    'I figured that out myself.'

    'Angry with the army,' Julie snapped. 'With the Government, with the public. With everyone. He thought he'd got a raw deal from the army. He kept on about having been trained to kill but then being discarded. He was mad because no one wanted him any more.'

    'Including you?'

    'It had been over between us for a couple of years. I put up with it as long as I could, for Lisa's sake. I suppose it was the last straw for him, me telling him I was going to leave him and take Lisa with me.'

    'Did you think he was crazy?'

    'I didn't know what to think. His moods changed like the bloody weather.'

    'He never hit you or Lisa?'

    'He wouldn't do that. It wasn't his style.' She smiled humourlessly. 'He'd never have slapped me.'

    'Just wired you up with explosive. I'd rather have been slapped.'

    'What do you want to hear, Doyle? That he was a maniac, that I was terrified of him? That I hated him?'

    'Did you?'

    'I felt sorry for him.'

    'That's worse.'

    'Fuck you,' she hissed.

    They locked stares, then Doyle glanced at his watch.

    'I've got to make a phone call,' he said, moving towards the door.

    Julie watched him go.

    'You're a bastard, Doyle,' she said as he opened the door.

    'Who's arguing?' he shrugged.

    It was as he stepped out into the corridor that he saw DI Calloway heading towards him.

11.37 A.M.

    'What the hell are you doing here?'

    Doyle eyed the DI disinterestedly and reached for his cigarettes.

    'I asked you what you were doing here, Doyle,' Calloway repeated.

    'Interviewing the witness.'

    'That's police business, it's nothing to do with you.'

    'You're right, it is police business but she's Neville's wife and he is my business.'

    Doyle noticed that the DI was alone. 'Where's the other half of the partnership?' he asked, taking a long draw on his cigarette.

    'Mason's gone back to New Scotland Yard for now. He's got a few things to sort out there.'

    The two men eyed one another warily for a moment longer, then Calloway's expression softened slightly.

    'Is she saying much?' he enquired, nodding towards the door.

    'Not much that's any help.'

    'No idea where Neville might be?'

    Doyle shook his head. He thought about mentioning Kenneth Baxter then decided against it.

    
Let the fuckers find out themselves.

    'I've got a phone call to make,' Doyle said, walking past Calloway.

    'What is the big secret about Neville?' the DI wanted to know. 'Why are you after him?'

    Doyle smiled. 'Let me worry about that,' he said quietly.

    'I could do you for obstruction,' Calloway said menacingly.

    'You couldn't do me for gobbing on the fucking pavement,' Doyle said dismissively, brushing past the DI.

    'We're supposed to be on the same side,' the policeman called after him.

    Doyle ignored him and kept walking.

    As he turned the corner of the corridor he saw that the public phone was in use.

    'Shit,' he muttered under his breath, sidling close to the user, a man in his mid-fifties who kept peering anxiously in Doyle's direction.

    
Come on, get a fucking move on.

    Doyle drew on his cigarette and leaned against the wall, gazing at the man who was glancing all around him, anything to avoid making eye contact.

    When he finally finished he gave Doyle an apologetic smile as he stepped away from the phone.

    The younger man picked up the receiver and began feeding coins into the machine, aware that the other man was staring at him.

    Only when Doyle turned and glared back at him did the man hasten his retreat along the corridor and out of sight.

    Doyle jabbed the digits and waited.

    An officious-sounding voice greeted him at the other end.

    'I want to speak to Major John Wetherby,' Doyle said. 'Tell him it's Sean Doyle.'

    The other voice said that Wetherby was busy.

    'Then interrupt him. This is urgent.'

    The officious voice insisted Doyle should hold.

    'I'm using a public phone, you prick, now get Wetherby and stop fucking about. This is very urgent.'

    There was a moment or two of silence on the other end, then Doyle heard a more familiar voice.

    'Doyle, I-'

    He didn't let the Intelligence officer finish. 'What have you got on Kenneth Baxter?'

    'Well, he wasn't hard to trace. It makes for interesting reading, Doyle.'

    'Cut the small talk. Where is he?'

    'He's in London. He's lived there for the past twelve months. Kenneth Edward Baxter, age thirty-eight. Born May-'

    'I don't need his fucking life history,' Doyle snapped.

    'It's relevant,' Wetherby replied angrily.

    'Is he still serving?'

    'That's the interesting bit. Kenneth Baxter was court-martialled eighteen months ago, while he was a serving paratrooper. He was found guilty and sentenced to six months in a military prison in Aldershot. After his release he was dishonourably discharged from the army.'

    'Jesus Christ, what did he do?'

    'Well, like our friend Neville, Baxter was an explosives expert too. The only problem was, he was selling explosives, army explosives, to the IRA and the UVF.'

    'For fuck's sake.'

    'There was some talk of him selling weapons too but that charge was never proved.'

    'So where is he now?'

    'Like I said, he's living in London. He works for a private security firm called Nemesis.'

    'They obviously didn't ask for references.'

    'He's been there for about eight months.'

    'Addresses?' Doyle fumbled in his pocket for a piece of paper. He found an old betting slip in one back pocket of his jeans and pulled a Bic from his jacket, scribbling away as Wetherby relayed the information. 'Anything else I should know?' he said finally, shoving the worn pink slip back into his pocket.

    'Just find Neville,' Wetherby said.

    'Doyle!'

    The counter terrorist turned as he heard his name being called.

    He looked around to see Calloway hurrying up the corridor towards him.

    'Got to go,' Doyle said into the phone and hung up.

    Calloway looked flushed around the cheeks.

    'What's going on?' Doyle asked.

    'I just spoke to Mason at New Scotland Yard,' the DI told him. 'He called me on my mobile. Neville rang there five minutes ago. He says he's ringing back in a couple of minutes. He wants to talk, but he'll only talk to you.'

    'What the fuck does he want to talk to me for?'

    'He said something about a bomb.'