Knife Edge

by Shaun Hutson

  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.'

  11.41 A.M.

  Doyle stood beside the black Granada, gently rocking from one foot to the other.

  'This is bollocks,' he muttered, glancing around the hospital car park.

  A red Metro had just pulled up close by and he watched as two elderly women clambered out, one of them carrying a Cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers.

  'He's not going to call back,' Doyle insisted, watching as the women linked arms and headed off towards the hospital's main entrance.

  Calloway was seated behind the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the mobile phone which lay on the parcel shelf, as if by mere power of thought he could make it ring.

  'Come on, come on,' Doyle muttered.

  The phone rang.

  Calloway snatched it up.

  'It's him,' DS Mason said on the other end of the line. 'He wants to speak to Doyle.'

  'Patch this through the radio too,' Calloway instructed. 'And get a fucking trace going on the call.'

  'He won't be on long enough for that,' Doyle said.

  'He will if you keep him talking,' Calloway snapped, handing the mobile to the counter terrorist.

  The DI himself grabbed the radio and pressed 'Receive'.

  Doyle looked at the phone for fleeting seconds then pressed it to his ear.

  'Neville,' he said.

  'Is that you, Doyle?' the voice at the other end said.

  'You asked for me, didn't you? Why bother me with your bullshit?'

  'Because I know you'll listen.'

  'What makes you think that? What if I switched you off right now, shithead?'

  Calloway waved his hand frenziedly, fearing that Doyle would carry out his threat, but the counter terrorist held the phone firmly to his ear.

  'Why did you try to kill your wife and kid, Neville?' Doyle enquired.

  'I didn't, you ought to know that.'

  'Yeah, I know that. What do you want, a fucking medal for your handiwork? So, you can blow the roof off a house without damaging anything nearby. What do you do for an encore?'

  'You'll see,' Neville said softly. 'I used ten pounds of Semtex to lift that roof, I've got plenty more.'

  'How much more?'

  'Enough to put a fucking crater where the centre of London used to be.'

  'How much?' Doyle persisted.

  'A hundred and fifty pounds of it.'

  Doyle and Calloway looked at each other but if Doyle was surprised it didn't register in his expression.

  'Jesus fucking Christ,' whispered the policeman, swallowing hard.

  'So, what are you going to do with this explosive then, Neville?'

  'I know you're tracing this call.'

  'Good for you. Then you'll know that I'm going to find you.'

  'You're not going to find me. Not you or any of the fucking coppers listening to this conversation.'

  'Look, just tell me what the fuck you want, will you? You're starting to bore me,' Doyle said.

  'I want my daughter back.'

  'No chance,' Doyle said flatly.

  'In fifty minutes a bomb will explode somewhere in the centre of London,' Neville informed him. 'If you don't give me my daughter back then another one will explode every hour after that. Diffe
rent locations. Different lives, Doyle. You know what it's like. You've seen what bombs can do. A lot of people are going to die if I don't get my daughter back.'

  'Fuck you, Neville.'

  'One bomb every hour,' Neville continued. 'You'll never know where. And if you haven't seen sense by eight o'clock tonight, if I haven't got my daughter by then, if you're not sick of filling fucking body bags, then that's when the big one goes up. Eight tonight, Doyle. One hundred pounds of C4. Now get my daughter.'

  The radio crackled.

  'We've got the trace,' DS Mason said triumphantly.

  'Where's he calling from?' Calloway asked anxiously.

  'Euston station,' Mason almost shouted. 'The bastard's on Euston station.'

  Doyle looked at the humming mobile phone. 'He hung up.'

  Calloway glanced at his watch. 'We've got fifty minutes to find that bomb,' he said frantically. 'What the fuck do we do?'

  'My guess is it's near him,' Doyle said. 'I reckon the bomb's at Euston.'

  11.43 A.M.

  Doyle tossed the mobile towards Calloway then turned and sprinted towards his own car.

  'Listen,' said Calloway into the radio. 'I want every available mobile unit in the vicinity to close in on Euston station. Also, contact BR, tell them what's going on. Get that fucking place evacuated. If the bomb goes off there…' He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  The DI watched as Doyle leaped behind the wheel of the Datsun, revving the engine, reversing wildly.

  He sped off, almost colliding with an ambulance.

  'I want the emergency services on alert too,' Calloway continued. 'And the bomb squad. And you get to Euston as fast as you can, I'll meet you there. Doyle's already on his way.'

  The DI twisted the key in the ignition and the Granada's engine roared into life.

  As he guided the vehicle out of the car park he glanced at his watch. Could Neville be bluffing about the bomb?

  He hoped so but he doubted it.

  'Shit,' he hissed.

  There wouldn't be enough time.

  ***

  The bomb must be close to Neville, Doyle thought as he drove.

  Chances are it was to be detonated by remote control and most electronically triggered devices only had a range of about a hundred yards. Two hundred absolute tops.