Knife Edge

by Shaun Hutson

  Just get the headphones, then head back.

  She had no idea from which direction the blast came.

  The ferocity of the explosion was so violent it seemed to fill the entire shop.

  Cathy heard a loud bang then the world dissolved into a haze of red and yellow.

  CDs, videos, racks and tapes were sent flying in all directions by the massive blast.

  Cathy joined them, hurled across the shop like a rag doll, lifted as if on invisible strings. Suspended in the air for endless seconds before being slammed into a wall which was already ablaze.

  It mattered little to her.

  The initial blast had killed her instantly, ripping part of her clothing off as surely as it had torn away one of her arms and the lower part of her right leg.

  The explosion funnelled up the stairs, a shrieking bolt of fire incinerating everything it touched. It melted flesh as easily as plastic.

  Rolling clouds of smoke billowed out into Piccadilly Underground station, the shattering detonation reverberating off the walls and ceilings, deafening those nearby.

  Screams began to fill the air, mingling with the cries of those dying or injured.

  Many lay still, some hideously wounded.

  The store was filled with the stench of smoke, the reeking odour of burning plastic and the more pungent smell of scorched flesh.

  Music was still playing.

  Death had a tune.

  12.38 P.M.

  Doyle sipped his tea and looked around the mobile operations unit.

  It was like an office on wheels. A massive white vehicle which resembled a motor-home, painted in police colours and equipped with everything from a fax machine to five phone lines. There was even a portable television hooked up to a VCR in one comer of the unit.

  All the comforts of home.

  A small desk had been placed at one end of the vehicle and it was behind this desk that DI Vic Calloway sat, ear pressed to a phone receiver, tracing patterns with a Biro as he talked.

  Doyle got to his feet, lit up a cigarette and stood watching the policeman.

  Calloway slammed down the phone.

  'Jesus Christ,' he hissed through clenched teeth.

  'How many?' Doyle asked.

  'Fourteen dead, God knows how many injured.'

  Doyle spat out a piece of tobacco.

  'The media think it's terrorists,' the policeman continued.

  Just like Neville wants them to think.

  'There's a press conference in two hours back at the Yard,' Calloway added wearily.

  'And two more bombs before it,' Doyle reminded him.

  'Why tell us it was here?' snapped Calloway.

  'He didn't tell us, I guessed. Looks like I was wrong, doesn't it?'

  Calloway looked impassively at the counter terrorist.

  'It's part of the game,' Doyle said.

  'I'm sick of you calling it a fucking game. Fourteen people are dead because of Neville. This is no game, Doyle.'

  'What are you going to tell the media?'

  Calloway shook his head slowly.

  'Who will you blame the bomb on?' Doyle persisted.

  'We can put out a story it was a gas leak or something, buy some time.'

  'A fucking gas leak? They might swallow that for the first explosion, but what about two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight? And forget about buying time, Calloway. You haven't got any time to buy. In less than an hour number two goes off. What excuse are you going to use then?'

  Calloway had no answer. 'I might find this bloody maniac quicker if you gave me some help, Doyle,' the DI snapped. 'You know more than you're letting on.'

  'Neville's my responsibility.'

  'Bullshit!' shouted the policeman. 'Now you tell me what you know.'

  'What are you going to do if I don't? Arrest me for obstruction?'

  'I might just do that.'

  'Arrest me and you'll never find Neville. I'm your only chance.'

  'Then work with me, for Christ's sake.' There was desperation in Calloway's voice.

  Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette then dropped it to the floor and stepped on the smouldering butt.

  'Neville was in the army with a geezer called Kenneth Baxter,' he began. 'They were close, according to Neville's missus. Well, as close as he got to anyone. I checked up on Baxter with Army Intelligence, they gave me some details.'

  Doyle explained briefly.

  'And you think Baxter's involved?' Calloway said finally.

  Doyle shook his head. 'I just want to talk to him,' he said. 'Find out what he knows about Neville.'

  'What makes you think he'll tell you?'

  'Why shouldn't he? He's got nothing to hide. Besides, I can be very persuasive.' The counter terrorist smiled thinly.

  'Where's this firm he works for?'

  'Cavendish Square.' Doyle looked at his watch. 'I can be there in half an hour.'

  'How do I know you'll tell me what he said?'

  'You don't. You'll have to trust me.'

  Calloway eyed Doyle warily.

  'If he knows anything, Doyle, I want to know,' the DI said, pointing a warning finger at the counter terrorist.

  'Are Neville's wife and kid still at the hospital?'

  'No. I had them moved to a safe house in Lambeth, until this is all over.'

  'I'll need to talk to her again too. Let me have the address.'

  'Don't you think she's been through enough?'

  'She'll go through a bloody sight more if we can't find Neville quick and, at the moment, there's about as much chance of finding him as there is of Salman Rushdie turning up at a fucking Moslem wedding. Give me that address.'

  Calloway scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Doyle, who folded it up and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans without even looking at it.

  He headed for the door.

  'If you need me you know where to contact me,' Calloway said.

  'What about the bomb in Piccadilly?'

  'The bomb squad is sorting through the wreckage now. As soon as they've got something they'll call. I'll let you know.'

  Doyle looked at his watch. 'Let's hope they're quick,' he said wryly

  Calloway nodded slowly.

  The door closed behind Doyle.

  Calloway glanced at his watch.

  They had just over fifty minutes before the next bomb went off.

  12.49 P.M.

  The multi-storey car park in Fetter Lane stunk of oil and petrol but Neville ignored the cloying odour.

  As he pulled off the helmet he felt the perspiration running down both sides of his face, stinging his eyes as it dripped from his brows. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a mile in the heat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Sweat soaked into the material of his jeans around the crooks of his knees. But those damp patches would dry quickly, he thought, as he pulled off the heavy-duty motorcycle trousers, balling them up, stuffing them beneath the Volvo he was parked next to.

  He knelt quickly and refastened one of his caterpillar boots, tying the lace tightly then stamping his foot on the stained concrete floor.

  He seemed to be the only occupant.

  Row upon row of cars stretched to his left and right and he saw a blinking red light in one close by.

  The LCD of an alarm.

  It pulsed, blood red in the gloom of the car park, and Neville stared at it as if hypnotised by the rhythmic flickering.

  He ran a hand through his hair, wiping sweat from his face, sucking in lungfuls of stale air.

  On a level above him he heard a car engine being started, the sound amplified by the concrete walls and ceilings.

  Neville waited a moment, watching as the car glided down the ramp to his right then disappeared from view.

  He hung the leather jacket on one handlebar and stood motionless, hands on his hips, eyes closed, allowing the cool, rancid air inside the car park to wash over him. The sweat which was drying on him felt ice cold, but it
was a welcome feeling and Neville enjoyed it for a few seconds longer before drawing in one final deep breath. He flipped open the top box of the Tour Glide.

  The implement he sought was visible immediately and he picked up the screwdriver, kneeling, slotting the end into the head of the first screw that held the number plate in place.

  It came free relatively easily. As did the second.

  The third was more difficult.

  He grunted irritably as he twisted the screwdriver, causing it to slip, scraping across the plate, gouging off some of the paint.

  Neville hissed under his breath and continued working at it until it finally came free.

  The fourth screw also came away with little effort.

  It took him less than a minute to remove the front plate too.

  Smiling to himself he slid the discarded plates together and strolled across to the waste bin which was positioned near to the lift.

  Neville took one furtive look around then stuffed the plates into the bin, pulling a broken Domino's Pizza box over them. Then he walked back towards the bike, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  The sweat on his body was dry now, the shirt no longer sticking to his back.

  The damp patches on his jeans were almost dry.

  He reached into the top box for the other set of number plates.

  Then he heard footsteps.

  Neville spun round, one hand touching the butt of the. 357, aware of how ridiculously conspicuous he would have looked to any passer-by.

  Who fucking cared?

  If anyone stumbled upon him he'd kill them.

  The footsteps, he realised, were coming from the level above him.

  He heard the harsh clicking of high heels and realised it was a woman moving briskly across the concrete floor.

  He waited a moment longer then heard the sound of a car door slamming, an engine being started.

  He reached for his jacket and pulled it on, realising that she would pass by him on the way down.

  Neville barely gave the Fiesta a second glance as it purred down the ramp, the driver glancing at him as she swept her long auburn hair away from her face.

  He waited until the sound of the engine had died away then quickly attached the new number plates, before dropping the screwdriver back into the top box.

  Just like clockwork.

  Neville mounted the bike and started it, the engine roaring loudly.

  He pulled the helmet tightly over his head, wiping a little condensation from the visor before he rode down the ramps towards the exit.

  The Fiesta was stopped at the barrier, the driver fumbling in her handbag for change while the attendant looked on intently, taking the opportunity to gaze at her knees.

  He hastily averted his eyes when she pushed some coins into his hand and sat there, one hand propped out of the car waiting for her change. As she took it the exit barrier rose and she drove off.

  The attendant barely looked at Neville as he took his money.

  'Keep the change,' the ex-para said, smiling inside the helmet.

  'Thanks,' the attendant grunted, gazing at the twenty pence he was left with.

  As the barrier rose, Neville sped off.

  1.06 P.M.

  Number twenty-six Cavendish Square was an imposing-looking building but then again, thought Doyle, glancing round, every building in Cavendish Square was impressive.

  Like so many properties adjacent to it, number twenty-six housed several occupants, several companies all operating behind its edifice of large

  Victorian town house complete with polished front door.

  The intercom system arranged beside the brass-decorated door looked curiously incongruous. A twentieth-century imposition upon a more sedate age.

  Very fucking philosophical. Ring the bell.

  Doyle drew hard on his cigarette and ran appraising eyes over the list of occupants.

  STRANGE AIR STUDIOS

  MILLIGAN AND NYLES PR

  MADAME OLENSKA (whoever the fuck she might be)

  NEMESIS SECURITY

  Doyle pressed the button beside the last name and stepped closer to the intercom.

  'We're on the fourth floor, come up,' said an almost unbearably cheerful female voice and Doyle pushed the main door as he heard a buzzer sound.

  A wide corridor led towards a small reception area with a desk but no receptionist. There was even a vase of fresh flowers set in the centre of the desk. A couple of leather sofas were pushed against the wall and a small table carried an assortment of magazines.

  To his left, Doyle saw a lift. He pushed the Call button.

  The reception area was suddenly filled with the sound of loud music and Doyle turned to see that another door behind the reception desk had opened.

  A young woman in her mid-twenties emerged, smiled at him and flicked a strand of blonde hair away from her face. She was carrying a metal box which looked much too heavy for her.

  'Can I take that for you?' Doyle offered, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.

  The young woman smiled again and nodded gratefully, handing him the box.

  'It probably seems like an obvious statement but you work here, right?' Doyle said, gazing fixedly at her.

  Shoulder-length blonde hair. Pale grey eyes.

  She was wearing a baggy V-neck sweatshirt, leggings and a pair of black Reeboks which, he noticed, had bright yellow laces.

  'I work for Strange Air,' she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. 'The recording studio.'

  Doyle nodded, aware that she was assessing him.

  They stepped into the lift when it arrived.

  'Which floor?' she asked him, a well-manicured finger hovering over the buttons.

  'Four.'

  She pressed Four and Three.

  The doors remained open.

  She pushed again.

  'It's temperamental,' she explained.

  'I know how it feels.'

  She giggled this time. An infectious sound.

  The doors finally slid shut.

  'This is a no smoking building.'

  'I won't tell if you won't,' Doyle said.

  'Only if I can have a drag?' she said, gazing lovingly at the cigarette.

  He nodded and she took the cigarette from between his lips and sucked hard on it.

  'Jesus,' she murmured. 'That's better.'

  It was Doyle's turn to smile.

  'Keep it,' he said, watching as she took another drag.

  She shook her head, took the cigarette from her own mouth and pushed it gently back between his lips. He licked at the filter and tasted her lipstick.

  The lift continued to rise slowly.

  'You're not Madame Olenska, are you?' Doyle said smiling.

  The young woman laughed and shook her head.

  'Who the hell is she?' he persisted.

  'She's got a flat on the second floor, she's a mystic. Tarot cards, seances. That kind of thing. She gets a lot of business.'

  'I wonder if she could tell me what's going to win the three-thirty at Kempton.'

  Again the woman laughed, her gaze now riveted on Doyle. 'You don't look like one of her customers.'

  'I'm not.'

  The lift bumped to a halt at the third floor.

  'This is me,' she said, holding out her arm for the metal box which Doyle handed to her. 'Thanks for your help. Nice to see the age of chivalry isn't dead.'

  She stepped out of the lift, Doyle's eyes straying to her shapely legs and buttocks.

  'I hope no one smells the smoke in the lift,' she said as she walked off down the corridor.

  'I'll tell them it was you,' he called after her, and he heard that infectious laugh once more as the lift doors slid shut.

  Doyle took one last drag on the cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it out beneath his boot as the lift reached four.

  He stepped out on to polished wood floors.

  There was another reception area opposite him, the woman behind it looking up with conc
ern on her face as he strode towards her.

  'Can I help you?' she said, forcing a smile.

  'Yeah, you buzzed me in,' he told her, reaching inside his jacket for his ID which he flipped open before her. 'Sean Doyle, Counter Terrorist Unit. I'm looking for Kenneth Baxter.'

  1.10 P.M.

  The contents of the plastic tray didn't look like much.

  A few blackened, twisted pieces of plastic, some wire, a portion of battery, fragments of glass and other items which resembled little more than drops of solidified wax.

  Detective Sergeant Colin Mason leaned on the work top, peering at the stuff in the tray, occasionally sucking in a deep breath. Sometimes peering at the other two men in the room.

  John Fenton and Peter Draper were members of the bomb squad. Both in their late thirties, both dressed in black uniforms, they even looked alike. The same full features, same slim build. The only difference immediately apparent was that Fenton was much taller than his companion. A good six inches, Mason guessed.

  Draper was chewing gum, rolling the balled-up silver foil which the stick had been wrapped in beneath his finger as if he was trying to shape it into a perfect sphere.

  'It was Semtex all right,' Fenton said finally. 'I'd say about ten pounds, maybe less.'

  'Are you sure?' Mason demanded.

  'About the explosive or the weight?' Fenton asked.

  'It was definitely C4,' Draper added. 'We ran acetone tests on the debris. The spectrometry confirmed it.'

  'Hidden inside a video cassette case as far as we can tell,' Fenton informed the policeman.

  'How the hell did Neville manage that?' Mason wanted to know.

  'Easy,' Fenton said. 'He took the cassette out and put the Semtex in the box instead.'

  'You know what I mean,' Mason snapped. 'How long could it have been there?'

  'Two hours, two days, two weeks. It's impossible to say,' Draper said. 'He'd have needed to be sure it was in a case that wouldn't be removed before he wanted to detonate it. Something he was sure no one would buy.'

  Fenton just shrugged.

  'And how was it detonated?' Mason persisted.

  'Battery,' Fenton said, pointing to a portion of a Duracell with the end of his pencil. 'We found this at the scene. All high explosives need to be started by a separate detonating blast. With portable bombs like this one Neville used, it's nearly always batteries.'