Deadline

Forty-six

Bolt was driving aimlessly down yet another grimy terraced back street when the call came. The clock on his dashboard said 8.07. Only nine minutes since he'd got off the phone to Tina.

So much of a person's life seemed to him to boil down to those single, long, terrifying moments of anticipation when you're given the hugely important news you've been waiting for: the results of medical tests; exam results; a jury's verdict; the location of the man who's holding your daughter.

'Tina,' he said, his voice hoarse, 'what have you got?'

'The phone's still on. The location's been triangulated to an area around a farm called Woodlands in Crews Hill.'

'Where the hell's that?'

'Just north of Enfield, south of the M25.'

She gave him the address and he fed it into the car's sat-nav system. The distance was just over six miles from where he was now. He swung the car round in a rapid three-point turn so that he was heading back towards the main road.

'Thanks, Tina.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to go and check it out. If it looks like it's a lead, I'll call in straight away.'

'This could put me in huge amounts of trouble, Mike. They're going to know the info's come from me, and you know as well as I do that it's totally illegal to get an unauthorized triangulation.'

'If it comes to nothing, there's no way it'll ever get back to you. You've got my word on that. And if it does lead somewhere, I'll come up with a reason why I found out about Ridgers' location without mentioning your name. I really appreciate this, Tina.'

'I talked to Mo. Christ, I can't believe she could be your daughter.'

There was a silence then, because Bolt didn't really know what to say. Tina ended it by wishing him good luck.

'Call us as soon as you've checked it out,' she added.

'Sure.'

He cut the connection, and accelerated on to the main road, ignoring the blast of the horn from the driver he'd just cut up. All that mattered to him was getting to Scott Ridgers.

Six miles and counting.