Deadline

Thirty-one

Bolt tossed and turned all night, his sleep a series of fitful dozes. In those rare times when he did go under, the dreams came, unwelcome and unnerving. In one of them he and Mikaela were living in Andrea's house with two young children of their own. But the children were nameless, faceless wraiths. He wasn't even sure if they were boys or girls, only that he loved them with an intensity he didn't realize he was capable of. Yet every time he went to hold one of them, they would float out of his grip, leaving him feeling progressively more angry and frustrated. He tried to talk about this to Mikaela but she didn't seem to understand. 'They're our children,' was all she said, and she was smiling as she spoke, because Mikaela had always wanted children. It was he who hadn't . . .

Some time later, in the grey time before dawn, he'd found himself slipping into another dream, this one far clearer and more violent. He was back at the Lewisham robbery – the gunfight that in reality had lasted a matter of seconds, but which had remained etched on his mind for ever. Only this time the robbers were unarmed. They were standing in a line and trying to surrender, hands in the air, their balaclavas removed, all but one of their faces blurred. The one Bolt could see properly was Dean Hayes, a scraggy-faced youth with a hook nose that had been broken more than once, and dyed blond hair. His eyes were wide with fear and he was trying to say something. But in the dream, Bolt was filled with a ferocious rage. These were the bastards responsible for kidnapping his daughter – all of them. The rage made the gun quiver and twitch in his hands, but that didn't stop him from opening fire, the shock of the retorts echoing in his head. Dean Hayes bucked crazily as he was hit repeatedly, until finally he fell sprawling to the pavement. Then Bolt moved the gun in a slow, careful arc, pulling the trigger again and again, experiencing a burst of elation as one after another they went down, hardly hearing the shouts of his colleagues as they tried to get him to stop shooting.

The last thing he remembered was seeing Andrea standing beside him, dressed in the lacy black negligee she was wearing when he'd first met her all those years ago, the gun in her hand kicking as she too opened fire on the men in front of her, her expression a picture of controlled calm.

And then suddenly the dream ended with the shriek of the alarm, and it was back to a reality he'd rather not have had to face.

He was shattered by the time he got into the office that morning. There was a 7.30 meeting for everyone involved in the operation, except those who were on surveillance duty, either watching the area around Andrea's house or keeping tabs on the movements of Leon Daroyce and his close associates. It was led by Big Barry Freud, and was at least partly overshadowed by the discovery of Marie Aniewicz's body the previous evening. There were no further details on her death, although the initial results of her autopsy were expected by mid-afternoon. One thing, though, was clear: she'd been deliberately targeted, and her murder was linked to the kidnap inquiry. Barry seemed unduly hopeful that the results of the house-to-house enquiries in the area, and a search of the murder scene itself, might elicit clues as to the identity of the kidnappers, conveniently glossing over the fact that they had only a matter of hours left before any such clues became irrelevant. There'd been no breaks in the case anywhere else, and the Daroyce surveillance team had nothing to report to suggest that either he or his people were directly implicated, so, once again, everything hinged on the success of the sting operation they were setting up to catch the kidnappers during the ransom drop.

The bulk of the meeting was spent going over the details of the sting itself and everyone's part in it, and Bolt sensed the growing excitement among those present in the incident room as it became clear they were going to get a chance to bring some truly brutal individuals to justice.

Bolt shared none of this excitement. The tension was building in him again, rising to almost intolerable levels as he heard his colleagues discuss the proposed arrest of the kidnappers and the rescue of his daughter, noting grimly that there seemed to be more emphasis on the first objective than on the second, and that Emma was rarely mentioned by name. Once during the meeting he caught Tina's eye. She was looking tired, but she mouthed the words 'You OK?' at him. He managed a small smile and a nod in return, wondering if his stress was that obvious, and she turned away. He watched her for a second, feeling a sudden urge to unburden himself – somehow he knew she'd understand – but he dismissed it immediately, telling himself not to weaken. There were things he needed to do.

When the meeting was over, Bolt asked to see Barry alone.

'You look bloody awful, old mate,' said his boss when they were in his office.

Bolt was already on his fourth coffee of the day.

He hadn't eaten anything more substantial than half a sandwich for more than twenty-four hours now, and the lack of food was making him nauseous.

'I feel it.'

'I'd say take a holiday, but we're far too busy for that.'

'I've got a possible lead,' Bolt told him.

Barry frowned. 'Why didn't you mention it in the meeting?'

'I didn't want to muddy the waters. Everyone's got enough to think about without me complicating matters.'

'If it's a lead, it's a lead. What is it?'

Bolt told him about the armed robbery fifteen years ago, how Galante was strongly suspected of being involved, and how Andrea's information had scuppered it, leaving the other robbers dead or behind bars.

Barry looked incredulous. 'So what you're telling me is that you knew Andrea Devern from the past? Why the hell haven't you said anything before now?'

'I only knew her vaguely. She was a friend of a snout.' He could see that Barry didn't entirely believe him. 'Anyway, two of the gang – Marcus Richardson and Scott Ridgers – are out now, and I think we should view them as potential suspects.'

'Why? Were either of them aware that it was Mrs Devern who shopped them?'

Bolt shook his head. 'No, not that I know of. I was deliberately vague about who'd given me the information so that I could protect Mrs Devern. You know what it was like back then. You didn't have to give too many details.'

'So why do you think they'd be targeting her if they didn't know about her part in putting them away?'

It was a good question, and one Bolt had been thinking about a lot.

'They were probably aware that Jimmy Galante was seeing Andrea – Mrs Devern – at the time, so they may well have known her too. Then, when they come out of prison years later, looking for a way to make money and see how well she's doing, they think, well, why not hit on her?'

'Was any reward money paid to Mrs Devern for the information she gave?'

'No.'

'So they couldn't have found out that way.'

Bolt shook his head.

Barry leaned forward in his seat, adopting one of his thoughtful poses, which consisted of steepling his hands together as if in prayer, his index fingers touching his nostrils.

'It's not much, is it?' he said finally.

It wasn't. But for Bolt it was still something.

'These guys are villains, sir. Hardened criminals.

Richardson fired at us when we tried to arrest him. He didn't hesitate. There aren't many people around like that. People willing to kill for financial gain like our kidnappers. They've got to be worth looking into.'

Barry sighed loudly. 'I haven't got the resources, Mike. We've got two surveillance teams out already, and everyone else is concentrating on the ransom drop.'

Bolt knew he wasn't going to win, but when he was back in his own office the first thing he did was access the PNC and check the details of Marcus Richardson and Scott Ridgers.

Richardson was the more brutal of the two, having amassed a total of twenty-three convictions in his forty-two years, including one for stabbing a teacher in the eye with a screwdriver when he was only fifteen years old. He'd been released from his sentence for armed robbery and attempted murder in the summer of 2001 and since then had been back inside twice: once for possession of cocaine with intent to supply, the other time for assault, after he'd beaten his girlfriend so badly she'd been in hospital for three days. He'd been out for just over two years now and it looked like he'd kept his nose clean, although someone with a criminal record as long as his was unlikely to have turned over a new leaf. He was currently living in his native Kilburn, and remained on parole, as he would do until his original eighteen-year sentence ran out some time in 2010.

Ridgers had a similar, if slightly less violent, record. Since he hadn't discharged the handgun he was carrying during the robbery, his sentence had been only fourteen years, which Bolt noted wryly didn't say much for how the courts treated the attempted murder of police officers. He'd been released in 1999 but had gone back in three years later, once again for armed robbery, after he'd held up a betting shop at gunpoint, firing several shots into the ceiling. He was caught minutes later by the occupants of an armed response vehicle that had been passing. It seemed that Ridgers wasn't the luckiest armed robber around, and he'd spent a further four years inside before being released back into an unsuspecting community late in 2006.

Bolt stared at their pictures and tried to remember the initial police interviews with them, but after fifteen years and several hundred other suspects his memory of them both was sketchy. Jack Doyle had said neither man was a budding Einstein, so it was unlikely they had organized something like this, but even so, he couldn't get the feeling out of his head that they were worth pursuing.

Throughout the morning the sense of anticipation in the incident room grew. Although most of those present were still involved in the mundane tasks of sifting through camera footage, everyone knew that later on they were going to be in action. That sense became heightened when it was reported that the ransom money, half a million pounds in cash, had arrived in the building and was under armed guard in the basement.

Bolt was on his sixth cup of coffee, feeling wired and knowing he was going to have to eat soon, when Andrea phoned, asking for him. He refused to take the call, making an excuse. For the moment, he had nothing to say to her. He still had doubts that she was telling the truth about his relationship with Emma. The more he thought about her actions, both in the present and in the distant past, the more manipulative he found her.

Yet, as she'd told him, the dates fitted. There was no way round that. Within minutes he was feeling guilty about not taking her call, so he phoned Matt Turner – who was back on babysitting duties, along with Marie Cohen the liaison officer – and asked him what she wanted.

'She just wants to speak to you, sir,' Turner told him when he came back on the line. 'She wouldn't say what it's about.'

'Tell her I'm very busy at the moment. I'll talk to her later. How's she bearing up?'

'Same as she was yesterday. Tired, emotional . . . like you'd expect.'

'OK. Keep an eye on her, can you?'

'Sure – but, boss?'

'Yes.'

'When exactly am I going to get relieved? I'd like to get where the action is. You know, there's not a lot happening here.'

Bolt sympathized with him. He'd have felt the same way too, but he didn't have the time or the inclination to start shuffling resources.

'Soon,' he said. 'I'll sort something.'

He hung up and stared out of the window at the street below. The sun was shining, a few puffy clouds trailed in an otherwise blue sky, and it looked like it was going to be another warm day, the sixth or seventh in a row after the wet summer. When Bolt craned his neck, as he was doing now, he could see one half of a small park, little more than a thin strip of land with a climbing frame and a couple of trees, set between two office buildings. There was a man sitting on one of the benches, a push bike propped up beside him, and he was looking up at the sky. Bolt was too far away to see his expression, but he knew from the man's casual demeanour that it was one of satisfaction.

Bolt watched him enviously. He'd always been a level-headed man. You needed to be in his line of business, where part of the job involved stalking your target for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. He was finding this sudden change in him just too much to bear.

He turned away and stood up. He could stand it no more. He had to do something other than sit and wait to react to events that might well shatter his life for ever. He had to get out and start influencing them.

Grabbing his jacket, he walked out of the office, telling Kris Obanje, who was the nearest person to him, that he was off for an early lunch.

It was time to renew some old acquaintances.