Deadline

Thirty-five

Scott Ridgers' place was no palace either. He lived in the basement flat of a dilapidated post-war townhouse situated on a back street near Finsbury Park, the paintwork so faded that the people who'd last given it a lick probably owned ration books. The stone steps that led down to Ridgers' front door were caked in an unpleasant combination of dried and fresh pigeon shit, and Bolt had to tread carefully to avoid taking away any unwanted souvenirs from his visit.

The curtains were pulled, and when Bolt knocked on the door, it quickly became clear that Ridgers wasn't in either, although unlike Richardson, he was far less blasé about personal security. The single window, not much bigger than a porthole, was barred, and there were no fewer than three locks on the front door, including two five-levers. They were all in use as well. Bolt wasn't put off. He could get past almost any locks. The problem was he'd had his fingers burned once already today. Richardson had had no idea who he was, but if he made a fuss and reported what had happened to the local cops, there might be ramifications.

Bolt was in no mood for a further confrontation. His head still hurt from the last one, as did his ribs, where Richardson had dug his cosh into them. But he also knew that having driven over here, he needed to do something. It was ten to two now. He'd turned his mobile off but knew he couldn't keep it off for much longer, and when he did switch it back on he knew he was going to have to come up with a decent reason why he'd gone AWOL on arguably the most important day for his team since it had first been formed eighteen months earlier. It was now or never.

But as he took out the picks, he heard a noise above him.

'He's been gone for days,' said a female voice. 'Your lot probably frightened him off.'

Bolt looked up and saw a short, grey-haired woman in her late sixties dressed in a black trouser suit more suited to a Khmer Rouge guerrilla than a London senior citizen.

'What do you mean, your lot?' he asked with a puzzled smile, wondering how on earth she'd recognized him as a copper. He was dressed casually in jeans and trainers, and that, coupled with the flecks of blood on his shirt, made him sure he didn't look like one at all.

'Are you working for him?' she continued, her tone suspicious. 'The dad?'

'I don't know who you're talking about, I'm afraid.'

'Who are you, then?'

Bolt saw no point in denying his official role. 'I'm a police officer.'

Her expression didn't lighten. It seemed even the nation's senior citizens were against the police these days.

'Haven't you got anything better to do than harass a poor man who's just trying to get on with his life? Scott's a lovely lad. Who sent you? The dad? Can't he let it go?'

'I think you've got me wrong, madam. I'm here to let Scott know that a friend of his has been badly hurt in an accident.'

'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. Who's that, then? Scott doesn't have many friends.'

'It's someone from the past,' he answered with suitable vagueness, coming back up the steps so he no longer had to crane his neck to talk to her, stepping in pigeon shit on the way. 'You don't happen to know where he is, do you?'

She shook her head. 'I haven't seen him for a few days now. He's probably run off somewhere to escape her dad.'

'Whose dad?'

'Lisa's. That's Scott's girlfriend. I haven't seen her yet, but Scott thinks the world of her. He says she's beautiful.'

Bolt looked puzzled. 'So why's her dad after him?'

'Because he says she's too young,' she answered in a tone that suggested he was being entirely unreasonable. It was clear this lady had a lot of time for Scott.

'And how old is she?'

'It's hard to tell these days, but Scott says she's quite old enough to make her own decisions.'

'I know what you mean,' Bolt agreed. 'Can you remember the last time you saw Scott?'

She thought about it for a moment. 'It was at the beginning of the week, I think. Monday or Tuesday. To be honest, I've been a bit worried. It's not like him not to be around. I usually see him most days when I'm passing. He likes to sit out the front here on his deckchair, watching the world go by. Do you think he's all right?'

'It might be worth checking. Do you have keys to his flat?'

She shook her head. 'Sorry, no.'

The timing of Ridgers' absence was certainly interesting. However, it didn't bring Bolt any closer to finding him now.

'Do you know where Scott's girlfriend lives?' he asked.

She shrugged. 'Over in Paddington somewhere.'

'That's a long way from here.'

'They met on the internet,' she said with a conspiratorial whisper, as if this was some kind of magic.

'That doesn't really help me much.'

'I know her last name, though. Scott told me because it's so pretty.' She pronounced it Boo-sha-ra, with something of a flourish, but then had the good sense to spell it for him. 'Lisa B-o-u-c-h-e-r-a. It's French, apparently,' she explained as Bolt memorized it.

He felt a glimmer of hope. London was a big city, but there weren't going to be many people of that name floating around Paddington. It wasn't much, but he was beginning to grow used to getting by on slim pickings. He thanked the old lady and walked back to his car, without looking back.

When he was inside, he switched on his mobile, dialled 118 118 and asked for the number of a Bouchera in the W2 postcode area. He could have got the information faster by phoning the Glasshouse, but he wanted to avoid speaking to anyone there for the moment.

There was one number listed under that name, and he called it straight away. A man answered after three rings.

'Hello, is that Mr Bouchera?' asked Bolt.

'Who's asking?' came the gruff reply.

Bolt identified himself, and asked if he was the same man whose daughter Lisa was seeing a Mr Scott Ridgers.

'That bloody pervert. Yes, my daughter has been seeing him. I'm glad you lot are finally taking it seriously now. I want him arrested.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but we can't arrest him if your daughter's over the legal age of consent.'

'What do you mean, the legal age of consent? She's fifteen, for God's sake!'

Bolt's mouth went dry. 'What?'

'She's fifteen years old, mate,' he snapped, disgust in his voice. 'Only just turned as well. Why on earth do you think I called the police about it? They've been getting up to all sorts as well. She even filmed some of it on her mobile phone. He should be locked up.'

Bolt thought of Emma at the mercy of a murdering thug with a predilection for young girls.

'Didn't you know any of this? What the hell are you phoning for?'

'Listen to me,' Bolt snapped. 'Is your daughter still seeing him?'

'Course not. What do you take me for? I grounded her as soon as I found out about it. And confiscated her mobile. But she's been sneaking out to see him. I got the police round here to talk to her but she wouldn't tell them anything. Denies everything. He even gave her this software that wiped all their conversations off her computer. I've been at my wits' end trying to sort it out. I've threatened her, locked her in her room, even found out where he lived and went round. But the bastard wasn't there.'

'Is Lisa at home now?'

'Yeah. She hasn't been out for the last few days, except for school. She's just moping about, not speaking. I'm hoping she's over him.'

'Have you still got her mobile phone?'

'I gave it back to her yesterday if she promised not to call him. So far, I don't think she has. She's a good girl, you know. That bastard corrupted her. If I could get my hands on him . . .'

'I know exactly how you feel,' Bolt told him, 'but in the meantime you can help us locate him, because we're very interested in talking to him about a number of matters.'

'What kind of matters?'

'The kind that'll put him away for a very long time.'

Bouchera grunted. 'Good.'

'But I need to know straight away if Lisa hears from him, or if you hear him speaking to her. Understand? And if you can get the number he's speaking to her from, even better.' Bolt gave Bouchera his mobile number, then wrote down the daughter's number and the name of her service provider. 'It doesn't matter what time of day or night it is, call immediately. It's extremely urgent.'

'Course I will,' replied Bouchera. 'I want to see that bastard suffer.'

Bolt thanked him and ended the call. There was still no proof Ridgers was involved, but Bolt's gut instinct was telling him he was definitely on to something here.

Ordinarily, the excitement at getting a lead like this would have been surging through him, but instead he felt a growing sense of dread. Time was running out and Scott Ridgers could be anywhere. If he didn't find him, and the ransom op failed, then he was convinced now that Emma was as good as dead. But he wasn't going to give up. Not while there was still an ounce of fight in him.