Deadline

Forty-one

Andrea hit the North Circular at exactly 6.26 p.m. and proceeded east, driving fast. No longer able to hear what she was saying, the surveillance cars simply had to do their best to keep up, throwing all hopes of remaining inconspicuous out of the window. Not that that was such a priority now that it was obvious the kidnappers were assuming the police were involved.

In the control room, Big Barry Freud sounded as if he was fighting a losing battle to stay calm. As he sat grim-faced at the wheel of his car, conscious for the first time of the helicopter overhead, Bolt knew how he was feeling. This was no longer a surveillance job, it was a chase, and once again he cursed Andrea. He knew the kidnappers were telling her to get rid of anything which made it possible to trace the money, and knew too that they'd be lacing their instructions with murderous threats to ensure her obedience. Alone in the car with only her thoughts and fears for company, it would have been incredibly difficult for her to say no, but the fact remained, cold and hard, that her actions could also be costing her any chance of seeing Emma alive again. These guys were frighteningly ahead of the game. They were doing everything to make sure they got this money while at the same time minimizing their risk of getting caught. It would be a simple matter to put a knife through Emma's heart when they'd finished with her, just like they'd done to Andrea's cleaner. Bolt cursed himself, too, for going through with this charade. They should have gone the negotiation route from the start, laid their cards on the table, used trained people to get her back, instead of trying to come up with a sexy, headline-grabbing success story that was in danger of falling apart only minutes after it had started.

For twenty-four minutes Andrea drove along the North Circular. Traffic was busy but moving both ways, and though she continued to weave between lanes, there was never any danger that they were going to lose her. At 6.50, she turned on to the A10 going south, taking advantage of the lighter traffic to speed up.

'I can't understand why she's not trying to get rid of the trackers in the ransom money,' said Mo as they accelerated after her. 'They've obviously told her to remove anything that could trace them, and she seems to be cooperating.'

'Maybe she hasn't had a chance to look for them while she's driving,' answered Bolt.

'Or maybe she's only pretending to cooperate,' suggested Turner.

Bolt shook his head. 'No, she's definitely doing what they're telling her.' He took a deep breath. 'They're planning something,' he added quietly. 'God knows what. But they're planning something.'

Ten minutes later, Andrea turned again, this time into Lordship Lane, heading east into Tottenham. Then a strange thing happened. She slowed right down, managing barely fifteen miles per hour in the nearside lane. By this time Bolt and Mo were only twenty yards behind her.

'Car one to control,' said Bolt as he stared straight ahead.

Barry came back in the earpiece. 'Control receiving. What is it, car one?'

'Target driving very slowly. Now down to approximately fifteen miles an hour. Still looks to be on the phone. What do you want us to do? Over.'

'Stay behind her, car one. Just stay behind her. Important thing is not to lose her. Over.'

'Don't worry, there's no chance of that. We're more likely to crash into the back of her. Over.'

They were coming up to the junction with Tottenham High Road. Andrea slowed down still further and the lights went red.

Bolt stared out of the windscreen. To his right were Tina and Kris Obanje in the Toyota, while one of the motorbike outriders was flanking them. He couldn't see the helicopter any more but knew it wouldn't be far away. There was no way Andrea was going to get out of their sight, so he couldn't see how the kidnappers would be able to pull off getting hold of the money without being spotted. Yet these guys were pros. So far they hadn't made a single slip-up. They had something up their sleeves. He was sure of it.

The lights seemed to stay red for a long time. Bolt desperately wanted to get out of the car, walk up to Andrea's Mercedes and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, but he knew it would do no good. If they aborted the ransom drop now, their hopes of getting Emma back alive would diminish still further. They simply had to follow her.

He tried to second-guess the kidnappers. Clearly they suspected something was up. They'd originally tried to get Andrea to outrun the police, but had now changed tack, getting her to slow right down. Why? They were waiting for something. But what?

And then it hit him. 'Shit.'

Mo turned to him. 'What?'

'Are Tottenham playing today?'

The lights ahead went green, and the cars started pulling away.

'I'm not sure. I haven't had the time to check. You don't think—'

'Christ, they are,' said Turner, leaning forward between the front seats. 'Five fifteen kick-off.'

Bolt smacked the steering wheel. 'So they'll be finishing up about now. I bet the final whistle's just gone. It makes perfect sense.'

Before he had a chance to say another word, Barry's voice came over the airwaves, his tone frantic, his words immediately confirming Bolt's suspicions.

'Control to all cars, we have a situation. Football fans beginning to exit White Hart Lane on to Tottenham High Road in large numbers due north of target. This could be possible location for ransom exchange.'

Bolt felt a shot of adrenalin go through him. Possible location? It was damn near inevitable.

'Give me current target location.'

'Car one to control, she's turning left into Tottenham High Road, and she's accelerating fast.'

'Keep her in sight!' Barry howled. 'All cars, keep her and the money in sight! Over.'

But Andrea wasn't stopping for anyone. She weaved between the two lanes, driving like crazy, even though the traffic was slowing in front of her as, up ahead, a wave of close to forty thousand white-shirted football fans poured on to the street.

Bolt cursed loudly as they tried to keep pace, squeezing between two cars in a manoeuvre that smacked both wing mirrors out of position, and accelerating through the gap. Andrea's initial burst of pace had put thirty yards between them. No more than a hundred and sixty yards in front of them mounted police were in the road, stopping the traffic as the road became a sea of white. Already fans were crowding the pavements, coming towards them on both sides of the road, their raucous shouts filling the air.

Andrea suddenly pulled up on the kerb and stopped. A second later she was out of the car, the phone no longer to her ear. She ran round to the passenger door, pulled out the holdall, heaved it over her shoulder and started walking as fast as she could manage under its weight.

Bolt's earpiece was suddenly filled with every surveillance car and bike trying to talk.

'Car three to all cars, she's on the move. What do you want us to do? Over.'

'Bike one to control, I'm ten yards behind her vehicle. I have the eyeball. Do you want me to intercept? Over.'

'Control to bike one, does she have the bag? Over.'

'Yes, she has it. Over.'

'Shit. The money trackers say the damn thing's still in the car. The stupid bitch has removed them too. Control to all vehicles, follow on foot. Now. Do not lose her. Or the bag. Go! Go! Go!'

Bolt, Mo and Turner were out of the car like a shot, leaving it in the middle of the road as they ran to where Andrea was already being swallowed up by the advancing crowd. Bike one was ahead of them, pulling off his helmet as he ran, but Bolt was faster, overtaking him and dodging through the fans, his gaze fixed firmly on the back of Andrea's head.

Only fifteen yards and closing.

The explosion came out of nowhere, followed by a flash of very bright light somewhere in the crowd up ahead. Bolt shut his eyes and covered his head instinctively, but the moment he opened them again there was a second blast, coming from roughly the same direction. Panicked shouts broke out and there was a sudden surge of people barging and shoving into him as they attempted to get away from the explosion's source. He was knocked backwards and had to fight to keep his balance as he struggled through them, looking round frantically for Andrea but unable to see her among the mass of humanity blocking his view.

And then he was choking and his eyes began to water. It felt like someone had squirted ammonia in his face before dumping a load more down his throat. Tear gas. The bastards had let off tear gas grenades. The panic suddenly grew vastly worse as people began to experience its noxious effects, most of them doubtless fearing that this was some kind of terrorist attack. Bolt was battered like a ship in a storm as he tried to hold his ground amid the choking stampede, eyes squinting against the pain, his shirt pulled up to cover the lower half of his face.

Then a large empty space opened up in front of him. A handful of members of the public were on the ground, one with a cut on his head. Right in the middle, barely ten yards away, was Andrea. She was kneeling on the pavement, hands clutching her face. There was no sign of the holdall. Sirens were starting up now, and mounted police were galloping towards the scene, but they were still too far away to be of any immediate help.

Eyes still streaming, Bolt tried to focus on the backs of the fleeing people, his eyes scanning wildly in all directions. He saw Mo and Turner only a few yards away, standing close together. Mo's face was in his hands, while Turner had a handkerchief to his and was also looking around desperately.

And then he caught a glimpse of the holdall, slung over the shoulder of a guy in a black baseball cap. He was rounding the corner into an adjacent street, moving fast as he was carried along by the fleeing crowd, already disappearing from sight.

Still choking, Bolt leaned into the mike and spoke rapidly. 'Suspect fleeing with bag into . . .' He looked for a street sign, couldn't see one. 'Into one of the streets off the high road, heading due west.'

'Control to all units,' shouted Barry through the earpiece. 'Do not lose that bag! We are trying to get CCTV up and running.'

'There he is,' spluttered Bolt, still swallowing acrid-tasting gas as he pointed.

Turner had already spotted him and was pushing through the crowds of supporters in his direction, followed by Kris Obanje and Tina Boyd. It was Turner who was moving the fastest, as if being cooped up in Andrea's place had given him a huge new reservoir of energy, as well as a point to prove. He wasn't the biggest or strongest of guys but he ploughed through the mob, shoving people aside as he ate up the distance between himself and the holdall.

'Mo,' yelled Bolt, 'stay with Andrea!'

Before his colleague could reply, Bolt was past him and joining the chase, his eyes beginning to sting less as the fresher air hit them.

It was fifteen seconds since the first explosion, and already the gas was dissipating, and its effects wearing off on those who'd been affected. Now most of the crowd were coming to a halt as their more voyeuristic tendencies took over, creating a dense wall which acted as a perfect cover for the fleeing suspect. 'Police! Out the way!' Bolt screamed as loudly as he could as he charged into them, no longer seeing the point in trying to keep a low profile. Being football fans, they weren't in a desperate hurry to be cooperative, but Bolt was a big man, and one who knew that if he lost the guy with the holdall then he'd almost certainly lose the daughter he'd never known, so today he wasn't stopping for anyone. If he'd had a gun, he would have waved it, even fired off a couple of shots in the air and risked the sack.

Still yelling, he pushed right through them, ignoring the outraged cries and the insults, catching up with Tina and Obanje and passing them. Turner was ten yards further ahead, at a point in the street where the crowd was beginning to thin. Ten more yards separated him from the man with the holdall. Turner was running, the suspect walking quickly. In a few seconds he'd be on him, and that would be it because Bolt and the rest of them were only seconds behind.

And then there was a blurred movement in the corner of Bolt's eye. It was so quick that it took him a second to register the man in black cap and sunglasses and brand-new Tottenham shirt as he ran headlong into Turner from the side. Bolt caught a glint of metal as the man's hand shot out once, making contact, and then he was dancing past him and running for the other side of the road, in the opposite direction to the man with the holdall. Turner stopped running and seemed to stumble, his hand reaching to where the man had hit him, and then he fell to one knee, while fans milled about him, wearing vaguely curious expressions.

Bolt stopped when he reached him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'Matt, you all right?'

Through the earpiece, Barry demanded to know what was going on. It was only then that Bolt saw the growing bloodstain on his colleague's shirt.

'Shit!'

Turner looked up, his eyes wide and fearful, his expression almost childlike. 'I think I've been stabbed, boss,' was all he said, and then he put a hand out to steady himself and lay down on his side, almost as if he was about to go to sleep.

'Officer down!' yelled Bolt into the mike. 'Stabbed by second suspect. We need urgent medical help immediately.'

'What the hell happened?' yelled Barry in his ear, his tone close to full-blown panic as the full enormity of what was happening began to hit home. 'Control to all units, secure the scene. Secure the money. Armed back-up is arriving shortly.'

Bolt knew that the important thing was to stay calm and take the lead. In the ten seconds since Turner had got hit, the man with the bag had disappeared. They had to get him. Obanje and Tina had arrived now and Bolt yelled at Obanje to keep up the chase and Tina to stay with her injured colleague.

'What about the one who stabbed him?' she demanded.

'He's mine,' hissed Bolt, jumping to his feet.

The knifeman had run off down Tottenham High Road and he, too, had disappeared from view, but Bolt wasn't going to give up that easily. He didn't give a toss about the money, that was irrelevant, but this bastard, whoever he was, had seriously injured one of his men, as well as put Bolt himself through over a day's worth of personal hell. He hadn't got a good enough look at him to see whether or not it was Ridgers, but he didn't think it was. Guessing that he would keep the black cap on to avoid being ID'd by CCTV cameras, and knowing he wouldn't have got far, Bolt took off after him, ignoring the frantic chatter in the earpiece.

He almost hit a police horse and took no notice of the shouted command of its rider as he ran down the middle of the road between the lines of stationary cars, his eyes scanning the pavements and the legions of white-shirted fans. There was no black cap anywhere to be seen. Not on either side of the road. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Except for one thing. The herd mentality remained in full flow, which meant that almost everybody had turned in the direction of the mêlée behind, and some were actually moving towards it, their movement hesitant. One man, though, stood out, simply because he was walking purposefully away from the scene, his pace far too quick. He was keeping to the inside of the pavement, trying to remain out of view as he weaved between other fans. Bolt had hardly got a look at him earlier, but he was the right height and build, and he was thirty, maybe forty yards ahead.

It was him, Bolt was sure of it. He wiped his eyes, spat on the ground to get the taste of gas out of his mouth and kept running, going flat out in his desperation to get hold of him.

Thirty-five, thirty, twenty-five, twenty yards. His footfalls sounded artificially loud on the tarmac. Two uniformed cops in full riot gear stood in the road surveying the crowd uneasily, their batons drawn. One of them heard Bolt's rapid approach and, as if he was looking for someone to lash out at, lifted his baton menacingly and shouted at him to stop. Bolt didn't even slow down. He just pulled out his warrant card and yelled 'Police!' as loud as he could, and miraculously the cop simply got out of the way.

Unfortunately, the suspect also turned round. The expression on his face was one of pure shock, even behind the black shades, and in that single moment Bolt knew he was looking at the right man.

The suspect took off down the street, knocking over a middle-aged woman in his haste and stumbling before regaining his balance. Her husband shouted something and threw out a hand to grab him but he was nowhere near quick enough. This guy was speedy, and he had one hell of a lot of incentive to get away from his pursuers.

Bolt was less fit than he should have been. These days he only got to the gym once a week at best, and he was beginning to put on a few pounds round the middle. Today, though, he was powered by pure rage, and he kept pace with his target. He screamed at him to stop, loud enough so the whole street could hear it. People turned his way, then towards the fleeing suspect, who reacted by pulling out his knife and waving it wildly in front of him. It was an effective move. The crowds parted, no one wanting to tackle a knifeman.

Bolt sneaked a quick look over his shoulder. Two of the team, Dan Blakeley and Cliff Yakonos, were running along behind him, but were still a good twenty-five yards back, while the helicopter continued to hover impotently overhead. And Bolt was unarmed. If he caught up with the suspect, he'd be taking a huge risk. He thought about this information, accepted the risk, and kept running, ignoring the pain in his lungs and beginning to gain on his target half-yard by half-yard.

'Suspect two running south on Tottenham High Road,' he shouted into the mike. 'He's armed and dangerous. Request immediate back-up.'

'This is control. Back-up on way. ETA one minute.'

Without warning, a large man in his thirties, with a kid of about ten who must have been his son, jumped at the suspect as he ran past, trying to grab him in a bear hug. It was a brave move. Brave, public-spirited and totally rash. He got a grip, knocked the suspect against the window of a charity shop, but wasn't quick enough to neutralize the knife. The suspect reacted ruthlessly and instinctively, driving it directly into the man's upper body with a single bloody lunge, his face contorted with rage and desperation. The man went down like a falling tree, probably dead before he hit the ground. His kid cried out, 'Dad!' It was a terrified, shocked howl, a sound that would live with Bolt for a long time. It was a savage reminder that death can be so quick. One second you're a living, breathing, smiling human being out with your boy to see your team play football on a glorious evening, the next you're gone. For ever.

'Suspect two has stabbed member of public; urgent medical assistance required,' Bolt yelled into his mike, but it wasn't urgent. The guy was dead. Like Andrea's cleaner and Jimmy Galante. Maybe even Emma. Laid low by a killer without the slightest regard for human life.

A fury filled Bolt. It was stronger than any he'd felt in a long, long time, maybe ever, dwarfing the emotion that had soared through him as he kicked and beat Marcus Richardson, and it seemed to give him a blind, terrible energy.

The man's intervention might have cost him his life but it also cost the suspect five or six yards. He took off again as soon as he could, waving his bloody knife as he ran past the son he'd just deprived of a father, but he now had only a handful of yards on Bolt. A junction was coming up ahead, and when he reached it he turned hard right, his body almost jack-knifing in his bid to keep momentum. Bolt kept coming, not even thinking about hesitating as he too took the corner, even though he knew the suspect could use the blind spot as an ambush point. He was moving beyond logical risk assessment and into the realms of pure revenge. He was going to beat the information he needed out of this bastard, would kill him if he had to, but there was no way he was losing him. No way at all. It was an incredibly liberating thought.

When he rounded the bend, the suspect had gained a few yards and was racing across to the other side of the road through the blocked traffic. There were fewer people milling about on the pavements here, and no sign of any police either. But also less cover for his quarry, and Bolt knew that as long as he kept pace, feeding the suspect's position into the mike, then he wasn't going to get away.

After thirty more yards, the suspect looked round and saw Bolt still right behind him. He turned back and kept running, but Bolt was conscious of the knife in his hand. It was a stiletto, the blade probably eight inches long, still slick with the blood of two men. All Bolt had to fight with was the standard-issue police pepper spray. That and the pure rage that was driving him on. Neither of which was any guarantee of success. He knew that if he'd had a gun on him he'd have used it without a second's hesitation to bring the bastard down. He'd have put a bullet in his leg, and beaten the whereabouts of his daughter out of him while he lay helpless. Because the fact remained – indeed, it was branded right on the front of his brain in flaming white-hot letters – that if he lost this man, Emma was as good as dead.

The suspect turned a hard left. Bolt did the same, shouting the street name into the mike, but he wasn't looking where he was going properly and he slipped and lost his balance, jarring his knee as he hit the deck hard, and rolling on to his side. He ignored the pain, jumped up and kept running, cursing the fact that his clumsiness had lost him five yards and counting.

The street led up to the entrance to a high-rise council estate. It was a dead end for cars. Bolt cursed. He knew that if the suspect got inside the warren of alleys that these characterless sixties estates always featured it would mean he'd almost certainly slip through the net. Jesus, where the hell was the back-up? Even the helicopter was no longer overhead; doubtless it had been sent to chase the money. It disgusted him that the recovery of the half a million pounds was more important to his bosses, and their bosses, than capturing a brutal knife-wielding killer and possibly saving the life of a fourteen-year-old girl, but then in his heart he'd always known it would be. The whole British justice system was built on the protection of property above the protection of lives, which was why armed robbers were always put away for two, three, sometimes even five times as long as child molesters.

Bastards. In those taut, desperate seconds, Bolt was a man entirely on his own, out on a limb and having to do everything himself, knowing that failure was unthinkable.

The armed response vehicle seemed to materialize from nowhere. In fact it had come out of a side road up ahead, just in front of the entrance to the estate. It stopped dead, blocking the way, and the three officers were out in an instant, their MP5s pointed straight at the suspect, who was twenty yards from them.

'Armed police! Drop your weapon!'

Bolt reached into his pocket for the pepper spray, knowing that the suspect was going to turn and run back his way, away from the guns, meaning it would be up to him to make an arrest.

But the suspect didn't. He kept on going. Charging right at them, yelling something that sounded remarkably like a battle cry.

'Don't shoot him!' shouted Bolt. 'Take him alive! For Christ's sake, we need him!'

'Armed police! Drop your weapon now!'

'Don't shoot!'

The suspect was only ten yards away from them. Still running, he pulled back his arm and threw the knife. It hit one of the ARV officers in the arm above the elbow, slicing right through the bicep. The cop dropped his gun and grabbed uselessly at the knife's handle, which was jammed halfway into his arm, stumbling as he did so. For the suspect, it was a suicidal move. Bolt knew it, and knew too what it meant. He saw a dead girl; a funeral; a lifetime of wondering how he could have done things differently.

The bullets sounded like firecrackers in the empty street, their noise reverberating hollowly off the high walls of the surrounding buildings. Two two-round bursts. The suspect flew backwards, arms flailing as he spun round before crashing to the ground, his sunglasses flying off and clattering across the tarmac.

'Police!' screamed Bolt to identify himself, holding up his warrant card as he ran over to where the suspect lay. He knelt down, felt for a pulse, knew it was pointless. There was something there, but it was fading fast, and even as his fingers squeezed the wrist and he shouted at him not to die, his voice full of desperation, it disappeared altogether. He was gone. His eyes were closed, his mouth ever so slightly open, a single drop of blood forming in one corner. It wasn't Scott Ridgers, either. This guy was young – late twenties, maybe thirty – an ordinary, unblemished face, olive skin and thick black hair suggesting a background from somewhere in southern Europe. Bolt had never seen him before, knew nothing about him, would probably never know anything about him, other than the fact that his death might have ramifications for him that lasted for the rest of his days.

And as he knelt there, staring down at the dead man, unable to understand why the ARV cops couldn't have used a non-lethal option like a taser or a baton round to bring him down, his worst fears were confirmed as Barry's frantic voice came over the earpiece.

'Control to all units. What do you mean you've lost suspect one? Find him! I want the whole fucking area locked down! We have to get hold of that money! Over.'

They'd failed. And God alone knew what happened now.