Deadline

Fifty-five

When Tina Boyd pressed the buzzer on Andrea's security gate at just after 2.30 p.m. she'd already done a seven-hour day and was finally on her way home, albeit in a slightly indirect way. She'd already spent more than two hours there that morning with Mo talking to Emma, listening to her harrowing account of the past few days while her mother sat beside her, holding her hand. Tina had been impressed by how brave and lucid Emma was in the interview, answering all their questions quietly and carefully, and although she'd looked tired, and thinner than she did in the photos that lined the house, her overall demeanour suggested that the damage she'd suffered wasn't irreversible. It was too early to say for sure, and Tina was no psychologist, but she'd come away feeling positive, and also proud of her boss, who according to Emma's testimony had saved her life and almost lost his own in the process. Emma had asked where Bolt was, saying she'd like to thank him properly, and Tina had told her that she was sure they'd get to meet soon, looking at Andrea as she did so.

Andrea had looked away.

Andrea's voice came on the line now, far brighter and chirpier now that she'd got her daughter back, but it immediately lost its lustre when Tina introduced herself.

'Oh, back again?' she said wearily. 'I'm afraid Emma's asleep at the moment, and I don't want her disturbed.'

'That's OK. It's you I've come to see. Can I come in?'

Andrea buzzed her through. She'd changed since Tina had left earlier and was now wearing a long T-shirt and a pair of khaki hotpants that showed off shapely legs and freshly painted, bright red toenails. The haggard, terrified woman of the last couple of days had now almost completely disappeared. It was quite a transformation.

'I've sent the liaison officer away,' she said as Tina stepped into the hallway. 'It's just me and Emma now. Like it's always been. Any word on Pat yet?'

'Nothing at the moment, I'm afraid.'

'God knows what's happened to him. I still don't think he's involved, but if he is . . .' Her face darkened momentarily but then returned to normal as she pushed thoughts of her husband aside. 'Do you have more questions for me, then? Is that why you're here?'

'Shall we go through to the living room?'

'OK.'

Andrea stretched out the word, trying to gauge from Tina's expression what this might be about. Tina didn't give anything away, so Andrea led her through, taking her usual position on the sofa. Tina shut the door but remained standing.

'I wanted to ask you some questions about Emma's father. Her real one.'

Andrea sighed loudly. 'God, do we have to? I mean, is it important? I could do with a rest myself, you know.'

'We need to discuss it now.'

'Don't take that sort of tone with me.'

'You said in your statement on Friday that Emma's father was James Galante.'

'That's right.'

Tina pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of her jeans, holding it out in front of her.

'Do you know what it says on here?'

Andrea didn't say anything, but she was looking less sure of herself.

'It says that Emma was adopted.'

Andrea swallowed.

'By you and your then husband, Mr William Devern, in September 1994. When she was seventeen months old. I got a copy of the birth certificate from Somerset House this morning.'

'Christ. Keep your voice down. Emma doesn't know.'

'OK. But it makes me wonder, Mrs Devern, how many other things have you been lying about?'

Andrea reached for her cigarettes, which Tina now recognized as a sure sign that she was feeling stressed.

'It was only that I wanted Jimmy to help me and I thought if I convinced him he was Emma's dad then he'd never be able to say no.' She got up and opened the French windows, lighting up and blowing smoke out into the garden, her arms folded in a defensive gesture. 'You'd have done the same in my position, except you don't know that, because you've never had kids. She may not be my flesh and blood, but she's still my daughter. I brought her up. No one else, because Billy was dead within a year. Just me.' She blew out more smoke and glared defiantly at Tina.

'When are you intending to tell Mike Bolt that he's not Emma's father?'

The question made Andrea flinch.

'So, he told you about that, did he?'

'Only when he absolutely had to.'

'I'll tell him soon enough. When I've got my head back together.'

'You almost destroyed him, Mrs Devern. He's suspended from his job because of you, and it's possible he'll lose it over this. The least you can do is put him out of his misery.'

'I told you, I'll tell him soon.'

'No. Either you call him now, or I do. And I really think it would be best if it came from you, don't you?'

'Listen, Miss Boyd, you've got no idea what I've been through in the last week. What I've done, I've done to protect my daughter and help to get her away from those animals and back with me where she belongs, and I'm not going to make any apologies for that.'

'He still needs to know,' Tina insisted. 'Today.'

Andrea unfolded her arms, softening her stance.

'Can you tell him? Please? Say I'm very, very sorry and that I will call him, I promise. It's just . . .' She paused, and Tina could see that her eyes were filling with tears. 'Not today.'

'OK. I'll call him outside.'

As she walked through the French windows, Andrea stopped her with a hand on the arm.

'I do care for him, you know,' she said quietly, a tear running down one cheek. 'A lot more than you think.'

Tina nodded. She didn't believe a word of it.

She walked up to the end of the garden, well out of earshot, and dialled Mike's number, knowing that he was going to take this hard.

When he answered, he sounded in a good mood and there was a buzz of conversation in the background.

'Tina, how's it going?'

'Not bad. Where are you?'

'In a pub in Finchley. Relaxing with some old Flying Squad buddies. I figure, I'm suspended, I may as well enjoy myself. What can I do for you?'

The moment of truth. And straight away she knew she couldn't do it. Not when he was enjoying himself. It would just have to wait.

'I thought you might want a quick update on things, but if you're out with your friends—'

'No, I'd like to hear what you've got.'

She gave him a summary of where the investigation was, but there really wasn't a lot to say as things were running down now. There was still no sign of Pat Phelan. They'd put surveillance on Isobel Wheeler's house in case he turned up there, but that was pretty much it.

'And have you seen Emma?'

Tina stiffened. 'Yes, she's well. Back at home now.'

'And Andrea?'

'She's fine too.'

'Thanks, Tina. I really appreciate you keeping me in touch with things.'

'I'd want to be, if I was in your position. Anyway, you'd better get back to your friends.'

She rang off, cursing herself for being such a coward. Now she'd have to call him again later.

She sat down on the garden's loveseat and lit a cigarette, in no hurry to go back inside. As she basked in the mid-afternoon sunshine, she realized with surprise that she was going to miss Mike Bolt now that he was suspended. Things had changed between them these past few days. She'd seen a vulnerable side to him for the first time, and she was flattered that he'd turned to her when he needed help, seeing something beyond the hard shell she surrounded herself with. She hadn't had romance in a long time. It was over three years since John had died. Since then there'd been a couple of one-night stands and a brief holiday fling in Thailand. But now she felt the first hint of attraction, and it unnerved her.

She stubbed out the cigarette in the grass and stood up slowly. It was time to go home.

But as she reached the French windows, she stopped. Andrea was back on her sofa, but there were two men in suits in the room with her whom Tina recognized as detectives from the farm the previous night. They were obviously trying to keep their expressions as calm and inscrutable as possible as they turned towards her, but there was no escaping the excitement in them.

'We've got a new lead on Scott Ridgers' killer,' said the younger of the two, a fresh-faced youth with thinning hair and a spray of freckles. 'A big one.'