Knife Edge

10.51 A.M.

'Where did they find it?' asked DI Calloway, barely looking up from his cup of tea.

DS Colin Mason replaced the phone and exhaled deeply.

'About three miles from here,' he said. 'Dark blue Montego. It was definitely the car.'

'You didn't expect him to stay in it, did you?'

Calloway sipped at his tea. 'What the fuck is his game?' the DI mused. 'If Doyle's right about that explosion-'

'If he is,' Mason snapped.

'He seems to know what he's talking about.'

'Cocky bastard.'

Calloway leaned back in his seat and glanced at his companion. 'It's a pretty safe bet Neville's not on foot now.'

'Do you reckon he had another car hidden somewhere nearby?'

'Well, he wouldn't be walking the streets with the gear he's carrying, would he?'

'His missus wasn't much help,' Mason said dismissively.

'We'll go back and talk to her again. I want to know what else Doyle thinks about this shit. Maybe he's got some idea what Neville's next move will be.'

'I don't trust him.'

'Why not? He's on our side, you know.'

'I'm beginning to wonder,' Mason grunted. 'Where the fuck did he get to anyway? I reckon he knows more than he's telling.'

Calloway sipped at his tea. 'Maybe we ought to do some checking up on Doyle too,' he murmured.

Mason smiled crookedly. 'If he is involved with Neville then I want the bastard myself.'

Calloway raised his eyebrows. 'Good luck,' he muttered, reaching for the phone.

Julie Neville watched as Doyle fed coins into the vending machine, waiting as a plastic cup dropped into view and watery brown fluid dribbled in. According to the selection he'd pressed, it was meant to be coffee.

She took the cup from him and sipped at it, wincing as it burned her lips.

Doyle got his own drink and motioned towards the plastic seats close to the machine.

From the window at the end of the corridor, Julie could see out over the hospital car park. An ambulance was pulling in to Casualty, blue lights spinning furiously. She turned away as she saw the uniformed attendants lifting a stretcher from the rear of the emergency vehicle.

'I don't know what you want to hear,' she said to Doyle who was lighting up another cigarette.

'The truth would help,' Doyle told her.

'About Bob? I'm not even sure I know that myself. Why are you so interested in him?'

Doyle ignored the question, sipping his coffee instead.

'Did he contact you very often when he was away? Letters, phone calls, that kind of thing?'

'In the beginning,' she said, smiling wanly 'He used to write two or three times a week. But it's always like that at the beginning, isn't it?'

Doyle kept his gaze on her.

'When he came home on leave he used to bring me flowers,' Julie mused. 'Every time he'd bring something. Flowers, chocolates or earrings. I must have more earrings than any other woman in London. And they were always the same design. Silver hoops. Bob never did have much imagination.' Her tone had darkened slightly.

'What about recently?'

'About two years ago the letters started to dry up. He'd write once every couple of months, ring if I was lucky. He even stopped coming home on leave.'

'Do you know where he went?'

'He could have had another woman for all I knew.'

'Do you think he did?'

She regarded him warily. 'Does it matter?' she snapped.

'As a matter of fact it does.'

'What's he done? I mean, I know about this morning, but there's something else, isn't there?'

'Do you think he had another woman?' Doyle persisted.

'He found it hard enough to make friends, let alone relationships.'

'He made one with you.'

'If you want to call it that.'

'You were married, you've got a child. You must have loved him.'

'Once.' She took a swig of her coffee.

'January twenty-seventh, ten years ago,' Doyle said.

'How do you know?'

'You'd be surprised what I know. It goes with the job.'

'Well, if you know so much, why the questions?'

'There are still some gaps. You might be able to help me fill them.'

'You know so much about me. I don't know anything about you.'

'There's no need for you to,' he said, a thin smile touching his lips.

'I'm nosy,' Julie retorted, running her hand through her hair.

Christ, she reminded him of Georgie when she did that.

'I know your name and I know you want to find my husband, that's it.'

'That's all you need to know.'

She reached out and looked at his left hand, lifting it slightly. 'No wedding ring.'

Doyle pulled his hand away gently. 'No wife.'

'Girlfriend?'

He shook his head.

'There must be someone, Doyle.'

'There've been a few. I don't keep a bloody scorecard.'

'Anyone special?'

'There was. She died.'

'I'm sorry. When?'

'Seven, eight years ago now.'

Nine. Ten. A fucking eternity.

'How did it happen?' Julie's voice was soft.

'She was shot,' he said flatly.

Shot to fucking pieces.

'We were working together at the time,' he continued. 'There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about her.' He turned his gaze on Julie and she found herself looking deeply into his grey eyes.

'What was her name?'

'Georgie. Georgina.' A faint smile played across his lips then vanished hurriedly.

What the fuck are you doing?

Doyle drained the contents of his cup and tossed it into the waste bin.

What are you going to do? Tell her your fucking life story? Get a grip.

'You said your husband didn't have many friends,' Doyle began, angry with himself.

Don't let the mask slip.

'The ones he did have, did you know them? Meet them?'

Julie hesitated a moment. 'Most of them were in the paras with him, I only met a couple.'

'Names?'

'It was a while ago.'

'Try to think, it might be important.'

'He was really close to a guy called Baxter. Ken Baxter.'

'Any details about him you can remember?'

'They were in the paras together. I met him a few times when he came home with Bob. They were in the same company.'

'Baxter,' Doyle muttered. 'That'll do for a start.'

He got to his feet. 'I'll walk back round with you.' He nodded towards the other end of the corridor.

Julie got to her feet and they set off for the room where Lisa still slept.

'What'll happen to him if he's caught?'

'When he's caught,' Doyle corrected her. 'It depends who gets to him first. The police or me.'