Knife Edge

1.06 P.M.

Number twenty-six Cavendish Square was an imposing-looking building but then again, thought Doyle, glancing round, every building in Cavendish Square was impressive.

Like so many properties adjacent to it, number twenty-six housed several occupants, several companies all operating behind its edifice of large

Victorian town house complete with polished front door.

The intercom system arranged beside the brass-decorated door looked curiously incongruous. A twentieth-century imposition upon a more sedate age.

Very fucking philosophical. Ring the bell.

Doyle drew hard on his cigarette and ran appraising eyes over the list of occupants.

STRANGE AIR STUDIOS

MILLIGAN AND NYLES PR

MADAME OLENSKA (whoever the fuck she might be)

NEMESIS SECURITY

Doyle pressed the button beside the last name and stepped closer to the intercom.

'We're on the fourth floor, come up,' said an almost unbearably cheerful female voice and Doyle pushed the main door as he heard a buzzer sound.

A wide corridor led towards a small reception area with a desk but no receptionist. There was even a vase of fresh flowers set in the centre of the desk. A couple of leather sofas were pushed against the wall and a small table carried an assortment of magazines.

To his left, Doyle saw a lift. He pushed the Call button.

The reception area was suddenly filled with the sound of loud music and Doyle turned to see that another door behind the reception desk had opened.

A young woman in her mid-twenties emerged, smiled at him and flicked a strand of blonde hair away from her face. She was carrying a metal box which looked much too heavy for her.

'Can I take that for you?' Doyle offered, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.

The young woman smiled again and nodded gratefully, handing him the box.

'It probably seems like an obvious statement but you work here, right?' Doyle said, gazing fixedly at her.

Shoulder-length blonde hair. Pale grey eyes.

She was wearing a baggy V-neck sweatshirt, leggings and a pair of black Reeboks which, he noticed, had bright yellow laces.

'I work for Strange Air,' she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. 'The recording studio.'

Doyle nodded, aware that she was assessing him.

They stepped into the lift when it arrived.

'Which floor?' she asked him, a well-manicured finger hovering over the buttons.

'Four.'

She pressed Four and Three.

The doors remained open.

She pushed again.

'It's temperamental,' she explained.

'I know how it feels.'

She giggled this time. An infectious sound.

The doors finally slid shut.

'This is a no smoking building.'

'I won't tell if you won't,' Doyle said.

'Only if I can have a drag?' she said, gazing lovingly at the cigarette.

He nodded and she took the cigarette from between his lips and sucked hard on it.

'Jesus,' she murmured. 'That's better.'

It was Doyle's turn to smile.

'Keep it,' he said, watching as she took another drag.

She shook her head, took the cigarette from her own mouth and pushed it gently back between his lips. He licked at the filter and tasted her lipstick.

The lift continued to rise slowly.

'You're not Madame Olenska, are you?' Doyle said smiling.

The young woman laughed and shook her head.

'Who the hell is she?' he persisted.

'She's got a flat on the second floor, she's a mystic. Tarot cards, seances. That kind of thing. She gets a lot of business.'

'I wonder if she could tell me what's going to win the three-thirty at Kempton.'

Again the woman laughed, her gaze now riveted on Doyle. 'You don't look like one of her customers.'

'I'm not.'

The lift bumped to a halt at the third floor.

'This is me,' she said, holding out her arm for the metal box which Doyle handed to her. 'Thanks for your help. Nice to see the age of chivalry isn't dead.'

She stepped out of the lift, Doyle's eyes straying to her shapely legs and buttocks.

'I hope no one smells the smoke in the lift,' she said as she walked off down the corridor.

'I'll tell them it was you,' he called after her, and he heard that infectious laugh once more as the lift doors slid shut.

Doyle took one last drag on the cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it out beneath his boot as the lift reached four.

He stepped out on to polished wood floors.

There was another reception area opposite him, the woman behind it looking up with concern on her face as he strode towards her.

'Can I help you?' she said, forcing a smile.

'Yeah, you buzzed me in,' he told her, reaching inside his jacket for his ID which he flipped open before her. 'Sean Doyle, Counter Terrorist Unit. I'm looking for Kenneth Baxter.'