Knife Edge

AC/DC.

Andrews watched as Doyle scanned the photos and other memorabilia.

'We've looked after all of them at one time or another,' he said smugly, pulling at his goatee.

'It's not your clients I'm interested in, it's one of your employees,' Doyle told him, turning to face him. 'Kenneth Baxter.' Doyle sat down opposite the other man. 'I need to speak to him.'

'Can I ask what it's to do with?'

'How much do you know about him?'

'I'm his employer, not his brother,' said Andrews and Doyle wasn't slow to catch the note of sarcasm in his voice. 'I know he's good at his job. He wouldn't be working for me if he wasn't. As for personal details, it depends what you want to know.'

'I'm not asking for his inside leg measurement,' Doyle snarled. 'What do you know about his record?'

'What record?'

'Don't fuck me about, Andrews. His record before he joined your company.'

'I know he was in the paras and-'

'So you know he was dishonourably discharged for flogging army explosives and weapons to the IRA and the UVF?'

Andrews was silent for a moment. 'It was never conclusively proved,' he said quietly.

'Bollocks. Who told you that? Baxter?'

'Even if it was true, his military record was exemplary. His training and experience made him a perfect choice for personal security.'

'How many of your other employees have got criminal records?'

'Look, who the bloody hell do you think you are? Who I do or don't employ is my concern. This is my business.'

'I couldn't give two fucks about your business. I just want to talk to Kenneth Baxter.'

'He's working.'

'Where?'

'Upper Brook Street. He's with two other men. They're taking care of some members of the Saudi Royal family.'

'I need an address.'

'I can't just pull him off a job on your say so. I need to know more details.'

'That's classified information. Just give me the address.'

'Number eight,' Andrews muttered.

'Can I use your phone?' Doyle asked, pulling the object towards him.

'Be my guest. Anything else you'd like while you're here?' Andrews said scathingly.

Doyle ignored him and dialled.

The voice at the other end of the line was Calloway's.

'Send some men to number eight Upper Brook Street,' Doyle instructed. 'Pick up Kenneth Baxter for questioning.'

Calloway asked what Doyle intended doing next.

'I'm going to see Julie Neville again.'

Calloway asked what for.

'A chat,' Doyle said and hung up.

He got to his feet.

'You've got no right to harass my employees,' Andrews said menacingly. 'I could lose money over this.'

'Send me the fucking bill,' chided Doyle, heading for the door.

Andrews rose in his chair but Doyle gestured for him to sit down, pulling open the door.

'I'll see myself out,' he said quietly. 'I know you're a busy man.'

And he was gone.

He strode across to the lift, aware that the secretary was watching him, his boot heels clacking loudly on the polished floor.

The lift arrived and Doyle stepped in, rode it to the ground floor and made his way out.

He looked at his watch.

Next stop Lambeth. The safe house.

He slid behind the wheel of the Datsun, pulled the orange disabled sticker from the front windscreen and pushed it into the glove compartment.

Fuck it. He had to get a parking space somehow.

Doyle switched on the cassette, music filling the car.

'… If that's the only thing that's stopping war, then thank God for the bomb…'

He switched it off again.

Another glance at his watch.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

As he drove he looked around. At the cars. The buildings.

So many places to hide an explosive device. He drove on.