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  With the other five gang members accounted for, it soon became clear that none of them was the mysterious Jimmy Galante, a man who at that time had never shown up on the Flying Squad radar. An arrest warrant was hastily put together, and at four a.m. the following morning a Flying Squad team that included Bolt had raided his flat, finding him apparently asleep. Bolt had half expected to find Andrea there still, having not heard from her the previous day, but it turned out Galante was alone, and remarkably unfazed at being prematurely woken from his slumber by half a dozen men in black, all shouting and pointing guns at him.

  Galante was a cocky bastard from the start. Even if he hadn't been sleeping with the woman Bolt had fallen in love with, he would have hated him anyway. It just made it worse that he was a criminal, and a good-looking one at that. But his cockiness was justified. Although he had several cuts to his head and bruised ribs, strongly suggesting that he'd been involved in the Cosworth's crash, he'd denied involvement in any robbery and produced a cast-iron alibi for his whereabouts at the time (a café in Islington where he'd apparently been seen by at least half a dozen witnesses, including the owner). Worse, there was no sign of the clothes he'd been wearing, or any firearms residue on his hands. Everyone knew that he could have removed this simply by washing them thoroughly, but there was nothing they could do about it, and because none of the surviving robbers fingered him, Galante wasn't even charged with, let alone convicted of, any offence.

  Bolt burned with the intense frustration any police officer feels when a criminal he or she knows is guilty gets off through lack of evidence; the fact that he'd shot one of Bolt's colleagues made it almost unbearable. But bear it he had to, and shortly afterwards Galante disappeared off the scene, moving to Spain, away from the watchful eyes of a vengeful Flying Squad.

  Bolt had never heard from Andrea again after that. He'd tried to make contact with her several times but she hadn't returned his calls, and he'd been forced to accept that their relationship was over. But for him, personally, it had been a coup. His information had led to a huge result for the Flying Squad, marred only by wounding and injury to two of their own, and the fact that he'd shot dead one of the gang only increased his kudos among his colleagues. There'd been no repercussions from the PCC – his shooting of Hayes was considered totally justified – and although he'd been asked on several occasions to name the source who'd told him about the robbery, he'd always claimed that it was an informant, and gave no further details. Because the op had been a success, no one had ever pushed him on it.

  He continued to pace the room. Continued to think. Always about Andrea. How her information had foiled a major robbery and put a lot of very nasty people out of business, at least one permanently. How she seemed to have turned her life around so formidably in the years since. And how she could have made some serious enemies along the way.

  He stopped pacing and put down his wine on the marble kitchen top. He had an idea, and for the first time in the last few hours he felt a twinge of hope, coupled with something approaching excitement.

  Pulling the mobile from his pocket, he dialled a number he hadn't called in far too long.

  Twenty-seven

  Emma dug away in the gloom with the rusty nail, trying to shut the constant fear out of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate totally on what she was doing. It had been dark for over an hour now but still she kept going, even though every part of her body seemed to ache with the effort. It was a slow, painful job, but she was getting somewhere. She'd created a gap of almost a quarter of an inch between the wall and the plate on the left-hand side, enough almost to get a finger underneath, and when she tugged at the chain it definitely felt looser. If she could just keep at it, eventually it was going to come free. She was sure of it. But God, it was hard.

  She heard a noise upstairs – footsteps. She froze. If they saw what she was doing, they'd punish her. The cruel one might even decide that keeping her alive was now too risky, that it was time to get rid of her altogether.

  She jumped up, lifted the bed, straining with the effort, and pushed it back against the wall, trying to be as quiet as possible but unable to stop it from scraping loudly on the stone floor.

  Please don't let them hear it.

  Gritting her teeth, she lay back on the bed, put the nail under her pillow, and reached for the hood.

  The footsteps stopped. Was one of them outside the door?

  She put on the hood and closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe, terrified that this might be it. The last few seconds of her life. Had all her efforts of the last few hours been wasted?

  But the door didn't open.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten.

  She lay there in the darkness, her heart going faster and faster, cold beads of sweat running down her forehead as she listened as hard as she could for any sound in the room, knowing that the cruel one always liked to creep up on her.

  But she could hear nothing. Only silence. And eventually she plucked up the courage to remove the hood and look around. But the room was empty.

  So, he wasn't coming for her tonight.

  But she couldn't help thinking it was just a stay of execution.

  Twenty-eight

  In the old days, everyone in the Flying Squad had had a nickname. Bolt's, not altogether surprisingly, was Nuts, while Jack Doyle, the man he was going to meet, had been known as Dodger. Although he was five years older, Doyle had probably been Bolt's best mate in the squad. He was also the most accident-prone guy Bolt had ever known.

  Doyle's long litany of injuries was legendary: three months in traction after falling off a ladder trying to retrieve a football from his roof; a rare and potentially deadly blood infection when he'd stepped on a fishbone on the first day of his honeymoon; and in the most bizarre instance of all, a month off sick with concussion after a pool tournament during which a wildly mishit cueball flew off the table, hit him in the temple and knocked him spark out. Somehow his injuries always coincided with times when the squad were in action, hence the nickname, and it irritated him hugely because he'd always been one of its hardest members, and as a highly successful former amateur boxer was not afraid of a fight. He simply considered himself unlucky.

  Jack (Bolt had never called him Dodger) was one of the few of the old team still left at Finchley. He'd moved up the ranks and was now a DI. His experience, coupled with a near photographic memory, meant that if there was ever anyone who could provide Bolt with the information he needed, it was him. Although they'd kept in touch over the years, and still did the occasional fishing weekend away, it had been months since they'd last spoken. Even so, as soon as Bolt explained that he needed to meet up with him urgently, Doyle hadn't hesitated, and told him to name the time and place.

  And so it was that barely an hour after arriving home Bolt walked in through the door of the King's Arms, a busy, old-fashioned drinkers' pub just off the King's Cross end of the Gray's Inn Road. He had to look around for a few seconds, pushing his way through the buzzing crowd of drinkers, before he saw Doyle sitting in a booth in the corner, two pints of lager set out on the table in front of him.

  Doyle stood up as Bolt approached and they shook hands. As always, the other man's grip was vice-like. With his jutting, granite jaw and square shaped head, topped with thick black hair, Jack Doyle bore a strong resemblance to a Thunderbirds puppet – not that it was advisable to tell him that. He wasn't a particularly big man – no more than five nine, and of slim build – but the look was deceptive. He was all sinewy muscle, and even now, in his mid-forties, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him.

  'How are you, Mike?' he asked in a thick Glasgow accent that hadn't mellowed, even after more than a quarter of a century down south. He gestured at one of the pints. 'I got you one in.'

  Bolt smiled as they sat down opposite each other.

  'Thanks, Jack, I'm all right,' he said, determined not to show the turmoil he was going through. 'You?'

  'Not bad,' said the other man wearily. 'Count
ing the days until retirement.'

  They clinked glasses.

  'What is it you've got left now? Five years?'

  'Four. And I tell you, pal, I can't bloody wait. How's life at SOCA?'

  Bolt took a gulp of his beer. It tasted good.

  'Busy,' he answered. 'That's why I need your help. You remember the Lewisham robbery, back in ninety-two? The police van carrying the coke for incineration?'

  'How could I forget? It's the one where you made your spurs. Took out that toe rag Dean Hayes.'

  Bolt nodded. 'That's the one.' He'd never been proud of the fact that he'd killed Hayes. He might have been, as Doyle put it, a toe rag, but that didn't make ending his life any easier, and Bolt felt mildly uncomfortable at it being mentioned now. 'Do you remember what happened to the people who got put away for it?'

  'Is this to do with a case you're working on?'

  He knew there was no point denying it. 'Yeah, it is.'

  'It must be a pretty big case if you wanted to see me this urgently. Can you give me any details?'

  'It's an ongoing op, so I can't say too much at the moment.'

  'Not even to an old mate?'

  'You know I'd tell you if I could, Jack.'

  'Fair enough. And you think some of the guys we put away might be involved in it?'

  'We don't know yet. But at the moment, I'd like to know their current status, and any intelligence you've got on any of them.'

  'Well, you tagged one, and we put away four, didn't we? Vernon Mackman – he was one of the drivers. One of the best there was, I always thought. He died of cancer five years back while he was still in the Scrubs. As for Barry Tadcaster, he's back inside. He was out six months, then teamed up with a couple of old-style blaggers and got done for conspiracy to rob when one of them turned grass. I don't think he's expected out until after I retire.'

  'And the others? Marcus Richardson, and who was the other? Scott somebody?'

  'Scott Ridgers. They've been in and out since they got released for the Lewisham job. You know what it's like with blokes like that, professional robbers – they never change. Ridgers carried on blagging; Richardson branched out into smuggling coke into the country. But as far as I know they're both on parole and keeping their noses clean. I haven't heard anything about either of them for a while now.'

  'How long did they go down for?'

  Doyle thought for a moment. 'Ridgers got fourteen years, I think, and served seven. Richardson got longer – seventeen, eighteen, something like that – because he fired a shot before he got hit himself, so he did time on an attempted murder charge as well, even though he always claimed the gun went off by accident. He served eight or nine.'

  'You got an address for either of them?'

  Doyle's face broke into a craggy smile. 'My memory's good, Mike, but it's not that bloody good. They'll be on the PNC, though. I'm sure they're both still on licence.'

  'I'll check them out.'

  'You haven't asked about the one who got away. Jimmy Galante.'

  'Oh yeah, I remember him. He ended up in Spain, didn't he?'

  Doyle nodded. 'He did, but I heard from one of my snouts that he was back in the country. Someone saw him the other day in a pub in Islington.'

  Bolt feigned interest. 'Really? I must look into that.'

  Doyle took a slug of his own beer and at least a quarter of it disappeared. For a small guy, he'd always had a prodigious capacity for the booze.

  'Whatever you think our boys Richardson and Ridgers might be involved in, you've got to remember they weren't the brightest of sparks. Galante was always the brains of the outfit.'

  Bolt tried to picture the two men, to remember anything about them, but they were a blank. It was all too long ago. He wondered whether he was wrong to think that there might be a connection. The Lewisham robbery was ancient history, and as far as he was aware no one, either inside or outside the Flying Squad, knew that it was Andrea who'd helped to foil it. And even if someone had found out, there was still no reason to wait until now, fifteen years later, to do something about it. When he thought about it like that, the whole thing didn't make much sense. But it was all he had, and the fact that Jimmy Galante had been involved in both cases meant that it was better to be here asking questions than sitting around at home.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, finishing their drinks, oblivious to the noise around them.

  'How well do you remember Richardson and Ridgers?' asked Bolt.

  'Not very. There wasn't much to say about either of them. They were just two robbers prepared to get nasty to get what they wanted. I doubt many people'll have fond memories of them when they're gone.'

  'Do you think either of them could be capable of the kidnap of a young girl? A fourteen-year-old?'

  Doyle frowned. 'Is that what this is about?'

  'Between you and me, yes.' Bolt knew he was treading on shaky ground here, talking about the investigation to someone outside it, but he also knew it was the only way he was going to get answers.

  'A kidnap for ransom?'

  'Yeah. But I can't tell you any more than that, and you've got to keep what I do tell you under wraps, OK?'

  'You know me, Mike. I don't blab. What makes you think those two are anything to do with it?'

  'Just a hunch.'

  'Shit, pal, you sound just like Columbo.' Doyle fingered his empty glass. 'I wouldn't put it past either of them to be involved in something like that. They're criminals, and they're greedy bastards, so if there's money to be had, there's a good chance they'll be there.'

  'Do you think they'd hurt her? The girl?'

  'Christ, Mike, I don't know. The one thing about armed blaggers is they're pros. They don't add years on to their sentences unless they absolutely have to.'

  Bolt felt relieved, even though he knew this was irrational. Jack Doyle was no criminal psychologist.

  'You look shattered,' Doyle told him.

  'I am. It's been a long day.'

  'Maybe you should get home.'

  But Bolt didn't want to go back yet. He picked up the empty glasses. 'No, let me get you a drink.'

  'Cheers. I'll have a pint of Stella.'

  When he returned with the drinks they made small talk for a while, but Bolt found it hard to concentrate on anything other than Emma, and he was conscious that he wasn't good company. It angered him that he couldn't relax with an old friend over a few beers at the end of a long, hard day, and the anger was aimed at Andrea, because it was her doing. If she'd just kept her mouth shut, he might have been able to do his job properly instead of flailing round from place to place, tearing himself apart.

  He finished his second pint and got to his feet. 'I'd better go, Jack. Early start tomorrow.'

  Doyle stood up as well and they shook hands.

  'Good luck with the case, Mike.'

  'Thanks. I hope we don't need it.'

  'Don't worry, she'll be all right. Blokes like that, they just want the money. They won't risk going down an extra twenty years by killing her.'

  Easy for you to say, thought Bolt as he said his goodbyes and walked outside into the cool night air. It was a two-minute taxi ride home or a fifteen minute walk. He decided to walk, hoping it might calm him down a little, but he'd only got a few hundred yards when his mobile started ringing.

  It was Mo. Bolt had left him back at the Glasshouse a few hours earlier. He'd said he was just finishing up and was about to go home, but maybe he'd decided to stay later. He flicked open the phone and put it to his ear.

  'Mo?'

  'There's been a development.'

  His tone was grim, and Bolt felt his stomach constrict at the prospect of bad news.

  'What is it?'

  'I'm at a house in Tufnell Park. I think you'd better get over here.'

  Twenty-nine

  It had just turned twenty past ten when Bolt arrived at the address Mo had given him – a bedsit on a residential road of rundown whitebrick Georgian townhouses on a hill a few hundred ya
rds north of Tufnell Park Tube station. There were a dozen or so police vehicles as well as an ambulance double-parked on both sides of the street, blocking it off entirely, and small clusters of onlookers, some of them in dressing gowns, standing at the edges of the cordon talking quietly among themselves, clearly both appalled and fascinated by the crime that had taken place in their midst.

  Bolt's taxi stopped a few yards short of the bright yellow lines of scene-of-crime tape.

  'Christ, what's going on here?' asked the driver as he took the fare.

  'Murder,' Bolt told him, and got out of the car.

  He showed his ID to one of the uniforms ringing the cordon and was directed to a van where he put on the plastic coveralls all officers are obliged to wear when entering crime scenes. He was exhausted, the remnants of the two pints of Stella he'd had with Jack tasting sour and dry in his mouth.

  Mo met him in front of number 42. He looked a little queasy. 'It's pretty bad in there, boss. You might want some of this.' He produced a tube of Vicks and Bolt dabbed some under his nostrils.

  Bolt sighed. The last thing on earth he wanted to see right now was a body, and it wasn't essential to the inquiry that he did so since he could easily get the details of what happened from other people, but he wasn't the sort to shirk the unpleasant aspects of the job. 'Let's get it over with,' he said, following Mo through the open front door and into a dusty foyer with plastic sheeting over the bare stone floor. Long threads of cobweb hung from the corners of the ceiling and there was a stale, airless smell, mixed with something else. Something much more pungent.

  'She's down here,' said Mo, walking past a threadbare-looking staircase and down a dark, very narrow hallway to an open door at the end, the smell of decay getting stronger with each step.