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  But at the very least he needed to know how she was getting on, and when he'd finished his toast he called Andrea's landline. Marie the liaison officer answered. She sounded tired, but brightened a little when she recognized Bolt's voice.

  'It's great news that we've got Emma back,' she said. 'Andrea's ecstatic, as you can imagine.'

  'Is Andrea there?' he asked.

  'Yes, they're both here. Do you want to speak to her?'

  'Please. Just tell her it's a quick courtesy call.

  I'm sure she's busy.'

  'I'll go and find her. Hold on.'

  Marie clearly didn't know about his suspension. In fact, it didn't seem that she'd been told much, which under the circumstances was probably no bad thing.

  A few seconds later he heard the receiver being picked up. But it wasn't Andrea. It was Marie again.

  'She says she's very busy at the moment, Mr Bolt. Can she call you back later?'

  He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 'No problem. I'll wait to hear from her. But Emma's fine, yeah?'

  'She's asleep at the moment, but yes, she's bearing up well, although the doctors say she's quite dehydrated.'

  He wanted to ask something else, to keep the conversation going in the hope that Andrea would change her mind and take the call, but he wasn't sure what, so reluctantly he said his goodbyes and hung up.

  He turned on the TV and found Sky News. The main report was on the failed ransom drop. The man shot dead by police had not been named, but the young father he'd fatally stabbed had been identified as thirty-five-year-old Anthony Randolph of Waltham Abbey, Essex. A photo of him on his wedding day flashed up on the screen, followed by a photo of Matt Turner looking particularly deadpan, as the reporter described him as fighting for his life in intensive care. A camera panned round a largely empty Tottenham High Road, lined with strips of scene-of-crime tape, as the report continued, but it was clear that information was scarce, and there was no mention of the kidnapping, or of the separate but linked death of Scott Ridgers.

  Bolt felt resentful that he was no longer involved in an investigation he'd done so much to break. He wondered whether Phelan had shown up yet, and briefly contemplated phoning Tina, but decided against it. She'd done more than enough for him already, and he didn't want to lose her respect by pushing her further.

  Instead, he finished his coffee and got dressed, knowing that he had to do something, anything, to ease his frustration.

  Which was when he had an idea. Outside, the sun was shining and it looked like it was going to be another beautiful day. He grabbed his shoes and looked at his watch. Five minutes to midday.

  It was time to catch up with some old friends.

  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.'

  Fifty-six

  The Coach and Horses was the pub where Finchley Flying Squad members past and present liked to drink. There were always a few old faces in on a Sunday lunchtime, mainly the local guys, but today was the first time in a long while that Bolt had made it.

  The lunchtime crowd was thinning out now as Bolt came off the phone to Tina and returned to the table where he'd been drinking for the last two hours with today's Flying Squad contingent: Ron 'Scissors' Austin, silver-haired, still serving, nearing retirement; Marvin 'Mad Dog' Bennett, a huge black guy now working on the Met's Operation Trident; Big Tim Pritchard, once the squad's Romeo, but now a few stones above his ideal weight courtesy of his desk job at Scotland Yard; and the ever injury-prone Jack 'Dodger' Doyle.

  'Who was that, your girlfriend?' grinned Scissors Austin as Bolt sat back down with his drink.

  'No such luck. Colleague.'

  'You want to get yourself out more, pal,' advised Jack Doyle before resuming his story, which involved a long-ago one-night stand he'd had with a female DCI from Hendon.

  Bolt wasn't really listening to the story. His mind was elsewhere. He wanted to talk to Emma and had thought that Tina's call might have been her or Andrea getting in touch. The fact that it wasn't disappointed him. It had been good to catch up and trade war stories from the good old days, but now, as the conversation moved on to sexual conquests, he decided it was probably time to go.

  Doyle finished his story of fumbled, drunken lovemaking (which had resulted, somewhat inevitably, in him falling over and twisting his ankle so badly he'd been off work for three days) with a flourish and plenty of illustrative hand movements, amid much laughter. When he went off to the toilet, Big Tim, not to be outdone, started on a story of his own, involving a relationship with a pretty uniformed PC from Finchley Nick.

  'Tracey Bonham was her name. Anyone remember her?'

  'Yeah, I do,' said Scissors. 'Pretty little thing. Red hair. Don't tell me she had a fling with an ugly sod like you.'

  Big Tim's seat creaked precariously as he leaned back on it. 'Watch it, old man. That girl was in love with me, I tell you. I liked her as well. We almost got engaged at one point.'

  'I never knew that,' said Scissors sceptically. 'Are you sure you didn't dream it?'

  'I don't remember her at all,' said Mad Dog, shaking his head.

  Bolt swallowed the last of his pint. To be honest, he didn't either.

  'Well, I didn't bloody dream it, all right? We did nearly get engaged, and I reckon we would have done as well, but then she ends up running off with some scuzzy little bastard who turns out to be one of Dodger Doyle's snouts.'

  Scissors looked mortified. 'Christ, she dumped you for a snout?'

  'All right, all right. Don't rub it in. He was one of these real charmers, you know. The sort gullible women go for.'

  'What, like you, you mean?' chuckled Mad Dog.

  'No, not like me. I'm sophisticated and good hearted, as well as being beautiful. He was just a long-haired toe rag with a nice line in patter. But he had things with a couple of the girls at Finchley Nick. Then he got done for receiving a load of hijacked hi-fis, after he started trying to flood the market with them. He even sold one to Tracey.'

  'Serious?'

  'Yeah. She ended up leaving the force over it eventually. Christ, what was his name now?' Big Tim looked up and saw Doyle returning from the toilet. 'What was his name, Jack? That snout of yours a few years back. The one who got done for all them hi-fis. Pat somebody or other, wasn't it?'

  'I've got it,' said Scissors, banging his empty pint glass on the table. 'It was Pat Phelan. Right long-haired nancy. He was one of yours, wasn't he, Jack?'

  'Christ, I can't remember that far back,' said Doyle, re-taking his seat.

  But as he spoke the words he glanced across at Bolt and their eyes met. Bolt felt his fingers tighten around his empty glass. Doyle looked away quickly and picked up his pint, trying too hard to appear natural.

  Bolt stared at him, feeling adrenalin course through his body. There was a news blackout. Pat Phelan had not been mentioned at all in the media. Yet Jack Doyle clearly knew of his relevance to Bolt, which was why he'd instinctively glanced his way.

  Their eyes met again, and it was suddenly as if everyone else in the room had melted away, leaving just the two of them there, at opposite ends of an empty, silent table.

  Instincts. They shape so much of human behaviour. And in those single, dark moments, every instinct in Bolt's body told him that he was staring at the man who'd telephoned Andrea at home and in her car, and who one way or another had masterminded the whole thing.

  Fifty-seven

  Jack Doyle drained his pint and stood up. 'Well, boys, I've got to go. Things to do, people to see, you know the score.'

  He shook hands with the boys.

  'I've got to go as well,' said Bolt, getting to his feet.

  'Don't fancy one more for the road, gents?' asked Big Tim
, looking disappointed at the prospect of losing half his potential audience.

  'No, sorry, I've had a long few days,' said Bolt, doing his own rounds and having to hurry as he followed Jack out of the pub.

  'I'd give you a lift, Mike,' said Doyle, fumbling for his car keys, 'but I'm going in the wrong direction. See you soon, eh?'

  He nodded briefly, a smile so tight on his face that it looked like it had been fixed there with botox, and made no attempt to shake hands as he started walking up towards the car park at the back of the pub.

  Bolt kept pace alongside him.

  'She was my daughter, Jack.'

  Doyle looked at him with a puzzled expression. 'Who was?'

  'Emma Devern. The girl whose kidnapping you organized.'

  'What the hell are you talking about?'

  'You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you target Andrea? Did Phelan get you in on it?'

  'Whoa, Mike. I think the stress of this kidnap case you've been on's got to you. Why don't you go home and get some rest? Because I promise you, you're talking shit.'

  He carried on walking, and once again Bolt kept pace, even though he was experiencing the first signs of doubt.

  And then it struck him.

  'You were off sick for the Lewisham job, weren't you? The one where I shot Dean Hayes.'

  'I'm not talking about this, Mike. Now fuck off.'

  Doyle clicked off the central locking as they reached his car, a silver Ford Mondeo, parked up against a fence round the back of the pub and out of sight of the front door.

  'You were off sick, so you never knew about the ambush until afterwards. That's right, isn't it? Shit, Jack. I never had you down for corrupt, but you were involved, weren't you? You were in on it.'

  Doyle's features hardened as he opened the driver's door. 'You're pissing in the wind, Mike.

  And you can keep pissing as long as you like, because none of it's going to hit me.'

  'There'll be evidence, Jack. You know it. I know it. So, where's the half million? Under your bed?