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  Safe for a rainy day? We'll find it.'

  Doyle shook his head. 'Well, you won't, will you? You're suspended.'

  And with that he got inside the car.

  Bolt felt rage bubble up inside him. He looked around. The car park was empty. He had to act. Now.

  'You think I'm going to let you drive away after what you've done to my daughter?'

  He strode round to the driver's door and yanked it open.

  'No, I don't,' said Doyle as Bolt went to grab him. 'That's why I've got this.' There was a snub nosed revolver with a scotch-taped handle in his left hand, and it was pointing up at Bolt. 'Now, step back from the car, nice and easy.'

  'You won't shoot me here.'

  'I wouldn't place a bet on that if I were you.'

  The cold expression in Doyle's eyes told Bolt that it was best to comply, and he took a step backwards, realizing as he did so that he'd made a serious miscalculation. What the hell was he going to do now?

  Doyle got out of the car, keeping the gun down by his side and glancing briefly over Bolt's shoulder to check that the car park was still clear. Then he threw his car keys on the driver's seat.

  'OK, Mike, you're driving. Get in or I'll put a bullet in you right now.'

  'Don't do this, Jack. It's over, can't you see that?'

  'Get in.'

  Bolt took a deep breath and complied, while Jack got in the back. He pointed the gun through the gap in the seats.

  'All right, let's get moving.'

  'Where are we going?'

  'Just start driving and turn right out of here.'

  Bolt started the car and pulled out, heading slowly through the car park, hoping that one of the Flying Squad boys would come out of the front door and ask for a lift.

  'Go on, get moving,' Doyle snapped, shoving the gun in Bolt's ribs.

  There was a big gap in the traffic and, knowing he had no choice, he pulled out on to the Finchley Road and started driving north, trying hard to figure out his options. He was certain Doyle wouldn't pull the trigger while he was driving, and pretty sure he wouldn't even if he stopped and jumped out – not in such a public place with pedestrians and other traffic about – but pretty sure wasn't good enough. Jack Doyle was both a killer and a desperate man. It was a bad combination.

  It struck Bolt that Doyle was almost certainly trying to work out his own options, and he decided that his best policy was to distract him. He needed to keep Doyle talking.

  'Why the hell did you have to do this, Jack?' he asked, his voice laced with disappointment.

  'It's not like you think, and I didn't know she was your daughter. I just wanted my money back.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'That Lewisham job was going to be my retirement fund. Instead, the whole thing went tits up and almost cost me everything. If I hadn't got Galante out of the country he'd have definitely grassed me up. For years I never knew who'd fucked things up for us. You never named your source, remember?'

  'Yeah, I remember.'

  'Very chivalrous of you. Except the problem was one day you did tell me.'

  Bolt frowned. 'When?'

  'Remember that fishing trip you and me went on to Ireland a couple of years back, the last time you got yourself suspended? Well, it was then. We got pissed one night in that pub near Kilrush, the one with the big log fire. I asked you about the job then. I wasn't even that bothered about it. I just wanted to know.'

  'And I told you?' Bolt vaguely remembered saying something now, but it had been an extremely drunken night.

  'Yeah, you told me it was that bitch Andrea Devern. I didn't even know she was Galante's squeeze at the time.' Doyle cleared his throat. 'Anyway, I looked into things and saw she'd done very, very nicely for herself. Unlike me with a divorce, kids I don't see, and a whore of an exwife who's nicked all my money and half my pension.'

  Bolt didn't bother telling him that this was hardly a reason for committing kidnap and murder. Instead, he kept quiet, letting Doyle talk. All the time pondering his options.

  'And then I heard she'd married that piece of dirt Pat Phelan. You know, I met up with him a few months ago? I was going to sound him out about getting involved, but the flash bastard couldn't stop telling me how much money he had now that he was married to a rich girl, really rubbing it in. He laughed at me. You know that, Mike? The bastard laughed at me. Well, he ain't laughing now.'

  'Where is he?'

  'Not far away. I'm surprised you lot haven't found him yet.'

  He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the sports jacket he was wearing, drew one out and lit it.

  'You know what gets me? The whole thing was planned brilliantly. I really put effort into it. I let Ridgers and his prison buddy, a toe rag called Karl Roven, do all the hard work, and the idea was they'd turn up back at the farm last night and I'd take them both out. Bang bang, just like that. Then with Pat Phelan disappeared off the face of the earth, he'd end up getting the blame for organizing it all.'

  'What about Emma? What were you going to do with her?'

  'She was always going to get released. I'm not that cruel. I don't mind getting rid of scum like Ridgers and his mate, but I don't hurt kids.'

  Somehow Bolt doubted it. If Doyle was cruel enough to lock Emma in a cellar and subject her to such a terrifying ordeal, he was definitely cruel enough to dispose of her afterwards.

  'What about the cleaner? Was she scum as well?'

  'That was a pity,' Doyle answered, sounding genuinely regretful. 'I got Ridgers' prison buddy, Roven, to get to know her. It was the only way we could get the alarm codes to plant the bugs. I tried getting past the alarm a couple of times myself, but it was too sophisticated. And once Roven had the information, he had to get rid of her.'

  'But we never found any bugs in the house.'

  'We used the simplest ones of all: a couple of mobile phones planted in the house and set up to hands-free kits. All we had to do was put them on silent and auto answer, then dial the numbers, and we could hear everything. The reason you never found them was because they'd both run out of batteries by Friday, so they wouldn't have shown up on all the new-fangled stuff you use these days. I didn't think we'd need them beyond then.'

  Bolt knew it was possible to turn standard mobile phones into covert listening devices with only a few standard modifications. They should have thought of that. Not that it would have made any difference in the end.

  'You know, I can't believe a friend of mine – someone I've known for, God, how long is it?

  sixteen, seventeen years? – could do what you've done and sit here trying to justify it.'

  Doyle sat up in his seat and glared at Bolt, blowing smoke into the front of the car.

  'I saved your life last night, Mikey boy. Remember that. If I hadn't put a bullet in Ridgers, he'd have cut you to pieces, and you know it.' He dragged hard on the cigarette. 'I saved your life, even though you turning up there nearly ruined everything for me. Just like you turning up now has.'

  'Forgive me if I don't apologize for wanting to rescue my daughter from the animals you hired.' 'You know I'd never have done it if I'd known she was anything to do with you. Like I say, all I wanted was my money.'

  Bolt stared at him in the wing mirror.

  'You keep saying that, "my money". Andrea ran a business she'd built up from scratch. What did she owe you?'

  'How do you think she started that business? There was other money that Jimmy Galante had stashed away that went missing after he left the country. Money that she had. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that bitch is whiter than white.'

  Doyle opened the window and chucked his cigarette butt out.

  'Go straight across at the lights, and don't try anything. There's a turning up here somewhere.'

  'Where are we going?'

  'Just for a little drive.'

  Bolt knew what was coming. He slowed down as the lights went red, and the Mondeo came to a halt.

  'So, you're going to kill me then?' />
  Doyle looked pained. 'Course not, Mike. We go back way too far for that.'

  'Sure we do.'

  The lights went green and Bolt pulled away. He knew that Doyle couldn't afford to leave him alive, even if he was an old friend. When you were responsible for as many killings as he'd been this past week, you became hardened to it, and Jack Doyle had always been a hard man, unafraid to make tough decisions.

  The mobile in Bolt's pocket rang.

  'Aren't you going to answer that?'

  Bolt pulled it out, but Doyle extended his free hand. 'Give me that,' he said, taking it off him. He examined the screen as it continued to ring.

  'Who's Tina Boyd?'

  Bolt tensed. What could she want now?

  'She's a friend.'

  Doyle smiled knowingly. 'Friend, or girlfriend?'

  'Friend.'

  The mobile stopped ringing and went to voicemail, before ringing again for a few seconds to announce a message. Doyle put it to his ear, still keeping the gun firmly on Bolt.

  But as he listened to Tina's message, something happened. As Bolt watched in the rear-view mirror, Doyle's face, blotchy and lined after years of too much boozing, began to drain of colour, and his breathing rate increased.

  'Shit!' he hissed, throwing the phone to the floor. It clattered under one of the seats. 'Shit, shit, shit! How the hell do they know about me?'

  Somehow they were on to him. Bolt wondered whether this was a good or a bad thing. He had a grim feeling it might be the latter.

  'It's over, Jack,' he said, trying hard to stay calm, looking for a chance to get out of range of that gun. 'You can give yourself up. None of what you've said in here's admissible in court. You'll get done for kidnapping, but you'll miss the murder charge.'

  Behind him, Doyle fidgeted in his seat.

  'It ain't going to happen, pal,' he said after a short pause. 'They know. Somehow they know I pulled the trigger on Ridgers. What am I going to do?'

  'Give up.'

  'Fuck you. No way. Got to think, pal. That's what I've got to do.'

  He exhaled deeply, still training the gun on Bolt, his expression distracted as he desperately weighed up his options.

  Bolt noticed he wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

  Without warning, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator and swung the wheel hard left, cutting up the car in the next lane.

  'What the hell are you doing? Stop, or I'll shoot!'

  Bolt's whole body stiffened, expecting a bullet any second, but he kept driving, aiming straight at a line of concrete bollards on the edge of the pavement.

  'Stop, you bastard, stop!'

  There was a tremendous bang as Bolt hit the nearest bollard head-on, his foot still flat on the floor, and the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal. At exactly the same time, a shot rang out in the car, louder than the initial crash and deafening Bolt as he was flung forward in his seat like a stringless puppet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Doyle smash into the front passenger seat, then fly backwards, his legs flailing wildly, before disappearing altogether.

  Then the airbag shot out, driving the wind out of Bolt as it smothered him in its rubbery grip. For a few seconds he was crushed against his seat, unable to move, not even sure whether or not the bullet had hit him. Then, realizing that it hadn't, he managed to yank open the door handle and struggle free, desperate to get out.

  He staggered round the front of the Mondeo, conscious that he was outside a parade of shops, some of which were open. Shocked onlookers were gathering fast, the majority of them looking at something round the back of the car.

  'He's got a gun!' someone called out, and the small crowd moved backwards quickly.

  Doyle was lying on the pavement about ten feet from the back of the car, propped up precariously on one elbow, the revolver hanging loosely from his hand. He must have been flung out of the back window, but somehow had managed to retain his grip on the gun, which was typical of him. He'd always been single-minded. Blood stained his shirt and sports jacket, and a huge gash had opened up one cheek like a second, bleeding mouth. He was in a bad way, but when he saw Bolt, something flashed in his eyes and he tried hard to lift the gun.

  For a long moment they simply watched each other, oblivious to everyone around them, each man trying hard to come to terms with this terrible turn of events that had destroyed things between them for ever. Then Bolt began walking towards him, steady, confident strides that ate up the distance fast.

  Doyle's eyes narrowed, but he was having difficulty focusing and the gun was shaking in his hand. Several people in the crowd gasped but no one made a move to intervene. It was as if they were watching the last dramatic scene in a TV cop drama.

  Blood leaked out of the corner of Doyle's mouth, running down his chin. Bolt saw his finger tighten on the trigger, the end of the barrel pointed towards his belly, and he felt a lurch of adrenalin that almost lifted him off his feet. In that second, he leapt forward, stamped on the wrist of Doyle's shaking gun hand and drove it into the pavement. Doyle grunted and fell down on his back, losing his grip on the revolver.

  Bolt snatched it up and pointed it, two-handed, down at Doyle's chest, holding it steady, his face as hard as stone.

  'Don't do it!' someone in the crowd cried out, shrill and fearful.

  But he was never going to. There was no point. Emma was safe, Jack Doyle was finished, and finally his rage was fading, to be replaced by a leaden sense of regret that an old friendship he'd once thought so strong could have ended up like this. Tattered, bleeding, and ultimately hollow.

  Doyle's eyes closed and his head rolled to one side, more blood trailing out of his mouth and dripping on to the concrete.

  Bolt took a step back, then another, until he reached the car. He propped himself up against it and noticed the crowd watching – twenty, thirty strong now – for the first time.

  'Someone dial nine-nine-nine,' he said with as much strength as he could muster.

  Then tiredness seemed to overwhelm him and, still clutching the revolver, he slid down the car and landed in a sitting position on the tarmac.

  It was over.

  Fifty-eight

  Tina Boyd stood in the shadows thrown by the low-rise council flats and looked through the darkness at the brand-new four-door Lexus GS parked behind the chainlink fence on the other side of the road. It had just turned twenty past ten and she'd been standing there for more than an hour already. She wondered if she was wasting her time. Probably. But Tina wasn't the sort to give up that easily. She'd give it another half an hour before calling it a day.

  She stifled a yawn. It had been a manic weekend but at least events had come to a comparatively clean conclusion, which, as most police officers would tell you, is very rarely the case. Pat Phelan had at last turned up, although the manner in which he did so left something to be desired. A thorough search by Enfield SOCO of one of the farm's outbuildings revealed his dismembered remains inside a barrel of sulphuric acid, where they were dissolving steadily; they would probably have been little more than sludge had they been left for another week. His teeth had been forcibly removed, and identification had only been possible because a large 'Ban the Bomb' tattoo on what was left of his upper arm was still just about visible, and was recognized by Andrea Devern.

  The other main development that day had been the uncovering of the third person involved in the kidnap, DI Jack Doyle of the Flying Squad. A woman who lived a hundred yards from the farm had heard the gunshots the previous evening and had gone outside to investigate. She'd seen an unfamiliar car parked down the lane from her house, and because of the circumstances she'd written down the registration number. A few minutes later she'd seen a man return to the car and drive away. Because there were a number of farms in the area, and the sound of shotguns being fired wasn't that unusual, the woman hadn't called the police. But when they'd turned up at her door earlier that day as part of their general enquiries, she'd told them about what had happened. The car was quickl
y traced to DI Doyle, and when the witness was shown his photo she was able to say that it bore a very strong resemblance to the person she'd seen. Not enough for a conviction perhaps, but ample justification for an arrest warrant to be issued, and from that moment on his fate had been sealed. However, before he could be arrested, he'd been involved in a car crash, and was now seriously ill in hospital. A gun recovered from the scene with his fingerprints on it had subsequently been confirmed as the weapon used to murder Scott Ridgers at the farm.

  The reason why it was only a comparatively clean conclusion rather than an absolutely perfect result was that Matt Turner was still very ill and Mike Bolt, who more than anyone deserved credit for the op's overall success, was suspended until further notice. It didn't seem fair. And this was the main reason Tina was hanging around in the dark in a bad part of town, waiting. Because sometimes doing the job and upholding the law didn't necessarily provide the justice it was meant to. Sometimes you had to dispense that justice yourself, as an individual. Like Mike had done yesterday.

  There was movement across the road. A group of men emerged from the entrance to the monolithic tower block, three of them in all, moving purposefully, their voices low. They stopped at the Lexus and got inside, pulling out seconds later.

  Tina retreated further into the shadows and took out her mobile as they drove past her. It was an unregistered pay-as-you go she'd bought on Tottenham Court Road earlier that day, and as the Lexus came to the end of the road and turned left, she dialled 999, asking for police.

  'Hello, can I help you?'

  'I've just seen three men get into a car armed with guns.'

  'Are you sure about this, madam?'

  'Absolutely,' she said breathlessly. 'They walked right past me.'

  She gave her location, the make and model of the car, and the direction it was travelling in, waiting patiently while the operator took all the information down.

  'And can I have your name, madam?'

  'I don't want to get involved, I'm too scared.'

  And with that, she ended the call, switched off the phone, and walked back to her car.

  When she'd phoned the number Leon Daroyce had given her an hour earlier she'd disguised her voice and said he could find Pat Phelan at a flat in Colindale, where he was holed up with a lover, hoping he'd take the bait. And now it looked like he had done. She had no idea whether Daroyce and his two associates would be armed or not, but it didn't really matter since when the police stopped the car they'd find the five grams of cocaine she'd planted in the glove compartment. It had taken all the burglary skills she'd learned at SOCA to bypass the Lexus's sophisticated alarm system, as well as one hell of a lot of nerve, but it would be worth it. Armed with the coke, the police would be able to execute a search warrant on Daroyce's premises, a place she was absolutely sure would be full of illegal contraband.