Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

Doyle glanced up and saw bricks landing on parked cars.

A length of timber fully six feet from tip to tip crashed through the windscreen of a police car, the men nearby ducking even lower, one of them falling heavily as a lump of tiling struck his shoulder.

Glass from the upper storey of the house also sprayed outwards and Doyle hissed in pain as a sliver laid open the back of his right hand. He kept the bleeding appendage clapped to his head until the last of the smoking debris had come to earth, though.

Slowly, he picked himself up and turned to look at the house.

Close by, Julie Neville was clutching her daughter to her, her eyes also fixed on what remained of her home.

Three policemen were gathered around her, one of them holding a blanket which he was attempting to wrap around her shoulders.

Calloway and Mason moved cautiously across towards Doyle, who was standing in the street slowly bandaging his hand with a handkerchief.

Sirens were wailing in the distance.

Lisa Neville was crying.

Doyle looked across at the child impassively as she and her mother were helped away.

'Are you OK?' asked Calloway, nodding towards Doyle's injured hand. Blood was soaking through the material.

The counter terrorist nodded slowly, his eyes still riveted on the destruction the bomb had wrought.

'Neville's fucking crazy,' Mason rasped. 'Christ knows how many people he could have killed with that bloody bomb…'

'I don't think he wanted to kill anyone,' Doyle said quietly.

'Are you stupid?' the DS shouted. 'Look at that fucking house.'

Doyle grabbed the smaller man by the lapels and dragged him close, pressing his forehead against the policeman's nose.

'Yeah, look at it, fuckhead,' he rasped. 'Look at the way it's blown.' He pushed the DS away.

'What the hell are you talking about?' Calloway asked.

'The blast went upwards,' said Doyle, making an expansive gesture with his hands. 'Up and out. The houses on either side are barely damaged.'

'I don't get it,' Calloway said, gazing at the wreckage.

'The bottom floor is still intact. My guess is he only wired the attic, maybe only the roof,' Doyle said. 'That's a neat piece of work. Clever.'

'I'm glad you approve,' Calloway said irritably, walking towards the house.

He stepped over burning timber as he approached the front door.

Beneath his feet, broken glass crunched loudly. It was like walking on a crystal carpet.

The stench of burning was heavy in the air and millions of tiny cinders were spinning around like filthy snow.

Calloway coughed as he inhaled the acrid smoke.

Doyle moved inside the house, into the sitting room.

'Watch it, Doyle,' Calloway said. 'The fucking ceiling might give way.' He glanced up nervously but the counter terrorist seemed unconcerned.

There were several deep cracks in the plaster, a diaphanous white dust drifting down from these rents.

Doyle moved back out of the sitting room and headed for the stairs, taking them carefully, feeling them give, hearing them groan protestingly beneath his weight.

Halfway up he stopped, but from this vantage point he could see what was left of the upper storey, the light pouring in through the gaping hole made by the explosion.

The walls were blackened and there were dozens of tiny fires on the landing carpet, even on the walls. Pictures which had hung there lay smashed on the floor, and there was more glass scattered around.

And everywhere, the acrid stench of smoke clogged in Doyle's nostrils.

'What did he use?' Calloway asked.

'Semtex, I could smell it when I came in. He'd have needed three or four pounds to do this kind of damage.'

'It looks like somebody fired a fucking cannon through the roof,' Mason interjected.

'This was a controlled explosion,' Doyle said almost admiringly. 'Neville would have known exactly what damage he was going to do, what angle the blast would take. Like I said, this is a clever bit of work. When they said he was an explosives expert they weren't taking the piss.'

'Where the hell would he have got Semtex?' Mason asked.

'The same place he got those guns,' Doyle said indifferently. 'And my guess is he's got more of it somewhere.'

Doyle turned and headed back out of the house.

'How can you be so sure?' Calloway prompted.

'I know Neville.'

As he headed up the path he noticed that there was a small teddy bear lying amidst the debris.

It was blackened on one side but Doyle stooped and picked it up, rubbing as much of the soot away as he could.

He dropped it into his jacket pocket and headed towards his car.

'Doyle,' Calloway shouted after him. 'Where are you going?'

'There's somebody I need to talk to.'

'What about Neville?' the DI continued.

'He can't have gone far.'

Doyle slid behind the wheel of his car and started the engine.

Calloway watched as the Datsun pulled away.

The cat had obviously been dead for a number of weeks.

The stench it gave off was almost palpable.

Neville wondered how it had managed to get inside the lock-up in the first place. The building had always been secure.

It had needed to be.

The two large wooden doors at the front of the building had been held firmly shut by a series of locks and a rusting chain he'd used to manacle the handles. There was a window in each door, but the glass was so caked in dirt it was practically opaque.

Inside, the walls were bare brick, dark with mildew in several places which looked like mouldering cankers on the stonework.

Neville was certain he hadn't been followed.

Positive he hadn't been seen abandoning the car, or entering the lock-up.

He'd heard the explosion when he'd detonated the bomb.

Hard to miss it, he mused.

They'd come looking for him now and that was what he wanted.

The police would come.

Doyle would come.

I'll bury the fucking lot of you.

In one corner of the lock-up, boxes were stacked high. He'd put them there himself the last time he'd been here about a month earlier.

No one had seen him come or go then and if they had, there would have been nothing unusual to alert them.

Neville crossed to the boxes and began pulling them away, dismantling the makeshift rampart with gleeful speed.

As each discarded box hit the floor it sent up fresh clouds of dust, motes twisting lazily in the rancid air.

The object hidden behind the boxes was covered by a tarpaulin.

Taking hold of one corner, Neville tugged hard on the canvas.

More dust billowed upwards but Neville merely smiled.

The Harley Davidson's sleek bodywork gleamed, even inside the dismal confines of the lock-up.

Neville placed one hand reverentially on the petrol tank, feeling the cold metal against his palm.

The FLTC Tour Glide was dark blue, the chrome exhaust pipes even more striking against the bodywork. The entire machine, capable of over a hundred miles an hour and weighing just under a ton, seemed to give off an aura of power and Neville looked at it admiringly for a second longer before flipping open the top box.

From inside he pulled out a pair of thick leather trousers, which he hastily slid over his jeans before fastening himself into the matching jacket.

The folds of the jacket easily hid the. 459 automatic which he wore beneath one arm and the. 357 revolver strapped to his right side in another shoulder holster.

The Steyr he slid into the top box.

The leather creaked loudly inside the stillness of the deserted building as Neville moved about, finally lifting the black helmet into view.

It glistened like a black skull.

With it wedged firmly on to his head, only his eyes were visible through the visor.