Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

Doyle pulled his hand away gently. 'No wife.'

'Girlfriend?'

He shook his head.

'There must be someone, Doyle.'

'There've been a few. I don't keep a bloody scorecard.'

'Anyone special?'

'There was. She died.'

'I'm sorry. When?'

'Seven, eight years ago now.'

Nine. Ten. A fucking eternity.

'How did it happen?' Julie's voice was soft.

'She was shot,' he said flatly.

Shot to fucking pieces.

'We were working together at the time,' he continued. 'There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about her.' He turned his gaze on Julie and she found herself looking deeply into his grey eyes.

'What was her name?'

'Georgie. Georgina.' A faint smile played across his lips then vanished hurriedly.

What the fuck are you doing?

Doyle drained the contents of his cup and tossed it into the waste bin.

What are you going to do? Tell her your fucking life story? Get a grip.

'You said your husband didn't have many friends,' Doyle began, angry with himself.

Don't let the mask slip.

'The ones he did have, did you know them? Meet them?'

Julie hesitated a moment. 'Most of them were in the paras with him, I only met a couple.'

'Names?'

'It was a while ago.'

'Try to think, it might be important.'

'He was really close to a guy called Baxter. Ken Baxter.'

'Any details about him you can remember?'

'They were in the paras together. I met him a few times when he came home with Bob. They were in the same company.'

'Baxter,' Doyle muttered. 'That'll do for a start.'

He got to his feet. 'I'll walk back round with you.' He nodded towards the other end of the corridor.

Julie got to her feet and they set off for the room where Lisa still slept.

'What'll happen to him if he's caught?'

'When he's caught,' Doyle corrected her. 'It depends who gets to him first. The police or me.'

Neville slowed down as he approached the red light.

Inside the helmet his own breathing sounded laboured and he flipped up the visor, allowing some exhaust-choked air inside.

He could feel the reassuring bulge of his weapons against each side, hidden beneath his jacket.

As he drew up at the lights at the junction of Kilburn High Road and Belsize Road, Neville glanced at the vehicles aligned on either side of him.

A pale blue Volvo driven by a woman who was constantly turning around to bellow at two kids in the back seat.

Behind her a red Astra driven by a man with a haggard expression who was speaking animatedly into a mobile phone, alternately glancing at his watch and the lights which seemed to be stuck on red.

A white Transit van was on the other side of him, loud music blasting from inside.

The driver, a Jamaican wearing a baseball cap with the letter X emblazoned on it, regarded him balefully.

Neville met his gaze.

The Jamaican jerked his head up and down as if offended by the motorcyclist's gaze.

'What you lookin' at, man?' he said sharply.

Neville didn't answer. He continued to stare.

Nigger bastard.

The light had changed to red and amber, engines revved.

Neville kept his eye on the driver.

Neville gunned the throttle and sped off, swerving in front of the van, causing the driver to brake hard.

In his wing mirror he caught sight of the Jamaican gesturing angrily after him.

Neville smiled to himself, guiding the bike effortlessly through the traffic, moving along Belsize Road at a steady speed.

He didn't want to attract attention to himself.

Not yet.

There was a police car ahead of him.

So fucking what?

They had no idea who he was, who this leather-clad rider was.

More traffic lights ahead.

The police car was slowing down.

They couldn't know who he was.

Could they?

Neville wondered for fleeting seconds if he should speed around the police car, shoot across the lights. He thought better of it.

Another red light was coming up.

The police car had stopped too.

Neville pulled up alongside it and glanced quickly in at the driver.

Young, fresh-faced.

The driver glanced at him and at the bike then he nudged his companion, pointing to the Harley.

Neville swallowed hard.

They knew.

They fucking knew.

The light was still on red.

The driver was winding down the window now, his companion leaning across also.

Neville kept his gaze straight ahead, one hand fumbling gently with the zip of his jacket. He only had to ease the. 459 free. Three or four shots into the car would do it. He was less than two feet from them.

Any minute now.

The driver had wound down the window fully by now.

Neville eased the zip further down.

'Excuse me,' the driver said.

Neville ignored him, his hand closing over the butt of the automatic.

'I say, excuse me,' the policeman persisted.

Neville turned to look into his eyes.

You're dead, he mused.

The driver held his gaze. 'It's a nice bike. Harley, isn't it?'

Neville looked puzzled momentarily.

'Harley Davidson,' the driver continued. 'It's not an Electra Glide, is it?'

Neville shook his head.

'Tour Glide,' he answered.

'Told you,' said the driver, turning to his companion.

Neville kept his hand around the butt of the. 459.

'Cheers,' the driver said and wound the window back up.

The lights turned green, the police car moved off.

Behind him, Neville heard a loud blast on a hooter and he too pulled away, drawing alongside the police car again then swinging right into Chalk Farm Road.

The police car moved off in the opposite direction.

Get a grip.

They couldn't know. Not yet.

Neville was angry with himself for his own nervousness.

Just calm down.

You've got a good headstart on them. They don't even know what they're looking for.

He smiled.

And by the time they do, it'll be too late.

He glanced at his watch.

It should take him another fifteen minutes to reach Euston.

Doyle recognised the voice immediately and a slight smile flickered on his lips as he leaned against the plastic shell of the phone cubicle.

A nurse glanced fleetingly at him as she passed by and Doyle wrinkled his nose as he caught a scent of the contents of the bedpan she was carrying.

'Are you OK, Doyle?' asked Major John Wetherby, his voice sounding metallic at the other end of the phone.

'You heard what happened?'

'It was difficult to miss it. Why didn't you kill Neville when you had the chance?'

'There was no fucking chance, Wetherby, that's why the cunt's still breathing. Now listen to me, I need your help.'

'How inconvenient for you,' Wetherby sniggered.

'Cut the bullshit, will you, just listen. I spoke to Neville's wife and-'

'She doesn't know who you are, does she?' Wetherby interrupted.

'She knows I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit, what the fuck was I supposed to tell her? That her husband had won nutter of the year award and I was presenting it on behalf of the army?'

'Does she know why you want Neville?'

'No.'

'And the police?'

'Neither do they. Now will you shut the fuck up and listen to me.'

'This mustn't get out, Doyle. If-'

'I know that,' the counter terrorist snarled. 'Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me, Wetherby. Now listen to me. Neville's missus reckons he was a bit of a loner but there was one guy he was friendly with. A para by the name of Kenneth Baxter. I need to know as much about Baxter as you can tell me. If he's still serving. If he is then where? If he isn't then I need to know where I can find him. All the usual shit.'

'Why the interest in Baxter?'