Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

'If he's a friend of Neville's it's not out of the question Neville might try and find him.'

'Why?'

'For fuck's sake, Wetherby, do I have to spell it out?' Doyle spat out exasperatedly. 'For support, for somewhere to hide out, to have a cuppa and a piece of fucking cake with. What the hell do you think? Neville might be trying to figure out his next move, it'd help him if he had some friendly faces around him, wouldn't it?'

'I should think Neville knows exactly what he's going to do next,' Wetherby said smugly.

'Just find Baxter for me, will you? I'll call back in thirty minutes.'

'Doyle, have you any idea where Neville is now?'

'If I had, would I be standing here talking to you?'

Doyle hung up.

As Doyle approached the door he slowed his pace, listening for any sound from inside the room.

There was none.

He eased the handle down gently and stepped in.

Julie Neville was sitting close to the bed where her daughter slept.

To Doyle it looked as if both of them were in the same position as when he'd first entered the room. As if his conversation with Julie had never happened. As if a moment of time had been acted out and simply discarded.

This time when she turned towards him, she smiled.

A wide, bright smile.

Welcoming.

The counter terrorist said nothing, crossed to the bed and looked down at the sleeping form of Lisa Neville.

The long honey-blonde hair, one small hand gripping an edge of the sheet which was pulled up to her neck.

Doyle reached out and touched that small hand.

Julie watched him, a mixture of bewilderment and surprise on her face.

She studied the scars on his face. Deep scars.

She wondered how he'd got them.

There was even one on the hand which had reached out to touch her daughter.

'She looks like you,' Doyle said quietly, his eyes never leaving the child.

'You never had kids then?' Julie asked.

Doyle smiled. 'No need,' he said. 'No need, no time, no inclination.'

One more person to worry about. One more to lose.

'What about your girlfriend? The one that was killed, didn't she…'

'I never found out if she had much of a maternal streak,' he said bitterly.

'You said you worked together, was she in the same line of work? Counter terrorist?'

He nodded. 'She was the best I ever worked with,' he said softly.

Right. That's enough of the bullshit.

He ran a hand through his long hair as if the gesture was designed to wrench him from this mood.

Get a fucking grip.

'Neville loved her, didn't he?' Doyle said nodding towards Lisa who stirred slightly in her sleep.

'More than anything.'

'More than you?'

She looked shocked.

'After all, you were the one he strapped the bomb to, not her,' Doyle said.

'He would have done anything for Lisa.'

Doyle reached for his cigarettes, lit one, then offered the packet to Julie.

She declined.

'What did he say to you when he was holding you hostage? What did he talk about?'

'He was angry.'

'I figured that out myself.'

'Angry with the army,' Julie snapped. 'With the Government, with the public. With everyone. He thought he'd got a raw deal from the army. He kept on about having been trained to kill but then being discarded. He was mad because no one wanted him any more.'

'Including you?'

'It had been over between us for a couple of years. I put up with it as long as I could, for Lisa's sake. I suppose it was the last straw for him, me telling him I was going to leave him and take Lisa with me.'

'Did you think he was crazy?'

'I didn't know what to think. His moods changed like the bloody weather.'

'He never hit you or Lisa?'

'He wouldn't do that. It wasn't his style.' She smiled humourlessly. 'He'd never have slapped me.'

'Just wired you up with explosive. I'd rather have been slapped.'

'What do you want to hear, Doyle? That he was a maniac, that I was terrified of him? That I hated him?'

'Did you?'

'I felt sorry for him.'

'That's worse.'

'Fuck you,' she hissed.

They locked stares, then Doyle glanced at his watch.

'I've got to make a phone call,' he said, moving towards the door.

Julie watched him go.

'You're a bastard, Doyle,' she said as he opened the door.

'Who's arguing?' he shrugged.

It was as he stepped out into the corridor that he saw DI Calloway heading towards him.

'What the hell are you doing here?'

Doyle eyed the DI disinterestedly and reached for his cigarettes.

'I asked you what you were doing here, Doyle,' Calloway repeated.

'Interviewing the witness.'

'That's police business, it's nothing to do with you.'

'You're right, it is police business but she's Neville's wife and he is my business.'

Doyle noticed that the DI was alone. 'Where's the other half of the partnership?' he asked, taking a long draw on his cigarette.

'Mason's gone back to New Scotland Yard for now. He's got a few things to sort out there.'

The two men eyed one another warily for a moment longer, then Calloway's expression softened slightly.

'Is she saying much?' he enquired, nodding towards the door.

'Not much that's any help.'

'No idea where Neville might be?'

Doyle shook his head. He thought about mentioning Kenneth Baxter then decided against it.

Let the fuckers find out themselves.

'I've got a phone call to make,' Doyle said, walking past Calloway.

'What is the big secret about Neville?' the DI wanted to know. 'Why are you after him?'

Doyle smiled. 'Let me worry about that,' he said quietly.

'I could do you for obstruction,' Calloway said menacingly.

'You couldn't do me for gobbing on the fucking pavement,' Doyle said dismissively, brushing past the DI.

'We're supposed to be on the same side,' the policeman called after him.

Doyle ignored him and kept walking.

As he turned the corner of the corridor he saw that the public phone was in use.

'Shit,' he muttered under his breath, sidling close to the user, a man in his mid-fifties who kept peering anxiously in Doyle's direction.

Come on, get a fucking move on.

Doyle drew on his cigarette and leaned against the wall, gazing at the man who was glancing all around him, anything to avoid making eye contact.

When he finally finished he gave Doyle an apologetic smile as he stepped away from the phone.

The younger man picked up the receiver and began feeding coins into the machine, aware that the other man was staring at him.

Only when Doyle turned and glared back at him did the man hasten his retreat along the corridor and out of sight.

Doyle jabbed the digits and waited.

An officious-sounding voice greeted him at the other end.

'I want to speak to Major John Wetherby,' Doyle said. 'Tell him it's Sean Doyle.'

The other voice said that Wetherby was busy.

'Then interrupt him. This is urgent.'

The officious voice insisted Doyle should hold.

'I'm using a public phone, you prick, now get Wetherby and stop fucking about. This is very urgent.'

There was a moment or two of silence on the other end, then Doyle heard a more familiar voice.

'Doyle, I-'

He didn't let the Intelligence officer finish. 'What have you got on Kenneth Baxter?'

'Well, he wasn't hard to trace. It makes for interesting reading, Doyle.'

'Cut the small talk. Where is he?'

'He's in London. He's lived there for the past twelve months. Kenneth Edward Baxter, age thirty-eight. Born May-'

'I don't need his fucking life history,' Doyle snapped.

'It's relevant,' Wetherby replied angrily.

'Is he still serving?'

'That's the interesting bit. Kenneth Baxter was court-martialled eighteen months ago, while he was a serving paratrooper. He was found guilty and sentenced to six months in a military prison in Aldershot. After his release he was dishonourably discharged from the army.'