Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

She shuddered even as she thought of the word, of the journey.

Singapore. Then on to Australia.

Her parents had moved there three years ago. This forthcoming trip would be the first time she'd seen them since they'd emigrated, intent on spending their retirement in sunnier climes.

They'd sent her half the fair. The rest she'd saved from her salary. It had been a struggle sometimes over the past three years but her present job paid well and the final instalment of cash for the trip had been easier to accumulate.

She'd worked on the switchboard of the Meridien Hotel in Piccadilly for just over ten months now. It was good pay and the work wasn't hard. She'd be sorry to leave but there was no way they were going to keep her job open for the two months she was away visiting her parents.

Her sister Joanne, who was to accompany her on the trip, didn't have the same problem with work. Two years older than Cathy, she worked in the A amp;R department of EMI Records. Personal assistant to the head of the department. The job was better paid and a damn sight more flexible. But Cathy had little doubt she'd find another job upon her return. At the moment that was the furthest thing from her mind. The trip was less than a week away. Everything it was possible to pack was already jammed into her two suitcases; she was now stocking up on items to kill time on the twenty-four-hour flight.

She picked up a couple more CDs, tapping her foot in time to the music that was playing inside the store.

She glanced at her purchases.

A pretty wide range. Something for all occasions, she thought, smiling to herself. Madonna. A compilation Country and Western album. Queen. Guns 'n Roses' first album and a Kate Bush compilation.

What else?

She moved as swiftly as she could between the racks. The shop was crowded as usual. Cathy remembered she needed a new set of headphones for her Discman so she headed towards the stairs leading down to the basement.

Her heels clicked loudly on the metal steps as she descended, almost dropping her purchases when she reached the bottom.

The music playing in the basement was different. Loud, abrasive. Jungle music.

It belonged in the jungle, thought Cathy as the simplistic racket filled her ears.

There was another section nearby boasting bargains, so she paused to flip through the array of discs, smiling as she found one marked 'Songs that Won the War'. She'd get it for her mum. A present.

Cathy glanced at her watch.

She should be getting back to work.

Just get the headphones, then head back.

She had no idea from which direction the blast came.

The ferocity of the explosion was so violent it seemed to fill the entire shop.

Cathy heard a loud bang then the world dissolved into a haze of red and yellow.

CDs, videos, racks and tapes were sent flying in all directions by the massive blast.

Cathy joined them, hurled across the shop like a rag doll, lifted as if on invisible strings. Suspended in the air for endless seconds before being slammed into a wall which was already ablaze.

It mattered little to her.

The initial blast had killed her instantly, ripping part of her clothing off as surely as it had torn away one of her arms and the lower part of her right leg.

The explosion funnelled up the stairs, a shrieking bolt of fire incinerating everything it touched. It melted flesh as easily as plastic.

Rolling clouds of smoke billowed out into Piccadilly Underground station, the shattering detonation reverberating off the walls and ceilings, deafening those nearby.

Screams began to fill the air, mingling with the cries of those dying or injured.

Many lay still, some hideously wounded.

The store was filled with the stench of smoke, the reeking odour of burning plastic and the more pungent smell of scorched flesh.

Music was still playing.

Death had a tune.

Doyle sipped his tea and looked around the mobile operations unit.

It was like an office on wheels. A massive white vehicle which resembled a motor-home, painted in police colours and equipped with everything from a fax machine to five phone lines. There was even a portable television hooked up to a VCR in one comer of the unit.

All the comforts of home.

A small desk had been placed at one end of the vehicle and it was behind this desk that DI Vic Calloway sat, ear pressed to a phone receiver, tracing patterns with a Biro as he talked.

Doyle got to his feet, lit up a cigarette and stood watching the policeman.

Calloway slammed down the phone.

'Jesus Christ,' he hissed through clenched teeth.

'How many?' Doyle asked.

'Fourteen dead, God knows how many injured.'

Doyle spat out a piece of tobacco.

'The media think it's terrorists,' the policeman continued.

Just like Neville wants them to think.

'There's a press conference in two hours back at the Yard,' Calloway added wearily.

'And two more bombs before it,' Doyle reminded him.

'Why tell us it was here?' snapped Calloway.

'He didn't tell us, I guessed. Looks like I was wrong, doesn't it?'

Calloway looked impassively at the counter terrorist.

'It's part of the game,' Doyle said.

'I'm sick of you calling it a fucking game. Fourteen people are dead because of Neville. This is no game, Doyle.'

'What are you going to tell the media?'

Calloway shook his head slowly.

'Who will you blame the bomb on?' Doyle persisted.

'We can put out a story it was a gas leak or something, buy some time.'

'A fucking gas leak? They might swallow that for the first explosion, but what about two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight? And forget about buying time, Calloway. You haven't got any time to buy. In less than an hour number two goes off. What excuse are you going to use then?'

Calloway had no answer. 'I might find this bloody maniac quicker if you gave me some help, Doyle,' the DI snapped. 'You know more than you're letting on.'

'Neville's my responsibility.'

'Bullshit!' shouted the policeman. 'Now you tell me what you know.'

'What are you going to do if I don't? Arrest me for obstruction?'

'I might just do that.'

'Arrest me and you'll never find Neville. I'm your only chance.'

'Then work with me, for Christ's sake.' There was desperation in Calloway's voice.

Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette then dropped it to the floor and stepped on the smouldering butt.

'Neville was in the army with a geezer called Kenneth Baxter,' he began. 'They were close, according to Neville's missus. Well, as close as he got to anyone. I checked up on Baxter with Army Intelligence, they gave me some details.'

Doyle explained briefly.

'And you think Baxter's involved?' Calloway said finally.

Doyle shook his head. 'I just want to talk to him,' he said. 'Find out what he knows about Neville.'

'What makes you think he'll tell you?'

'Why shouldn't he? He's got nothing to hide. Besides, I can be very persuasive.' The counter terrorist smiled thinly.

'Where's this firm he works for?'

'Cavendish Square.' Doyle looked at his watch. 'I can be there in half an hour.'

'How do I know you'll tell me what he said?'

'You don't. You'll have to trust me.'

Calloway eyed Doyle warily.

'If he knows anything, Doyle, I want to know,' the DI said, pointing a warning finger at the counter terrorist.

'Are Neville's wife and kid still at the hospital?'

'No. I had them moved to a safe house in Lambeth, until this is all over.'

'I'll need to talk to her again too. Let me have the address.'

'Don't you think she's been through enough?'

'She'll go through a bloody sight more if we can't find Neville quick and, at the moment, there's about as much chance of finding him as there is of Salman Rushdie turning up at a fucking Moslem wedding. Give me that address.'