Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

Calloway scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Doyle, who folded it up and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans without even looking at it.

He headed for the door.

'If you need me you know where to contact me,' Calloway said.

'What about the bomb in Piccadilly?'

'The bomb squad is sorting through the wreckage now. As soon as they've got something they'll call. I'll let you know.'

Doyle looked at his watch. 'Let's hope they're quick,' he said wryly

Calloway nodded slowly.

The door closed behind Doyle.

Calloway glanced at his watch.

They had just over fifty minutes before the next bomb went off.

The multi-storey car park in Fetter Lane stunk of oil and petrol but Neville ignored the cloying odour.

As he pulled off the helmet he felt the perspiration running down both sides of his face, stinging his eyes as it dripped from his brows. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a mile in the heat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Sweat soaked into the material of his jeans around the crooks of his knees. But those damp patches would dry quickly, he thought, as he pulled off the heavy-duty motorcycle trousers, balling them up, stuffing them beneath the Volvo he was parked next to.

He knelt quickly and refastened one of his caterpillar boots, tying the lace tightly then stamping his foot on the stained concrete floor.

He seemed to be the only occupant.

Row upon row of cars stretched to his left and right and he saw a blinking red light in one close by.

The LCD of an alarm.

It pulsed, blood red in the gloom of the car park, and Neville stared at it as if hypnotised by the rhythmic flickering.

He ran a hand through his hair, wiping sweat from his face, sucking in lungfuls of stale air.

On a level above him he heard a car engine being started, the sound amplified by the concrete walls and ceilings.

Neville waited a moment, watching as the car glided down the ramp to his right then disappeared from view.

He hung the leather jacket on one handlebar and stood motionless, hands on his hips, eyes closed, allowing the cool, rancid air inside the car park to wash over him. The sweat which was drying on him felt ice cold, but it was a welcome feeling and Neville enjoyed it for a few seconds longer before drawing in one final deep breath. He flipped open the top box of the Tour Glide.

The implement he sought was visible immediately and he picked up the screwdriver, kneeling, slotting the end into the head of the first screw that held the number plate in place.

It came free relatively easily. As did the second.

The third was more difficult.

He grunted irritably as he twisted the screwdriver, causing it to slip, scraping across the plate, gouging off some of the paint.

Neville hissed under his breath and continued working at it until it finally came free.

The fourth screw also came away with little effort.

It took him less than a minute to remove the front plate too.

Smiling to himself he slid the discarded plates together and strolled across to the waste bin which was positioned near to the lift.

Neville took one furtive look around then stuffed the plates into the bin, pulling a broken Domino's Pizza box over them. Then he walked back towards the bike, wiping his hands on his jeans.

The sweat on his body was dry now, the shirt no longer sticking to his back.

The damp patches on his jeans were almost dry.

He reached into the top box for the other set of number plates.

Then he heard footsteps.

Neville spun round, one hand touching the butt of the. 357, aware of how ridiculously conspicuous he would have looked to any passer-by.

Who fucking cared?

If anyone stumbled upon him he'd kill them.

The footsteps, he realised, were coming from the level above him.

He heard the harsh clicking of high heels and realised it was a woman moving briskly across the concrete floor.

He waited a moment longer then heard the sound of a car door slamming, an engine being started.

He reached for his jacket and pulled it on, realising that she would pass by him on the way down.

Neville barely gave the Fiesta a second glance as it purred down the ramp, the driver glancing at him as she swept her long auburn hair away from her face.

He waited until the sound of the engine had died away then quickly attached the new number plates, before dropping the screwdriver back into the top box.

Just like clockwork.

Neville mounted the bike and started it, the engine roaring loudly.

He pulled the helmet tightly over his head, wiping a little condensation from the visor before he rode down the ramps towards the exit.

The Fiesta was stopped at the barrier, the driver fumbling in her handbag for change while the attendant looked on intently, taking the opportunity to gaze at her knees.

He hastily averted his eyes when she pushed some coins into his hand and sat there, one hand propped out of the car waiting for her change. As she took it the exit barrier rose and she drove off.

The attendant barely looked at Neville as he took his money.

'Keep the change,' the ex-para said, smiling inside the helmet.

'Thanks,' the attendant grunted, gazing at the twenty pence he was left with.

As the barrier rose, Neville sped off.

Number twenty-six Cavendish Square was an imposing-looking building but then again, thought Doyle, glancing round, every building in Cavendish Square was impressive.

Like so many properties adjacent to it, number twenty-six housed several occupants, several companies all operating behind its edifice of large

Victorian town house complete with polished front door.

The intercom system arranged beside the brass-decorated door looked curiously incongruous. A twentieth-century imposition upon a more sedate age.

Very fucking philosophical. Ring the bell.

Doyle drew hard on his cigarette and ran appraising eyes over the list of occupants.

STRANGE AIR STUDIOS

MILLIGAN AND NYLES PR

MADAME OLENSKA (whoever the fuck she might be)

NEMESIS SECURITY

Doyle pressed the button beside the last name and stepped closer to the intercom.

'We're on the fourth floor, come up,' said an almost unbearably cheerful female voice and Doyle pushed the main door as he heard a buzzer sound.

A wide corridor led towards a small reception area with a desk but no receptionist. There was even a vase of fresh flowers set in the centre of the desk. A couple of leather sofas were pushed against the wall and a small table carried an assortment of magazines.

To his left, Doyle saw a lift. He pushed the Call button.

The reception area was suddenly filled with the sound of loud music and Doyle turned to see that another door behind the reception desk had opened.

A young woman in her mid-twenties emerged, smiled at him and flicked a strand of blonde hair away from her face. She was carrying a metal box which looked much too heavy for her.

'Can I take that for you?' Doyle offered, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.

The young woman smiled again and nodded gratefully, handing him the box.

'It probably seems like an obvious statement but you work here, right?' Doyle said, gazing fixedly at her.

Shoulder-length blonde hair. Pale grey eyes.

She was wearing a baggy V-neck sweatshirt, leggings and a pair of black Reeboks which, he noticed, had bright yellow laces.

'I work for Strange Air,' she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. 'The recording studio.'

Doyle nodded, aware that she was assessing him.

They stepped into the lift when it arrived.

'Which floor?' she asked him, a well-manicured finger hovering over the buttons.