Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

'Four.'

She pressed Four and Three.

The doors remained open.

She pushed again.

'It's temperamental,' she explained.

'I know how it feels.'

She giggled this time. An infectious sound.

The doors finally slid shut.

'This is a no smoking building.'

'I won't tell if you won't,' Doyle said.

'Only if I can have a drag?' she said, gazing lovingly at the cigarette.

He nodded and she took the cigarette from between his lips and sucked hard on it.

'Jesus,' she murmured. 'That's better.'

It was Doyle's turn to smile.

'Keep it,' he said, watching as she took another drag.

She shook her head, took the cigarette from her own mouth and pushed it gently back between his lips. He licked at the filter and tasted her lipstick.

The lift continued to rise slowly.

'You're not Madame Olenska, are you?' Doyle said smiling.

The young woman laughed and shook her head.

'Who the hell is she?' he persisted.

'She's got a flat on the second floor, she's a mystic. Tarot cards, seances. That kind of thing. She gets a lot of business.'

'I wonder if she could tell me what's going to win the three-thirty at Kempton.'

Again the woman laughed, her gaze now riveted on Doyle. 'You don't look like one of her customers.'

'I'm not.'

The lift bumped to a halt at the third floor.

'This is me,' she said, holding out her arm for the metal box which Doyle handed to her. 'Thanks for your help. Nice to see the age of chivalry isn't dead.'

She stepped out of the lift, Doyle's eyes straying to her shapely legs and buttocks.

'I hope no one smells the smoke in the lift,' she said as she walked off down the corridor.

'I'll tell them it was you,' he called after her, and he heard that infectious laugh once more as the lift doors slid shut.

Doyle took one last drag on the cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it out beneath his boot as the lift reached four.

He stepped out on to polished wood floors.

There was another reception area opposite him, the woman behind it looking up with concern on her face as he strode towards her.

'Can I help you?' she said, forcing a smile.

'Yeah, you buzzed me in,' he told her, reaching inside his jacket for his ID which he flipped open before her. 'Sean Doyle, Counter Terrorist Unit. I'm looking for Kenneth Baxter.'

The contents of the plastic tray didn't look like much.

A few blackened, twisted pieces of plastic, some wire, a portion of battery, fragments of glass and other items which resembled little more than drops of solidified wax.

Detective Sergeant Colin Mason leaned on the work top, peering at the stuff in the tray, occasionally sucking in a deep breath. Sometimes peering at the other two men in the room.

John Fenton and Peter Draper were members of the bomb squad. Both in their late thirties, both dressed in black uniforms, they even looked alike. The same full features, same slim build. The only difference immediately apparent was that Fenton was much taller than his companion. A good six inches, Mason guessed.

Draper was chewing gum, rolling the balled-up silver foil which the stick had been wrapped in beneath his finger as if he was trying to shape it into a perfect sphere.

'It was Semtex all right,' Fenton said finally. 'I'd say about ten pounds, maybe less.'

'Are you sure?' Mason demanded.

'About the explosive or the weight?' Fenton asked.

'It was definitely C4,' Draper added. 'We ran acetone tests on the debris. The spectrometry confirmed it.'

'Hidden inside a video cassette case as far as we can tell,' Fenton informed the policeman.

'How the hell did Neville manage that?' Mason wanted to know.

'Easy,' Fenton said. 'He took the cassette out and put the Semtex in the box instead.'

'You know what I mean,' Mason snapped. 'How long could it have been there?'

'Two hours, two days, two weeks. It's impossible to say,' Draper said. 'He'd have needed to be sure it was in a case that wouldn't be removed before he wanted to detonate it. Something he was sure no one would buy.'

Fenton just shrugged.

'And how was it detonated?' Mason persisted.

'Battery,' Fenton said, pointing to a portion of a Duracell with the end of his pencil. 'We found this at the scene. All high explosives need to be started by a separate detonating blast. With portable bombs like this one Neville used, it's nearly always batteries.'

'Some use low explosives as the detonator,' Draper added.

'What the fuck are low explosives?' Mason enquired.

'Stuff like black powder or smokeless,' Draper explained, still chewing. 'The kind of powder used in cartridges. Natural gas is a low explosive. Mixtures of air, even petrol. Low explosive just burns unless it's activated and when it is, the explosion created is totally different from blasts caused by high explosive. The low stuff creates a sort of throwing action. High explosive shatters its target. Mind you, it does detonate at a rate of up to five thousand feet a second, so you can see the difference.' He smiled smugly.

'How would Neville have set it off?' Mason asked.

'I told you, the detonator was a battery,' Fenton began.

'I mean, by remote control. What?'

The two bomb squad men looked at each other.

'An electronic signal of some kind, I'd say,' Fenton offered.

His companion nodded in agreement.

'It must have had a fair old range on it,' Fenton continued.

'And been attuned to that device specifically,' Draper added.

'Keep it simple, will you?' Mason snapped.

'With an electronic detonator, if the bomber isn't quite sure what he's doing, the bomb could be set off prematurely by any kind of electronic emission. A TV remote control. The signal from a radio. Even too much neon.'

'Neville obviously know his stuff,' Draper said.

'Like we didn't already know,' Mason grunted. 'What about the other bombs he's planted or that he intends to detonate. Could they be the same?'

'It's very likely,' Draper explained. 'Most bombers tend to stick to the same kind of device. They stick to what they know. Chances are, Neville's other bombs are the same.'

'All seven of them,' Mason muttered.

'When's the next one due?' Draper wanted to know.

Mason looked at his watch and sucked in a deep breath.

'About twenty minutes,' he said quietly. 'Christ alone knows where.'

Doyle watched as the receptionist picked up the phone on her desk and pressed one digit, her eyes still fixed on him.

'Would you like to take a seat, Mr Doyle?' she said, motioning towards some canvas chairs arranged opposite the desk. A couple of potted plants and a small table bearing magazines completed the illusion and made the waiting area of Nemesis Security look more like a dentist's reception area.

Doyle sauntered across to the table and picked up the top magazine, flipping through it disinterestedly, turning to glance back at the receptionist every now and then.

He looked down at the other magazines. GQ. Empire. Elle. Cosmopolitan.

Very eclectic. What kind of fucking customers did Nemesis get?

Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting up, aware of the frown creasing the receptionist's brow as she watched him.

He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her.

A door to his right opened and a tall man with glasses and a goatee beard emerged, looking first at the receptionist then at Doyle. His expression was one of bewilderment.

'Mr Doyle?' he said falteringly, extending his right hand, which Doyle shook firmly, feeling the strength in it. 'My name is Michael Andrews. I own Nemesis Security.'

Doyle flashed his ID.

'If you'd like to come through into my office,' said Andrews, ushering Doyle towards the door from which he'd just appeared.