Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

The thirty-two-year-old plain-clothes policeman had watched the entire tableau in muted shock, tempted fleetingly to draw the Smith and Wesson. 38 from the holster beneath his flannel shirt, but he had watched and waited.

Watched as Doyle had spoken into the phone.

Watched as he and the little girl had headed off towards the steps which would take them back down to the station's ticket office.

Now he watched from one end of the carriage as the tube train approached Chancery Lane station, glancing up from his copy of the Standard every now and then, ensuring that Doyle and the girl didn't slip off the train unnoticed.

Mallory had no idea where the counter terrorist was taking his small charge.

No idea what he was going to do to her.

How could he point a gun at her?

Mallory thought of his own child and, as he glanced at Doyle, felt a swift but overwhelming surge of hatred for the man.

The poor little sod must have been terrified.

And yet, as the plain-clothes man watched, Lisa was sitting close to Doyle.

Probably scared to move.

The carriage was relatively full so Mallory's job was made that little bit easier. When more passengers boarded at the station, most of the seats were taken.

People were moving about in the aisle, trying to find a seat or at least a hand-hold before the train lurched out of the station.

Mallory glanced across towards where Doyle had been sitting.

He couldn't see him.

The plain-clothes man tried to control the panic which struck him like a slap in the face.

What if Doyle and the girl had slipped off unnoticed?

How the hell was he going to find them now?

Mallory leaned forward slightly in his seat.

Still no sign of Doyle, but he could see the girl.

There was a young woman sitting next to her now, occasionally smiling up at Doyle, sometimes at Lisa.

Doyle stood in the aisle gripping the handrail, his other hand dug in his pocket.

Mallory breathed an almost audible sigh of relief and settled back to his newspaper, scanning the same words he'd already looked at a dozen times and still unable to remember one of them.

As the train passed through Holborn he saw that the counter terrorist and the little girl were still on board.

So too was the young woman Doyle had given up his seat for.

She had pulled a paperback from her handbag and was scanning it, pausing every now and then to point something out to Doyle who leaned close to her as she spoke.

From his position at the other end of the carriage, Mallory couldn't hear what they were saying. All he was aware of was the warmth of the young woman's smile.

Even Doyle managed a grin a couple of times.

Lisa's face never changed expression.

That look of bewilderment and concern remained etched upon her features.

Mallory glanced at Doyle once more.

What are you up to?

It was as the train approached Tottenham Court Road station that Mallory saw the counter terrorist extend a hand towards Lisa, both helping and beckoning.

She took the hand almost fearfully.

Doyle bent his head quickly and leaned close to the young woman with the dog-eared paperback.

She laughed out loud.

Doyle and Lisa moved towards the sliding doors of the carriage as the train pulled into the station. Mallory felt his heart beating a little faster.

Take it easy.

As the train stopped, the doors slid open and Doyle stepped out, Lisa's small hand held firmly in his.

Mallory waited a second or two then followed.

'I'm not going to hurt you,' Doyle said quietly, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train to pull in.

He looked down at Lisa who glanced up at him with watery eyes.

A man passing by heard the words and looked at Doyle warily, only continuing up the platform when he saw the steel in his warning glare.

'You told my dad you'd kill me.'

Well, would you?

Doyle looked into her eyes.

What about it, hardman? Would you shoot a kid?

He squeezed her hand a little harder but his expression didn't alter.

So? Would you? Or are you going soft? If the time came, could you put the barrel to her head and blow her fucking brains out?

'I need to see your dad,' he told Lisa. 'It was the only thing I could say to make him speak to me.'

Ah, very touching. Bottled it, have you?

Lisa didn't look too impressed.

There was a blast of warm air from the tunnel mouth signalling the arrival of the train.

Doyle took a step towards the edge of the platform, pulling Lisa gently with him.

'It's going to be OK,' he said, without looking at her.

She didn't hear him. The rumble of the tube train drowned out his words.

They stepped on as the doors slid open, Doyle ushering her towards the nearest seat.

If he noticed the thin-faced man in the flannel shirt step aboard at the far end of the carriage, a copy of the Standard stuck in the back pocket of his jeans, he gave no indication.

Northern line, southbound, mused Frank Mallory.

Where the fuck was Doyle going?

He stood at the far end of the carriage, not bothering with the paper this time, simply leaning against the partition, eyes scanning the other occupants of the carriage but coming to rest time and again on Doyle and Lisa.

The counter terrorist also glanced around the carriage.

Has he spotted you?

Mallory thought not. However, he had no way of being sure.

Not yet.

The train pulled into Leicester Square station, disgorged some passengers, welcomed aboard others, then pulled off once more.

Doyle and Lisa hadn't moved.

Mallory took a seat which had been vacated at Leicester Square, feeling that it was still warm when he sat on it.

This time he did pull the newspaper from his pocket but he only rested it across his lap, tapping slowly on the paper with his fingers.

He saw Doyle lean across and say something to Lisa, saw her glance at the counter terrorist briefly.

He wished he could hear what Doyle was saying. There was no way he could get closer now without alerting his quarry. The only thing to do was wait.

'So, when we see your dad, you stay close to me, right?' said Doyle, leaning close to Lisa.

'You're going to hurt us both, aren't you?' she whispered.

'Just do what I tell you and you'll be fine,' Doyle said, as reassuringly as he could.

Just don't get in the way if me or your father starts blasting.

'I need to go to the toilet,' she told him, looking almost apologetic.

'You'll have to wait,' he said, trying to soften the edge to his voice.

'But I can't.'

Doyle looked at her, pinning her in the full glare of his steel grey eyes.

'You'll have to. It won't be long now. We're nearly there.'

Arrogant, stupid, shitheaded, fucking piece of crap.

Robert Neville gripped the handlebars of the Harley Davidson so tightly it seemed his fingers would cut through the thick leather of the gloves he wore.

Doyle.

Smartarse fucking bastard.

Who the hell did he think he was? Threatening Lisa.

Neville eased the Tour Glide around a van which had stopped close to the pavement outside a restaurant in Monmouth Street.

The traffic was heavy, as streets in the centre of the capital had been closed after the bombs. Diversions were in force. The traffic was jam-packed, bumper to bumper.

Neville guided the motorbike expertly through the traffic where he could, cursing the other vehicles, cursing the police.

Cursing Doyle.

How dare he?

Arrogant fucker.

Trying to play Neville at his own game. Trying to bargain.

The ex-para felt the bulk of the. 357 beneath one armpit, the. 459 beneath the other.