Simon Kernick - Deadline

'So he knows what we can do with mobile phones.'

'Looks that way, doesn't it?'

'Any chance of getting anything from the email he sent?'

'We won't get much out of the email address itself. Anyone can set up a hotmail account anonymously. But we should be able to locate the computer he sent it from. It might take some time.'

'Get the team on to it straight away. We've just got to hope this guy makes a mistake.'

'He hasn't made any so far.'

Bolt might have liked Turner, but his occasional habit of accentuating the negatives could grate at times. Especially times like this. 'Just do it,' he said, turning away and pulling out his own mobile. 'And get the local cops down the street where the call was made from, just in case he's still there.'

He unlocked the French windows in the living room and went out into the back garden, dialling his boss's number. When Big Barry answered, he explained to him what the kidnappers had done. 'These guys are good, sir. They know exactly which buttons to press. But there's something else too. The way they're tormenting her – this is personal. I'm sure of it. Someone really wants Andrea Devern to suffer.'

'Well, let's hope you're right, because that might help lead us to them. The woman can't have that many enemies. In the meantime, though, I've had authorization for us to set up a sting. Looks like the ladies and gents upstairs agreed with you about negotiation. It's pointless with people as ruthless as this.'

'It's definitely the right move. This way we'll be the ones in control.'

'We'll use bundles of counterfeit notes fitted with trackers.'

'These people are professionals, sir. They're going to spot something like that.'

'We'll be right on their tails. By the time they realize the notes are fake it'll be too late and they'll be in custody.'

Bolt wasn't convinced. 'But it also might be too late for Emma. If they pick up the money, then check the notes in the car, see that they're not real, they'll know we're involved. In that case, they might never lead us to her.'

'Come on, old mate, how am I going to get authorization to use half a million pounds of real money? And where am I going to get it from? The Christmas kitty? Think about it.'

'You said we're not going to lose them.'

'We're not.'

'So we can afford to use the real thing, surely?' Bolt thought of the photo of Emma as a toddler, playing with the hosepipe in her pink swimming costume. 'This is a young girl's life we're talking about.'

'Let's not get sentimental, Mike.'

'I'm not. But if we use fake money and it all goes wrong, it's not going to look good for any of us, is it? That we thought the money was more important than our kidnap victim.' He resisted adding 'heads will roll', but the point was a valid one. Bolt was appealing to Barry's innate arse-covering instincts, knowing that there lay his greatest chance of success.

And it seemed to be working. 'I'll talk to them upstairs, but I can't see them going for it.' Barry sighed. 'Look, this whole operation needs to be well planned, so I want you back here so we can discuss the details. As soon as poss. Keep Turner and the liaison there with Mrs Devern, just in case they make contact again.'

Bolt hung up, and looked at his watch. It was ten past one. His stomach was growling and he realized that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. He'd grab some lunch on the way back. He took a deep breath. One way or another, he was going to get these bastards. And get Emma back for Andrea as well. The hunt was on now, and on the ground at least, he was the one in charge. This was the part of the job he loved, when the battle lines were drawn and it was all about you and them. Pushing the images of the video aside, he felt a renewed sense of determination.

He became aware of a presence behind him. It was Turner, looking vaguely sheepish.

'Everything all right, Matt?'

'Mrs Devern wants a word with you upstairs.

Alone. She doesn't want to talk to Marie.' There was a vague disapproval in his tone.

'OK, thanks.'

Bolt walked back into the house through the French windows. Marie was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking concerned.

'She's in the first room on the left,' she said wearily.

Bolt smiled, feeling sorry for her. 'Thanks. I don't see there's much I'm going to be able to do either, but I'll give it a try.'

Andrea was in the master bedroom, sitting in a white leather armchair and staring out of the bay window, a cigarette in her hand. She turned as he came inside and shut the door behind him. Her face was set hard, the tears wiped away now.

'You've got to get her back, Mike.' She spoke the words firmly.

'And we're doing absolutely everything we can to bring that about. I know how hard it must be, but you've got to try to sit tight and be patient.'

'Did you never want children, Mike?'

She watched him closely, waiting for an answer, the cigarette burning, forgotten, in her hand. He sighed, wondering how he was going to extricate himself from this conversation.

'The opportunity never arose. Maybe one day.'

'Have you ever been married?'

'I was. Once.'

'What happened?'

'She died. In a car crash. Five years ago.'

Five years. It felt like such a long time, yet in truth it had gone fast. He could still picture Mikaela perfectly, could still hear her voice. But she was someone he didn't like to be reminded of by other people. He liked to keep his thoughts and memories of her to himself.

'I'm sorry,' she said, sounding like she meant it.

'It's OK.'

Silence. He sensed there was something she wanted to add, so he waited for it.

And it came.

'Listen, Mike, I don't know how to say this, but…'

She noticed the cigarette then, and flicked the ash into an ashtray on the windowsill before it spilled into her lap.

'What is it, Andrea?'

'I told you about Jimmy Galante, didn't I? About the reason I involved him.'

'Because you needed his help.'

'Yes, and because he was her father as well.'

'That's right.'

'The thing is, I was lying.'

Bolt tensed. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean I was lying when I told Jimmy he was the father. He wasn't.'

She looked him squarely in the eye. 'You are.'

One of Mike Bolt's problems in his younger days was an inability to say no. He should never have carried on the affair with Andrea Devern after that first night of passion in the Bloomsbury hotel. She was a married woman, with a wealthy husband who looked after her, and he was an impetuous twenty-four-year-old cop, so it was always going to end in tears. But Bolt had somehow convinced himself that this didn't really matter. He was just going to see how things went and not get too involved.

But he had got involved, and in the eight weeks the affair had lasted he'd found himself driven ever deeper into Andrea's web. In the beginning he'd been in control, but that control had evaporated rapidly as he'd become more and more obsessed with her. He was driven to distraction by the difficulties in getting hold of her, and in meeting up for their illicit liaisons. In those eight weeks they slept together on only six occasions, and then suddenly it was all over. Just like that. Not with a whimper either, but with a bang he'd never forget.

But could he really have fathered her child? The thought nagged at him ferociously as he drove back to HQ. But the dates fit. Andrea had convinced him of that back at the house. 'Our daughter's birthday's the second of April,' she'd said. 'We were seeing each other in June and July.'

Our daughter. His daughter. She could be wrong, of course. As he'd found out afterwards, she was also seeing Jimmy Galante at the time. And she was married too, although she'd always claimed that her husband, Billy Devern, was impotent, which was why he'd allowed her to take lovers. Whether that was true or not was still largely immaterial, because the dates fitted. Check them, Andrea had said, and he had, going back in his head to those giddy days, and the truth shouted at him so loudly he could barely hear anything else. It was possible Emma Devern wasn't his child, but there was a damn good chance that she was.