Simon Kernick - Deadline

Throughout the morning the sense of anticipation in the incident room grew. Although most of those present were still involved in the mundane tasks of sifting through camera footage, everyone knew that later on they were going to be in action. That sense became heightened when it was reported that the ransom money, half a million pounds in cash, had arrived in the building and was under armed guard in the basement.

Bolt was on his sixth cup of coffee, feeling wired and knowing he was going to have to eat soon, when Andrea phoned, asking for him. He refused to take the call, making an excuse. For the moment, he had nothing to say to her. He still had doubts that she was telling the truth about his relationship with Emma. The more he thought about her actions, both in the present and in the distant past, the more manipulative he found her.

Yet, as she'd told him, the dates fitted. There was no way round that. Within minutes he was feeling guilty about not taking her call, so he phoned Matt Turner – who was back on babysitting duties, along with Marie Cohen the liaison officer – and asked him what she wanted.

'She just wants to speak to you, sir,' Turner told him when he came back on the line. 'She wouldn't say what it's about.'

'Tell her I'm very busy at the moment. I'll talk to her later. How's she bearing up?'

'Same as she was yesterday. Tired, emotional… like you'd expect.'

'OK. Keep an eye on her, can you?'

'Sure – but, boss?'

'Yes.'

'When exactly am I going to get relieved? I'd like to get where the action is. You know, there's not a lot happening here.'

Bolt sympathized with him. He'd have felt the same way too, but he didn't have the time or the inclination to start shuffling resources.

'Soon,' he said. 'I'll sort something.'

He hung up and stared out of the window at the street below. The sun was shining, a few puffy clouds trailed in an otherwise blue sky, and it looked like it was going to be another warm day, the sixth or seventh in a row after the wet summer. When Bolt craned his neck, as he was doing now, he could see one half of a small park, little more than a thin strip of land with a climbing frame and a couple of trees, set between two office buildings. There was a man sitting on one of the benches, a push bike propped up beside him, and he was looking up at the sky. Bolt was too far away to see his expression, but he knew from the man's casual demeanour that it was one of satisfaction.

Bolt watched him enviously. He'd always been a level-headed man. You needed to be in his line of business, where part of the job involved stalking your target for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. He was finding this sudden change in him just too much to bear.

He turned away and stood up. He could stand it no more. He had to do something other than sit and wait to react to events that might well shatter his life for ever. He had to get out and start influencing them.

Grabbing his jacket, he walked out of the office, telling Kris Obanje, who was the nearest person to him, that he was off for an early lunch.

It was time to renew some old acquaintances.

Marcus Richardson's bail address was the third floor of a five-storey block of 1960s flats, one of about a dozen identical buildings built in a loose square, which made up an isolated estate just off London 's North Circular Road. Even on a sunny, warm day like this one it seemed a bleak place to live, and the streets were near enough deserted as Bolt parked on the opposite side of the road to Richardson's block.

Because all the flats were reached via an open air walkway running along each floor, Bolt could see directly to his front door. As he stared up at it, he wondered what he was going to do now that he was here. The need for action had been so great that it had driven him out of the office, but he hadn't thought much beyond that. A recent mugshot of Richardson staring moodily at the camera was on the seat beside him. Balding and unshaven, with a double chin and narrow eyes as cold as flint, he looked like the kind of guy who didn't turn down many things for moral reasons, which was the reason Bolt had focused on him first.

He stared at the photo for several seconds, concentrating on the eyes, imagining the man behind them running a knife across Emma's neck, then turned it over and grabbed the ham and cheese baguette he'd bought at a corner shop on the way over, unwrapping it furiously. The idea of eating made him nauseous but he had to have something to keep him going; he couldn't make it through the day on adrenalin alone. He forced down a mouthful while he pondered his next move. Almost immediately he felt his hunger pangs returning, and he demolished the baguette in the space of a minute, washing the bread down with a half-litre bottle of mineral water.

A couple of kids, one carrying a football, walked past chatting, paying him no heed. He was used to waiting around. It was what a surveillance cop did. But this time things were different and it wasn't long before he was fidgeting. He looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. As one of the senior guys on this case, it wasn't going to be long before he was missed. If he was going to do anything, he had to do it now.

He decided on the simple option. Knock on the door, identify himself, and if Richardson exhibited absolutely no signs of fear or panic he could probably be eliminated from their enquiries. Hardly scientific, but at the moment Bolt was operating on the hoof.

There was only one problem. When he got up there, there was no answer. He knocked a second time, hard and decisive, so that Richardson would know he meant business. But nothing happened. Either he wasn't there, or he wasn't opening up.

Bolt peered through the letterbox, ignoring the stale smell of socks and old food that came back his way. He was looking straight into a small lounge with a cheap sofa and matching chairs. It was empty. A door directly opposite was partly ajar. There didn't seem to be any activity beyond it.

He stood up and looked around. The walkway was empty, the only sound a crying baby beyond one of the doors further up. He knew the risk he was about to take, but it was all about priorities and right now keeping his job wasn't that high on the list. He didn't like breaking the laws he was paid to uphold, but he'd always been a pragmatic man, and like a lot of surveillance cops he was also a highly competent burglar. It took him less than a minute to open the door using the set of picks he always carried with him. Richardson hadn't even bothered to double lock it, which told Bolt that even if he was involved in the kidnapping he was coming back to the flat regularly. He was also probably not intending to be out for that long, which meant Bolt was going to have to be quick.

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him and gave the room a quick scan, putting on a pair of evidence gloves as he did so. The furnishings were cheap and old; the only thing of any value was a brand-new LCD TV on a stand. There were a couple of lads' magazines and old copies of the Sun spread about, and a pile of DVDs stacked up in front of the TV, but it wasn't as messy as many of the bachelor pads Bolt had seen in his time. He noticed that one of the papers was this Thursday's, and by the look of it had been read from cover to cover.

Bolt knew that most armed robbers tended to be big spenders; it was the nature of their business. They lived life fast and hard because they knew their profession could be ended at any time. They snorted coke, they gambled, they bought women. Bolt had always understood why that sort of life held an appeal for certain people. When times were good, the life of an outlaw must have been a lot of fun, and he wondered how well someone like Richardson coped now, living in a poky little place like this. Not very, was his guess. Like all these guys, he'd want to take a shortcut to easy money, and kidnap could be an attractive option.