Simon Kernick - Deadline

She stubbed out the cigarette in the grass and stood up slowly. It was time to go home.

But as she reached the French windows, she stopped. Andrea was back on her sofa, but there were two men in suits in the room with her whom Tina recognized as detectives from the farm the previous night. They were obviously trying to keep their expressions as calm and inscrutable as possible as they turned towards her, but there was no escaping the excitement in them.

'We've got a new lead on Scott Ridgers' killer,' said the younger of the two, a fresh-faced youth with thinning hair and a spray of freckles. 'A big one.'

The Coach and Horses was the pub where Finchley Flying Squad members past and present liked to drink. There were always a few old faces in on a Sunday lunchtime, mainly the local guys, but today was the first time in a long while that Bolt had made it.

The lunchtime crowd was thinning out now as Bolt came off the phone to Tina and returned to the table where he'd been drinking for the last two hours with today's Flying Squad contingent: Ron 'Scissors' Austin, silver-haired, still serving, nearing retirement; Marvin 'Mad Dog' Bennett, a huge black guy now working on the Met's Operation Trident; Big Tim Pritchard, once the squad's Romeo, but now a few stones above his ideal weight courtesy of his desk job at Scotland Yard; and the ever injury-prone Jack 'Dodger' Doyle.

'Who was that, your girlfriend?' grinned Scissors Austin as Bolt sat back down with his drink.

'No such luck. Colleague.'

'You want to get yourself out more, pal,' advised Jack Doyle before resuming his story, which involved a long-ago one-night stand he'd had with a female DCI from Hendon.

Bolt wasn't really listening to the story. His mind was elsewhere. He wanted to talk to Emma and had thought that Tina's call might have been her or Andrea getting in touch. The fact that it wasn't disappointed him. It had been good to catch up and trade war stories from the good old days, but now, as the conversation moved on to sexual conquests, he decided it was probably time to go.

Doyle finished his story of fumbled, drunken lovemaking (which had resulted, somewhat inevitably, in him falling over and twisting his ankle so badly he'd been off work for three days) with a flourish and plenty of illustrative hand movements, amid much laughter. When he went off to the toilet, Big Tim, not to be outdone, started on a story of his own, involving a relationship with a pretty uniformed PC from Finchley Nick.

'Tracey Bonham was her name. Anyone remember her?'

'Yeah, I do,' said Scissors. 'Pretty little thing. Red hair. Don't tell me she had a fling with an ugly sod like you.'

Big Tim's seat creaked precariously as he leaned back on it. 'Watch it, old man. That girl was in love with me, I tell you. I liked her as well. We almost got engaged at one point.'

'I never knew that,' said Scissors sceptically. 'Are you sure you didn't dream it?'

'I don't remember her at all,' said Mad Dog, shaking his head.

Bolt swallowed the last of his pint. To be honest, he didn't either.

'Well, I didn't bloody dream it, all right? We did nearly get engaged, and I reckon we would have done as well, but then she ends up running off with some scuzzy little bastard who turns out to be one of Dodger Doyle's snouts.'

Scissors looked mortified. 'Christ, she dumped you for a snout?'

'All right, all right. Don't rub it in. He was one of these real charmers, you know. The sort gullible women go for.'

'What, like you, you mean?' chuckled Mad Dog.

'No, not like me. I'm sophisticated and good hearted, as well as being beautiful. He was just a long-haired toe rag with a nice line in patter. But he had things with a couple of the girls at Finchley Nick. Then he got done for receiving a load of hijacked hi-fis, after he started trying to flood the market with them. He even sold one to Tracey.'

'Serious?'

'Yeah. She ended up leaving the force over it eventually. Christ, what was his name now?' Big Tim looked up and saw Doyle returning from the toilet. 'What was his name, Jack? That snout of yours a few years back. The one who got done for all them hi-fis. Pat somebody or other, wasn't it?'

'I've got it,' said Scissors, banging his empty pint glass on the table. 'It was Pat Phelan. Right long-haired nancy. He was one of yours, wasn't he, Jack?'

'Christ, I can't remember that far back,' said Doyle, re-taking his seat.

But as he spoke the words he glanced across at Bolt and their eyes met. Bolt felt his fingers tighten around his empty glass. Doyle looked away quickly and picked up his pint, trying too hard to appear natural.

Bolt stared at him, feeling adrenalin course through his body. There was a news blackout. Pat Phelan had not been mentioned at all in the media. Yet Jack Doyle clearly knew of his relevance to Bolt, which was why he'd instinctively glanced his way.

Their eyes met again, and it was suddenly as if everyone else in the room had melted away, leaving just the two of them there, at opposite ends of an empty, silent table.

Instincts. They shape so much of human behaviour. And in those single, dark moments, every instinct in Bolt's body told him that he was staring at the man who'd telephoned Andrea at home and in her car, and who one way or another had masterminded the whole thing.

Fifty-seven

Jack Doyle drained his pint and stood up. 'Well, boys, I've got to go. Things to do, people to see, you know the score.'

He shook hands with the boys.

'I've got to go as well,' said Bolt, getting to his feet.

'Don't fancy one more for the road, gents?' asked Big Tim, looking disappointed at the prospect of losing half his potential audience.

'No, sorry, I've had a long few days,' said Bolt, doing his own rounds and having to hurry as he followed Jack out of the pub.

'I'd give you a lift, Mike,' said Doyle, fumbling for his car keys, 'but I'm going in the wrong direction. See you soon, eh?'

He nodded briefly, a smile so tight on his face that it looked like it had been fixed there with botox, and made no attempt to shake hands as he started walking up towards the car park at the back of the pub.

Bolt kept pace alongside him.

'She was my daughter, Jack.'

Doyle looked at him with a puzzled expression. 'Who was?'

'Emma Devern. The girl whose kidnapping you organized.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you target Andrea? Did Phelan get you in on it?'

'Whoa, Mike. I think the stress of this kidnap case you've been on's got to you. Why don't you go home and get some rest? Because I promise you, you're talking shit.'

He carried on walking, and once again Bolt kept pace, even though he was experiencing the first signs of doubt.

And then it struck him.

'You were off sick for the Lewisham job, weren't you? The one where I shot Dean Hayes.'

'I'm not talking about this, Mike. Now fuck off.'

Doyle clicked off the central locking as they reached his car, a silver Ford Mondeo, parked up against a fence round the back of the pub and out of sight of the front door.

'You were off sick, so you never knew about the ambush until afterwards. That's right, isn't it? Shit, Jack. I never had you down for corrupt, but you were involved, weren't you? You were in on it.'

Doyle's features hardened as he opened the driver's door. 'You're pissing in the wind, Mike.

And you can keep pissing as long as you like, because none of it's going to hit me.'

'There'll be evidence, Jack. You know it. I know it. So, where's the half million? Under your bed?

Safe for a rainy day? We'll find it.'

Doyle shook his head. 'Well, you won't, will you? You're suspended.'

And with that he got inside the car.