Simon Kernick - Deadline

Bolt felt rage bubble up inside him. He looked around. The car park was empty. He had to act. Now.

'You think I'm going to let you drive away after what you've done to my daughter?'

He strode round to the driver's door and yanked it open.

'No, I don't,' said Doyle as Bolt went to grab him. 'That's why I've got this.' There was a snub nosed revolver with a scotch-taped handle in his left hand, and it was pointing up at Bolt. 'Now, step back from the car, nice and easy.'

'You won't shoot me here.'

'I wouldn't place a bet on that if I were you.'

The cold expression in Doyle's eyes told Bolt that it was best to comply, and he took a step backwards, realizing as he did so that he'd made a serious miscalculation. What the hell was he going to do now?

Doyle got out of the car, keeping the gun down by his side and glancing briefly over Bolt's shoulder to check that the car park was still clear. Then he threw his car keys on the driver's seat.

'OK, Mike, you're driving. Get in or I'll put a bullet in you right now.'

'Don't do this, Jack. It's over, can't you see that?'

'Get in.'

Bolt took a deep breath and complied, while Jack got in the back. He pointed the gun through the gap in the seats.

'All right, let's get moving.'

'Where are we going?'

'Just start driving and turn right out of here.'

Bolt started the car and pulled out, heading slowly through the car park, hoping that one of the Flying Squad boys would come out of the front door and ask for a lift.

'Go on, get moving,' Doyle snapped, shoving the gun in Bolt's ribs.

There was a big gap in the traffic and, knowing he had no choice, he pulled out on to the Finchley Road and started driving north, trying hard to figure out his options. He was certain Doyle wouldn't pull the trigger while he was driving, and pretty sure he wouldn't even if he stopped and jumped out – not in such a public place with pedestrians and other traffic about – but pretty sure wasn't good enough. Jack Doyle was both a killer and a desperate man. It was a bad combination.

It struck Bolt that Doyle was almost certainly trying to work out his own options, and he decided that his best policy was to distract him. He needed to keep Doyle talking.

'Why the hell did you have to do this, Jack?' he asked, his voice laced with disappointment.

'It's not like you think, and I didn't know she was your daughter. I just wanted my money back.'

'What do you mean?'

'That Lewisham job was going to be my retirement fund. Instead, the whole thing went tits up and almost cost me everything. If I hadn't got Galante out of the country he'd have definitely grassed me up. For years I never knew who'd fucked things up for us. You never named your source, remember?'

'Yeah, I remember.'

'Very chivalrous of you. Except the problem was one day you did tell me.'

Bolt frowned. 'When?'

'Remember that fishing trip you and me went on to Ireland a couple of years back, the last time you got yourself suspended? Well, it was then. We got pissed one night in that pub near Kilrush, the one with the big log fire. I asked you about the job then. I wasn't even that bothered about it. I just wanted to know.'

'And I told you?' Bolt vaguely remembered saying something now, but it had been an extremely drunken night.

'Yeah, you told me it was that bitch Andrea Devern. I didn't even know she was Galante's squeeze at the time.' Doyle cleared his throat. 'Anyway, I looked into things and saw she'd done very, very nicely for herself. Unlike me with a divorce, kids I don't see, and a whore of an exwife who's nicked all my money and half my pension.'

Bolt didn't bother telling him that this was hardly a reason for committing kidnap and murder. Instead, he kept quiet, letting Doyle talk. All the time pondering his options.

'And then I heard she'd married that piece of dirt Pat Phelan. You know, I met up with him a few months ago? I was going to sound him out about getting involved, but the flash bastard couldn't stop telling me how much money he had now that he was married to a rich girl, really rubbing it in. He laughed at me. You know that, Mike? The bastard laughed at me. Well, he ain't laughing now.'

'Where is he?'

'Not far away. I'm surprised you lot haven't found him yet.'

He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the sports jacket he was wearing, drew one out and lit it.

'You know what gets me? The whole thing was planned brilliantly. I really put effort into it. I let Ridgers and his prison buddy, a toe rag called Karl Roven, do all the hard work, and the idea was they'd turn up back at the farm last night and I'd take them both out. Bang bang, just like that. Then with Pat Phelan disappeared off the face of the earth, he'd end up getting the blame for organizing it all.'

'What about Emma? What were you going to do with her?'

'She was always going to get released. I'm not that cruel. I don't mind getting rid of scum like Ridgers and his mate, but I don't hurt kids.'

Somehow Bolt doubted it. If Doyle was cruel enough to lock Emma in a cellar and subject her to such a terrifying ordeal, he was definitely cruel enough to dispose of her afterwards.

'What about the cleaner? Was she scum as well?'

'That was a pity,' Doyle answered, sounding genuinely regretful. 'I got Ridgers' prison buddy, Roven, to get to know her. It was the only way we could get the alarm codes to plant the bugs. I tried getting past the alarm a couple of times myself, but it was too sophisticated. And once Roven had the information, he had to get rid of her.'

'But we never found any bugs in the house.'

'We used the simplest ones of all: a couple of mobile phones planted in the house and set up to hands-free kits. All we had to do was put them on silent and auto answer, then dial the numbers, and we could hear everything. The reason you never found them was because they'd both run out of batteries by Friday, so they wouldn't have shown up on all the new-fangled stuff you use these days. I didn't think we'd need them beyond then.'

Bolt knew it was possible to turn standard mobile phones into covert listening devices with only a few standard modifications. They should have thought of that. Not that it would have made any difference in the end.

'You know, I can't believe a friend of mine – someone I've known for, God, how long is it?

sixteen, seventeen years? – could do what you've done and sit here trying to justify it.'

Doyle sat up in his seat and glared at Bolt, blowing smoke into the front of the car.

'I saved your life last night, Mikey boy. Remember that. If I hadn't put a bullet in Ridgers, he'd have cut you to pieces, and you know it.' He dragged hard on the cigarette. 'I saved your life, even though you turning up there nearly ruined everything for me. Just like you turning up now has.'

'Forgive me if I don't apologize for wanting to rescue my daughter from the animals you hired.' 'You know I'd never have done it if I'd known she was anything to do with you. Like I say, all I wanted was my money.'

Bolt stared at him in the wing mirror.

'You keep saying that, "my money". Andrea ran a business she'd built up from scratch. What did she owe you?'

'How do you think she started that business? There was other money that Jimmy Galante had stashed away that went missing after he left the country. Money that she had. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that bitch is whiter than white.'

Doyle opened the window and chucked his cigarette butt out.

'Go straight across at the lights, and don't try anything. There's a turning up here somewhere.'

'Where are we going?'

'Just for a little drive.'

Bolt knew what was coming. He slowed down as the lights went red, and the Mondeo came to a halt.