Deadline

by Simon Kernick

  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.

  Thirty-two

  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.

  It was obvious that Richardson lived alone. There were no photos or pictures on the walls, nothing to give it the appearance of a home, and no self-respecting woman would put up with the stale smell, which got worse as he went through the lounge and into the kitchen. Washing up was piled high in the sink, which was half full of rusty coloured water, and there were plastic fast food containers everywhere, some still with the remnants of earlier meals.

  He gave the bathroom a cursory glance, then carried on through into a bedroom with an unmade double bed and a view straight out on to the next block of identical flats. There was no landline in the flat, and it was definitely empty. There was also no evidence that someone had been held there against their will, or even that anyone female had been there at all recently. Bolt felt a surge of disappointment. He'd been po
sitive he was on to something with Richardson; now unwelcome realization began to break over him.

  There was a small cabinet beside the bed with a lamp on it. He checked through the drawers, moving quickly, but found nothing other than underwear and socks. Sighing, he stood back up.

  Which was when he heard the movement behind him and the menacing, aggression-laced growl, 'Who the fuck are you?'

  Thirty-three

  Bolt swung round fast, adrenalin surging through him as he came face to face with Marcus Richardson. The first thing that crossed his mind was that Richardson was a lot stockier than he remembered him. The second thing that crossed it was that the former armed robber wasn't going to be waiting for an answer to his question. Instead he came forward fast, his face set hard, and Bolt saw that he had a small wooden cosh in his hand.

  'Thought you could fucking rob me, did ya?' he demanded, raising up the cosh for Bolt to see, his biceps rippling beneath his sweat-stained Lonsdale T-shirt, the eyes just as cold and unpitying as they were in the mugshot.

  Bolt had to make a decision, fast. He was trapped, with his back to the wall. He could identify himself, say he just wanted to talk, but he knew it would make little difference. In fact, it might make things worse. Richardson had already worked himself up for violence and Bolt knew that if he got the shit kicked out of him now he'd be out of action for days, and with Emma needing him as much as she did he couldn't have that. Not because of the actions of a low-life bottom-feeder like Marcus Richardson.

  He experienced a sudden and ferocious sense of injustice, and in that single moment something inside him just snapped. All the tension that had been building up over the past twenty-four hours – the constant frustration, the crushing feeling of impotence – finally found the kind of outlet it had been waiting for. But he knew better than to go in guns blazing.

  'Listen, I'm sorry,' he stammered, raising his hands, palms outwards, in a non-confrontational pose.

  Richardson grinned, still coming forward, raising his free hand to grab Bolt by the collar.

  'You will be, mate.'

  Without a sound, or even a change in his contrite expression, Bolt lunged at Richardson, moving so fast that he took the other man completely by surprise. He grabbed both wrists and yanked them apart to create a gap, and before Richardson had time to react Bolt slammed his forehead into the bridge of his opponent's nose.

  It was a good hit, but Richardson was no pushover, and though he stumbled, he didn't lose his footing. With an angry, pained grunt, he pulled his weapon hand free of Bolt's grip. But Bolt still had the advantage, and he used it, butting him a second and third time in rapid succession, creating a deep cut just above Richardson's eye.

  This time Richardson did fall backwards, landing on the bed, Bolt going down on top of him with as much force as he could muster. The blood was running into his eyes but Richardson still managed to drive the cosh into Bolt's ribs. Bolt grunted in pain but knew he had to keep up the momentum before the other man got his act together, so he rolled over on to Richardson's weapon arm, effectively limiting the cosh's swing to only a few inches. In such a close-quarters position his head remained his best weapon, and he smashed it down into Richardson's face again and again, feeling a blind, furious elation. He heard bones crack under his blows and felt blood slick against his forehead.

  Richardson struggled under him. He finally managed to get his other hand free, and used it to grab Bolt by the collar of his shirt and push his face away, but on this day of all days Bolt wasn't stopping for anyone. Spotting an opportunity, and with his usual inhibitions temporarily absent, he rammed two fingers first into Richardson's left eye, then into his right, digging them in as far as he could, ignoring the high-pitched shrieks of pain coming from the other man.

  Of all his tactics, this was by far the most effective. Temporarily blinded, Richardson howled and waved his arms about uselessly. Bolt jumped up from the bed, twisting the cosh out of his hand and throwing it against the far wall.

  'Jesus, stop it! Take what you want!' wailed the ex-con, writhing about on the bed, pawing at a face that had become a mask of blood.

  Bolt stared down at him, panting. His head hurt where he'd been using it as a battering ram, and the baguette was lurching around his stomach. But he was still in the zone, his anger not yet sated, the realization of what he was doing still way off in the distance.

  'Have you been keeping your nose clean, Richardson?' he demanded.

  'What?'

  'You heard me. What have you been doing the last few days?'

  'What the fuck are you talking about?'

  Bolt lunged forward and pulled him up by his T-shirt, slapping him hard across the face.

  'I said, what the fuck have you been doing the last few days?' He stuck his face so close to Richardson's he could smell his blood, confident he was beyond fighting back. 'Tell me where you've been. Now!'

  Bolt threw him roughly to the floor. Richardson lay there, squinting up at him. He used his T-shirt to wipe the blood from his eyes, leaving behind a thick stain. His nose looked broken and he was bleeding from several cuts.

  'Nowhere,' he answered. 'Just doing my job.'

  'What's your job?'

  'I'm a labourer. On a site near Wembley. Why do you want to know? And anyway, who the fuck are you?'

  'I'm the person who's asking the questions,' Bolt answered, speaking loudly, knowing that the best way of getting answers was to continue the quickfire questions, taking advantage of his dominant position. 'So unless you want more of the same, you answer them.' He stamped a foot down hard on Richardson's chest as he tried to sit up, knocking him back down. 'Now, where have you just been?'

  Richardson looked as if he might make a grab for Bolt's leg, then evidently thought better of it.

  'Out,' he said. 'Getting lunch.' He motioned towards the kitchen. 'Check if you don't fucking believe me. It's KFC. Three pieces with fries and coleslaw.'

  Bolt had stopped panting now. Above the general stench that pervaded the flat was the unmistakable odour of freshly fried chicken. Realizing he might have made a big mistake, he turned back to Richardson, who was a picture of righteous indignation. In no way whatsoever did he look guilty, and in Bolt's experience people who didn't look guilty generally weren't.

  'Are you a copper or something?' demanded Richardson, more confident now as he sensed the doubt in Bolt. 'Because I'm going to fucking sue you if you are, you bastard.' He touched a hand to his face, wiped off more blood. 'Look what you've done to me. That's serious assault, that is.'

  But Bolt wasn't going to let things go just yet.

  'Scott Ridgers. When was the last time you saw him?'

  'You are a fucking copper, aren't you?' Richardson said, sitting back up again.

  Bolt took a step back and kicked him hard in the chest, knocking him backwards a second time. 'Answer the question!'

  'I ain't seen him in years,' Richardson hissed through gritted teeth. 'I don't socialize with perverts.'

  Bolt's jaw tightened. 'What do you mean?'

  Richardson saw his reaction, and managed a small, mean grin. 'Oh, didn't you know, copper? Scottie Ridgers is a kiddy fiddler. He likes 'em nice and young. Why? He hasn't been after one of your kids, has he?'

  Bolt drove the heel of his shoe into Richardson's face, stamping down hard, then kicked him savagely in the ribs, the force of the blow shunting him across the carpet. The anger roared through him. He spat out curses and kicked him again, even though a voice inside his head was screaming at him to stop, stop, stop! But he couldn't. When the red mist came down, as it did so rarely in his life, he had no control over it.

  Richardson wailed in pain, but Bolt kept kicking, conscious enough of what he was doing to concentrate on the body and not the head, but still too lost in the rage and emotion of the past twenty-four hours to cease until his victim was curled up in a ball, silent, unmoving and beaten.

  Then the full extent of what he was doing hit Bolt like an express train, and
he stepped backwards, retreating into the wall, wondering what the hell he'd become. He had to get out of there.

  Turning away quickly, he strode through the stinking flat, past the greasy box of KFC and out the front door. And all the time he was thinking, What the hell is happening to me? Acting on nothing more than a general hunch, he'd deliberately disobeyed orders, broken into a suspect's flat and beaten the living shit out of him. And now it looked like his victim was almost certainly innocent.

  But he'd got some answers. Not the ones he wanted maybe, but he'd been doing something to get Emma back, and it had felt good. He'd crossed the line before, and had sworn then he wouldn't cross it again. Yet he just had. And the terrifying thing was, part of him had enjoyed it.

  Thirty-four

  Upstairs they were arguing again. It was the second time she'd heard them today. Emma couldn't hear what they were saying – the voices were too muffled for that – but she knew it was about her, and was pretty sure what the subject would be: whether she lived or died. She wondered which of the two of them was in charge. She prayed it was the smelly one, but something told her he wouldn't be.

  Neither man had been down to see her today. This was unusual. It had been light for hours now, and the bucket she was going to the toilet in needed changing. She was also hungry, and though she'd vowed not to eat anything until she could slip off her handcuffs, she thought she might have to relent on that one. She was using up plenty of energy, scraping away at the wall – a task that had become something of a full-time activity. The chain was definitely getting looser, but it still wasn't budging, and she knew she was beginning to run out of time. The nail had worn down by about a third, and her fingers were stiff and aching. If she stopped eating altogether, she ran the risk of being too weak to escape if an opportunity did somehow arise, although she was still unsure exactly how she'd get out anyway, even if she got the chain free from the wall.