'Well, you went about it the wrong way,' said Tina, her tone exasperated.
'What do you know? Have you got children?'
'No, but—'
'But nothing. You have no idea what you're talking about.'
Tina opened her mouth to reply but Bolt stepped in. This was getting them nowhere.
'OK, Andrea, so you followed their instructions.
You removed the tracking devices and threw them out of the car. But not the two that were attached to the money.'
'No, they told me to leave them in the car when I got out.'
It was a logical move from the kidnappers' point of view, lulling the team into a false sense of security by letting them think they'd still be able to follow the ransom. It also showed that at least one of those involved had fairly expert knowledge of tracking devices.
'What was the last instruction you received?'
'To get out of the car and start walking up the road. I was told I'd be met by someone. I started walking and the next thing I knew there were these loud bangs, everyone was running, there was that gas . . . I remember shutting my eyes, getting knocked about by all these people running, and then someone punched me in the side of the head and grabbed the bag.' She touched the left side of her face where she'd been struck. The area was red and beginning to swell.
'And did you get a look at your attacker at all, Mrs Devern?' asked Mo.
'No, I didn't see anything. It all happened so fast.'
She took a gulp from the water and hunted round for her cigarettes, but couldn't find them.
'Has anyone got a smoke?'
Tina reached into her jeans, pulled out a battered pack of Silk Cut and a cheap lighter, and lit two cigarettes, one for Andrea and one for her. Andrea gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement.
'So, the person on the phone made you remove all these devices,' said Tina, a hint of scepticism in her voice, 'which you did . . .'
'That's right.'
'And did he at any point tell you when you were going to see your daughter again?'
All three of them looked at Andrea.
'He said I'd be seeing her very soon. As soon as he'd verified that the money was all there.'
'When did he say that?'
'During the car journey. Twice. He said it twice.'
'How did he say he was going to make contact to tell you where to find her?'
'He didn't.'
'It seems like you were very trusting,' said Tina.
'You made it impossible for us to track either the suspects or the money, yet you were offered very little in return.'
'All right, Tina,' said Bolt, concerned about the aggressiveness of her questioning, 'there's no point going over all this now.'
Andrea shot Tina a look that was both angry and incredulous.
'What is it? Don't you believe me or something?'
'No,' Tina replied, 'it's just that I can't understand why you did it.'
'Look, don't blame me because someone leaked the fact that I'd brought the police in. This is your fault not mine.' She took an urgent drag on her cigarette and stood up. 'I'm going home.'
'I'm afraid that's not possible for the moment, Andrea,' Bolt informed her.
'Back off, Mike. They've still got my daughter. They could call. So, if you're not arresting me, I'm going, and I'm going to need a lift if you're holding on to my car.'
She pushed past them and started walking in the direction of Tottenham High Road.
'Wait here,' Bolt told the other two and hurried after her. 'Listen, Andrea,' he said when he was alongside her, 'you've got to let me know the second you hear from the kidnappers, OK?'
'What, so you can fuck it up again?' she snapped, without breaking pace. 'No way. I'll take my own chances from now on.'
Bolt grabbed her by the shoulder and swung her round so that she was facing him.
'That's not fair, Andrea, and you know it. I did everything I could.'
'Let go of my arm. You're hurting me.'
Bolt was conscious of several uniformed cops watching him. He ignored them. 'Please,' he said, 'tell me when they call.'
'Mike, what the hell's going on?'
Bolt looked round into the eyes of Stephen Evans, the former head of the NCS, now the assistant head of SOCA, who was flanked by several other equally grim-faced men in suits. Bolt let go of Andrea's arm and she walked away rapidly, passing Evans and his colleagues before they had a chance to say anything. Evans whispered something to the men with him and they went after Andrea while he approached Bolt.
Bolt knew Evans from the past. A short, compactly built man in his late forties with a neatly clipped moustache and a military bearing courtesy of an earlier career in the army, he'd helped him once before when he'd found himself in trouble, and had a well-deserved reputation for looking after the interests of the men and women in his charge. But this time it was different, and Bolt knew it.
'Hello, sir,' he said with a sigh. 'Long time no see.'
Evans stopped in front of him. 'Yes, it is. And I'm sorry we've got to meet again under these kinds of circumstances.'
Bolt nodded grimly. 'I know.'
'I'm afraid I'm taking over the running of this op from SG2 Freud. Because of the way it's gone, he's been suspended pending an investigation. The same goes for you, Mike. As the team leader of the central team on this, I can't afford to keep you on.'
Bolt took a step back as he absorbed the hit.
'Don't do this, sir. I've got a good lead. There's a guy called Scott Ridgers with a long criminal record who's been doing gardening work for Andrea – Mrs Devern – until very recently. He was part of a gang of robbers she informed on fifteen years back. I think he might be our suspect one.'
'I know all that, Mike,' said Evans coldly. 'We've already got surveillance in place outside his flat in Finsbury Park.'
'But he's not there, is he? And the guy's a paedophile—'
'We're dealing with it.'
'Listen, sir, please—'
'No,' Evans said with a brutal finality. 'You're off the case, Mike, suspended until further notice. The IPCC will be getting in touch with you for a witness statement, so don't go disappearing on holiday. I'm sorry, but that's the way it's going to have to be.'
Bolt knew there was no point arguing. The decision had been made. He watched as Evans walked past him and over to Mo and Tina. He caught their eyes but said nothing. Instead, he simply turned away. He was no longer wanted or needed here.
Forty-three
Emma scratched away at the brickwork with the nail. It was so worn down now that it stuck out barely half an inch from between her thumb and forefinger, the end blunt and splayed. Progress was desperately slow. She was on her hands and knees, the bed pushed out from the wall to give her room, but her back still ached from where she'd been bent over for what felt like hours, and her fingers were almost numb with the pain and stiffness. But she refused to stop because she knew that her life might depend on success. Even more so now, after what had happened earlier.
A couple of hours or so after she'd recorded the message to her mum, telling her it was Saturday and that she was coming home soon, there'd come the familiar sound of the cellar door being unlocked, and she'd wondered if it was the smelly one coming down to collect the plate she'd used for breakfast. She'd had to push the bed as hurriedly and as quietly as possible back against the wall, and slip on her hood.
But his footsteps hadn't come. There'd simply been a cold, dead silence, and she'd known without a shadow of a doubt that it was the cruel one who'd come to visit, the one whose footsteps she could never hear.
An icy sensation had crept slowly up her spine as she sensed his presence in the room with her. Watching. Could he have spotted what she'd been doing to the wall? Had he heard her move the bed? Was this the end? Right now?
'Die, bitch!'
The voice was mocking and close.
She'd felt a sudden rush of air, and his hand had grabbed her shoulder in a tight, vic
ious grip. She'd screamed, instinctively – a terrified wail – and he'd laughed.
And that had been it. He released his grip, and she thought she heard something click, like a tape recorder. His parting words were delivered in a quiet sing-song voice, just before the cellar door shut again: 'Back later, bitch, back later.'
Ever since then she'd been working frantically, stopping every so often to yank at the chain, ignoring the frustration when still it seemed no looser. The sheer terror she was feeling kept her going, but it was also tiring her out. She wanted to sleep desperately, to lie down and shut her eyes. Forget this awful nightmare. But she refused to stop, knew that if she did she'd probably never start up again.
And then finally she got her break. For the first time, the brickwork really started crumbling. Full of hope, she scratched away even harder, and a load more brick dust poured down so that two of the screws holding the plate in place were almost completely revealed. She grabbed the chain and pulled furiously. Something gave, and one of the screws came out completely. She kept at it, but she simply didn't have the strength to tear it free.
But she was nearly there. A quick rest, and she'd carry on.
She lay back on the bed, her eyes shutting almost immediately. She was so tired, so weak. She felt herself dozing, drifting away . . . tried to come back, but never quite made it . . .
Forty-four
Bolt was sitting in heavy traffic on Tottenham High Road, only a few hundred metres away from where it had all gone so badly wrong. Darkness had fallen, and the sound of the sirens was becoming more sporadic. The helicopters still flew overhead, but their constant circling felt pointless and redundant. Not for the first time in his life he was left on the outside, no longer wanted on an investigation he'd helped to get started.
He didn't want to go home, not with Emma still out there somewhere. The two mobile phone calls the kidnappers had made to Andrea's landline had come from round these streets, and he doubted that the guy with the money had gone far. Much easier to disappear into a nearby house, away from the helicopters, the pursuing cops and the prying eyes of the CCTV. It would take some nerve to organize the ransom drop so near to where they were holding Emma, but nerve had never been in short supply with these people. He was sure that suspect number one was Scott Ridgers, and if necessary he'd drive round and round hoping that at some point Ridgers emerged from his hideout. It was the longest of long shots but it had to be better than doing nothing.
The traffic was moving at a snail's pace, and the worn-out buildings around him – cheap takeaways, charity shops, a few boarded-up wrecks – felt foreboding and claustrophobic. It was on nights like this that he hated London with its noise, its litter and its gridlock, and he felt an almost physical yearning for space. He remembered back to the day he'd bumped into Andrea on the Strand, and how it had been the start of their affair. What if he hadn't been there? What if he'd been doing something different, and their paths had never crossed that second time? How much happier a man would he be now.
Which was when that old nagging thought struck him. What if their meeting hadn't been spontaneous? What if it had all been a set-up? Perhaps Andrea's lover, Jimmy Galante, had wanted inside information on the Flying Squad and had encouraged her to take up with Bolt in order to get it. He thought back, trying to remember if she'd ever pumped him for information, but nothing came to mind. But then, of course, she might not have been doing it on behalf of Galante. She might have taken up with Bolt of her own accord, using him to bring Galante down, either because she was genuinely desperate to leave him and could think of no other way of doing it, or . . . or what?
God knows. He sighed, wiping sweat from his brow and turning the air con higher.
The sound of his mobile ringing jolted him from his thoughts. He looked at the screen but didn't recognize the number. He flicked it on to hands-free and took the call.
'Mr Bolt?'
Bolt recognized the slightly officious tones of Lisa Bouchera's father and tensed a little.
'Mr Bouchera, how can I help you?'
'He's called my daughter.'
Bolt felt a sudden flash of excitement. 'When?'
'Just now. I was outside in the garden but when I came back inside she was crying. She told him she didn't want to see him any more and he started calling her all these filthy names.'
'I'm very sorry to hear that,' Bolt told him. 'We can make sure he doesn't call her again. Have you got access to your daughter's phone?'
'I can get it. Hold on.'
A few seconds later he was back on the line. Bolt asked him to go into the Calls Received screen.
'OK, let's have a look.' There was a pause. 'All right, I'm in.'
His hands shaking, Bolt pulled out his notebook and pen.
'Read me out the top number.'
The moment of truth.
Bouchera reeled off a mobile number and Bolt wrote it down. By using a mobile to make the call to his girlfriend, Scott Ridgers had effectively given out his location, and, Bolt hoped, Emma's location as well. The excitement he was feeling was so powerful it actually made him nauseous for a few seconds.
'And he was the last person who called her?'
'Yes. It was just now.'
Bolt looked at his watch. Five to eight. Just under an hour since the money had disappeared.
'Thank you, sir,' he said, 'you've been a great help.'
'And you. Let me know when you've got the bastard in custody.'
'Course I will,' Bolt said, ending the call.
He took a deep breath, brutally aware that he was suspended and that unless he played things right this lead counted for nothing. He had to do something, and fast. Mo or Tina – who did he call? Who did he trust?
Mo was the colleague he'd always trusted the most, but things had changed between them these past twenty-four hours, possibly irreversibly. Tina, meanwhile, was the person on the team with the best access to the phone companies, and he remembered the look she'd given him in the meeting that morning. Was it empathy? Some kind of understanding? He was stepping over a line by contacting her, he knew that. Asking her to put her own job in jeopardy as a favour to him. And she was such an enigmatic person, so difficult to read, that he had no idea whether she'd help him or not.
There was only one way to find out. He dialled her number, willing her to answer, concentrating so much on this latest development that he didn't even notice that the traffic ahead of him was moving until he heard the horns blaring. As he touched the accelerator and moved forward, her voice came on the line. Clear and businesslike as always.
'Tina Boyd.'
'Tina, it's Mike.'
He heard her sharp intake of breath.
'I didn't expect to hear from you. There's no more news. Matt's in surgery at the moment.'
His thoughts returned to Turner. Poor sod. If only he'd stayed behind at Andrea's house.
'Listen, sir, we're snowed under here. I'm going to have to go.'
'I need a favour.'
'But you're suspended.'
'I know that, but this is urgent, and it's to do with the case. I've got a mobile number for Scott Ridgers – that suspect I was talking to you about earlier who turned out to be one of Andrea's gardeners. He's just used it, literally minutes ago, to make a call. If we can get a trace on that number, it'll lead us straight to him.'
'How did you find this out?'
Bolt explained as briefly as he could.
'I can speak to Steve Evans, but I'm not sure he'll be able, or willing, to authorize it.'
'No, don't speak to him. I can tell you now, he won't authorize it. Just do it. Please.'
'I can't, sir. You're suspended. It could cost me my job.' She sighed. 'I'm sorry.'
'She's my daughter, Tina.'
'What?'
'Emma Devern. She's my daughter. Check with Mo if you don't believe me. It's why I've been so highly strung since this all began.'
'God, I . . . I don't know what to say.'
'Don'
t say anything. Just help me, please. If we don't act fast, Emma could die.'
'I can't believe you're putting me in this position, Mike.'
'Do you think I want to? Look, there's no way on God's earth I would ask you to do this unless I absolutely had to.' He could hear the desperation in his voice, hated it.
Tina was silent for two, maybe three seconds.
'OK, let me have the number.'
He reeled it off for her.
'I'll do what I can, but it might take some time.'
'This is my daughter. There is no time.'
'If you're lying to me,' she said evenly, 'I'll kill you.'
Forty-five
Emma awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright. It was dark in the room, and her mouth felt bone dry. She wondered how long she'd been out. Without a watch it was difficult to tell, but it was a while. Half an hour, something like that. She rubbed her eyes, swung her legs off the bed and remembered that she'd been very close to getting the chain free from the wall.
And then she heard a loud bang. It was the sound of the front door shutting.
They were back.
She grabbed the chain with both hands, closed her eyes and pulled as hard as she could. There was a crack – something giving – and more dust showered on to the stone floor. She could hear footfalls on the floor above, but no voices.
Clenching her teeth, ignoring the nauseous feeling flowing through her, she kept pulling, leaning back so her whole body was behind it, knowing this could well be her last chance.
Another crack.
Movement near the cellar door – a shuffling of feet.
They're coming.
She was out of time.
And then suddenly she was falling back off the bed, landing painfully on the floor with the chain uncoiling on top of her.
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