Knife Edge

by Shaun Hutson

  'Some use low explosives as the detonator,' Draper added.

  'What the fuck are low explosives?' Mason enquired.

  'Stuff like black powder or smokeless,' Draper explained, still chewing. 'The kind of powder used in cartridges. Natural gas is a low explosive. Mixtures of air, even petrol. Low explosive just burns unless it's activated and when it is, the explosion created is totally different from blasts caused by high explosive. The low stuff creates a sort of throwing action. High explosive shatters its target. Mind you, it does detonate at a rate of up to five thousand feet a second, so you can see the difference.' He smiled smugly.

  'How would Neville have set it off?' Mason asked.

  'I told you, the detonator was a battery,' Fenton began.

  'I mean, by remote control. What?'

  The two bomb squad men looked at each other.

  'An electronic signal of some kind, I'd say,' Fenton offered.

  His companion nodded in agreement.

  'It must have had a fair old range on it,' Fenton continued.

  'And been attuned to that device specifically,' Draper added.

  'Keep it simple, will you?' Mason snapped.

  'With an electronic detonator, if the bomber isn't quite sure what he's doing, the bomb could be set off prematurely by any kind of electronic emission. A TV remote control. The signal from a radio. Even too much neon.'

  'Neville obviously know his stuff,' Draper said.

  'Like we didn't already know,' Mason grunted. 'What about the other bombs he's planted or that he intends to detonate. Could they be the same?'

  'It's very likely,' Draper explained. 'Most bombers tend to stick to the same kind of device. They stick to what they know. Chances are, Neville's other bombs are the same.'

  'All seven of them,' Mason muttered.

  'When's the next one due?' Draper wanted to know.

  Mason looked at his watch and sucked in a deep breath.

  'About twenty minutes,' he said quietly. 'Christ alone knows where.'

  1.13 P.M.

  Doyle watched as the receptionist picked up the phone on her desk and pressed one digit, her eyes still fixed on him.

  'Would you like to take a seat, Mr Doyle?' she said, motioning towards some canvas chairs arranged opposite the desk. A couple of potted plants and a small table bearing magazines completed the illusion and made the waiting area of Nemesis Security look more like a dentist's reception area.

  Doyle sauntered across to the table and picked up the top magazine, flipping through it disinterestedly, turning to glance back at the receptionist every now and then.

  He looked down at the other magazines. GQ. Empire. Elle. Cosmopolitan.

  Very eclectic. What kind of fucking customers did Nemesis get?

  Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting up, aware of the frown creasing the receptionist's brow as she watched him.

  He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her.

  A door to his right opened and a tall man with glasses and a goatee beard emerged, looking first at the receptionist then at Doyle. His expression was one of bewilderment.

  'Mr Doyle?' he said falteringly, extending his right hand, which Doyle shook firmly, feeling the strength in it. 'My name is Michael Andrews. I own Nemesis Security.'

  Doyle flashed his ID.

  'If you'd like to come through into my office,' said Andrews, ushering Doyle towards the door from which he'd just appeared.

  'No calls,' said Andrews as he shut the door behind them.

  'I'm not going to waste your time,' Doyle said. 'And I'm in a hurry too.'

  He glanced around the office.

  It was immaculate. Neat, tidy. More potted plants. There were photographs on the walls to his left and right.

  Doyle wandered across and looked at them.

  Andrews pictured with Elton John.

  Another of him with Sharon Stone.

  With Tom Cruise.

  There was even a Gold Disc mounted on one wall. The inscription read: To Mike. May Your Rock Always Roll. Presented by

  AC/DC.

  Andrews watched as Doyle scanned the photos and other memorabilia.

  'We've looked after all of them at one time or another,' he said smugly, pulling at his goatee.

  'It's not your clients I'm interested in, it's one of your employees,' Doyle told him, turning to face him. 'Kenneth Baxter.' Doyle sat down opposite the other man. 'I need to speak to him.'

  'Can I ask what it's to do with?'

  'How much do you know about him?'

  'I'm his employer, not his brother,' said Andrews and Doyle wasn't slow to catch the note of sarcasm in his voice. 'I know he's good at his job. He wouldn't be working for me if he wasn't. As for personal details, it depends what you want to know.'

  'I'm not asking for his inside leg measurement,' Doyle snarled. 'What do you know about his record?'

  'What record?'

  'Don't fuck me about, Andrews. His record before he joined your company.'

  'I know he was in the paras and-'

  'So you know he was dishonourably discharged for flogging army explosives and weapons to the IRA and the UVF?'

  Andrews was silent for a moment. 'It was never conclusively proved,' he said quietly.

  'Bollocks. Who told you that? Baxter?'

  'Even if it was true, his military record was exemplary. His training and experience made him a perfect choice for personal security.'

  'How many of your other employees have got criminal records?'

  'Look, who the bloody hell do you think you are? Who I do or don't employ is my concern. This is my business.'

  'I couldn't give two fucks about your business. I just want to talk to Kenneth Baxter.'

  'He's working.'

  'Where?'

  'Upper Brook Street. He's with two other men. They're taking care of some members of the Saudi Royal family.'

  'I need an address.'

  'I can't just pull him off a job on your say so. I need to know more details.'

  'That's classified information. Just give me the address.'

  'Number eight,' Andrews muttered.

  'Can I use your phone?' Doyle asked, pulling the object towards him.

  'Be my guest. Anything else you'd like while you're here?' Andrews said scathingly.

  Doyle ignored him and dialled.

  The voice at the other end of the line was Calloway's.

  'Send some men to number eight Upper Brook Street,' Doyle instructed. 'Pick up Kenneth Baxter for questioning.'

  Calloway asked what Doyle intended doing next.

  'I'm going to see Julie Neville again.'

  Calloway asked what for.

  'A chat,' Doyle said and hung up.

  He got to his feet.

  'You've got no right to harass my employees,' Andrews said menacingly. 'I could lose money over this.'

  'Send me the fucking bill,' chided Doyle, heading for the door.

  Andrews rose in his chair but Doyle gestured for him to sit down, pulling open the door.

  'I'll see myself out,' he said quietly. 'I know you're a busy man.'

  And he was gone.

  He strode across to the lift, aware that the secretary was watching him, his boot heels clacking loudly on the polished floor.

  The lift arrived and Doyle stepped in, rode it to the ground floor and made his way out.

  He looked at his watch.

  Next stop Lambeth. The safe house.

  He slid behind the wheel of the Datsun, pulled the orange disabled sticker from the front windscreen and pushed it into the glove compartment.

  Fuck it. He had to get a parking space somehow.

  Doyle switched on the cassette, music filling the car.

  '… If that's the only thing that's stopping war, then thank God for the bomb…'

  He switched it off again.

  Another glance at his watch.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  As he drove he looked a
round. At the cars. The buildings.

  So many places to hide an explosive device. He drove on.

  1.23 P.M.

  'I want to talk to Doyle.'

  DS Colin Mason recognised the voice immediately.

  He reached for a pen on his desk and scribbled the time on the corner of a pad then, with the end of the Biro, he pressed another digit on the phone.

  'Doyle's not here, Neville. Can't you talk to me?' Mason asked.

  'I want the mechanic, not the fucking oily rag,' Neville growled.

  Mason gripped the receiver more tightly, trying to control his anger.

  Fuck you, you psychotic bastard.

  'I know you're tracing this call by the way,' Neville continued. 'You're wasting your time. Just like you were at Euston.'

  'Round one to you, eh?' Mason said, barely able to contain his fury.

  'Not just the round, the whole fucking fight, shit-head. Now let me talk to Doyle.'

  'I told you, Doyle's not here.'

  'Well, fucking find him.'

  'Look, I'm going to patch you through to my superior, he might know where Doyle is.'

  Mason hit another couple of buttons.

  As he did so the office door opened and a uniformed man stuck his head through.

  'Get this fucking call traced. Quick,' the DS snapped.

  'I told that other cunt, I want to speak to Doyle,' Neville rasped.

  Inside the Mobile Operations Vehicle, Calloway glanced at his watch as he listened to Neville.

  'Listen to me, Neville,' the DI implored.

  'I don't want to listen to you. Besides, you're not the one to start giving ultimatums, are you?'

  'I'm not giving you ultimatums, I'm asking you to listen.'

  There was a second's silence at the other end of the phone.

  'Neville?'

  'Yeah, go on, I'm listening.'

  'This can stop now, before anyone else is killed.'

  'Fuck you. It stops when I get what I want, and I think the quicker you give me what I want, the better for everyone. The next bomb goes off in less than ten minutes.'

  'Why are you killing innocent people? Your own people?'

  'They're not my people. They couldn't give a fuck about me now. As far as they're concerned, I did my bit when the fighting in Ireland was going on. They don't want to know me now. My people were in Ulster with me. Other soldiers. Men like Doyle.

  'Do you know Doyle?'

  'I know what he did.'

  'You know he wants to kill you?'

  Neville chuckled.

  'He'll try. What the fuck do I care? Do you think that frightens me?' Neville snarled. 'Do you think I'm frightened of dying?'

  'No, I don't, I just don't understand why so many other people have to die too.'

  'Don't try to understand. Besides, if you give me what I want nobody else has to die, do they? The quicker you give me my daughter, the quicker this is all over.'

  'Where's the next bomb, Neville? At least give us a chance to find it.'

  'Fuck you. Put Doyle on.'

  A light flashed on the console in front of Neville and he pressed the button to switch the other phone to speaker.

  'We've got the trace,' Mason informed him. 'Leicester Square.'

  'I'm waiting for Doyle,' Neville said again.

  Calloway gripped the receiver more tightly.

  'You've got to give me time to contact him, I-'

  Neville cut him short. 'Time's up. I'll speak to you after the next bomb.' He laughed.

  'Go to hell!' roared Calloway.

  'Already been,' Neville said and hung up.

  1.30 P.M.

  There was a loud rumble followed closely by a thunderous crash.

  Clouds of dust billowed upwards in a choking cloud.

  Stephen Casey stood on the corner of Lower John Street, one corner of Golden Square, and watched as the rubble tumbled down the chute before clattering to rest on the pile already gathered in the large skip to his left.

  Casey could see that a Mercedes parked close by had been covered with a thin sheen of brick dust. The vehicle looked as if it was beginning to rust.

  The car was legally parked. He knew, he'd already checked it, his inspection of the vehicle accompanied by one or two jeers from the workmen toiling high above him on the scaffolding of the building. Two of them had leaned over the edge of the parapet and called out something to him as he'd checked the meter beside which the Mercedes was parked. He'd also checked the tax disc, which was valid too.

  He hadn't heard clearly what the men had shouted, the sound of crashing rubble had drowned their words. He'd only managed to catch the odd word here and there. Something about a ticket. He'd heard the word Hitler. He was sure he had.

  He'd been a traffic warden for the last seven years, so it wouldn't have been the first time.

  Casey readjusted his cap and crossed to his right, glancing back once again at the building with the skeletal framework of scaffolding before it.

  As he reached the other side of Golden Square there was another loud crash as more rubble hurtled down the chute into the skip. More brick dust rose.

  A despatch rider cruised into view from the northern end of the square.

  He glanced at Casey as he slowed down, wondered whether to leave the bike on the yellow lines outside the building he was delivering to and decided to take the chance.

  As he entered the building he held up one gloved finger in the traffic warden's direction, indicating how long he was going to be.

  Casey waved back and smiled to himself.

  He wouldn't have booked the rider. He wouldn't and neither would any of his colleagues. They weren't that bad, despite what the public thought.

  Casey moved across the square, glancing around him.

  People were moving through it on either side of the central grass rectangle. Surrounded by iron railings and flower beds, it was a pleasant enough setting. A little piece of greenery enclosed by the vast expanses of concrete and steel which seemed to have sprung up around it.

  Casey often sat in the square on one of the benches and ate his sandwiches when he found time for lunch. He'd usually try and work his patrol so that he ended up there when it was time to eat. Workers from nearby offices did likewise in the summer. Some even sunbathed on the grass in hot weather. It was a pleasing little oasis.

  There was another almighty crash as more rubble was despatched down the chute.

  He glanced in the window of a design shop as he passed, gazing at the two or three mannequins there. They were all dressed in the garish, brightly coloured creations of the shop. Crop tops, wraparound skirts in multicoloured patterns, box jackets with unusually large shoulder pads.

  He could see two young women towards the back of the showroom chatting animatedly. Both of them were dressed in black mini-skirts. One wore thick grey tights beneath. It seemed to defeat the object, Casey thought, noticing that they both gazed at him as he passed.

  The Metro to his left was illegally parked.

  He hurried his pace as he headed towards it, noting that it stood on double yellow lines outside the Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital.

  There was nothing remarkable about the car. Pale green, about four years old, bodywork immaculately clean. As he drew level with it he gently placed one hand on the bonnet, which was cool.

  The car had obviously been there some time.

  He peered through the window into the vehicle.

  There was an A-Z open on the passenger seat, bent back and dog-eared through use.

  A fresh-air strip was hanging from the rear-view mirror.

  Casey tried the door.

  Locked.

  He glanced at the back seats.

  There were a couple of books there. Kids' books. Some balled-up sweet papers had been scattered over the upholstery. A half-eaten bag of wine gums also lay there.

  A furry Garfield was stuck to the side window by four suction cups attached to its feet.

  Casey walked aroun
d the car and saw a sticker in the back window.

  A heart and the simple message: I Love Life.

  Casey smiled and reached for his book of tickets.

  The explosion was so ferocious that it lifted him several feet into the air.

  All he heard was a sound like a paper bag bursting. A very, very large paper bag. Then nothing.

  He was dead before he hit the pavement.

  The skip had exploded with the force of a small warhead, the metal it was constructed from joining with the shattered bricks it held to form a blanket of lethal shrapnel.

  Like some enormous hand-grenade, the shattered skip erupted, sending metal and pieces of stone in all directions.

  The concussion blast was strong enough to overturn the Mercedes parked close by, the bodywork already shredded by the flying debris.

  The back window of the Metro was smashed in by a piece of stone the size of a football.

  The scaffolding in front of the building merely crumbled, pieces of metal piping and wooden gangways collapsing like a house of cards.

  Two of the workmen toppled earthward with the ruins, one of them managing a scream of terror before he landed on the concrete below. His head burst like an overripe melon.

  The second fell into what was left of the skip, his spine snapping in several places as he struck the riven container and what was left of its load.

  Several of the cars parked close to the skip burst into flames, petrol tanks holed by lumps of flying stone or metal.

  The fires seemed to start a chain reaction, each successive vehicle catching fire, burning for a few minutes then exploding, adding more thick black smoke to the heaving pall already settling over the square.

  A combination of the concussion blast and the flying debris had blasted in almost every window of the buildings which made up the square.

  Stephen Casey lay on his face, his back torn open by a piece of metal, his spine exposed, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

  The blast had ripped off one arm at the elbow, shredded his trousers, blown him out of his shoes.

  It had all happened so quickly.

  The blast, the deafening explosion, the flying debris.