Sixty-four

Bolt and Mo drove northwards into Essex on the B184, avoiding the M11 where, as Big Barry Freud had predicted, roadblocks had been set up on all the slip roads. Traffic was still heavy for much of the way though, and their progress was slow. Several times on the drive helicopters flew low overhead, only serving to add to the already high levels of tension in the car.

For Mo, it was fear for his family and for the city in which he lived. For Bolt, whose mother lived only twenty miles away in St Albans, it was the same. But it was also the intense frustration at constantly being one step behind a quarry he'd been after for years. Someone whose callous disregard for his fellow human beings had ruined so many lives, and who, for the first time, had almost certainly killed someone close to Bolt.

He'd been thinking about Tina a lot that day, more than he'd let on to anyone else, and with a sense of real regret. Beneath her cool, often distant exterior, he'd known there was a passionate woman there, yet he'd never managed to bring her out into the open. He couldn't help feeling that they could have been really good together. Now he was sure that if they found Hook's hideout, they'd also find her body, and he knew that this would be one of the most difficult sights of his life.

There'd only be one small consolation, and that would be if they also got hold of the man responsible for murdering her. Bolt had killed before, on two occasions, and he knew with total certainty that if he had Hook at his mercy he wouldn't hesitate to do it again.

But why was Hook involved in all this? And was Sir Henry Portman his client? They seemed unlikely partners in crime, yet Bolt was now convinced Sir Henry was part of the conspiracy.

His mobile rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Big Barry Freud's office number, and he immediately put it on to loudspeaker.

'Where are you, Mike?'

'Just short of Great Dunmow on the B184.'

'Good. We've managed to track down the tenants of two of the four properties Obanje was looking at, and they're definitely kosher. We also think a third one is, because we've spoken to the guy who's letting it, and we're just doing a background check on him now. However, the fourth one's more interesting. It's a three-month company let, taken out three weeks ago, and with the rent paid upfront. It's in the name of an investment company registered in Palm Beach, Florida, but there's no answer on the number supplied for their UK offices, or from their head office, and we can't find any published accounts for the company either, or a website.'

'Sounds promising,' said Bolt, looking at Mo, who managed a tight smile in return. This was exactly the kind of dummy company Hook would use to cover his tracks. Doubtless, Big Barry would take full credit for the lead, even though he'd been reluctant to let Bolt look into it in the first place, but right now that didn't matter. 'Who's the registered tenant?'

'A Mr Andrew Regent, supposedly one of their employees, but no one from the agency's ever met him, and there's no one of that name registered at the property. The agency have given us a mobile number for him but I don't want to call it yet in case it alerts Hook to our enquiries.'

'Which property is it?'

'It's called Willow End, a farm near a village called Finchingfield, just off the B1057. How far away are you?'

Bolt remembered it as the second of the addresses he'd fed into his GPS, and he brought up the details now. 'About fifteen minutes. Ten if I put my foot down.'

'Good. I want you and Mo to get over there right away. DAC Bridges has just been on the phone to the Essex chief constable and they're sending ARVs, surveillance units and a hostage negotiation team over there now. We've advised them that we want the area secure, but we don't want them making any kind of move until we've ascertained whether or not it's the right place. And we definitely don't want the local plod stamping all over the place and advertising their presence, so we've cleared it that you and Mo, as experienced SOCA surveillance operatives, will check the place out, then advise us what the situation is.'

'I want to be part of the team going in,' Bolt told him.

Big Barry laughed, but it was a sound entirely without humour. 'I admire your devotion to duty, old mate, but this is way out of our league. If anyone goes in, it'll be the SAS.'

'Jesus,' said Mo, exchanging glances with Bolt. Mere mention of the SAS gave events an almost surreal quality.

'Now put your foot down. I want you there in five.'

'We're on our way,' said Bolt, feeling the familiar surge of adrenalin as he pulled out and overtook the car in front of him.

Mo switched on the flashing blue light and shoved it on the dashboard, and a minute and a half later they'd hit the right-hand turning for the B1057.

Bolt's phone bleeped to let him know he'd received a text, but he was too busy watching the road to check it. Mo took a look, and for a couple of seconds he didn't say anything.

'Who is it?' Bolt asked without looking round.

'It's Tina,' he answered. 'She's still alive.'

Sixty-five

Eamon Donald watched as the lorry drove down the driveway of Willow End Farm, knowing that in about an hour's time the revellers enjoying one of the last evenings of summer in London's world famous West End would be choking up their own insides. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly forced it down. The Brits had never shown him or his family any compassion. Why should he care about them?

A light drizzle began to fall, and for several minutes he stared into the rapidly descending darkness as the gas lorry rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Rain was bad for the gas, and he hoped it was dry in London, otherwise all their work might count for very little.

Still, it was no longer his problem. The job was over for him now and he was looking forward to watching the carnage on TV in a quiet hotel room with a bottle of Jameson's.

He shut the barn doors, turned round and saw Hook standing a few yards behind him. The expression on his face was cold. 'Where's the woman copper, Eamon?'

'The other hostage? I don't know. Didn't you kill her?'

'No, I didn't. But I did shoot her in the foot and left her handcuffed in a locked room, and now she doesn't seem to be there any more.'

'Well, we were here all day, and she never came past us.'

'You're sure about that? You didn't go and have a little dabble?'

'No, I fucking didn't. I'm not like you, Michael. I just do my job. And I've done it now. I made the bomb live before they left, and it's fixed so it'll blow the second O'Toole leaves his seat. So, I want the rest of my money and then I'm out of here.' He took a drag on his cigarette, not liking the way this conversation was going.

Hook's lips curled up at the edges in an unpleasant smile. 'You know, Eamon,' he said, 'you're good at what you do, but I don't respect you.'

Donald frowned. 'What the hell do you mean?'

'You're happy to kill people-'

'And you're not? That's rich, Michael.'

'You misunderstand me. The reason I don't respect you is not because you kill them, but because you kill them from afar. With the flick of a switch. Anyone can do that with a bit of technical know-how, but only someone with real backbone can do it face to face, looking into the other man's eyes.' He pulled a gun from somewhere behind his back and pointed it at Donald's chest.

The bombmaker's eyes widened, and he took a step back, genuinely shocked by this sudden turn of events, even though a part of him had been expecting it. 'What the hell are you doing, Michael?' he asked uncertainly.

'You know, Eamon, I think it was you who told me that each and every bombmaker has his own signature.'