He paused, looking pleased with himself.
'What do you think?'
'I think,' said Bolt, trying desperately to be objective, 'that it's very risky.'
Barry looked mildly irritated. He didn't quite roll his eyes but the movement wasn't far off. 'Of course it's risky. This is a professional kidnapping we're dealing with, Mike. It's the type of op that's always risky. It was risky this morning, and you were arguing for it then.'
But this morning there hadn't been the possibility that 'the girl', as Barry had described her so dispassionately, was his daughter. On the way over, Bolt had thought about laying things on the line. Admitting everything. But he'd quickly dismissed this as a bad move. With such a huge personal involvement, Barry would have had no choice but to remove him from the case and there was no way he was going to allow that to happen.
'I've had time to think,' Bolt said. 'These people haven't put a foot wrong so far. If we don't get this exactly right, then they're likely to kill her.'
'Then we get it right,' said Barry firmly.
'You don't think we might be better off bringing in the negotiators? It's possible that if they realize we're on to them, they might cut their losses and let Emma go.'
'And it's also possible that they might not. You said that yourself.'
Bolt exhaled. 'I guess that's true.'
Barry frowned. 'Are you all right, old mate?'
Bolt nodded. 'Yeah, I'm fine.' But he was sweating, and his shirt felt clammy against his skin.
'We've made the decision now,' Barry continued. 'There's no point going back on it. SOCA needs a nice high-profile success. If we get this right – and, make no mistake about it, we will, because we're going to plan it properly – then it's going to look extremely good on the organization, and on us in particular. We don't often get much in the way of praise. Let's make sure we get some this time.'
'OK, but I don't like the idea of the helicopter.
The kidnappers get so much as a sniff of it, they're going to panic.'
'We'll keep it well away from whatever rendezvous they choose, don't worry. And it'll only be used as a back-up.'
Bolt wasn't convinced, but he didn't argue. There was no point. Barry had made up his mind about how they were going to play it. In fact, he'd made up his mind before the meeting had even started, which made Bolt feel that his presence was largely irrelevant.
'How's Mrs Devern?' asked Barry.
'She's holding up.'
'Hertfordshire CID still aren't entirely happy with her story.'
Bolt wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 'Why not?'
'Well, their officers did find her covered in blood having just left the scene of the violent murder of her former lover.' Barry allowed himself a thin smile. 'You have to admit it's more than a little suspicious.'
Bolt felt like slapping that smile off his boss's face. For the first time in his life he suddenly had an insight into what it must be like to be a victim of crime – the lonely frustration of dealing with officials who were never going to care enough to deal with your plight.
'I'm sure they don't like her story,' he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, 'but her child's definitely been kidnapped. I saw her on the video the kidnappers sent just three hours ago. And the people holding her are definitely after a ransom. So, unless Mrs Devern somehow set this all up herself, and is deliberately putting her daughter through a huge trauma, then we've got to accept that her story's true.'
Barry waited for Bolt to finish. 'I agree with you,' he said eventually, 'but I do get the idea with Mrs Devern that all is not what it seems. I think we need to watch her.'
Bolt nodded. 'Fair point.'
His boss was right. Andrea was a frighteningly enigmatic woman. She was also a manipulator, as Jimmy Galante had found to his cost, and Bolt himself was finding now.
There was a knock on the door, and one of the newer team members, Kris Obanje, a tall, good looking black man with a fondness for amateur dramatics, appeared.
'There's been a development,' he said with a typical flourish.
Bolt felt his heart race and he clenched his teeth. What the hell kind of development?
'We've just heard back from the phone provider who runs the network Emma Devern and Pat Phelan both use,' he continued, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to resound around the room. 'Phelan's phone was switched off at 4.47 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon in the car park of the dental practice. According to the receptionist, this would have been while Emma was in with the dentist. Emma's own mobile was turned off twelve minutes later at 4.59, a few hundred metres from the surgery, and on the same street. It would have been just after she'd left.'
'That solves the mystery of where they snatched her from, then,' said Barry. 'It must have been in the car park. Shows our kidnappers are willing to take risks.'
'It also shows how technology savvy they are,' said Bolt, 'getting rid of the mobiles straight away.'
'That's the media for you,' snorted Barry. 'They publicize all the ways we can track people. It's no wonder the criminals catch on. We're going to have to interview everyone who was at the surgery that afternoon, see if anyone saw anything.'
'We've also managed to trace the route the car took away from the surgery,' Obanje told them. He unfolded a sheet of A3 paper and laid it on the desk between the two men. It was a photocopied large-scale map of north London, with a curving line of red crosses drawn on it in marker pen running from Hampstead in the south to Barnet and the M25 in the north. 'Here's the surgery,' he said, pointing at the bottom-most cross. 'Here's where Emma's phone was turned off. And here's where they went afterwards.' He traced a finger along the line of crosses, stopping at one in the middle. 'We got a good CCTV shot of Phelan's car here at 5.14.' He unfolded a second piece of paper, this time showing an overhead black and white camera shot of a Range Rover. 'It looks like it might be Phelan driving, and it looks like it might be an adolescent in the seat next to him. We've sent the image over for enhancement. We should have the results back by tomorrow.'
'We're going to have to,' said Bolt, 'because after tomorrow they'll be irrelevant.'
He looked more carefully at the photo as Obanje moved his finger away. The figure in the passenger seat – the girl who might be Bolt's daughter – was a lot smaller than the man next to her, and she had her head turned to one side, making a positive ID impossible. But it was Emma. There was no doubt about that, and he felt a twinge of emotion as he stared at her image.