Deadline

'Where is he?'

'Not far away. I'm surprised you lot haven't found him yet.'

He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the sports jacket he was wearing, drew one out and lit it.

'You know what gets me? The whole thing was planned brilliantly. I really put effort into it. I let Ridgers and his prison buddy, a toe rag called Karl Roven, do all the hard work, and the idea was they'd turn up back at the farm last night and I'd take them both out. Bang bang, just like that. Then with Pat Phelan disappeared off the face of the earth, he'd end up getting the blame for organizing it all.'

'What about Emma? What were you going to do with her?'

'She was always going to get released. I'm not that cruel. I don't mind getting rid of scum like Ridgers and his mate, but I don't hurt kids.'

Somehow Bolt doubted it. If Doyle was cruel enough to lock Emma in a cellar and subject her to such a terrifying ordeal, he was definitely cruel enough to dispose of her afterwards.

'What about the cleaner? Was she scum as well?'

'That was a pity,' Doyle answered, sounding genuinely regretful. 'I got Ridgers' prison buddy, Roven, to get to know her. It was the only way we could get the alarm codes to plant the bugs. I tried getting past the alarm a couple of times myself, but it was too sophisticated. And once Roven had the information, he had to get rid of her.'

'But we never found any bugs in the house.'

'We used the simplest ones of alclass="underline" a couple of mobile phones planted in the house and set up to hands-free kits. All we had to do was put them on silent and auto answer, then dial the numbers, and we could hear everything. The reason you never found them was because they'd both run out of batteries by Friday, so they wouldn't have shown up on all the new-fangled stuff you use these days. I didn't think we'd need them beyond then.'

Bolt knew it was possible to turn standard mobile phones into covert listening devices with only a few standard modifications. They should have thought of that. Not that it would have made any difference in the end.

'You know, I can't believe a friend of mine – someone I've known for, God, how long is it?

sixteen, seventeen years? – could do what you've done and sit here trying to justify it.'

Doyle sat up in his seat and glared at Bolt, blowing smoke into the front of the car.

'I saved your life last night, Mikey boy. Remember that. If I hadn't put a bullet in Ridgers, he'd have cut you to pieces, and you know it.' He dragged hard on the cigarette. 'I saved your life, even though you turning up there nearly ruined everything for me. Just like you turning up now has.'

'Forgive me if I don't apologize for wanting to rescue my daughter from the animals you hired.' 'You know I'd never have done it if I'd known she was anything to do with you. Like I say, all I wanted was my money.'

Bolt stared at him in the wing mirror.

'You keep saying that, "my money". Andrea ran a business she'd built up from scratch. What did she owe you?'

'How do you think she started that business? There was other money that Jimmy Galante had stashed away that went missing after he left the country. Money that she had. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that bitch is whiter than white.'

Doyle opened the window and chucked his cigarette butt out.

'Go straight across at the lights, and don't try anything. There's a turning up here somewhere.'

'Where are we going?'

'Just for a little drive.'

Bolt knew what was coming. He slowed down as the lights went red, and the Mondeo came to a halt.

'So, you're going to kill me then?'

Doyle looked pained. 'Course not, Mike. We go back way too far for that.'

'Sure we do.'

The lights went green and Bolt pulled away. He knew that Doyle couldn't afford to leave him alive, even if he was an old friend. When you were responsible for as many killings as he'd been this past week, you became hardened to it, and Jack Doyle had always been a hard man, unafraid to make tough decisions.

The mobile in Bolt's pocket rang.

'Aren't you going to answer that?'

Bolt pulled it out, but Doyle extended his free hand. 'Give me that,' he said, taking it off him. He examined the screen as it continued to ring.

'Who's Tina Boyd?'

Bolt tensed. What could she want now?

'She's a friend.'

Doyle smiled knowingly. 'Friend, or girlfriend?'

'Friend.'

The mobile stopped ringing and went to voicemail, before ringing again for a few seconds to announce a message. Doyle put it to his ear, still keeping the gun firmly on Bolt.

But as he listened to Tina's message, something happened. As Bolt watched in the rear-view mirror, Doyle's face, blotchy and lined after years of too much boozing, began to drain of colour, and his breathing rate increased.

'Shit!' he hissed, throwing the phone to the floor. It clattered under one of the seats. 'Shit, shit, shit! How the hell do they know about me?'

Somehow they were on to him. Bolt wondered whether this was a good or a bad thing. He had a grim feeling it might be the latter.

'It's over, Jack,' he said, trying hard to stay calm, looking for a chance to get out of range of that gun. 'You can give yourself up. None of what you've said in here's admissible in court. You'll get done for kidnapping, but you'll miss the murder charge.'

Behind him, Doyle fidgeted in his seat.

'It ain't going to happen, pal,' he said after a short pause. 'They know. Somehow they know I pulled the trigger on Ridgers. What am I going to do?'

'Give up.'

'Fuck you. No way. Got to think, pal. That's what I've got to do.'

He exhaled deeply, still training the gun on Bolt, his expression distracted as he desperately weighed up his options.

Bolt noticed he wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

Without warning, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator and swung the wheel hard left, cutting up the car in the next lane.

'What the hell are you doing? Stop, or I'll shoot!'

Bolt's whole body stiffened, expecting a bullet any second, but he kept driving, aiming straight at a line of concrete bollards on the edge of the pavement.

'Stop, you bastard, stop!'

There was a tremendous bang as Bolt hit the nearest bollard head-on, his foot still flat on the floor, and the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal. At exactly the same time, a shot rang out in the car, louder than the initial crash and deafening Bolt as he was flung forward in his seat like a stringless puppet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Doyle smash into the front passenger seat, then fly backwards, his legs flailing wildly, before disappearing altogether.

Then the airbag shot out, driving the wind out of Bolt as it smothered him in its rubbery grip. For a few seconds he was crushed against his seat, unable to move, not even sure whether or not the bullet had hit him. Then, realizing that it hadn't, he managed to yank open the door handle and struggle free, desperate to get out.