Deadline

Doyle nodded. 'He did, but I heard from one of my snouts that he was back in the country. Someone saw him the other day in a pub in Islington.'

Bolt feigned interest. 'Really? I must look into that.'

Doyle took a slug of his own beer and at least a quarter of it disappeared. For a small guy, he'd always had a prodigious capacity for the booze.

'Whatever you think our boys Richardson and Ridgers might be involved in, you've got to remember they weren't the brightest of sparks. Galante was always the brains of the outfit.'

Bolt tried to picture the two men, to remember anything about them, but they were a blank. It was all too long ago. He wondered whether he was wrong to think that there might be a connection. The Lewisham robbery was ancient history, and as far as he was aware no one, either inside or outside the Flying Squad, knew that it was Andrea who'd helped to foil it. And even if someone had found out, there was still no reason to wait until now, fifteen years later, to do something about it. When he thought about it like that, the whole thing didn't make much sense. But it was all he had, and the fact that Jimmy Galante had been involved in both cases meant that it was better to be here asking questions than sitting around at home.

They sat in silence for a few moments, finishing their drinks, oblivious to the noise around them.

'How well do you remember Richardson and Ridgers?' asked Bolt.

'Not very. There wasn't much to say about either of them. They were just two robbers prepared to get nasty to get what they wanted. I doubt many people'll have fond memories of them when they're gone.'

'Do you think either of them could be capable of the kidnap of a young girl? A fourteen-year-old?'

Doyle frowned. 'Is that what this is about?'

'Between you and me, yes.' Bolt knew he was treading on shaky ground here, talking about the investigation to someone outside it, but he also knew it was the only way he was going to get answers.

'A kidnap for ransom?'

'Yeah. But I can't tell you any more than that, and you've got to keep what I do tell you under wraps, OK?'

'You know me, Mike. I don't blab. What makes you think those two are anything to do with it?'

'Just a hunch.'

'Shit, pal, you sound just like Columbo.' Doyle fingered his empty glass. 'I wouldn't put it past either of them to be involved in something like that. They're criminals, and they're greedy bastards, so if there's money to be had, there's a good chance they'll be there.'

'Do you think they'd hurt her? The girl?'

'Christ, Mike, I don't know. The one thing about armed blaggers is they're pros. They don't add years on to their sentences unless they absolutely have to.'

Bolt felt relieved, even though he knew this was irrational. Jack Doyle was no criminal psychologist.

'You look shattered,' Doyle told him.

'I am. It's been a long day.'

'Maybe you should get home.'

But Bolt didn't want to go back yet. He picked up the empty glasses. 'No, let me get you a drink.'

'Cheers. I'll have a pint of Stella.'

When he returned with the drinks they made small talk for a while, but Bolt found it hard to concentrate on anything other than Emma, and he was conscious that he wasn't good company. It angered him that he couldn't relax with an old friend over a few beers at the end of a long, hard day, and the anger was aimed at Andrea, because it was her doing. If she'd just kept her mouth shut, he might have been able to do his job properly instead of flailing round from place to place, tearing himself apart.

He finished his second pint and got to his feet. 'I'd better go, Jack. Early start tomorrow.'

Doyle stood up as well and they shook hands.

'Good luck with the case, Mike.'

'Thanks. I hope we don't need it.'

'Don't worry, she'll be all right. Blokes like that, they just want the money. They won't risk going down an extra twenty years by killing her.'

Easy for you to say, thought Bolt as he said his goodbyes and walked outside into the cool night air. It was a two-minute taxi ride home or a fifteen minute walk. He decided to walk, hoping it might calm him down a little, but he'd only got a few hundred yards when his mobile started ringing.

It was Mo. Bolt had left him back at the Glasshouse a few hours earlier. He'd said he was just finishing up and was about to go home, but maybe he'd decided to stay later. He flicked open the phone and put it to his ear.

'Mo?'

'There's been a development.'

His tone was grim, and Bolt felt his stomach constrict at the prospect of bad news.

'What is it?'

'I'm at a house in Tufnell Park. I think you'd better get over here.'