'Was any reward money paid to Mrs Devern for the information she gave?'
'No.'
'So they couldn't have found out that way.'
Bolt shook his head.
Barry leaned forward in his seat, adopting one of his thoughtful poses, which consisted of steepling his hands together as if in prayer, his index fingers touching his nostrils.
'It's not much, is it?' he said finally.
It wasn't. But for Bolt it was still something.
'These guys are villains, sir. Hardened criminals.
Richardson fired at us when we tried to arrest him. He didn't hesitate. There aren't many people around like that. People willing to kill for financial gain like our kidnappers. They've got to be worth looking into.'
Barry sighed loudly. 'I haven't got the resources, Mike. We've got two surveillance teams out already, and everyone else is concentrating on the ransom drop.'
Bolt knew he wasn't going to win, but when he was back in his own office the first thing he did was access the PNC and check the details of Marcus Richardson and Scott Ridgers.
Richardson was the more brutal of the two, having amassed a total of twenty-three convictions in his forty- two years, including one for stabbing a teacher in the eye with a screwdriver when he was only fifteen years old. He'd been released from his sentence for armed robbery and attempted murder in the summer of 2001 and since then had been back inside twice: once for possession of cocaine with intent to supply, the other time for assault, after he'd beaten his girlfriend so badly she'd been in hospital for three days. He'd been out for just over two years now and it looked like he'd kept his nose clean, although someone with a criminal record as long as his was unlikely to have turned over a new leaf. He was currently living in his native Kilburn, and remained on parole, as he would do until his original eighteen-year sentence ran out some time in 2010.
Ridgers had a similar, if slightly less violent, record. Since he hadn't discharged the handgun he was carrying during the robbery, his sentence had been only fourteen years, which Bolt noted wryly didn't say much for how the courts treated the attempted murder of police officers. He'd been released in 1999 but had gone back in three years later, once again for armed robbery, after he'd held up a betting shop at gunpoint, firing several shots into the ceiling. He was caught minutes later by the occupants of an armed response vehicle that had been passing. It seemed that Ridgers wasn't the luckiest armed robber around, and he'd spent a further four years inside before being released back into an unsuspecting community late in 2006.
Bolt stared at their pictures and tried to remember the initial police interviews with them, but after fifteen years and several hundred other suspects his memory of them both was sketchy. Jack Doyle had said neither man was a budding Einstein, so it was unlikely they had organized something like this, but even so, he couldn't get the feeling out of his head that they were worth pursuing.
Throughout the morning the sense of anticipation in the incident room grew. Although most of those present were still involved in the mundane tasks of sifting through camera footage, everyone knew that later on they were going to be in action. That sense became heightened when it was reported that the ransom money, half a million pounds in cash, had arrived in the building and was under armed guard in the basement.
Bolt was on his sixth cup of coffee, feeling wired and knowing he was going to have to eat soon, when Andrea phoned, asking for him. He refused to take the call, making an excuse. For the moment, he had nothing to say to her. He still had doubts that she was telling the truth about his relationship with Emma. The more he thought about her actions, both in the present and in the distant past, the more manipulative he found her.
Yet, as she'd told him, the dates fitted. There was no way round that. Within minutes he was feeling guilty about not taking her call, so he phoned Matt Turner – who was back on babysitting duties, along with Marie Cohen the liaison officer – and asked him what she wanted.
'She just wants to speak to you, sir,' Turner told him when he came back on the line. 'She wouldn't say what it's about.'
'Tell her I'm very busy at the moment. I'll talk to her later. How's she bearing up?'
'Same as she was yesterday. Tired, emotional . . . like you'd expect.'
'OK. Keep an eye on her, can you?'
'Sure – but, boss?'
'Yes.'
'When exactly am I going to get relieved? I'd like to get where the action is. You know, there's not a lot happening here.'
Bolt sympathized with him. He'd have felt the same way too, but he didn't have the time or the inclination to start shuffling resources.
'Soon,' he said. 'I'll sort something.'
He hung up and stared out of the window at the street below. The sun was shining, a few puffy clouds trailed in an otherwise blue sky, and it looked like it was going to be another warm day, the sixth or seventh in a row after the wet summer. When Bolt craned his neck, as he was doing now, he could see one half of a small park, little more than a thin strip of land with a climbing frame and a couple of trees, set between two office buildings. There was a man sitting on one of the benches, a push bike propped up beside him, and he was looking up at the sky. Bolt was too far away to see his expression, but he knew from the man's casual demeanour that it was one of satisfaction.
Bolt watched him enviously. He'd always been a level-headed man. You needed to be in his line of business, where part of the job involved stalking your target for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. He was finding this sudden change in him just too much to bear.
He turned away and stood up. He could stand it no more. He had to do something other than sit and wait to react to events that might well shatter his life for ever. He had to get out and start influencing them.
Grabbing his jacket, he walked out of the office, telling Kris Obanje, who was the nearest person to him, that
