Deadline (18 page)

Marcus Richardson's bail address was the third
floor of a five-storey block of 1960s flats, one of
about a dozen identical buildings built in a loose
square, which made up an isolated estate just off
London's North Circular Road. Even on a sunny,
warm day like this one it seemed a bleak place to
live, and the streets were near enough deserted as
Bolt parked on the opposite side of the road to
Richardson's block.

Because all the flats were reached via an open air
walkway running along each floor, Bolt could
see directly to his front door. As he stared up at it,
he wondered what he was going to do now that
he was here. The need for action had been so great
that it had driven him out of the office, but he
hadn't thought much beyond that. A recent
mugshot of Richardson staring moodily at the
camera was on the seat beside him. Balding and
unshaven, with a double chin and narrow eyes as
cold as flint, he looked like the kind of guy who
didn't turn down many things for moral reasons,
which was the reason Bolt had focused on him
first.

He stared at the photo for several seconds,
concentrating on the eyes, imagining the man
behind them running a knife across Emma's neck,
then turned it over and grabbed the ham and
cheese baguette he'd bought at a corner shop on
the way over, unwrapping it furiously. The idea of
eating made him nauseous but he had to have
something to keep him going; he couldn't make it
through the day on adrenalin alone. He forced
down a mouthful while he pondered his next
move. Almost immediately he felt his hunger
pangs returning, and he demolished the baguette
in the space of a minute, washing the bread down
with a half-litre bottle of mineral water.

A couple of kids, one carrying a football,
walked past chatting, paying him no heed. He
was used to waiting around. It was what a surveillance
cop did. But this time things were different
and it wasn't long before he was fidgeting. He
looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. As
one of the senior guys on this case, it wasn't going
to be long before he was missed. If he was going
to do anything, he had to do it now.

He decided on the simple option. Knock on the
door, identify himself, and if Richardson exhibited
absolutely no signs of fear or panic he could probably
be eliminated from their enquiries. Hardly
scientific, but at the moment Bolt was operating
on the hoof.

There was only one problem. When he got up
there, there was no answer. He knocked a second
time, hard and decisive, so that Richardson would
know he meant business. But nothing happened.
Either he wasn't there, or he wasn't opening up.

Bolt peered through the letterbox, ignoring the
stale smell of socks and old food that came back
his way. He was looking straight into a small
lounge with a cheap sofa and matching chairs. It
was empty. A door directly opposite was partly
ajar. There didn't seem to be any activity beyond
it.

He stood up and looked around. The walkway
was empty, the only sound a crying baby beyond
one of the doors further up. He knew the risk he
was about to take, but it was all about priorities
and right now keeping his job wasn't that high on
the list. He didn't like breaking the laws he was
paid to uphold, but he'd always been a pragmatic
man, and like a lot of surveillance cops he was
also a highly competent burglar. It took him less
than a minute to open the door using the set of
picks he always carried with him. Richardson
hadn't even bothered to double lock it, which told
Bolt that even if he was involved in the kidnapping
he was coming back to the flat regularly. He
was also probably not intending to be out for that
long, which meant Bolt was going to have to be
quick.

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him
and gave the room a quick scan, putting on a pair
of evidence gloves as he did so. The furnishings
were cheap and old; the only thing of any value
was a brand-new LCD TV on a stand. There were
a couple of lads' magazines and old copies of the
Sun
spread about, and a pile of DVDs stacked up
in front of the TV, but it wasn't as messy as many
of the bachelor pads Bolt had seen in his time. He
noticed that one of the papers was this
Thursday's, and by the look of it had been read
from cover to cover.

Bolt knew that most armed robbers tended to be
big spenders; it was the nature of their business.
They lived life fast and hard because they knew
their profession could be ended at any time. They
snorted coke, they gambled, they bought women.
Bolt had always understood why that sort of life
held an appeal for certain people. When times
were good, the life of an outlaw must have been a
lot of fun, and he wondered how well someone
like Richardson coped now, living in a poky little
place like this. Not very, was his guess. Like all
these guys, he'd want to take a shortcut to easy
money, and kidnap could be an attractive option.

It was obvious that Richardson lived alone.
There were no photos or pictures on the walls,
nothing to give it the appearance of a home, and
no self-respecting woman would put up with the
stale smell, which got worse as he went through
the lounge and into the kitchen. Washing up was
piled high in the sink, which was half full of rusty coloured
water, and there were plastic fast food
containers everywhere, some still with the
remnants of earlier meals.

He gave the bathroom a cursory glance, then
carried on through into a bedroom with an
unmade double bed and a view straight out on to
the next block of identical flats. There was no
landline in the flat, and it was definitely empty.
There was also no evidence that someone had
been held there against their will, or even that
anyone female had been there at all recently. Bolt
felt a surge of disappointment. He'd been positive
he was on to something with Richardson; now
unwelcome realization began to break over him.

There was a small cabinet beside the bed with a
lamp on it. He checked through the drawers,
moving quickly, but found nothing other than
underwear and socks. Sighing, he stood back up.

Which was when he heard the movement
behind him and the menacing, aggression-laced
growl, 'Who the fuck are you?'

Bolt swung round fast, adrenalin surging through
him as he came face to face with Marcus
Richardson. The first thing that crossed his mind
was that Richardson was a lot stockier than he
remembered him. The second thing that crossed it
was that the former armed robber wasn't going to
be waiting for an answer to his question. Instead
he came forward fast, his face set hard, and Bolt
saw that he had a small wooden cosh in his hand.

'Thought you could fucking rob me, did ya?' he
demanded, raising up the cosh for Bolt to see, his
biceps rippling beneath his sweat-stained
Lonsdale T-shirt, the eyes just as cold and
unpitying as they were in the mugshot.

Bolt had to make a decision, fast. He was
trapped, with his back to the wall. He could identify
himself, say he just wanted to talk, but he
knew it would make little difference. In fact, it
might make things worse. Richardson had already
worked himself up for violence and Bolt knew
that if he got the shit kicked out of him now he'd
be out of action for days, and with Emma needing
him as much as she did he couldn't have that. Not
because of the actions of a low-life bottom-feeder
like Marcus Richardson.

He experienced a sudden and ferocious sense of
injustice, and in that single moment something
inside him just snapped. All the tension that had
been building up over the past twenty-four hours
– the constant frustration, the crushing feeling of
impotence – finally found the kind of outlet it had
been waiting for. But he knew better than to go in
guns blazing.

'Listen, I'm sorry,' he stammered, raising his
hands, palms outwards, in a non-confrontational
pose.

Richardson grinned, still coming forward,
raising his free hand to grab Bolt by the collar.

'You will be, mate.'

Without a sound, or even a change in his
contrite expression, Bolt lunged at Richardson,
moving so fast that he took the other man
completely by surprise. He grabbed both wrists
and yanked them apart to create a gap, and before
Richardson had time to react Bolt slammed
his forehead into the bridge of his opponent's
nose.

It was a good hit, but Richardson was no
pushover, and though he stumbled, he didn't lose
his footing. With an angry, pained grunt, he
pulled his weapon hand free of Bolt's grip. But
Bolt still had the advantage, and he used it,
butting him a second and third time in rapid
succession, creating a deep cut just above
Richardson's eye.

This time Richardson did fall backwards,
landing on the bed, Bolt going down on top of
him with as much force as he could muster. The
blood was running into his eyes but Richardson
still managed to drive the cosh into Bolt's ribs.
Bolt grunted in pain but knew he had to keep up
the momentum before the other man got his act
together, so he rolled over on to Richardson's
weapon arm, effectively limiting the cosh's swing
to only a few inches. In such a close-quarters position
his head remained his best weapon, and he
smashed it down into Richardson's face again and
again, feeling a blind, furious elation. He heard
bones crack under his blows and felt blood slick
against his forehead.

Richardson struggled under him. He finally
managed to get his other hand free, and used it to
grab Bolt by the collar of his shirt and push his
face away, but on this day of all days Bolt wasn't
stopping for anyone. Spotting an opportunity, and
with his usual inhibitions temporarily absent, he
rammed two fingers first into Richardson's left
eye, then into his right, digging them in as far as
he could, ignoring the high-pitched shrieks of
pain coming from the other man.

Of all his tactics, this was by far the most effective.
Temporarily blinded, Richardson howled
and waved his arms about uselessly. Bolt jumped
up from the bed, twisting the cosh out of his hand
and throwing it against the far wall.

'Jesus, stop it! Take what you want!' wailed the
ex-con, writhing about on the bed, pawing at a
face that had become a mask of blood.

Bolt stared down at him, panting. His head hurt
where he'd been using it as a battering ram, and
the baguette was lurching around his stomach.
But he was still in the zone, his anger not yet
sated, the realization of what he was doing still
way off in the distance.

'Have you been keeping your nose clean,
Richardson?' he demanded.

'What?'

'You heard me. What have you been doing the
last few days?'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

Bolt lunged forward and pulled him up by his
T-shirt, slapping him hard across the face.

'I said, what the fuck have you been doing the
last few days?' He stuck his face so close to
Richardson's he could smell his blood, confident
he was beyond fighting back. 'Tell me where
you've been. Now!'

Bolt threw him roughly to the floor. Richardson
lay there, squinting up at him. He used his T-shirt
to wipe the blood from his eyes, leaving behind a
thick stain. His nose looked broken and he was
bleeding from several cuts.

'Nowhere,' he answered. 'Just doing my job.'

'What's your job?'

'I'm a labourer. On a site near Wembley. Why
do you want to know? And anyway, who the fuck
are you?'

'I'm the person who's asking the questions,'
Bolt answered, speaking loudly, knowing that the
best way of getting answers was to continue the
quickfire questions, taking advantage of his
dominant position. 'So unless you want more of
the same, you answer them.' He stamped a foot
down hard on Richardson's chest as he tried to sit
up, knocking him back down. 'Now, where have
you just been?'

Richardson looked as if he might make a grab
for Bolt's leg, then evidently thought better of it.

'Out,' he said. 'Getting lunch.' He motioned
towards the kitchen. 'Check if you don't fucking
believe me. It's KFC. Three pieces with fries and
coleslaw.'

Bolt had stopped panting now. Above the
general stench that pervaded the flat was the
unmistakable odour of freshly fried chicken.
Realizing he might have made a big mistake, he
turned back to Richardson, who was a picture of
righteous indignation. In no way whatsoever did
he look guilty, and in Bolt's experience people
who didn't look guilty generally weren't.

'Are you a copper or something?' demanded
Richardson, more confident now as he sensed the
doubt in Bolt. 'Because I'm going to fucking sue
you if you are, you bastard.' He touched a hand to
his face, wiped off more blood. 'Look what you've
done to me. That's serious assault, that is.'

But Bolt wasn't going to let things go just yet.

'Scott Ridgers. When was the last time you saw
him?'

'You are a fucking copper, aren't you?'
Richardson said, sitting back up again.

Bolt took a step back and kicked him hard in the
chest, knocking him backwards a second time.
'Answer the question!'

'I ain't seen him in years,' Richardson hissed
through gritted teeth. 'I don't socialize with
perverts.'

Bolt's jaw tightened. 'What do you mean?'

Richardson saw his reaction, and managed a
small, mean grin. 'Oh, didn't you know, copper?
Scottie Ridgers is a kiddy fiddler. He likes 'em
nice and young. Why? He hasn't been after one of
your kids, has he?'

Bolt drove the heel of his shoe into Richardson's
face, stamping down hard, then kicked him
savagely in the ribs, the force of the blow shunting
him across the carpet. The anger roared through
him. He spat out curses and kicked him again,
even though a voice inside his head was
screaming at him to stop, stop, stop! But he
couldn't. When the red mist came down, as it did
so rarely in his life, he had no control over it.

Richardson wailed in pain, but Bolt kept
kicking, conscious enough of what he was doing
to concentrate on the body and not the head, but
still too lost in the rage and emotion of the past
twenty-four hours to cease until his victim was
curled up in a ball, silent, unmoving and beaten.

Then the full extent of what he was doing hit
Bolt like an express train, and he stepped backwards,
retreating into the wall, wondering what
the hell he'd become. He had to get out of there.

Turning away quickly, he strode through the
stinking flat, past the greasy box of KFC and out
the front door. And all the time he was thinking,
What the hell is happening to me?
Acting on nothing
more than a general hunch, he'd deliberately
disobeyed orders, broken into a suspect's flat and
beaten the living shit out of him. And now it
looked like his victim was almost certainly
innocent.

But he'd got some answers. Not the ones he
wanted maybe, but he'd been doing something to
get Emma back, and it had felt good. He'd crossed
the line before, and had sworn then he wouldn't
cross it again. Yet he just had. And the terrifying
thing was, part of him had enjoyed it.