Deadline

And so it was that barely an hour after arriving home Bolt walked in through the door of the King's Arms, a busy, old-fashioned drinkers' pub just off the King's Cross end of the Gray's Inn Road. He had to look around for a few seconds, pushing his way through the buzzing crowd of drinkers, before he saw Doyle sitting in a booth in the corner, two pints of lager set out on the table in front of him.

Doyle stood up as Bolt approached and they shook hands. As always, the other man's grip was vice-like. With his jutting, granite jaw and square shaped head, topped with thick black hair, Jack Doyle bore a strong resemblance to a Thunderbirds puppet – not that it was advisable to tell him that. He wasn't a particularly big man – no more than five nine, and of slim build – but the look was deceptive. He was all sinewy muscle, and even now, in his mid-forties, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him.

'How are you, Mike?' he asked in a thick Glasgow accent that hadn't mellowed, even after more than a quarter of a century down south. He gestured at one of the pints. 'I got you one in.'

Bolt smiled as they sat down opposite each other.

'Thanks, Jack, I'm all right,' he said, determined not to show the turmoil he was going through. 'You?'

'Not bad,' said the other man wearily. 'Counting the days until retirement.'

They clinked glasses.

'What is it you've got left now? Five years?'

'Four. And I tell you, pal, I can't bloody wait. How's life at SOCA?'

Bolt took a gulp of his beer. It tasted good.

'Busy,' he answered. 'That's why I need your help. You remember the Lewisham robbery, back in ninety-two? The police van carrying the coke for incineration?'

'How could I forget? It's the one where you made your spurs. Took out that toe rag Dean Hayes.'

Bolt nodded. 'That's the one.' He'd never been proud of the fact that he'd killed Hayes. He might have been, as Doyle put it, a toe rag, but that didn't make ending his life any easier, and Bolt felt mildly uncomfortable at it being mentioned now. 'Do you remember what happened to the people who got put away for it?'

'Is this to do with a case you're working on?'

He knew there was no point denying it. 'Yeah, it is.'

'It must be a pretty big case if you wanted to see me this urgently. Can you give me any details?'

'It's an ongoing op, so I can't say too much at the moment.'

'Not even to an old mate?'

'You know I'd tell you if I could, Jack.'

'Fair enough. And you think some of the guys we put away might be involved in it?'

'We don't know yet. But at the moment, I'd like to know their current status, and any intelligence you've got on any of them.'

'Well, you tagged one, and we put away four, didn't we? Vernon Mackman – he was one of the drivers. One of the best there was, I always thought. He died of cancer five years back while he was still in the Scrubs. As for Barry Tadcaster, he's back inside. He was out six months, then teamed up with a couple of old-style blaggers and got done for conspiracy to rob when one of them turned grass. I don't think he's expected out until after I retire.'

'And the others? Marcus Richardson, and who was the other? Scott somebody?'

'Scott Ridgers. They've been in and out since they got released for the Lewisham job. You know what it's like with blokes like that, professional robbers – they never change. Ridgers carried on blagging; Richardson branched out into smuggling coke into the country. But as far as I know they're both on parole and keeping their noses clean. I haven't heard anything about either of them for a while now.'

'How long did they go down for?'

Doyle thought for a moment. 'Ridgers got fourteen years, I think, and served seven. Richardson got longer – seventeen, eighteen, something like that – because he fired a shot before he got hit himself, so he did time on an attempted murder charge as well, even though he always claimed the gun went off by accident. He served eight or nine.'

'You got an address for either of them?'

Doyle's face broke into a craggy smile. 'My memory's good, Mike, but it's not that bloody good. They'll be on the PNC, though. I'm sure they're both still on licence.'

'I'll check them out.'

'You haven't asked about the one who got away. Jimmy Galante.'

'Oh yeah, I remember him. He ended up in Spain, didn't he?'

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?'