The next second he was flying back through the door with another man hanging on to him and shouting something that filled her with sudden and delirious relief: 'Armed police! Drop your weapon!'
Fifty-two
But that was the problem. Bolt wasn't armed when he charged Scott Ridgers. He wasn't even carrying standard-issue pepper spray, which had been taken off him earlier. He had nothing but surprise. He grabbed Ridgers' wrists and twisted them away from his body, paying particular attention to the hand holding the kitchen knife, and trying to butt him as he'd done Marcus Richardson earlier that day. But the blow he caught Ridgers with as they both crashed into the kitchen barely glanced the other man, who had the good sense to move his head, and as they hit the kitchen table, disaster struck. Bolt lost his footing and slipped, sliding along the tiled floor on one knee, desperately trying to keep hold of his foe, even though his head was now only level with the other man's groin.
Ridgers was fast, and he took advantage of Bolt's plight to tug his wrists free and slam a knee into his face. A piercing, hot pain shot through Bolt's nose and he wobbled in his kneeling position, unable to react as Ridgers then lifted a leg and delivered an accurate kung-fu kick to the side of his head. This time he fell backwards, landing against something white and hard. His head throbbed savagely where Ridgers' boot had connected and he could feel the blood pouring out of his nostrils and on to his lips. He tried to focus through the pain, saw the huge knife in Ridgers' hand, and knew that he was helpless.
Jesus. After all this, he'd failed.
Then he saw Emma crouching in the corner of the room, her eyes wide with shock.
'Run, Emma!' he shouted. 'Run!'
Ridgers took a step forward, pointing the knife down at Bolt, ignoring Emma now. 'Where's my money?' he roared. 'Where's my fucking money?'
Bolt rolled on to his side, thinking fast, assessing his options… knowing full well that he didn't have any. Emma leapt to her feet, but instead of running for the door, she ran at Ridgers and sank her teeth into his knife arm, just above the elbow. He cried out but didn't relinquish his grip on the knife. Instead, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off in one movement, the force of his attack sending her crashing into one of the worktops.
Adrenalin born of pure rage shot through Bolt, briefly substituting the pain and dizziness. He started to get up.
But it was too late. Ridgers was bearing down on him, and there was murder in his eyes as he brought back his knife arm to deliver a blow that Bolt knew would not only end his life, but would mean the end of Emma's too.
And then there was a loud crack, followed a second later by the sound of breaking glass, and suddenly Scott Ridgers pitched forward as his legs went from under him. His head smacked hard against the fridge and he collapsed to the floor, landing on his side on Bolt's legs. A thin stream of blood poured from the smoking hole where his right eye had been.
Emma screamed as he convulsed in his death throes.
'Stay down!' Bolt yelled at her, kicking Ridgers' body off him.
Four more shots exploded through the night air in rapid succession, showering the table and floor with shards of glass. Emma screamed again, and Bolt crawled over to her, moving as fast as he could and ignoring the glass beneath him. Grabbing her in his arms, he pulled her under him so that she was shielded from the gunfire. She was shaking with fear and sobbing, and he held her tight, thinking how small and vulnerable she was. Even in those dramatic moments he felt a kind of love he'd never experienced before.
'Just stay still,' he whispered. 'I'm here now. You're going to be all right.'
For ten seconds they lay there together in a tight, tangled embrace. There were no more shots. Silence had returned, and Ridgers had stopped moving. But the fact remained that someone had just murdered him, and that person was close by.
'Stay where you are,' Bolt told Emma as he got to his feet.
'Where are you going?'
'Just stay there, help's coming.'
Keeping low, he killed the kitchen light and crept over to the back door. A yard, with outbuildings to the left and right, ran about twenty yards to the beginning of the tree line. It looked empty, but, as Bolt turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door, he knew he was being foolish. It was one thing risking your neck to save your daughter, it was quite another to chase a gunman while he was unarmed.
But whoever had fired the shot that killed Scott Ridgers was also involved in this, and Bolt was in no mood to let him get away. And if he was carrying half a million in cash, his escape was going to be a slow one.
Bolt slid through the gap in the door on his hands and knees, then made a dash for the nearest outbuilding, where he stopped and peered round at the trees. He could hear nothing. The night was silent with only the lightest of breezes. The gunman was gone.
He was being an idiot. He could never do this alone, and he couldn't leave Emma alone with a corpse either. He wiped the blood from his face, pulled his mobile from his pocket and put in a call to Tina as he jogged back the way he'd come.
'I've got Emma,' he told her once he'd briefly explained what had just happened. 'She's OK, but the guy who shot Ridgers is gone. You're going to have to get people over here quick. We need to get a security cordon in place and seal off the whole area.'
Ignoring the fact that she was being ordered around by someone who was suspended, Tina said she was on it and hung up.
Bolt stepped back inside the kitchen door. Emma was sitting on the floor, staring into space. She turned his way as he entered, and for several seconds they simply looked at each other in silence.
Emma looked utterly exhausted. Her clothes were torn and sweat-stained, and her blonde hair was matted and dishevelled, parts of it stuck to the thin layer of grime that covered her face. But none of that mattered. She was beautiful. And she was safe. He felt a wave of emotion sweep over him and he had to grit his teeth so that he didn't cry.
'Who are you?' she asked uncertainly.
Who am I? Your father, I think. A man you've never met before who's linked to you inextricably and for ever. Someone who's sweated blood these past hours trying to find you, who wants to get to know you, take you places, be a part of your life, and explain why he hasn't been there for so long. Who needs you so badly you can't imagine it.
'I'm the police,' he said.
'Will you take me home?'
He took a deep breath, fought back the tears. 'Of course I will.'
Fifty-three
But he didn't take her home. In fact, he hardly had a chance to talk to her.
Within minutes, the first of a long line of police and ambulance vehicles were on the scene, and she was taken away from him. After checking that she didn't need emergency medical treatment, the paramedics whisked her off to the nearby Chase Farm Hospital where she was to be reunited with her mother before being debriefed, and for Bolt, that was largely that. He was left alone on the periphery, watching as the local police sealed off the murder scene.
Within half an hour, the area around the farmhouse was teeming with activity, and floodlights had been set up to illuminate proceedings. Bolt was introduced briefly to a DI called Baker, who was running the CID nightshift at Enfield Nick, and who had the initial responsibility for investigating Scott Ridgers' death. He looked more like an accountant than a copper and when he spoke it was in a flat estuary accent, but he had sharp, intelligent eyes that didn't look like they missed a lot, and Bolt had a feeling that when he went down to the station later to give his statement he was going to get a serious grilling about how he, a suspended SOCA agent, had ended up at the scene, particularly as the ransom money was missing. But he was ready for it. After everything else that had happened today, he was pretty much prepared for whatever was going to be thrown at him.