Deadline

Andrea reached for her cigarettes, which Tina now recognized as a sure sign that she was feeling stressed.

'It was only that I wanted Jimmy to help me and I thought if I convinced him he was Emma's dad then he'd never be able to say no.' She got up and opened the French windows, lighting up and blowing smoke out into the garden, her arms folded in a defensive gesture. 'You'd have done the same in my position, except you don't know that, because you've never had kids. She may not be my flesh and blood, but she's still my daughter. I brought her up. No one else, because Billy was dead within a year. Just me.' She blew out more smoke and glared defiantly at Tina.

'When are you intending to tell Mike Bolt that he's not Emma's father?'

The question made Andrea flinch.

'So, he told you about that, did he?'

'Only when he absolutely had to.'

'I'll tell him soon enough. When I've got my head back together.'

'You almost destroyed him, Mrs Devern. He's suspended from his job because of you, and it's possible he'll lose it over this. The least you can do is put him out of his misery.'

'I told you, I'll tell him soon.'

'No. Either you call him now, or I do. And I really think it would be best if it came from you, don't you?'

'Listen, Miss Boyd, you've got no idea what I've been through in the last week. What I've done, I've done to protect my daughter and help to get her away from those animals and back with me where she belongs, and I'm not going to make any apologies for that.'

'He still needs to know,' Tina insisted. 'Today.'

Andrea unfolded her arms, softening her stance.

'Can you tell him? Please? Say I'm very, very sorry and that I will call him, I promise. It's just…' She paused, and Tina could see that her eyes were filling with tears. 'Not today.'

'OK. I'll call him outside.'

As she walked through the French windows, Andrea stopped her with a hand on the arm.

'I do care for him, you know,' she said quietly, a tear running down one cheek. 'A lot more than you think.'

Tina nodded. She didn't believe a word of it.

She walked up to the end of the garden, well out of earshot, and dialled Mike's number, knowing that he was going to take this hard.

When he answered, he sounded in a good mood and there was a buzz of conversation in the background.

'Tina, how's it going?'

'Not bad. Where are you?'

'In a pub in Finchley. Relaxing with some old Flying Squad buddies. I figure, I'm suspended, I may as well enjoy myself. What can I do for you?'

The moment of truth. And straight away she knew she couldn't do it. Not when he was enjoying himself. It would just have to wait.

'I thought you might want a quick update on things, but if you're out with your friends-'

'No, I'd like to hear what you've got.'

She gave him a summary of where the investigation was, but there really wasn't a lot to say as things were running down now. There was still no sign of Pat Phelan. They'd put surveillance on Isobel Wheeler's house in case he turned up there, but that was pretty much it.

'And have you seen Emma?'

Tina stiffened. 'Yes, she's well. Back at home now.'

'And Andrea?'

'She's fine too.'

'Thanks, Tina. I really appreciate you keeping me in touch with things.'

'I'd want to be, if I was in your position. Anyway, you'd better get back to your friends.'

She rang off, cursing herself for being such a coward. Now she'd have to call him again later.

She sat down on the garden's loveseat and lit a cigarette, in no hurry to go back inside. As she basked in the mid-afternoon sunshine, she realized with surprise that she was going to miss Mike Bolt now that he was suspended. Things had changed between them these past few days. She'd seen a vulnerable side to him for the first time, and she was flattered that he'd turned to her when he needed help, seeing something beyond the hard shell she surrounded herself with. She hadn't had romance in a long time. It was over three years since John had died. Since then there'd been a couple of one-night stands and a brief holiday fling in Thailand. But now she felt the first hint of attraction, and it unnerved her.

She stubbed out the cigarette in the grass and stood up slowly. It was time to go home.

But as she reached the French windows, she stopped. Andrea was back on her sofa, but there were two men in suits in the room with her whom Tina recognized as detectives from the farm the previous night. They were obviously trying to keep their expressions as calm and inscrutable as possible as they turned towards her, but there was no escaping the excitement in them.

'We've got a new lead on Scott Ridgers' killer,' said the younger of the two, a fresh-faced youth with thinning hair and a spray of freckles. 'A big one.'

Fifty-six

The Coach and Horses was the pub where Finchley Flying Squad members past and present liked to drink. There were always a few old faces in on a Sunday lunchtime, mainly the local guys, but today was the first time in a long while that Bolt had made it.

The lunchtime crowd was thinning out now as Bolt came off the phone to Tina and returned to the table where he'd been drinking for the last two hours with today's Flying Squad contingent: Ron 'Scissors' Austin, silver-haired, still serving, nearing retirement; Marvin 'Mad Dog' Bennett, a huge black guy now working on the Met's Operation Trident; Big Tim Pritchard, once the squad's Romeo, but now a few stones above his ideal weight courtesy of his desk job at Scotland Yard; and the ever injury-prone Jack 'Dodger' Doyle.

'Who was that, your girlfriend?' grinned Scissors Austin as Bolt sat back down with his drink.

'No such luck. Colleague.'

'You want to get yourself out more, pal,' advised Jack Doyle before resuming his story, which involved a long-ago one-night stand he'd had with a female DCI from Hendon.

Bolt wasn't really listening to the story. His mind was elsewhere. He wanted to talk to Emma and had thought that Tina's call might have been her or Andrea getting in touch. The fact that it wasn't disappointed him. It had been good to catch up and trade war stories from the good old days, but now, as the conversation moved on to sexual conquests, he decided it was probably time to go.

Doyle finished his story of fumbled, drunken lovemaking (which had resulted, somewhat inevitably, in him falling over and twisting his ankle so badly he'd been off work for three days) with a flourish and plenty of illustrative hand movements, amid much laughter. When he went off to the toilet, Big Tim, not to be outdone, started on a story of his own, involving a relationship with a pretty uniformed PC from Finchley Nick.

'Tracey Bonham was her name. Anyone remember her?'

'Yeah, I do,' said Scissors. 'Pretty little thing. Red hair. Don't tell me she had a fling with an ugly sod like you.'

Big Tim's seat creaked precariously as he leaned back on it. 'Watch it, old man. That girl was in love with me, I tell you. I liked her as well. We almost got engaged at one point.'

'I never knew that,' said Scissors sceptically. 'Are you sure you didn't dream it?'

'I don't remember her at all,' said Mad Dog, shaking his head.

Bolt swallowed the last of his pint. To be honest, he didn't either.

'Well, I didn't bloody dream it, all right? We did nearly get engaged, and I reckon we would have done as well, but then she ends up running off with some scuzzy little bastard who turns out to be one of Dodger Doyle's snouts.'

Scissors looked mortified. 'Christ, she dumped you for a snout?'

'All right, all right. Don't rub it in. He was one of these real charmers, you know. The sort gullible women go for.'