Bolt wiped a hand across his brow. The night was unseasonably warm for September, and he was conscious that he was sweating again.

'These guys really mean business, Mo. '

Mo nodded slowly, his dark eyes full of sympathy. 'I know. But as you've said, they took a risk killing the cleaner. Someone somewhere might have seen something. Sooner or later they're going to make a mistake. Remember that, boss. No one's luck lasts for ever.'

It was close to midnight by the time Bolt walked through his apartment door for the second time that day. He and Mo had stayed at the crime scene for a further half an hour to talk to the senior investigating officer from Tufnell Park CID. They shared what information they could, but were deliberately vague about most of it because of the secrecy of their own op. Bolt had been apologetic about this but it hadn't prevented the senior investigating officer from getting seriously pissed off and threatening to talk to the head of SOCA to get further details if he had to.

After saying his goodbyes to Mo, he'd found a taxi on Junction Road to take him home. On the way back he'd tried Tina's number to bring her up to date with developments but again she wasn't answering, and he decided to leave speaking to her until the morning. He hoped she hadn't suffered any ill effects from her earlier ordeal, and it struck him that maybe he should have done more to check she was OK. At the Glasshouse earlier she'd been quieter than usual, and they'd hardly had a chance to speak. But Tina was a tough cookie. She'd be all right. And at the moment he had enough on his plate without worrying about her.

The first thing he did when he got back inside the apartment was gulp down a large glass of water in an effort to rehydrate himself and get the taste of stale beer off his breath. The remainder of his glass of red wine was on the kitchen top and he was tempted to finish it off, but quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, he threw off his clothes and jumped in the shower, trying hard to relax himself. He was still tense but less so than he had been, even given what he'd just seen. Perhaps he was simply getting more used to it.

It occurred to him as he towelled himself dry that this had possibly been the worst day of his life, and there'd certainly been a fair share of contenders for that accolade over the years. Mainly because it had been so totally and utterly unexpected, and he'd had so little time to react to the speed and ferocity of events as they'd buffeted him again and again.

He was also aware that tomorrow could turn out to be even worse.

Bolt tossed and turned all night, his sleep a series of fitful dozes. In those rare times when he did go under, the dreams came, unwelcome and unnerving. In one of them he and Mikaela were living in Andrea's house with two young children of their own. But the children were nameless, faceless wraiths. He wasn't even sure if they were boys or girls, only that he loved them with an intensity he didn't realize he was capable of. Yet every time he went to hold one of them, they would float out of his grip, leaving him feeling progressively more angry and frustrated. He tried to talk about this to Mikaela but she didn't seem to understand. 'They're our children,' was all she said, and she was smiling as she spoke, because Mikaela had always wanted children. It was he who hadn't…

Some time later, in the grey time before dawn, he'd found himself slipping into another dream, this one far clearer and more violent. He was back at the Lewisham robbery – the gunfight that in reality had lasted a matter of seconds, but which had remained etched on his mind for ever. Only this time the robbers were unarmed. They were standing in a line and trying to surrender, hands in the air, their balaclavas removed, all but one of their faces blurred. The one Bolt could see properly was Dean Hayes, a scraggy-faced youth with a hook nose that had been broken more than once, and dyed blond hair. His eyes were wide with fear and he was trying to say something. But in the dream, Bolt was filled with a ferocious rage. These were the bastards responsible for kidnapping his daughter – all of them. The rage made the gun quiver and twitch in his hands, but that didn't stop him from opening fire, the shock of the retorts echoing in his head. Dean Hayes bucked crazily as he was hit repeatedly, until finally he fell sprawling to the pavement. Then Bolt moved the gun in a slow, careful arc, pulling the trigger again and again, experiencing a burst of elation as one after another they went down, hardly hearing the shouts of his colleagues as they tried to get him to stop shooting.

The last thing he remembered was seeing Andrea standing beside him, dressed in the lacy black negligee she was wearing when he'd first met her all those years ago, the gun in her hand kicking as she too opened fire on the men in front of her, her expression a picture of controlled calm.

And then suddenly the dream ended with the shriek of the alarm, and it was back to a reality he'd rather not have had to face.

He was shattered by the time he got into the office that morning. There was a 7.30 meeting for everyone involved in the operation, except those who were on surveillance duty, either watching the area around Andrea's house or keeping tabs on the movements of Leon Daroyce and his close associates. It was led by Big Barry Freud, and was at least partly overshadowed by the discovery of Marie Aniewicz's body the previous evening. There were no further details on her death, although the initial results of her autopsy were expected by mid-afternoon. One thing, though, was clear: she'd been deliberately targeted, and her murder was linked to the kidnap inquiry. Barry seemed unduly hopeful that the results of the house-to-house enquiries in the area, and a search of the murder scene itself, might elicit clues as to the identity of the kidnappers, conveniently glossing over the fact that they had only a matter of hours left before any such clues became irrelevant. There'd been no breaks in the case anywhere else, and the Daroyce surveillance team had nothing to report to suggest that either he or his people were directly implicated, so, once again, everything hinged on the success of the sting operation they were setting up to catch the kidnappers during the ransom drop.

The bulk of the meeting was spent going over the details of the sting itself and everyone's part in it, and Bolt sensed the growing excitement among those present in the incident room as it became clear they were going to get a chance to bring some truly brutal individuals to justice.

Bolt shared none of this excitement. The tension was building in him again, rising to almost intolerable levels as he heard his colleagues discuss the proposed arrest of the kidnappers and the rescue of his daughter, noting grimly that there seemed to be more emphasis on the first objective than on the second, and that Emma was rarely mentioned by name. Once during the meeting he caught Tina's eye. She was looking tired, but she mouthed the words 'You OK?' at him. He managed a small smile and a nod in return, wondering if his stress was that obvious, and she turned away. He watched her for a second, feeling a sudden urge to unburden himself – somehow he knew she'd understand – but he dismissed it immediately, telling himself not to weaken. There were things he needed to do.

When the meeting was over, Bolt asked to see Barry alone.

'You look bloody awful, old mate,' said his boss when they were in his office.

Bolt was already on his fourth coffee of the day.

He hadn't eaten anything more substantial than half a sandwich for more than twenty-four hours now, and the lack of food was making him nauseous.