There was nothing remarkable about the car. Pale green, about four years old, bodywork immaculately clean. As he drew level with it he gently placed one hand on the bonnet, which was cool.
The car had obviously been there some time.
He peered through the window into the vehicle.
There was an A-Z open on the passenger seat, bent back and dog-eared through use.
A fresh-air strip was hanging from the rear-view mirror.
Casey tried the door.
Locked.
He glanced at the back seats.
There were a couple of books there. Kids' books. Some balled-up sweet papers had been scattered over the upholstery. A half-eaten bag of wine gums also lay there.
A furry Garfield was stuck to the side window by four suction cups attached to its feet.
Casey walked around the car and saw a sticker in the back window.
A heart and the simple message: I Love Life.
Casey smiled and reached for his book of tickets.
The explosion was so ferocious that it lifted him several feet into the air.
All he heard was a sound like a paper bag bursting. A very, very large paper bag. Then nothing.
He was dead before he hit the pavement.
The skip had exploded with the force of a small warhead, the metal it was constructed from joining with the shattered bricks it held to form a blanket of lethal shrapnel.
Like some enormous hand-grenade, the shattered skip erupted, sending metal and pieces of stone in all directions.
The concussion blast was strong enough to overturn the Mercedes parked close by, the bodywork already shredded by the flying debris.
The back window of the Metro was smashed in by a piece of stone the size of a football.
The scaffolding in front of the building merely crumbled, pieces of metal piping and wooden gangways collapsing like a house of cards.
Two of the workmen toppled earthward with the ruins, one of them managing a scream of terror before he landed on the concrete below. His head burst like an overripe melon.
The second fell into what was left of the skip, his spine snapping in several places as he struck the riven container and what was left of its load.
Several of the cars parked close to the skip burst into flames, petrol tanks holed by lumps of flying stone or metal.
The fires seemed to start a chain reaction, each successive vehicle catching fire, burning for a few minutes then exploding, adding more thick black smoke to the heaving pall already settling over the square.
A combination of the concussion blast and the flying debris had blasted in almost every window of the buildings which made up the square.
Stephen Casey lay on his face, his back torn open by a piece of metal, his spine exposed, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.
The blast had ripped off one arm at the elbow, shredded his trousers, blown him out of his shoes.
It had all happened so quickly.
The blast, the deafening explosion, the flying debris.
An uneasy silence descended over Golden Square, as dense as the cloud of black smoke which hovered above it like an ethereal shroud.
1.38 P.M.
As Doyle pulled the Datsun to a halt he fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper which Calloway had given him.
Number fifty-nine Mitre Road, Lambeth.
He glanced at the door of the building before him.
This was the place.
He locked the car, lit a cigarette and strolled up to the door, ringing the bell twice.
The WPC who answered the door was in her early twenties and she looked quizzically at Doyle, who flipped open the slim leather wallet which held his ID.
She'd barely had time to glance at the small photo inside and compare it with the craggy-featured individual before her when he shut it and slid it back inside his jacket.
As the coat parted she saw the butt of the Beretta beneath his left arm.
'I want to speak to Julie Neville.'
'I hadn't been told she was going to be questioned again,' the WPC said warily.
'What's your name?' Doyle demanded.
'WPC Robertson, sir.'
'Did they give you a first name, WPC, and you don't have to call me sir.'
Doyle was looking around as he spoke. The house was small. Clean and immaculately decorated. He could smell coffee from the kitchen to the rear of the building. From a room to his right he could hear a television.
'Lucy,' the policewoman told him.
'Well, Lucy, I want to talk to Julie Neville. If you don't trust me, ring Detective Inspector Calloway, he'll clear it.'
'Would you mind?'
Doyle frowned.
'Right, you've proved you're efficient,' he said. 'Now let me see Mrs Neville, I haven't got all bloody day.' He pushed past the policewoman and into the sitting room.
Julie Neville was seated on the sofa in the room, slender legs drawn up beneath her, both hands cradling a mug of coffee.
'What do you want?' she said, looking at Doyle dismissively.
'A chat.'
'Another one?' she said, sipping her coffee.
Doyle looked at the WPC.
'If that coffee's fresh I'd love a cup, please, Lucy.' He smiled.
He sat down beside Julie Neville who pulled her bare feet closer to her, away from the counter terrorist.
He ran his finger along the sole of her right foot.
She glared at him.
The WPC was still hesitating in the doorway.
'White, one sugar,' Doyle said, staring at her, his steely grey eyes narrowing. 'Now, please, Lucy.'
The policewoman glanced at Julie who nodded slowly.
'I'll be all right,' she said softly.
'Call if you need me,' said the WPC and stepped outside the room.
'Very cosy,' Doyle said. 'They seem to be looking after you.'
'What do you care, Doyle?'
'I think you read me wrong, Julie. I do care. Where's your daughter?'
'Lisa's upstairs. Lucy's been keeping her entertained. They seem to be getting on pretty well.'
'So, not all coppers are bastards then?'
'I didn't say they were.'
She took the cigarette he offered, sucking hard on it as he lit it for her.
Julie blew a stream of smoke in Doyle's direction as she exhaled.
'I heard about the bombs,' she said quietly.
Doyle nodded.
'How many people has he killed?'
The counter terrorist shrugged. 'Including the second bomb, it must be over twenty now.'
'Oh, Christ,' she murmured, running a hand through her hair. 'How are you going to stop him?'
'I'll get him, don't worry about it,' Doyle assured her.
'You seem very certain of that, Doyle.'
'I am. But I need your help.'
She looked quizzically at him.
'He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants,' Doyle told her. 'And he wants his daughter.'
Julie sat up, her eyes fixed on Doyle.
'It's the only way, Julie,' he told her. 'That's why I'm here. I need your daughter.'
1.46 P.M.
As Calloway and Mason stepped inside the interview room at New Scotland Yard, Kenneth Baxter hesitated.
He stood motionless at the threshold, gazing around the room which was empty but for a table, four chairs and a tape recorder, which Calloway sat down next to.
Mason leaned against the wall behind his superior.
Baxter finally followed them in, eyeing both policemen warily, pausing again when Calloway gestured towards one of the chairs on the other side of the table.
'You haven't told me what the charge is,' said Baxter.
'There is no charge, Mr Baxter,' the DI told him, watching as the other man finally sat down.
'What do you think we should be charging you with?' Mason enquired.
Baxter smiled and leaned back in his chair, clasping his fingers together on his stomach. He wore a large Gold Sovereign ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the light from the fluorescents in the ceiling glinted on the metal as he rocked gently back and forth.