At the bottom of the stairs, WPC Lucy Robertson still lay unconscious, blood running from the wound in her lip. A ribbon of crimson was also flowing from one nostril.
Lisa gaped at the immobile form as they passed, almost tripping over the outstretched legs.
Julie headed through into the kitchen and unlocked the back door.
At the rear of the house there was a small garden, surrounded on three sides by a high wooden fence. Julie headed for the gate at the end.
She tugged at the latch.
It was locked.
'Stay here,' she told Lisa and bolted back inside the house.
There had to be a key somewhere.
She glanced at the figure of the policewoman and then scuttled across to her, sliding her hands into the pockets of Lucy's skirt.
Nothing.
She tried the blouse which was also flecked with blood.
There were two keys inside one of the breast pockets.
Julie took them both and hurried back outside, pushing first one then the other into the lock which secured the gate.
The second turned easily.
She pulled open the gate and peered out.
There was a path leading along the back of the houses. It looked clear.
As she pushed the gate shut behind her, from inside the house Julie heard the phone ringing.
'Come on, darling,' she said, looking down at Lisa.
'Where are we going, Mum?'
'Away. Just away.'
They began walking.
Waterloo was only a couple of streets away.
Inside the house the phone continued to ring.
2.34 P.M.
Doyle glanced around the room and guessed that there were fifty or more journalists inside.
Four rows of plastic seats had been hastily arranged before a long table, itself raised on a small plinth. There were notepads on the table, pens, glasses and a jug of water.
He counted three camera crews, their powerful lights trained on the raised table.
Microphones had been propped up close to the desk, a maze of cables running from them.
Every now and then a flash would burst into life, adding even more light to the room. Photographers checked their cameras, reporters scribbled on pads.
Others stood around talking loudly, many checking their watches.
Doyle did the same.
Three minutes past the deadline.
It looked as if Neville had kept his word and not detonated the next bomb.
Not yet anyway.
Units of armed police had been despatched to Hyde Park and its surrounding areas, all with orders not to shoot even if Neville put in an appearance.
If they killed him, no one would be able to find the other bombs.
'The big one goes up at eight.'
Doyle could still hear Neville's words ringing in his ears.
How big?
And where?
Doyle looked anxiously at his watch, his eyes scanning the assembled throng of media.
Like flies round shit.
They smelled blood on this one. And if Neville kept up the way he'd been going, they'd do more than fucking smell it.
A door to the left of the room opened and Doyle watched as Calloway and Mason strode inside in the wake of a powerfully built man with hands like ham hocks.
Commissioner Frank O'Connor sat down and poured himself a glass of water.
'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he began, his voice heavily tinged with a Scots accent. 'I would ask you to be brief with your questions after I've read our official statement. Time is the most important factor in this case.' He gestured towards his two subordinates. 'Detective Inspector Calloway and Detective Sergeant Mason are heading the investigation, you may wish to address some points to them when they're ready. As I said, the most important thing about this press conference is that it is kept brief.'
The room was filled with blinding light as a dozen camera flashes lit up.
'Two bombs have exploded in the centre of London today,' O'Connor began. 'One at 12.31 p.m. in Piccadilly and a second at 1.31 p.m. in Golden Square. Casualties so far are twenty-one dead and forty-seven injured.'
'What about the explosion in London Road this morning?' a voice from the back asked.
O'Connor looked up irritably.
'There were no casualties caused by that blast,' he snapped. 'Returning to the statement.' He scratched his chin with his finger. 'An investigation is in progress.' The big Scot put down the statement and sipped from his glass.
A cacophony of shouts filled the room.
More camera flashes.
Doyle saw a television cameraman move closer to the table behind which the three policemen sat.
'Is it terrorists?' someone shouted
'No,' O'Connor said flatly.
'How can you be sure? What if it's the IRA?' another voice echoed.
'We have evidence to suggest that it is definitely not a terrorist group,' the Commissioner said.
'Who is responsible? Do you have a suspect?' a voice close to Doyle called.
'Yes, we do. As far as we know one man is responsible for these bombings.'
'What's his name?' someone else called.
'I'm not prepared to release that information yet,' O'Connor announced.
'Why is he doing it? Is he a psycho or are the bombings politically motivated?' another journalist enquired.
'We haven't sufficient information yet,' O'Connor said, blinking hard as another barrage of flashes went off before him.
'What steps have you taken to capture the bomber?'
'There are patrols in most parts of the city,' O'Connor explained. 'We have aerial surveillance in operation too. Rest assured, we will find this man.'
Doyle smiled to himself. You fucking hope.
'Is he armed?' another journalist asked.
O'Connor looked at Calloway.
'He is armed,' the DI said, leaning a little too close to the microphones. There was a momentary piercing whine of feedback. The DI tapped the microphone nearest to him almost apologetically.
'Are you using armed police to get him?' the same journalist persisted.
Calloway looked at his superior as if for confirmation before answering.
The big Scot merely nodded almost imperceptibly.
'We have armed units in the field,' Calloway said.
'An armed suspect, armed police too, this could be dangerous for the public.'
'It'll be more dangerous if we don't catch him,' Calloway replied irritably to the journalist's question.
'Are you sure he's working alone?' a TV interviewer asked.
'Yes,' Calloway answered.
'And there are no political motives behind the bombings?' the TV interviewer continued. 'Has he made any other demands?'
'We're not releasing that information yet,' O'Connor interjected.
'So he has made demands of some kind?' the interviewer pressed. 'What does he want? Money? Is this bomber holding the city to ransom?'
'It's nothing as melodramatic as that,' O'Connor said dismissively.
'Two bombs have already been detonated, can you assure us there won't be more?'
'We are confident that the suspect will be apprehended within the hour,' O'Connor responded.
Doyle raised his eyebrows.
Very fucking optimistic.
'Will there be more bombs?' the same voice echoed.
O'Connor got to his feet. 'This press conference is now officially closed,' he said.
Calloway and Mason also stood up.
Another volley of flashes accompanied their movement towards the door.
Doyle slipped out of another door, leaving the journalists to shout more questions at the retreating policemen.
He found the trio of men in a corridor beyond.
'Who the hell are you?' O'Connor demanded, casting a distasteful glance at Doyle.
'Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit. Army Intelligence sent me after Neville.'