A slight breeze was blowing now and it brought with it the scent of flowers.
He glanced at the graves flanking the path as he walked, hands dug into the pockets of his jeans. Many had flowers on them, some still wrapped in Cellophane, which crackled whenever the breeze blew too strongly.
He saw some rose petals skitter across the path ahead of him, propelled by a gust of wind.
A middle-aged woman was filling a plastic watering can from one of the taps.
Baxter watched her as she lugged the heavy article back towards a nearby grave and filled the metal vase on the plinth. Then she carefully began arranging carnations in the vase.
The tap continued to drip.
One droplet for each tear shed in this place?
Baxter continued walking, his pace slow and even. But his pace didn't match the expression on his face.
As he walked he looked constantly back and forth, eyes scanning the cemetery.
Searching.
Had he looked behind him he wouldn't have found anything too unusual about the young man in the jeans and T-shirt who had just entered the graveyard.
PC Rob Wells saw Baxter ahead of him but, instead of following, he turned off on one of the gravel paths at his right-hand side and made his way slowly along it, his trainers crunching on the bed of loose stone.
He walked slowly, apparently unconcerned by anything, convinced that Baxter hadn't spotted him but, more importantly, that his quarry hadn't realised he was a plain-clothes policeman.
Wells saw Baxter turn off on to one of the secondary paths and the policeman cut across some grass to ensure he didn't lose sight of the older man.
As he stepped on a grave, Wells apologised under his breath to the occupant, feeling stupid but also sorry to have disturbed the reverence he felt was due to the deceased.
The graves in this part of the cemetery were older, many of them untended and overgrown. He glanced at a number of the headstones, many of which were cracked, moss having crept into the rents like gangrene into an open wound.
Died 1923 proclaimed what little was readable of the inscription on one headstone.
The stone was mottled, the pot which stood on the plinth rusted.
Beside it was another which sported only the rotting stems of long-dead flowers and, as Wells passed, he could smell the cloying stench of rotting plants and stagnant water.
Baxter sat down on one of the benches, legs stretched out, fingers intertwined on his stomach.
Wells walked on, wondering if he should find a better vantage point, somewhere more secluded. He could always make out he was visiting a grave if he was spotted.
But why the hell should he be spotted?
He walked on, aware that his heart was beating a little faster.
Wells saw Baxter rise.
Saw him take two or three paces towards the newcomer.
'Jesus,' he murmured under his breath, trying to avoid staring at Baxter.
There were some trees up ahead to his left. Wells knew he had to reach them, use them as cover while he spoke into the two-way.
Don't hurry, just stay calm.
Baxter stood still and waited for the newcomer to approach him.
From behind the cover of the largest tree, Wells pulled the two-way from his pocket and switched it on, his eyes still fixed on Baxter.
'Mark, come in, it's me,' Wells said, keeping his voice low. 'You're not going to believe this.'
4.46 P.M.
'Are you sure?' said PC Mark Hagan, gripping the radio more tightly.
'Come and have a look yourself if you don't believe me,' Wells snapped back. 'I'm standing here looking at them now. Baxter and Julie Neville. They're thirty feet away from me, for Christ's sake. Now call in. Quick.'
'What about the kid?'
'She's here too.'
Hagan ran a hand through his hair, sucking in a deep breath.
'Stay close to them, Rob,' he said into the two-way.
'I wasn't planning on going anywhere,' Wells assured him.
'Bingo.'
Calloway spun round to face his companion, a smile stretched across his face.
'What is it?' Mason enquired.
'Julie and Lisa Neville. We've got them,' the DI said triumphantly, still holding the phone to his ear. 'The East London Cemetery in Newham. One of the surveillance units watching Baxter just spotted them.'
'What the hell is Julie Neville doing with Baxter?'
'We'll find that out later. Right now we've got to get to the kid, she's got to be able to speak to Neville when he calls at five.'
Mason looked at his watch.
'We'll never do it in time,' he said, his breath coming in short gasps.
'We've got to,' Calloway told him.
'You'll never get her back to New Scotland Yard in time for Neville's call,' said Doyle, his eyes now fixed on the vehicles ahead of him. He was no longer interested in the pedestrians on either side. 'Is there some way you can patch his call through to one of your cars at the scene?'
'We'll try,' Calloway answered.
'Don't try. Fucking do it,' Doyle almost shouted, glancing at his watch.
'There are more mobile units closing in on the cemetery now. They can't escape.'
'You mean Julie Neville and her daughter aren't in custody yet?' Doyle said incredulously. 'How the fuck is the kid supposed to talk to her father if you haven't even grabbed her yet?'
'If we move in too fast they could run for it. Julie Neville could escape again.'
'And if you don't move fast enough Neville's going to detonate that bomb. Grab them, Calloway, for Christ's sake. Them and Baxter.'
Doyle hit his horn as the car ahead of him hesitated at a green light.
'Where are you now?'
'Coming up to Westminster Bridge,' Doyle told Calloway. 'I'll be with you in about ten minutes. If I'm lucky.'
He hit the horn again, almost nudging the Fiesta in front to one side in his haste.
Kenneth Baxter and Julie Neville.
What the fuck was going on?
Doyle pressed down on the accelerator when he could, constantly striking the horn in an effort to move the traffic which clogged the road ahead of him.
Again he looked at his watch.
'No fucking way,' Doyle hissed, his tone edged.
With frustration?
With defeat?
With the certainty that, this time, they were too late.
4.51 P.M.
They all heard the sirens.
The strident wail seemed to converge from all directions, shattering the solitude of the cemetery.
Julie Neville looked helplessly at Baxter, her eyes wide, almost imploring.
Baxter himself had already turned and was heading towards the main entrance of the graveyard.
Lisa grabbed her mother's hand, wondering what the noise signified.
'What the hell's going on?' Wells hissed into the two-way, glancing at Baxter, then Julie and the child.
'Arrest them, Rob, now,' Hagan told him. 'That's direct from the guv'nor. Take them.'
Wells swallowed hard and advanced towards the trio who were moving rapidly along one of the Tarmac paths.
'Stop,' Wells shouted, fumbling in his pocket for his ID. 'Police.'
He brandished the wallet above his head and took a step towards the trio before him.
Lisa moved closer to her mother.
Baxter merely slowed his pace and looked at the young man in the jeans and T-shirt.
Julie pulled her daughter tightly to her, a protective arm around her shoulder.
'Just stay where you are,' Wells called, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. 'We just need to talk to you, Mrs Neville. You and your daughter.'
'You keep away from my daughter,' Julie hissed at him.