Baxter stepped up to join her.
The sound of sirens was almost deafening now. They could all hear car doors being slammed and the thudding of many feet moving across the road outside the cemetery. There were shouts.
Wells was still advancing, still waving his ID.
'Nobody's going to hurt either of you,' he said, trying to inject as much reassurance as possible into his tone.
Baxter looked towards the cemetery gates and saw uniformed policemen outside.
'We need your daughter,' Wells said.
'You're not giving her to him,' Julie said defiantly.
Wells looked puzzled.
'My husband wants her,' Julie continued. 'He's not going to get her and you're not going to help him.'
The two-way in Wells' back pocket crackled urgently.
'We haven't done anything wrong,' Julie told him.
'We're not the criminals.'
'I know that,' Wells told her.
'What about them?' Baxter said, indicating the uniformed men now moving towards the cemetery gates. 'Do they know?'
The radio crackled again.
Wells swallowed hard.
What now? Grab the kid?
He licked his lips nervously.
'We don't want to hurt you or your daughter,' he said. 'But we need your help. It's very important.'
Lisa was holding tightly to Julie's leg, her eyes fixed on the young man moving steadily towards them.
'Mum,' she said softly.
'We need your help, that's all,' Wells repeated.
'And if I refuse?'
'There's nowhere for you to run now, Mrs Neville.' Wells held her gaze.
Julie looked at him then down at her daughter. 'No one's going to hurt you,' Wells repeated. 'I promise you.'
The radio hissed like an angry snake.
'Please,' the policeman pleaded.
Julie nodded.
Thank Christ, Wells thought.
'We've got to hurry,' he said anxiously.
4.57 P.M.
There were beads of perspiration on Doyle's forehead as he pushed open the door of Detective Inspector Calloway's office.
He looked at the DI then at Detective Sergeant Mason who was standing staring at the phone, as if his persistent gaze would cause it to ring. Or perhaps prevent it.
Doyle ran a hand through his hair, brushing sweat with it.
'Have you set up the link to the car in Newham?' Doyle wanted to know.
'We're having problems with it,' Calloway said, his face pale. 'The girl will be able to hear Neville but he won't be able to hear her.'
'Oh, fucking great.'
'We tried, Doyle,' Calloway snapped angrily. 'We're still trying.'
'Well try harder,' Doyle rasped.
Mason looked at the counter terrorist, who was pulling a cigarette from the packet.
'What else can we do?' the DS barked. 'You couldn't find Neville, could you? The fucking expert.'
'Shut it, fatso,' Doyle said, lighting his cigarette. 'You couldn't find your oversized arse with two hands and a fucking map.'
Mason took a step towards Doyle who merely glared at him and blew a stream of smoke across the office.
The phone on Calloway's desk rang.
The three men looked at each other, the room silent but for the high-pitched signal.
Two rings.
Calloway looked at the phone.
Three rings.
Doyle sucked hard on his cigarette.
The DI picked up the receiver.
Doyle moved closer to the desk, his eyes never leaving the policeman's face. He saw him frown.
'Not this one,' Calloway said. 'I said to keep this line clear.'
He slammed down the receiver.
'Jesus Christ,' hissed the DI. 'Someone put an internal call through here.'
Doyle shook his head.
Mason checked his watch.
'What about the link?' Doyle asked.
'They can't have managed it,' Calloway told him. 'We would have been notified.'
'Then we're fucked. If Neville finds out we haven't got his kid, that's it. That's all, folks.' He made a fist of his right hand then flicked his fingers upwards. 'Bang.'
The phone rang again.
Calloway waited.
Two rings.
Three.
He picked it up. 'Detective Inspector Calloway.'
Both Mason and Doyle saw him nod almost imperceptibly.
The DI reached forward and pressed a switch on the console beside the phone, replacing the receiver on its cradle.
Through the speaker-phone they could hear Robert Neville's voice echoing around the office.
'It's time,' he said. 'I want to speak to my daughter.'
'We know, we got your note,' Calloway told him.
Neville chuckled. 'I was going to deliver it personally but I decided against it,' he said jovially.
'Gutless bastard,' Doyle called.
'Hello, Doyle,' said Neville. 'I thought you'd still be there.'
'I'm here until the end, Neville,' the counter terrorist told him. 'Your end.'
'Don't hold your breath,' Neville retorted. 'Now let me speak to Lisa.'
Calloway gripped the receiver more tightly.
'I want your assurance that you won't let off any more bombs-' the DI began, but Neville cut him short.
'You're in no position to make fucking deals. Put her on. Now!'
Silence.
'Don't fuck me around,' Neville continued, his voice growing in volume. 'Let me speak to her now.'
'Neville, I-'
'I warned you what would happen. How many more lives do you want on your conscience?'
The phone went dead.
5.03 P.M.
The plane was going down.
Flames were pouring from its tail and one wing, smoke trailing behind it.
Paul Mortimer raked it with machine-gun fire once more and grinned as the stricken craft finally hit the ground, exploding in a great yellow fireball.
GAME OVER flashed up on the screen and he chuckled to himself as his score appeared on the top right-hand corner of the screen.
On either side of him similar sounds joined together to form one discordant cacophony.
The punches and kicks from the combat games, the explosions emanating from the shoot-em-up's. And through it all, the shouts and joyful exclamations of those playing the games.
The bank of arcade games was on the first floor of the Trocadero complex between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus. The building itself housed shops, the Guinness Book of Records exhibition, places to eat and a twelve-screen cinema.
It was towards the main entrance that Mortimer briefly glanced.
Penny was in there now with their two children, wedged in with the masses of others who had flocked to see the newest Batman film on its first day of release. The queues had been massive. Paul had bought the tickets himself a week earlier as a birthday treat for Jake, their elder child.
Mortimer had wanted to see the film himself but, as ever, something had come up at the last minute and he'd been forced to pack his wife and the children off together, arranging to meet them outside when the performance ended.
When the work was there he had to take it.
He'd run his own photographic business for the last eighteen months and things were going well. Better than even he'd dared to hope. It had been a tough decision to take in the first place, striking out alone. The photographic firm he'd worked for since leaving college eight years earlier had provided steady and well-paid work, but Mortimer had wanted to escape the shackles of being an employee.
Besides, he felt his talents could be better used in fields other than taking pictures for the Next and Top Man catalogues.
Mind you, the work had been pleasant, he had to admit that and, while shooting part of the lingerie section for a Freemans catalogue, he'd met Penny.
The attraction had been instant.
They'd married seven months later. Two years on she was pregnant with Jake.