Lisa paused halfway up, stopping to look at a man who was sitting cross-legged and shoeless on the steps.
His hair was long, so dirty it looked as if it was matted into dreadlocks. He wore a filthy grey overcoat which was open, revealing a body just weeks away from almost complete emaciation.
A dirty jumper was lying in front of him, folded to form a kind of hollow at its centre. In that hole lay a few coins.
'Come on,' Doyle said, seeing Lisa staring at the tramp as if hypnotised.
He smiled at her, his teeth whiter than they should have been for one so dirty.
She remained gazing at the man.
'Lisa, for Christ's sake, come on,' Doyle snapped, ignoring the disapproving glance of a woman who passed him on the stairs.
Finally Lisa dug one tiny hand into the pocket of her jeans and produced two coins.
Doyle watched as she dropped them on to the reeking jumper.
Lisa bounded up the steps and joined him, slipping her hand into his. Together they emerged into Oxford Street.
Top Shop was directly opposite.
Doyle could see the phone box.
He urged Lisa to the roadside, waited for a gap in the traffic, then swept her up into his arms once more and darted across.
She giggled as he put her down, trying to grip his hand again but Doyle pulled away, moving towards the phone box.
There was a woman standing close to it, pulling a phone card from her purse.
The phone began to ring.
6.15 P.M.
Doyle stepped in front of the woman who shot him an angry glance.
'Excuse me,' she said, reproachfully, standing and watching as he snatched up the receiver.
'Doyle,' he said.
Silence at the other end.
'Neville, can you hear me?'
'I can hear you.' Neville's voice came down the line. 'Well done. I want to speak to Lisa.'
'I was here first, you know,' the woman continued from behind Doyle.
Still he ignored her, instead pulling Lisa to him, handing her the receiver.
'Hello, sweetheart,' Neville said to her, his tone lightening.
'Dad, I just saw this man and he had no money,' Lisa babbled. 'So I gave him some of my pocket money.'
'You're a good girl.'
'I said, "I was here first",' the woman persisted, tapping Doyle on the shoulder.
He turned and looked her squarely in the eye, the ferocity of his stare causing her to take a step back.
'I think he was hungry, Dad,' Lisa continued. 'Perhaps he can get something to eat now.'
'Good girl. Let me speak to the man with you again,' Neville instructed, waiting while Lisa handed the receiver back to Doyle.
'You make sure you keep her safe, Doyle,' the expara warned.
'She's fine. Now get on with it.'
'Bedford Square, just off Tottenham Court Road.'
Neville instructed. 'There're public phones on the eastern side. Five minutes.'
'Don't be fucking ridiculous,' Doyle snarled. 'I can't make that in five minutes.'
'I've told you before, watch your language in front of my little girl,' Neville rebuked. 'Bedford Square, five minutes or more people die.'
'You bastard, I'll-'
'Doyle, if you're worried about getting there on time, do you want some advice? Try running.'
Neville hung up.
Doyle looked around, as if hoping to find some kind of divine inspiration in the crowds thronging the pavement or the vehicles clogging the road.
What to do?
On his own he might be able to make the run to Bedford Square in time.
Maybe.
With the kid as company he didn't have a chance.
They could take the tube to Tottenham Court Road then run like hell the last few hundred yards, but if the train was delayed he was fucked.
Taxi?
Forget it. The traffic was bumper to bumper. It would take longer by road than any other alternative.
Come on, think.
He glanced to his right and left.
'Where are we going?' Lisa asked.
Come on, time's running out.
The little girl was pulling at the bottom of his jacket now. 'I want to see my dad.'
Doyle pulled away from her.
Jesus Christ. There it was. Fifty yards from him.
Salvation.
The Kawasaki KR-1S had stopped at the traffic lights in Oxford Circus, its engine idling, its rider adjusting the strap on his helmet.
'Don't move,' Doyle said, dropping to one knee so that his face was directly in front of Lisa. 'Promise me you won't move.'
She nodded.
He leaped to his feet and sprinted off down the street, bumping into people, knocking them aside in his desperation to reach the bike.
The lights were still on red.
Doyle reached the railings at the end of the pavement and hurdled them, ignoring the curious looks from passers-by.
He ran across to the motor-cyclist and gripped his arm.
The man pulled away irritably.
'I need your bike,' Doyle said breathlessly.
'Fuck off,' the rider said, eyeing Doyle as if he were some kind of lunatic. He revved the engine, as if to force Doyle away.
Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta. He pressed the barrel to the rider's head.
'Get off the fucking bike now,' he snarled.
The rider did as he was told.
No argument. No hesitation.
Doyle holstered the weapon, swung his leg over the seat of the Kawasaki and twisted the handlebars, guiding the bike up onto the pavement.
The roar of the engine mingled with the screams of pedestrians as they scattered, anxious to escape this maniac who was roaring along the'walkway on such a powerful machine.
He hit the brakes as he reached Lisa who was still standing obediently by the phone box.
He shot out a hand to her.
'Get on,' he said.
Lisa looked at the bike with a combination of fascination and fear.
'Now you hold on to my belt as tightly as you can and don't let go, right?' he instructed, almost lifting her up on to the pillion with one hand.
He worked the throttle then rode on down the pavement, finally swinging the bike on to the road.
He reached behind him and gently touched Lisa's back in an attempt to reassure her and also to prevent her from toppling off the bike, which was now speeding up Oxford Street, cutting alongside the gridlocked traffic.
He gunned the throttle once more, wondering, even now, if there would be time.
6.19 P.M.
Calloway put down the phone, waited a second then pressed the receiver to his ear and pressed 'Redial'.
Julie Neville watched anxiously as the DI waited for an answer, fingers drumming slowly on the desktop.
'No answer,' he said quietly.
'What the hell is Doyle playing at?' Mason snapped.
'It's ringing. He's just not answering it,' the DI elaborated.
Julie got to her feet.
'Can't you find out where he is?' she demanded.
'Not unless he contacts us,' Calloway said.
'What if Bob's already killed him, taken my daughter?' she said, panic in her voice.
'Doyle knows what he's doing,' the DI said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
The mobile continued to ring.
Doyle heard the phone.
Or at least he was aware of it, jammed into the back pocket of his jeans. The roar of the Kawasaki's engine relegated it to little more than a burble on the periphery of his hearing.
They were heading up Tottenham Court Road now.
Minutes away.
He glanced down at his watch.
The lights ahead were on red.
He pulled up alongside a Range Rover, the driver glancing at him then at Lisa, still perched precariously on the back of the powerful machine, her hands laced into Doyle's belt.