He looked into her wide, questioning eyes.
Christ, they were so blue. So perfectly, flawlessly blue. Like sapphires lit from behind.
'What else did your mum say about him?'
'She didn't talk much about him. I sometimes heard them shouting when he came home. I used to listen at the top of the stairs. They thought I was asleep but I used to creep out of my room and listen to them.'
'What happened when your dad came home this time?'
'Mum was surprised to see him.'
'Yeah, I bet she was.'
'They argued a lot this time.'
'Did your dad ever hurt her?'
'No. He wouldn't do that.'
'Did he ever hurt you?'
'He loves me. He always tells me that. He wouldn't hurt me.'
Doyle slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta, keeping it low, away from any prying gazes he might attract from the other passengers. The metal gleamed dully beneath the fluorescents inside the carriage.
'Do you know what that is, Lisa?' he asked her.
'It's a gun.'
'Have you ever seen your dad with one?'
She nodded.
'He pointed one at my mum once,' she said, swallowing hard. 'I think they were playing because my dad was laughing.'
'What about your mum?'
'She just told me to go to my room. They didn't shout at each other that night.'
Doyle holstered the automatic, noticing that his movements had attracted the attention of a man sitting a few seats away.
Doyle glared at him and the man returned to reading his newspaper.
'When will I see my dad?' Lisa asked.
'Soon,' Doyle reassured her.
'And what will happen then?'
I'll kill him.
'I want my mum and dad to be together again. I don't like it when they shout at each other. I miss my dad.'
Again Doyle found himself looking into those blue eyes. Eyes that were now moist at the corners. She sniffed back a tear.
'Are you married?'
Doyle smiled.
'No,' he told her.
'Do you love anybody?'
He closed his eyes briefly.
She was there in his memory.
Georgie.
He could see her laughing. Such an infectious laugh.
The memories were still so strong. He saw her sitting opposite him in a restaurant, long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her gloriously slim body hugged by the tight, short black dress she wore.
Perfection.
He gritted his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.
'Do you love anybody?'
He looked down at Lisa.
'No,' he said. 'I don't love anybody.'
He tried to force the image to the back of his mind but it clung stubbornly.
The train was leaving the station.
Liverpool Street was the next stop.
Doyle checked his watch.
6.48 P.M.
'He won't hurt her, Julie, calm down,' Kenneth Baxter said, rising from his seat and attempting to slide one arm around Julie Neville's waist.
She shook loose angrily.
'How do you know that?'
'I know Bob.'
She laughed humourlessly.
'Do you, Ken? Do you know him? Does Doyle? I'm not even sure I do. I don't think anyone knows what's going on inside his mind. He's unpredictable. He's dangerous. I think he's insane.'
'He's not going to hurt his own daughter, is he?' Baxter argued.
Julie looked at him.
But she's not his daughter. She's your daughter.
She let out a weary breath.
Should she tell him the truth, let him know that his own flesh and blood was in danger?
She reached for the packet of Superkings on the table and lit one, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
'When the hell are they going to release us?' Baxter looked around at the bare walls of the room inside New Scotland Yard.
'They said we can leave when we want to, we're not under arrest,' she reminded him. 'Why? Are you getting nervous, Ken?'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'
'The weapons that Bob's using, he got them from you, didn't he? And the explosives?'
'You're starting to sound like one of those coppers,' he snapped. 'Don't you trust me either?'
'I don't know who to trust any more.' She looked at him pleadingly. 'Just tell me the truth. Did Bob get those weapons from you?'
'Yes,' said Baxter, unfalteringly. 'He came to me nearly two years ago, he knew I was selling to both sides. He knew I had access to the Quartermaster's stores, he knew I could get what he wanted.'
'But why did he want it?'
Baxter could only shrug.
'At the time I didn't know. I didn't care either,' he said, flatly. 'He was a friend. He asked me to do something for him, I did it. That's how friendship works, isn't it?'
'If he'd known about you and me he'd have killed us both.'
'But he didn't know, did he? Why, what's wrong? Is your conscience pricking you after eight years?'
She fixed him with an angry stare.
'Did he get the explosive from you too?'
Baxter nodded.
'He contacted me about that a lot later,' he told her. 'After I'd left the army. I still had the contacts though, on both sides.'
'And you didn't ask him why he wanted that either?'
'It wasn't my business.'
'He's killing people with those explosives, Ken. Isn't that your business either?'
'Don't preach to me, Julie. It's a bit late for lectures. Anyway, what do you care? Once Doyle finds him he'll kill him and it'll all be over. We won't have to hide any more.' He slipped his arm around her shoulders, feeling her pull away but less vehemently this time. When he looked into her eyes he saw tears there.
'Isn't that what you want?' he asked softly. 'For us to be together?'
'I want Lisa back safely. That's all I want.'
Baxter took his arm away and stepped back from her.
'I don't want to lose her, Ken,' Julie said softly. 'I can't.'
As she stood before him, Baxter watched as a single tear trickled down her cheek.
She didn't bother to wipe it away.
6.58 P.M.
'I didn't make a mistake,' said PC Nigel Butler, forced to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din of the helicopter's rotors. 'I heard the message clearly from DS Mason.'
Butler shifted in his seat, both hands gripping the HK81 rifle.
His palms felt sweaty against the wood and steel of the weapon. Not just because the evening was fairly humid but because he was nervous.
He hated flying at the best of times. A plane was bad enough but the helicopter was even worse.
When it had taken off that afternoon, with the minimum of forward movement then straight up into the air, he'd struggled to retain control over his stomach and ever since they'd been in the air he'd felt queasy.
The Lynx was cruising at about one thousand feet and Butler was seated where the co-pilot would normally have sat. Unfortunately for him, he had an excellent view through the large windscreen of the chopper and also, when he inadvertently looked down, through the glazed nose panel.
Beside him, the pilot, Jim McBride, guided the helicopter skilfully through the air, occasionally taking it lower. So low, it seemed to Butler, that they were destined to crash into some of the capital's taller structures, but the big Scot flying the Lynx merely smiled as he saw the expression of panic periodically flash across the policeman's face.
Behind Butler, also armed with an HK81, Duncan Clark glanced into the cockpit, eyes roving over the banks of instruments which McBride dealt with almost nonchalantly. Lights flashed on and off and, throughout the flight, the muted sounds of voices floated back to him as McBride received instructions via his headset.
Above it all, the constant roar of the huge rotor blades dominated everything as they cut through the sky.