'There's somebody I need to talk to.'
'What about Neville?' the DI continued.
'He can't have gone far.'
Doyle slid behind the wheel of his car and started the engine.
Calloway watched as the Datsun pulled away.
10.29 A.M.
The cat had obviously been dead for a number of weeks.
The stench it gave off was almost palpable.
Neville wondered how it had managed to get inside the lock-up in the first place. The building had always been secure.
It had needed to be.
The two large wooden doors at the front of the building had been held firmly shut by a series of locks and a rusting chain he'd used to manacle the handles. There was a window in each door, but the glass was so caked in dirt it was practically opaque.
Inside, the walls were bare brick, dark with mildew in several places which looked like mouldering cankers on the stonework.
Neville was certain he hadn't been followed.
Positive he hadn't been seen abandoning the car, or entering the lock-up.
He'd heard the explosion when he'd detonated the bomb.
Hard to miss it, he mused.
They'd come looking for him now and that was what he wanted.
The police would come.
Doyle would come.
I'll bury the fucking lot of you.
In one corner of the lock-up, boxes were stacked high. He'd put them there himself the last time he'd been here about a month earlier.
No one had seen him come or go then and if they had, there would have been nothing unusual to alert them.
Neville crossed to the boxes and began pulling them away, dismantling the makeshift rampart with gleeful speed.
As each discarded box hit the floor it sent up fresh clouds of dust, motes twisting lazily in the rancid air.
The object hidden behind the boxes was covered by a tarpaulin.
Taking hold of one corner, Neville tugged hard on the canvas.
More dust billowed upwards but Neville merely smiled.
The Harley Davidson's sleek bodywork gleamed, even inside the dismal confines of the lock-up.
Neville placed one hand reverentially on the petrol tank, feeling the cold metal against his palm.
The FLTC Tour Glide was dark blue, the chrome exhaust pipes even more striking against the bodywork. The entire machine, capable of over a hundred miles an hour and weighing just under a ton, seemed to give off an aura of power and Neville looked at it admiringly for a second longer before flipping open the top box.
From inside he pulled out a pair of thick leather trousers, which he hastily slid over his jeans before fastening himself into the matching jacket.
The folds of the jacket easily hid the. 459 automatic which he wore beneath one arm and the. 357 revolver strapped to his right side in another shoulder holster.
The Steyr he slid into the top box.
The leather creaked loudly inside the stillness of the deserted building as Neville moved about, finally lifting the black helmet into view.
It glistened like a black skull.
With it wedged firmly on to his head, only his eyes were visible through the visor.
Neville swung his leg over the Harley, settled himself on-to the seat and flicked the ignition switch.
The four-stroke V-twin l340cc engine roared into life, the sound reverberating inside the lock-up.
He twisted the throttle, exhaust fumes spewing from the tail pipes, the roar building steadily.
Five thousand rpm.
Like a fucking dream.
Beneath the helmet, Neville was laughing.
10.47 A.M.
Doyle thought about knocking but finally he just eased the handle down and peered around the door.
At first Julie Neville didn't see him and Doyle stood looking at her while she sat by the small bed pushed up against one wall.
She was gently stroking her daughter's forehead, gazing at her as she slept.
The room was tiny. Apart from the bed, it contained only a small wooden cabinet, a couple of plastic chairs and a small table. A cold cup of tea was perched on the table top.
Doyle glanced around the room, taking in the posters warning of meningitis, AIDS and smoking.
Leamington Park Hospital. Even in this side room he could smell that all too familiar antiseptic smell he associated so strongly with these places of healing.
He hated that smell.
Christ alone knew it was familiar enough.
Doyle had seen the inside of enough hospitals in his time.
A couple of them he'd thought he'd never leave.
He looked at Julie again.
She ran a hand through her long blonde hair and turned slightly, as if suddenly aware of his presence.
She nodded towards her sleeping daughter and pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that Doyle should remain silent.
'We need to talk,' he said softly, motioning towards the corridor beyond.
Julie got to her feet, took one more look at Lisa, then followed him out.
'Is she OK?' the counter terrorist asked as Julie closed the door behind her.
'They gave her something to help her sleep.'
'And what about you? How do you feel?'
She smiled thinly. 'Well, considering my husband tried to blow me up, demolished my house with explosives and nearly killed half a dozen coppers too, I'm fine.'
Doyle fixed her in his gaze.
She was pretty.
Like Georgie?
He offered her a cigarette.
'You're not supposed to smoke in here,' she told him, glancing around as if afraid someone would see them.
Doyle held the packet of Marlboros steady and she finally took one.
He jammed one between his lips then lit both with his lighter.
Julie took a long drag. 'I needed that,' she said, smiling.
It was her turn to run appraising eyes over him. The cowboy boots, the worn leather jacket. The long hair.
He needed a shave, she mused.
