Many lay still, some hideously wounded.
The store was filled with the stench of smoke, the reeking odour of burning plastic and the more pungent smell of scorched flesh.
Music was still playing.
Death had a tune.
12.38 P.M.
Doyle sipped his tea and looked around the mobile operations unit.
It was like an office on wheels. A massive white vehicle which resembled a motor-home, painted in police colours and equipped with everything from a fax machine to five phone lines. There was even a portable television hooked up to a VCR in one comer of the unit.
All the comforts of home.
A small desk had been placed at one end of the vehicle and it was behind this desk that DI Vic Calloway sat, ear pressed to a phone receiver, tracing patterns with a Biro as he talked.
Doyle got to his feet, lit up a cigarette and stood watching the policeman.
Calloway slammed down the phone.
'Jesus Christ,' he hissed through clenched teeth.
'How many?' Doyle asked.
'Fourteen dead, God knows how many injured.'
Doyle spat out a piece of tobacco.
'The media think it's terrorists,' the policeman continued.
Just like Neville wants them to think.
'There's a press conference in two hours back at the Yard,' Calloway added wearily.
'And two more bombs before it,' Doyle reminded him.
'Why tell us it was here?' snapped Calloway.
'He didn't tell us, I guessed. Looks like I was wrong, doesn't it?'
Calloway looked impassively at the counter terrorist.
'It's part of the game,' Doyle said.
'I'm sick of you calling it a fucking game. Fourteen people are dead because of Neville. This is no game, Doyle.'
'What are you going to tell the media?'
Calloway shook his head slowly.
'Who will you blame the bomb on?' Doyle persisted.
'We can put out a story it was a gas leak or something, buy some time.'
'A fucking gas leak? They might swallow that for the first explosion, but what about two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight? And forget about buying time, Calloway. You haven't got any time to buy. In less than an hour number two goes off. What excuse are you going to use then?'
Calloway had no answer. 'I might find this bloody maniac quicker if you gave me some help, Doyle,' the DI snapped. 'You know more than you're letting on.'
'Neville's my responsibility.'
'Bullshit!' shouted the policeman. 'Now you tell me what you know.'
'What are you going to do if I don't? Arrest me for obstruction?'
'I might just do that.'
'Arrest me and you'll never find Neville. I'm your only chance.'
'Then work with me, for Christ's sake.' There was desperation in Calloway's voice.
Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette then dropped it to the floor and stepped on the smouldering butt.
'Neville was in the army with a geezer called Kenneth Baxter,' he began. 'They were close, according to Neville's missus. Well, as close as he got to anyone. I checked up on Baxter with Army Intelligence, they gave me some details.'
Doyle explained briefly.
'And you think Baxter's involved?' Calloway said finally.
Doyle shook his head. 'I just want to talk to him,' he said. 'Find out what he knows about Neville.'
'What makes you think he'll tell you?'
'Why shouldn't he? He's got nothing to hide. Besides, I can be very persuasive.' The counter terrorist smiled thinly.
'Where's this firm he works for?'
'Cavendish Square.' Doyle looked at his watch. 'I can be there in half an hour.'
'How do I know you'll tell me what he said?'
'You don't. You'll have to trust me.'
Calloway eyed Doyle warily.
'If he knows anything, Doyle, I want to know,' the DI said, pointing a warning finger at the counter terrorist.
'Are Neville's wife and kid still at the hospital?'
'No. I had them moved to a safe house in Lambeth, until this is all over.'
'I'll need to talk to her again too. Let me have the address.'
'Don't you think she's been through enough?'
'She'll go through a bloody sight more if we can't find Neville quick and, at the moment, there's about as much chance of finding him as there is of Salman Rushdie turning up at a fucking Moslem wedding. Give me that address.'
Calloway scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Doyle, who folded it up and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans without even looking at it.
He headed for the door.
'If you need me you know where to contact me,' Calloway said.
'What about the bomb in Piccadilly?'
'The bomb squad is sorting through the wreckage now. As soon as they've got something they'll call. I'll let you know.'
Doyle looked at his watch. 'Let's hope they're quick,' he said wryly
Calloway nodded slowly.
The door closed behind Doyle.
Calloway glanced at his watch.
They had just over fifty minutes before the next bomb went off.
12.49 P.M.
The multi-storey car park in Fetter Lane stunk of oil and petrol but Neville ignored the cloying odour.
As he pulled off the helmet he felt the perspiration running down both sides of his face, stinging his eyes as it dripped from his brows. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a mile in the heat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Sweat soaked into the material of his jeans around the crooks of his knees. But those damp patches would dry quickly, he thought, as he pulled off the heavy-duty motorcycle trousers, balling them up, stuffing them beneath the Volvo he was parked next to.
He knelt quickly and refastened one of his caterpillar boots, tying the lace tightly then stamping his foot on the stained concrete floor.
He seemed to be the only occupant.
