'And what the hell would you do?'
'Wait until the bastard shows up then let those fucking snipers loose on him.'
'And if they kill him, what about the other bombs?'
'If he's dead he can't detonate them, can he?'
Calloway shook his head.
'It's Doyle's call this time,' he said quietly. 'This time.'
3.37 P.M.
She had to get away.
Julie knew that she had to get out of London. Away from her husband, away from the police. Away from the memories.
Could you run from memories?
She picked up a french fry and dipped it into a puddle of tomato sauce, nibbling on the end, watching as Lisa pushed another piece of hamburger into her mouth.
She reached out a hand and smoothed down the little girl's hair.
She had to get Lisa away.
Julie sat back in her seat and took a sip of her milkshake.
All the memories weren't bad, she thought. Not everything she was running from was so terrible.
And what are you running to?
A better life?
She smiled bitterly to herself.
Her life with Neville hadn't always been so intolerable. Most of the time he'd been away. The army.
The army always came first for him. Even after Lisa was born.
But in the beginning it had been different. She had loved him. She was sure she had. She'd felt a depth of feeling but never been certain that it was the all-embracing, enveloping sensation of true love.
She'd told him she loved him. Usually in times of passion and, at the beginning, there'd been plenty of those too but, as the years had worn on, the words had begun to sound more empty to her. Their meaning less valid.
So, why did you marry him in the first place?
Her father had died when she was twelve, her mother two years later. Julie had moved in with her elder sister who'd provided the roof over her head more from duty than philanthropy. It had been an uneventful adolescence for her, apart from what her sister had described as an avalanche of blokes.
Julie smiled to herself as she remembered the older girl's words.
It was true. There had been many boyfriends. Too many perhaps.
The boyfriends appeared and disappeared as quickly as her jobs in those days.
Barmaid. Shop assistant. Supermarket cashier.
Men and work in quick succession.
And what did she want out of it all?
Some security? Some love?
Some hope?
She'd been twenty-five when she met Neville.
There had been a fire inside him. And it had burned in his eyes. That was what she remembered most about meeting him for the first time. His eyes. So hypnotic, so piercing.
She'd looked into those eyes on that first night they'd shared his bed, she'd listened to him talk about the army, about his own background, which was not unlike hers. He too was without family.
He was a way out for her.
Her sister had welcomed Neville's arrival. The prospect of their marriage had been even more welcome.
A little over a year later they did the deed at a register office in Tower Hamlets. Two weeks later, her sister emigrated to Canada.
Julie had spoken to her twice during the intervening eight years.
When Lisa had been born, she hadn't even sent her a congratulations card.
Julie looked at her daughter who was prodding the piece of green gherkin she'd taken from her burger with a chip, as if it were some kind of loathsome fungus.
'Have you finished?'
Lisa nodded.
'We'd better go.'
'Where are we going, Mum?'
Julie wished she could tell her.
3.56 P.M.
Doyle took a drag on his cigarette and regarded the photo on Calloway's desk blankly.
The DI, his wife and two children.
He guessed the older one was in her teens.
Pretty kid.
Her finely chiselled features were obviously inherited from her mother, he mused, glancing at Calloway's grizzled visage.
If he and Georgie had had kids, what…
He tried to brush the thought from his mind. Forget it.
Tried to wipe her image from his memory.
Not a chance.
He put the photo back and glanced around the office at the other men.
Calloway was seated behind his desk studying a map of central London.
Mason stood behind him, looking down at the map, occasionally sipping from a cup of coffee.
Two other men, who had been introduced to Doyle as John Fenton and Peter Draper, members of the bomb squad, were seated across from him. Fenton kept glancing at his watch. A nervous gesture, Doyle decided.
Draper was chewing thoughtfully on a piece of gum.
'So,' said Doyle finally, gaze fixed on the policemen.
'So, what?' Calloway asked.
'Four hours until the big one goes off and we're no closer to finding Neville,' Doyle reminded them.
'Or his wife and kid,' Calloway said quietly.
'So why haven't you found him, Doyle?' Mason snapped. 'You're the fucking expert.'
Doyle ignored him. 'How many men have you got on the streets?'
'Two hundred,' Calloway answered. 'We've got mobile units patrolling, men walking the streets, we've even got three helicopters in use. And we still can't find him.'
Calloway got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office. 'I don't know what more we can do.'
'Give him what he wants,' Doyle said flatly.
'What guarantee have we got he won't detonate the rest of the bombs, even if we do give him what he wants?' Calloway said. 'Assuming of course that we had what he wants.'
'Just be grateful Neville doesn't know you haven't got the kid,' Doyle added.
'The policewoman who was injured during the escape seems to be improving,' Mason said. 'If you hadn't told Julie Neville we were going to use her child as a bargaining tool this would never have happened.'
'Fuck you,' Doyle said dismissively.
'Why aren't you out there looking for Neville?' Mason persisted. 'You claim to know how he thinks. Why can't
