He helped her down the last two stairs, eyes scanning the concourse for the phones.
To his left.
He strode towards them, Lisa in tow.
Two phones. One was out of order.
Doyle leaned against the working one and pulled cigarettes from his jacket, jamming one between his lips but not lighting it.
'You'll get a cough,' said Lisa, looking up at him.
Doyle looked puzzled.
'If you smoke, you get a cough,' she continued. 'They told us that at school. I told Mum she should give up.'
'Did your teacher tell you that smoking was bad for you?'
Lisa nodded.
'Well, you tell your teacher from me that non-smokers die every day.' He smiled crookedly.
The phone rang.
Doyle snatched it up and pressed the receiver to his ear.
'Yeah,' he said.
'Doyle?'
'You know bloody well it is.'
'Is Lisa with you?' Neville demanded.
'Yes.'
'Let me speak to her.'
'This wasn't part of the plan.'
'Who's making the fucking rules, Doyle? Let me speak to her,' Neville barked.
Doyle pushed the phone towards the child, who had trouble reaching it because the cord was so short.
Doyle lifted her up.
'Is that my princess?' Neville said.
'Dad. Where are you?' Lisa said excitedly.
'I'm waiting for you,' he told her. 'Let me speak to the man who's with you and we'll talk later.'
She handed the phone to Doyle, who put her down once more.
'Satisfied?' Doyle snapped into the phone.
'Listen to me. The next stop is Oxford Circus, there's a phone box outside Top Shop. It should take twenty minutes by tube. It means your friends won't be able to hear you while you're in the tunnels though.'
'What the fuck are you talking about?' Doyle hissed.
'Watch your language in front of my daughter, Doyle,' Neville said reproachfully. 'I know you're in contact with the police, I wouldn't have expected anything else. I thought you might wear a wire but that's a bit primitive, isn't it? What have you got? A mobile?'
Doyle exhaled deeply. 'Yeah, full marks, Sherlock.'
'Well, just make sure they don't get over-eager. Like I said, if I see a copper, Bang! Now move it, you've got twenty minutes to get to the next phone box.'
5.57 P.M.
The train from St James's to Victoria had been crowded. The walkways and platform leading to the Victoria line had been busy too, but the train which was now heading towards Oxford Circus was so jam-packed with people Doyle found it hard to breathe.
Beside him, Lisa clung to his belt, fascinated it seemed by the large man who was seated opposite her, his bald head gleaming beneath the lights inside the tube.
He was wearing a dark suit and he was clearly hot. Beads of perspiration were forming on his hairless pate and Lisa watched as one droplet edged its way slowly past his temple and began a slow journey down his cheek towards his jaw.
As the train slid to a halt, Doyle turned, trying to duck slightly to read the station name on the plate on the tunnel wall. Green Park.
One more stop.
No one moved as the doors opened.
No one got off.
Instead, the crush inside the train became even more uncomfortable as those at Green Park pushed and shoved their way into the already tightly packed mass inside the carriage.
Lisa was nearly knocked off her feet by a tall man in faded black jeans and a T-shirt. He seemed not to notice her and she moved closer to Doyle, who was gripping one of the overhead bars as tightly as he could.
The man in the black jeans was wearing a Walkman and the irritating rattle of the music he was listening to seemed to fill the carriage.
Behind Doyle stood a woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was impossibly immobile, as if the coiffure had been moulded then welded to her head. She was wearing trousers and a pair of trainers which looked dazzlingly white. She was holding a number of shopping bags, one of which was digging uncomfortably into Doyle's back.
He looked irritably at her, gazing into her eyes through her glasses.
She stared back for a moment then turned to the man standing with her.
He was wearing a baseball cap with nike emblazoned across the front, wisps of white hair poking out from either side.
'Are you OK, honey?' he said, in a loud accented voice, which attracted a number of stares from other passengers.
Fucking Yanks, Doyle thought.
The doors slid shut and the train moved off.
The carriage smelled of perspiration and perfume. Conflicting odours. There was a hint of garlic in the musty air too. Doyle looked around at his fellow passengers as if seeking the culprit.
Further down the carriage a young woman wearing leggings and a polo-neck sweater was sweeping a hand through her long auburn hair, trying to readjust her position as the train moved away. Doyle studied her face briefly then found his gaze straying to her breasts. Beneath the sweater they were unfettered by a bra. He could see the outline of her nipples pushing against the material.
Typical. I'm wedged up against some fat Yank and a bastard who smells of garlic. Why not her?
He held the woman in his gaze for a few seconds longer. The train lurched to one side and Lisa gripped more tightly to Doyle to prevent herself overbalancing. Not that she would have fallen anyway, the other travellers were too tightly wedged in the carriage to allow her to overbalance.
Christ, he hated crowds. Hated being so close to other people.
He rarely travelled by tube and, if he did, he tried to make sure it was after rush-hour.
Not like now. Right in the middle of it.
Doyle glanced at his watch.
The train slowed down.
Approaching the station.
It stopped in the tunnel.
What the fuck was going on?
There were a number of groans from inside the carriage.
The American woman with the shopping bags dug him in the back once more and this time Doyle spun round and glared at her.
'Why have we stopped?' Lisa asked.
Doyle didn't answer.
'Why have we stopped?' she persisted.
'I don't know,' he snapped back, the vehemence of his reply causing a number of people to look in his
