'Don't be fucking ridiculous,' Doyle snarled. 'I can't make that in five minutes.'
'I've told you before, watch your language in front of my little girl,' Neville rebuked. 'Bedford Square, five minutes or more people die.'
'You bastard, I'll-'
'Doyle, if you're worried about getting there on time, do you want some advice? Try running.'
Neville hung up.
Doyle looked around, as if hoping to find some kind of divine inspiration in the crowds thronging the pavement or the vehicles clogging the road.
What to do?
On his own he might be able to make the run to Bedford Square in time.
Maybe.
With the kid as company he didn't have a chance.
They could take the tube to Tottenham Court Road then run like hell the last few hundred yards, but if the train was delayed he was fucked.
Taxi?
Forget it. The traffic was bumper to bumper. It would take longer by road than any other alternative.
Come on, think.
He glanced to his right and left.
'Where are we going?' Lisa asked.
Come on, time's running out.
The little girl was pulling at the bottom of his jacket now. 'I want to see my dad.'
Doyle pulled away from her.
Jesus Christ. There it was. Fifty yards from him.
Salvation.
The Kawasaki KR-1S had stopped at the traffic lights in Oxford Circus, its engine idling, its rider adjusting the strap on his helmet.
'Don't move,' Doyle said, dropping to one knee so that his face was directly in front of Lisa. 'Promise me you won't move.'
She nodded.
He leaped to his feet and sprinted off down the street, bumping into people, knocking them aside in his desperation to reach the bike.
The lights were still on red.
Doyle reached the railings at the end of the pavement and hurdled them, ignoring the curious looks from passers-by.
He ran across to the motor-cyclist and gripped his arm.
The man pulled away irritably.
'I need your bike,' Doyle said breathlessly.
'Fuck off,' the rider said, eyeing Doyle as if he were some kind of lunatic. He revved the engine, as if to force Doyle away.
Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta. He pressed the barrel to the rider's head.
'Get off the fucking bike now,' he snarled.
The rider did as he was told.
No argument. No hesitation.
Doyle holstered the weapon, swung his leg over the seat of the Kawasaki and twisted the handlebars, guiding the bike up onto the pavement.
The roar of the engine mingled with the screams of pedestrians as they scattered, anxious to escape this maniac who was roaring along the'walkway on such a powerful machine.
He hit the brakes as he reached Lisa who was still standing obediently by the phone box.
He shot out a hand to her.
'Get on,' he said.
Lisa looked at the bike with a combination of fascination and fear.
'Now you hold on to my belt as tightly as you can and don't let go, right?' he instructed, almost lifting her up on to the pillion with one hand.
He worked the throttle then rode on down the pavement, finally swinging the bike on to the road.
He reached behind him and gently touched Lisa's back in an attempt to reassure her and also to prevent her from toppling off the bike, which was now speeding up Oxford Street, cutting alongside the gridlocked traffic.
He gunned the throttle once more, wondering, even now, if there would be time.
6.19 P.M.
Calloway put down the phone, waited a second then pressed the receiver to his ear and pressed 'Redial'.
Julie Neville watched anxiously as the DI waited for an answer, fingers drumming slowly on the desktop.
'No answer,' he said quietly.
'What the hell is Doyle playing at?' Mason snapped.
'It's ringing. He's just not answering it,' the DI elaborated.
Julie got to her feet.
'Can't you find out where he is?' she demanded.
'Not unless he contacts us,' Calloway said.
'What if Bob's already killed him, taken my daughter?' she said, panic in her voice.
'Doyle knows what he's doing,' the DI said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
The mobile continued to ring.
Doyle heard the phone.
Or at least he was aware of it, jammed into the back pocket of his jeans. The roar of the Kawasaki's engine relegated it to little more than a burble on the periphery of his hearing.
They were heading up Tottenham Court Road now.
Minutes away.
He glanced down at his watch.
The lights ahead were on red.
He pulled up alongside a Range Rover, the driver glancing at him then at Lisa, still perched precariously on the back of the powerful machine, her hands laced into Doyle's belt.
'Are you all right?' Doyle asked her, glancing back over his shoulder.
She could only nod, her face drained of colour.
The lights changed to green and Doyle sped off, swinging right into Bayley Street and then again into Bedford Square, easing off the throttle, eyes scanning the square for the phones Neville had spoken of.
There was a large, white building directly opposite him, much of its frontage formed from tinted glass. It also bore a huge clock.
Doyle looked up at the hands crawling round.
The phones were in front of this building.
He sped across the cobbled square, narrowly avoiding two men who were crossing in front of him.
One of them shouted something which he didn't catch.
Doyle hit the brakes, bringing one foot down to further slow the Kawasaki.
A woman in her early twenties was emerging from the glass-fronted building, a man a little older beside her.
