He looked down at Lisa.
'No,' he said. 'I don't love anybody.'
He tried to force the image to the back of his mind but it clung stubbornly.
The train was leaving the station.
Liverpool Street was the next stop.
Doyle checked his watch.
6.48 P.M.
'He won't hurt her, Julie, calm down,' Kenneth Baxter said, rising from his seat and attempting to slide one arm around Julie Neville's waist.
She shook loose angrily.
'How do you know that?'
'I know Bob.'
She laughed humourlessly.
'Do you, Ken? Do you know him? Does Doyle? I'm not even sure I do. I don't think anyone knows what's going on inside his mind. He's unpredictable. He's dangerous. I think he's insane.'
'He's not going to hurt his own daughter, is he?' Baxter argued.
Julie looked at him.
But she's not his daughter. She's your daughter.
She let out a weary breath.
Should she tell him the truth, let him know that his own flesh and blood was in danger?
She reached for the packet of Superkings on the table and lit one, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
'When the hell are they going to release us?' Baxter looked around at the bare walls of the room inside New Scotland Yard.
'They said we can leave when we want to, we're not under arrest,' she reminded him. 'Why? Are you getting nervous, Ken?'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'
'The weapons that Bob's using, he got them from you, didn't he? And the explosives?'
'You're starting to sound like one of those coppers,' he snapped. 'Don't you trust me either?'
'I don't know who to trust any more.' She looked at him pleadingly. 'Just tell me the truth. Did Bob get those weapons from you?'
'Yes,' said Baxter, unfalteringly. 'He came to me nearly two years ago, he knew I was selling to both sides. He knew I had access to the Quartermaster's stores, he knew I could get what he wanted.'
'But why did he want it?'
Baxter could only shrug.
'At the time I didn't know. I didn't care either,' he said, flatly. 'He was a friend. He asked me to do something for him, I did it. That's how friendship works, isn't it?'
'If he'd known about you and me he'd have killed us both.'
'But he didn't know, did he? Why, what's wrong? Is your conscience pricking you after eight years?'
She fixed him with an angry stare.
'Did he get the explosive from you too?'
Baxter nodded.
'He contacted me about that a lot later,' he told her. 'After I'd left the army. I still had the contacts though, on both sides.'
'And you didn't ask him why he wanted that either?'
'It wasn't my business.'
'He's killing people with those explosives, Ken. Isn't that your business either?'
'Don't preach to me, Julie. It's a bit late for lectures. Anyway, what do you care? Once Doyle finds him he'll kill him and it'll all be over. We won't have to hide any more.' He slipped his arm around her shoulders, feeling her pull away but less vehemently this time. When he looked into her eyes he saw tears there.
'Isn't that what you want?' he asked softly. 'For us to be together?'
'I want Lisa back safely. That's all I want.'
Baxter took his arm away and stepped back from her.
'I don't want to lose her, Ken,' Julie said softly. 'I can't.'
As she stood before him, Baxter watched as a single tear trickled down her cheek.
She didn't bother to wipe it away.
6.58 P.M.
'I didn't make a mistake,' said PC Nigel Butler, forced to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din of the helicopter's rotors. 'I heard the message clearly from DS Mason.'
Butler shifted in his seat, both hands gripping the HK81 rifle.
His palms felt sweaty against the wood and steel of the weapon. Not just because the evening was fairly humid but because he was nervous.
He hated flying at the best of times. A plane was bad enough but the helicopter was even worse.
When it had taken off that afternoon, with the minimum of forward movement then straight up into the air, he'd struggled to retain control over his stomach and ever since they'd been in the air he'd felt queasy.
The Lynx was cruising at about one thousand feet and Butler was seated where the co-pilot would normally have sat. Unfortunately for him, he had an excellent view through the large windscreen of the chopper and also, when he inadvertently looked down, through the glazed nose panel.
Beside him, the pilot, Jim McBride, guided the helicopter skilfully through the air, occasionally taking it lower. So low, it seemed to Butler, that they were destined to crash into some of the capital's taller structures, but the big Scot flying the Lynx merely smiled as he saw the expression of panic periodically flash across the policeman's face.
Behind Butler, also armed with an HK81, Duncan Clark glanced into the cockpit, eyes roving over the banks of instruments which McBride dealt with almost nonchalantly. Lights flashed on and off and, throughout the flight, the muted sounds of voices floated back to him as McBride received instructions via his headset.
Above it all, the constant roar of the huge rotor blades dominated everything as they cut through the sky.
'How long before we reach Liverpool Street?' Clark shouted.
'Three or four minutes,' McBride told him.
'And you're sure you heard the order clearly?' Clark persisted, touching Butler's shoulders.
'Yes. When Doyle gets to Liverpool Street he'll be tracked by plain-clothes men,' Butler began. 'They'll tail him to wherever Neville sends him. When he makes contact with Neville we'll be notified. We move in and shoot Neville. And we shoot to kill.'
They rode the escalator from the lower platform, standing side by side.
Doyle, his long brown hair swept back from the collar of his jacket, felt his face greasy with perspiration.
Lisa, still pulling at the loose thread on her sleeve, gazed around her, taking it all in. Then she looked up at Doyle and slipped her hand into his.
He glanced down at her, feeling her tiny hand inside his strong one.
