No one had seen him come or go then and if they had, there would have been nothing unusual to alert them.
Neville crossed to the boxes and began pulling them away, dismantling the makeshift rampart with gleeful speed.
As each discarded box hit the floor it sent up fresh clouds of dust, motes twisting lazily in the rancid air.
The object hidden behind the boxes was covered by a tarpaulin.
Taking hold of one corner, Neville tugged hard on the canvas.
More dust billowed upwards but Neville merely smiled.
The Harley Davidson's sleek bodywork gleamed, even inside the dismal confines of the lock-up.
Neville placed one hand reverentially on the petrol tank, feeling the cold metal against his palm.
The FLTC Tour Glide was dark blue, the chrome exhaust pipes even more striking against the bodywork. The entire machine, capable of over a hundred miles an hour and weighing just under a ton, seemed to give off an aura of power and Neville looked at it admiringly for a second longer before flipping open the top box.
From inside he pulled out a pair of thick leather trousers, which he hastily slid over his jeans before fastening himself into the matching jacket.
The folds of the jacket easily hid the. 459 automatic which he wore beneath one arm and the. 357 revolver strapped to his right side in another shoulder holster.
The Steyr he slid into the top box.
The leather creaked loudly inside the stillness of the deserted building as Neville moved about, finally lifting the black helmet into view.
It glistened like a black skull.
With it wedged firmly on to his head, only his eyes were visible through the visor.
Neville swung his leg over the Harley, settled himself on-to the seat and flicked the ignition switch.
The four-stroke V-twin l340cc engine roared into life, the sound reverberating inside the lock-up.
He twisted the throttle, exhaust fumes spewing from the tail pipes, the roar building steadily.
Five thousand rpm.
Like a fucking dream.
Beneath the helmet, Neville was laughing.
10.47 A.M.
Doyle thought about knocking but finally he just eased the handle down and peered around the door.
At first Julie Neville didn't see him and Doyle stood looking at her while she sat by the small bed pushed up against one wall.
She was gently stroking her daughter's forehead, gazing at her as she slept.
The room was tiny. Apart from the bed, it contained only a small wooden cabinet, a couple of plastic chairs and a small table. A cold cup of tea was perched on the table top.
Doyle glanced around the room, taking in the posters warning of meningitis, AIDS and smoking.
Leamington Park Hospital. Even in this side room he could smell that all too familiar antiseptic smell he associated so strongly with these places of healing.
He hated that smell.
Christ alone knew it was familiar enough.
Doyle had seen the inside of enough hospitals in his time.
A couple of them he'd thought he'd never leave.
He looked at Julie again.
She ran a hand through her long blonde hair and turned slightly, as if suddenly aware of his presence.
She nodded towards her sleeping daughter and pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that Doyle should remain silent.
'We need to talk,' he said softly, motioning towards the corridor beyond.
Julie got to her feet, took one more look at Lisa, then followed him out.
'Is she OK?' the counter terrorist asked as Julie closed the door behind her.
'They gave her something to help her sleep.'
'And what about you? How do you feel?'
She smiled thinly. 'Well, considering my husband tried to blow me up, demolished my house with explosives and nearly killed half a dozen coppers too, I'm fine.'
Doyle fixed her in his gaze.
She was pretty.
Like Georgie?
He offered her a cigarette.
'You're not supposed to smoke in here,' she told him, glancing around as if afraid someone would see them.
Doyle held the packet of Marlboros steady and she finally took one.
He jammed one between his lips then lit both with his lighter.
Julie took a long drag. 'I needed that,' she said, smiling.
It was her turn to run appraising eyes over him. The cowboy boots, the worn leather jacket. The long hair.
He needed a shave, she mused.
'I've already spoken to the police,' she said finally. 'They questioned me in the ambulance on the way here.'
'I'm not the police. I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit.'
'What's that got to do with me?'
'Fuck all. But it's got a lot to do with your old man.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Want a coffee? There's a machine round the corner.'
'I shouldn't leave Lisa.'
'She'll be OK,' he reassured her. 'We can come straight back.'
Julie hesitated a moment longer then nodded. They began walking.
10.51 A.M.
'Where did they find it?' asked DI Calloway, barely looking up from his cup of tea.
DS Colin Mason replaced the phone and exhaled deeply.
'About three miles from here,' he said. 'Dark blue Montego. It was definitely the car.'
'You didn't expect him to stay in it, did you?'
Calloway sipped at his tea. 'What the fuck is his game?' the DI mused. 'If Doyle's right about that explosion-'
'If he is,' Mason snapped.
'He seems to know what he's talking about.'
'Cocky bastard.'
Calloway leaned back in his seat and glanced at his companion. 'It's a pretty safe bet Neville's not on foot now.'
'Do you reckon he had another car hidden somewhere nearby?'
'Well, he wouldn't be walking the streets with the gear he's carrying, would he?'
'His missus wasn't much help,' Mason said dismissively.
'We'll go back and talk to her again. I want to know what else Doyle thinks about this shit. Maybe he's got some idea what Neville's next move will be.'
'I don't trust him.'
'Why not? He's on our side, you know.'
'I'm beginning to wonder,' Mason grunted. 'Where the fuck did he get to anyway? I reckon he knows more than he's telling.'
Calloway sipped at his tea. 'Maybe we ought to do some checking up on Doyle too,' he murmured.
Mason smiled crookedly. 'If he is involved with Neville then I want the bastard myself.'
Calloway raised his eyebrows. 'Good luck,' he muttered, reaching for the phone.
Julie Neville watched as Doyle fed coins into the vending machine, waiting as a plastic cup dropped into view and watery brown fluid dribbled in. According to the selection he'd pressed, it was meant to be coffee.
She took the cup from him and sipped at it, wincing as it burned her lips.
Doyle got his own drink and motioned towards the plastic seats close to the machine.
From the window at the end of the corridor, Julie could see out over the hospital car park. An ambulance was pulling in to Casualty, blue lights spinning furiously. She turned away as she saw the uniformed attendants lifting a stretcher from the rear of the emergency vehicle.
'I don't know what you want to hear,' she said to Doyle who was lighting up another cigarette.
'The truth would help,' Doyle told her.
'About Bob? I'm not even sure I know that myself. Why are you so interested in him?'
Doyle ignored the question, sipping his coffee instead.
'Did he contact you very often when he was away? Letters, phone calls, that kind of thing?'
'In the beginning,' she said, smiling wanly 'He used to write two or three times a week. But it's always like that at the beginning, isn't it?'