Doyle kept his gaze on her.
'When he came home on leave he used to bring me flowers,' Julie mused. 'Every time he'd bring something. Flowers, chocolates or earrings. I must have more earrings than any other woman in London. And they were always the same design. Silver hoops. Bob never did have much imagination.' Her tone had darkened slightly.
'What about recently?'
'About two years ago the letters started to dry up. He'd write once every couple of months, ring if I was lucky. He even stopped coming home on leave.'
'Do you know where he went?'
'He could have had another woman for all I knew.'
'Do you think he did?'
She regarded him warily. 'Does it matter?' she snapped.
'As a matter of fact it does.'
'What's he done? I mean, I know about this morning, but there's something else, isn't there?'
'Do you think he had another woman?' Doyle persisted.
'He found it hard enough to make friends, let alone relationships.'
'He made one with you.'
'If you want to call it that.'
'You were married, you've got a child. You must have loved him.'
'Once.' She took a swig of her coffee.
'January twenty-seventh, ten years ago,' Doyle said.
'How do you know?'
'You'd be surprised what I know. It goes with the job.'
'Well, if you know so much, why the questions?'
'There are still some gaps. You might be able to help me fill them.'
'You know so much about me. I don't know anything about you.'
'There's no need for you to,' he said, a thin smile touching his lips.
'I'm nosy,' Julie retorted, running her hand through her hair.
Christ, she reminded him of Georgie when she did that.
'I know your name and I know you want to find my husband, that's it.'
'That's all you need to know.'
She reached out and looked at his left hand, lifting it slightly. 'No wedding ring.'
Doyle pulled his hand away gently. 'No wife.'
'Girlfriend?'
He shook his head.
'There must be someone, Doyle.'
'There've been a few. I don't keep a bloody scorecard.'
'Anyone special?'
'There was. She died.'
'I'm sorry. When?'
'Seven, eight years ago now.'
Nine. Ten. A fucking eternity.
'How did it happen?' Julie's voice was soft.
'She was shot,' he said flatly.
Shot to fucking pieces.
'We were working together at the time,' he continued. 'There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about her.' He turned his gaze on Julie and she found herself looking deeply into his grey eyes.
'What was her name?'
'Georgie. Georgina.' A faint smile played across his lips then vanished hurriedly.
What the fuck are you doing?
Doyle drained the contents of his cup and tossed it into the waste bin.
What are you going to do? Tell her your fucking life story? Get a grip.
'You said your husband didn't have many friends,' Doyle began, angry with himself.
Don't let the mask slip.
'The ones he did have, did you know them? Meet them?'
Julie hesitated a moment. 'Most of them were in the paras with him, I only met a couple.'
'Names?'
'It was a while ago.'
'Try to think, it might be important.'
'He was really close to a guy called Baxter. Ken Baxter.'
'Any details about him you can remember?'
'They were in the paras together. I met him a few times when he came home with Bob. They were in the same company.'
'Baxter,' Doyle muttered. 'That'll do for a start.'
He got to his feet. 'I'll walk back round with you.' He nodded towards the other end of the corridor.
Julie got to her feet and they set off for the room where Lisa still slept.
'What'll happen to him if he's caught?'
'When he's caught,' Doyle corrected her. 'It depends who gets to him first. The police or me.'
11.06 A.M.
Neville slowed down as he approached the red light.
Inside the helmet his own breathing sounded laboured and he flipped up the visor, allowing some exhaust-choked air inside.
He could feel the reassuring bulge of his weapons against each side, hidden beneath his jacket.
As he drew up at the lights at the junction of Kilburn High Road and Belsize Road, Neville glanced at the vehicles aligned on either side of him.
A pale blue Volvo driven by a woman who was constantly turning around to bellow at two kids in the back seat.
Behind her a red Astra driven by a man with a haggard expression who was speaking animatedly into a mobile phone, alternately glancing at his watch and the lights which seemed to be stuck on red.
A white Transit van was on the other side of him, loud music blasting from inside.
The driver, a Jamaican wearing a baseball cap with the letter X emblazoned on it, regarded him balefully.
Neville met his gaze.
The Jamaican jerked his head up and down as if offended by the motorcyclist's gaze.
'What you lookin' at, man?' he said sharply.
Neville didn't answer. He continued to stare.
Nigger bastard.
The light had changed to red and amber, engines revved.
Neville kept his eye on the driver.
Neville gunned the throttle and sped off, swerving in front of the van, causing the driver to brake hard.
In his wing mirror he caught sight of the Jamaican gesturing angrily after him.
Neville smiled to himself, guiding the bike effortlessly through the traffic, moving along Belsize Road at a steady speed.
He didn't want to attract attention to himself.
Not yet.
There was a police car ahead of him.
So fucking what?
They had no idea who he was, who this leather-clad rider was.
More traffic lights ahead.
The police car was slowing down.
They couldn't know who he was.
Could they?
Neville wondered for fleeting seconds if he should speed around the police car, shoot across the lights. He thought better of it.
Another red light was coming up.
The police car had stopped too.
Neville pulled up alongside it and glanced quickly in at the driver.
Young, fresh-faced.
The driver glanced at him and at the bike then he nudged his companion, pointing to the Harley.
Neville swallowed hard.
They knew.
They fucking knew.
The light was still on red.
The driver was winding down the window now, his companion leaning across also.
Neville kept his gaze straight ahead, one hand fumbling gently with the zip of his jacket. He only had to ease the. 459 free. Three or four shots into the car would do it. He was less than two feet from them.
Any minute now.
The driver had wound down the window fully by now.
Neville eased the zip further down.
'Excuse me,' the driver said.
Neville ignored him, his hand closing over the butt of the automatic.
'I say, excuse me,' the policeman persisted.
Neville turned to look into his eyes.
You're dead, he mused.
The driver held his gaze. 'It's a nice bike. Harley, isn't it?'
Neville looked puzzled momentarily.
'Harley Davidson,' the driver continued. 'It's not an Electra Glide, is it?'
Neville shook his head.
'Tour Glide,' he answered.
'Told you,' said the driver, turning to his companion.
Neville kept his hand around the butt of the. 459.
'Cheers,' the driver said and wound the window back up.
The lights turned green, the police car moved off.
Behind him, Neville heard a loud blast on a hooter and he too pulled away, drawing alongside the police car again then swinging right into Chalk Farm Road.
The police car moved off in the opposite direction.