his nose as he caught a scent of the contents of the bedpan she was carrying.
'Are you OK, Doyle?' asked Major John Wetherby, his voice sounding metallic at the other end of the phone.
'You heard what happened?'
'It was difficult to miss it. Why didn't you kill Neville when you had the chance?'
'There was no fucking chance, Wetherby, that's why the cunt's still breathing. Now listen to me, I need your help.'
'How inconvenient for you,' Wetherby sniggered.
'Cut the bullshit, will you, just listen. I spoke to Neville's wife and-'
'She doesn't know who you are, does she?' Wetherby interrupted.
'She knows I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit, what the fuck was I supposed to tell her? That her husband had won nutter of the year award and I was presenting it on behalf of the army?'
'Does she know why you want Neville?'
'No.'
'And the police?'
'Neither do they. Now will you shut the fuck up and listen to me.'
'This mustn't get out, Doyle. If-'
'I know that,' the counter terrorist snarled. 'Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me, Wetherby. Now listen to me. Neville's missus reckons he was a bit of a loner but there was one guy he was friendly with. A para by the name of Kenneth Baxter. I need to know as much about Baxter as you can tell me. If he's still serving. If he is then where? If he isn't then I need to know where I can find him. All the usual shit.'
'Why the interest in Baxter?'
'If he's a friend of Neville's it's not out of the question Neville might try and find him.'
'Why?'
'For fuck's sake, Wetherby, do I have to spell it out?' Doyle spat out exasperatedly. 'For support, for somewhere to hide out, to have a cuppa and a piece of fucking cake with. What the hell do you think? Neville might be trying to figure out his next move, it'd help him if he had some friendly faces around him, wouldn't it?'
'I should think Neville knows exactly what he's going to do next,' Wetherby said smugly.
'Just find Baxter for me, will you? I'll call back in thirty minutes.'
'Doyle, have you any idea where Neville is now?'
'If I had, would I be standing here talking to you?'
Doyle hung up.
11.22 A.M.
As Doyle approached the door he slowed his pace, listening for any sound from inside the room.
There was none.
He eased the handle down gently and stepped in.
Julie Neville was sitting close to the bed where her daughter slept.
To Doyle it looked as if both of them were in the same position as when he'd first entered the room. As if his conversation with Julie had never happened. As if a moment of time had been acted out and simply discarded.
This time when she turned towards him, she smiled.
A wide, bright smile.
Welcoming.
The counter terrorist said nothing, crossed to the bed and looked down at the sleeping form of Lisa Neville.
The long honey-blonde hair, one small hand gripping an edge of the sheet which was pulled up to her neck.
Doyle reached out and touched that small hand.
Julie watched him, a mixture of bewilderment and surprise on her face.
She studied the scars on his face. Deep scars.
She wondered how he'd got them.
There was even one on the hand which had reached out to touch her daughter.
'She looks like you,' Doyle said quietly, his eyes never leaving the child.
'You never had kids then?' Julie asked.
Doyle smiled. 'No need,' he said. 'No need, no time, no inclination.'
One more person to worry about. One more to lose.
'What about your girlfriend? The one that was killed, didn't she…'
'I never found out if she had much of a maternal streak,' he said bitterly.
'You said you worked together, was she in the
'Are you OK, Doyle?' asked Major John Wetherby, his voice sounding metallic at the other end of the phone.
'You heard what happened?'
'It was difficult to miss it. Why didn't you kill Neville when you had the chance?'
'There was no fucking chance, Wetherby, that's why the cunt's still breathing. Now listen to me, I need your help.'
'How inconvenient for you,' Wetherby sniggered.
'Cut the bullshit, will you, just listen. I spoke to Neville's wife and-'
'She doesn't know who you are, does she?' Wetherby interrupted.
'She knows I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit, what the fuck was I supposed to tell her? That her husband had won nutter of the year award and I was presenting it on behalf of the army?'
'Does she know why you want Neville?'
'No.'
'And the police?'
'Neither do they. Now will you shut the fuck up and listen to me.'
'This mustn't get out, Doyle. If-'
'I know that,' the counter terrorist snarled. 'Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me, Wetherby. Now listen to me. Neville's missus reckons he was a bit of a loner but there was one guy he was friendly with. A para by the name of Kenneth Baxter. I need to know as much about Baxter as you can tell me. If he's still serving. If he is then where? If he isn't then I need to know where I can find him. All the usual shit.'
'Why the interest in Baxter?'
'If he's a friend of Neville's it's not out of the question Neville might try and find him.'
'Why?'
'For fuck's sake, Wetherby, do I have to spell it out?' Doyle spat out exasperatedly. 'For support, for somewhere to hide out, to have a cuppa and a piece of fucking cake with. What the hell do you think? Neville might be trying to figure out his next move, it'd help him if he had some friendly faces around him, wouldn't it?'
'I should think Neville knows exactly what he's going to do next,' Wetherby said smugly.
'Just find Baxter for me, will you? I'll call back in thirty minutes.'
'Doyle, have you any idea where Neville is now?'
'If I had, would I be standing here talking to you?'
Doyle hung up.
11.22 A.M.
As Doyle approached the door he slowed his pace, listening for any sound from inside the room.
There was none.
He eased the handle down gently and stepped in.
Julie Neville was sitting close to the bed where her daughter slept.
To Doyle it looked as if both of them were in the same position as when he'd first entered the room. As if his conversation with Julie had never happened. As if a moment of time had been acted out and simply discarded.
This time when she turned towards him, she smiled.
A wide, bright smile.
Welcoming.
The counter terrorist said nothing, crossed to the bed and looked down at the sleeping form of Lisa Neville.
The long honey-blonde hair, one small hand gripping an edge of the sheet which was pulled up to her neck.
Doyle reached out and touched that small hand.
Julie watched him, a mixture of bewilderment and surprise on her face.
She studied the scars on his face. Deep scars.
She wondered how he'd got them.
There was even one on the hand which had reached out to touch her daughter.
'She looks like you,' Doyle said quietly, his eyes never leaving the child.
'You never had kids then?' Julie asked.
Doyle smiled. 'No need,' he said. 'No need, no time, no inclination.'
One more person to worry about. One more to lose.
'What about your girlfriend? The one that was killed, didn't she…'
'I never found out if she had much of a maternal streak,' he said bitterly.
'You said you worked together, was she in the
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