Doyle watched as the receptionist picked up the phone on her desk and pressed one digit, her eyes still fixed on him.
'Would you like to take a seat, Mr Doyle?' she said, motioning towards some canvas chairs arranged opposite the desk. A couple of potted plants and a small table bearing magazines completed the illusion and made the waiting area of Nemesis Security look more like a dentist's reception area.
Doyle sauntered across to the table and picked up the top magazine, flipping through it disinterestedly, turning to glance back at the receptionist every now and then.
He looked down at the other magazines. GQ. Empire. Elle. Cosmopolitan.
Very eclectic. What kind of fucking customers did Nemesis get?
Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting up, aware of the frown creasing the receptionist's brow as she watched him.
He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her.
A door to his right opened and a tall man with glasses and a goatee beard emerged, looking first at the receptionist then at Doyle. His expression was one of bewilderment.
'Mr Doyle?' he said falteringly, extending his right hand, which Doyle shook firmly, feeling the strength in it. 'My name is Michael Andrews. I own Nemesis Security.'
Doyle flashed his ID.
'If you'd like to come through into my office,' said Andrews, ushering Doyle towards the door from which he'd just appeared.
'No calls,' said Andrews as he shut the door behind them.
'I'm not going to waste your time,' Doyle said. 'And I'm in a hurry too.'
He glanced around the office.
It was immaculate. Neat, tidy. More potted plants. There were photographs on the walls to his left and right.
Doyle wandered across and looked at them.
Andrews pictured with Elton John.
Another of him with Sharon Stone.
With Tom Cruise.
There was even a Gold Disc mounted on one wall. The inscription read: To Mike. May Your Rock Always Roll. Presented by