As Doyle pulled the Datsun to a halt he fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper which Calloway had given him.
Number fifty-nine Mitre Road, Lambeth.
He glanced at the door of the building before him.
This was the place.
He locked the car, lit a cigarette and strolled up to the door, ringing the bell twice.
The WPC who answered the door was in her early twenties and she looked quizzically at Doyle, who flipped open the slim leather wallet which held his ID.
She'd barely had time to glance at the small photo inside and compare it with the craggy-featured individual before her when he shut it and slid it back inside his jacket.
As the coat parted she saw the butt of the Beretta beneath his left arm.
'I want to speak to Julie Neville.'
'I hadn't been told she was going to be questioned again,' the WPC said warily.
'What's your name?' Doyle demanded.
'WPC Robertson, sir.'
'Did they give you a first name, WPC, and you don't have to call me sir.'
Doyle was looking around as he spoke. The house was small. Clean and immaculately decorated. He could smell coffee from the kitchen to the rear of the building. From a room to his right he could hear a television.
'Lucy,' the policewoman told him.
'Well, Lucy, I want to talk to Julie Neville. If you don't trust me, ring Detective Inspector Calloway, he'll clear it.'
'Would you mind?'
Doyle frowned.
'Right, you've proved you're efficient,' he said. 'Now let me see Mrs Neville, I haven't got all bloody day.' He pushed past the policewoman and into the sitting room.
Julie Neville was seated on the sofa in the room, slender legs drawn up beneath her, both hands cradling a mug of coffee.
'What do you want?' she said, looking at Doyle dismissively.
'A chat.'
'Another one?' she said, sipping her coffee.
Doyle looked at the WPC.
'If that coffee's fresh I'd love a cup, please, Lucy.' He smiled.
He sat down beside Julie Neville who pulled her bare feet closer to her, away from the counter terrorist.
He ran his finger along the sole of her right foot.
She glared at him.
The WPC was still hesitating in the doorway.
'White, one sugar,' Doyle said, staring at her, his steely grey eyes narrowing. 'Now, please, Lucy.'
The policewoman glanced at Julie who nodded slowly.
'I'll be all right,' she said softly.
'Call if you need me,' said the WPC and stepped outside the room.
'Very cosy,' Doyle said. 'They seem to be looking after you.'
'What do you care, Doyle?'
'I think you read me wrong, Julie. I do care. Where's your daughter?'
'Lisa's upstairs. Lucy's been keeping her entertained. They seem to be getting on pretty well.'
'So, not all coppers are bastards then?'
'I didn't say they were.'
She took the cigarette he offered, sucking hard on it as he lit it for her.
Julie blew a stream of smoke in Doyle's direction as she exhaled.
'I heard about the bombs,' she said quietly.
Doyle nodded.
'How many people has he killed?'
The counter terrorist shrugged. 'Including the second bomb, it must be over twenty now.'
'Oh, Christ,' she murmured, running a hand through her hair. 'How are you going to stop him?'
'I'll get him, don't worry about it,' Doyle assured her.
'You seem very certain of that, Doyle.'
'I am. But I need your help.'
She looked quizzically at him.
'He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants,' Doyle told her. 'And he wants his daughter.'
Julie sat up, her eyes fixed on Doyle.
'It's the only way, Julie,' he told her. 'That's why I'm here. I need your daughter.'