'Why do you hate my dad?'
The question seemed to come from the very air itself.
Doyle had his eyes closed as the Underground train pulled out of the station. He was grateful that it was so much quieter than earlier. There weren't above a dozen people in the entire carriage and most of those were seated at the far end.
He opened his eyes and looked down at Lisa, who was seated beside him, pulling at a loose thread on one sleeve of her cardigan.
'I don't hate him.'
Which was true.
'Then why do you shout at him on the phone?' Lisa persisted.
Doyle sucked in a deep breath.
I really fucking need this now. Some deep, meaningful conversation with an eight-year-old kid about a man she thinks is her father. A man I'm going to kill.
'Because he gets me mad,' Doyle answered eventually.
Lisa continued playing with the loose thread.
'He's ill,' she explained.
'Who says so?'
'My mum. She said that Dad isn't well, that he should see a doctor or something.' She looked up at him. 'Is he going to die?'
He is when I get hold of him.
Doyle thought about saying yes. It would have been the easiest option. It might even have shut her up.
He looked into her wide, questioning eyes.
Christ, they were so blue. So perfectly, flawlessly blue. Like sapphires lit from behind.
'What else did your mum say about him?'
'She didn't talk much about him. I sometimes heard them shouting when he came home. I used to listen at the top of the stairs. They thought I was asleep but I used to creep out of my room and listen to them.'
'What happened when your dad came home this time?'
'Mum was surprised to see him.'
'Yeah, I bet she was.'
'They argued a lot this time.'
'Did your dad ever hurt her?'
'No. He wouldn't do that.'
'Did he ever hurt you?'
'He loves me. He always tells me that. He wouldn't hurt me.'
Doyle slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta, keeping it low, away from any prying gazes he might attract from the other passengers. The metal gleamed dully beneath the fluorescents inside the carriage.
'Do you know what that is, Lisa?' he asked her.
'It's a gun.'
'Have you ever seen your dad with one?'
She nodded.
'He pointed one at my mum once,' she said, swallowing hard. 'I think they were playing because my dad was laughing.'
'What about your mum?'
'She just told me to go to my room. They didn't shout at each other that night.'
Doyle holstered the automatic, noticing that his movements had attracted the attention of a man sitting a few seats away.
Doyle glared at him and the man returned to reading his newspaper.
'When will I see my dad?' Lisa asked.
'Soon,' Doyle reassured her.
'And what will happen then?'
I'll kill him.
'I want my mum and dad to be together again. I don't like it when they shout at each other. I miss my dad.'
Again Doyle found himself looking into those blue eyes. Eyes that were now moist at the corners. She sniffed back a tear.
'Are you married?'
Doyle smiled.
'No,' he told her.
'Do you love anybody?'
He closed his eyes briefly.
She was there in his memory.
Georgie.
He could see her laughing. Such an infectious laugh.
The memories were still so strong. He saw her sitting opposite him in a restaurant, long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her gloriously slim body hugged by the tight, short black dress she wore.
Perfection.
He gritted his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.
'Do you love anybody?'
He looked down at Lisa.
'No,' he said. 'I don't love anybody.'
He tried to force the image to the back of his mind but it clung stubbornly.
The train was leaving the station.
Liverpool Street was the next stop.
Doyle checked his watch.