The Bombmaker (22 page)

He kept to the crazy-paving path, every stone of which he'd carefully laid the previous summer.

The door of the helicopter rattled to the side and a figure climbed out in a green flying suit and a black helmet. The figure ducked its head as it walked briskly away from the machine and its still-turning rotors. Denham knew who it was even before the helmet was removed. Even the bulky flight suit couldn't hide her figure. The down-draught from the rotors tugged at her glossy black hair and she shook her head to clear it from her eyes.

'Retirement suits you, Liam,' she shouted above the roar of the helicopter's turbines.

'Hello, Patsy,' he said. He held out his hand and she shook it.

She had a soft grip. Deceptively soft, he knew. A lot of men had come to grief underestimating Patsy Ellis. 'Long time no see.'

'Too long, Liam.' She looked past him to the house. 'Nice place you have here.'

The rotors kept turning. The pilot was talking into his radio mike.

'We need you, Liam.' Her hazel eyes studied him levelly,

gauging his reaction.

Denham tugged at his lower lip but said nothing.

'It's Trevor. She's gone missing.'

'Missing?'

Patsy gestured at the helicopter with her thumb. 'We can talk about it on the way.'

'On the way to where?'

'London.'

'Oh, come on, Patsy. I'm retired. And not by choice, either.'

'There's no one else, Liam. No one else knows her.'

'You've cleared this? With the Branch?'

'It's nothing to do with the Branch. It's my ball park now.

And I need you on my team.'

'I've got . . .'

'You've got too much time on your hands, that's what you've got,' she said.

Denham looked around his garden. At the neatly manicured lawn. The carefully tended rose bushes. The neat rockeries.

'Aye, Patsy. You might be right at that. Let me get my things.'

He walked back to the house. His wife was waiting for him in the kitchen, the two spaniels at her feet, a black leather holdall in her arms. She held it out to him. 'I've packed you two shirts.

And don't go above twenty a day while you're away.'

He reached over and gently cuffed her under the chin. She'd nagged him down to a packet of cigarettes a day and was determined that he'd give up by his sixty-fifth birthday. 'The dogs need their walk,' said Denham.

'And they'll get it.' She kissed him softly on the cheek. 'Go on with you,' she said. 'That helicopter's ripping the roses to shreds.'

Denham took his fawn raincoat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door and walked briskly to the helicopter. Patsy had already climbed in and was talking to the pilot. The rotors picked up speed as Denham hauled himself inside and sat down next to her.

Martin went to a cash machine before checking into the Tower Hotel, withdrawing two hundred pounds on each of his two Visa cards. He booked in for one night, under the name of Martin Sheridan. The receptionist, a young Chinese girl who spoke with a perfect Essex accent, saw that he had only his briefcase with him and asked if he had any luggage. Martin told her he'd left it in the boot of his car. When he said that he'd be settling his bill with cash she asked if he'd leave a deposit. The Tower was mainly used by businessmen on expense accounts with company credit cards, so Martin didn't blame her for being suspicious.

He went straight up to the room to wait for the Special Branch detectives. He called up room service and ordered a club sandwich and a pot of coffee and then showered. The doorbell rang as he was getting dressed. When he opened the door, four heavily built uniformed policemen burst in. One of them grappled Martin to the floor, face down. His hands were wrestled behind his back and he felt handcuffs snap around his wrist. 'What the hell's going on?' he shouted.

Hands gripped his shoulders and he was hauled to his feet.

'I'm doing what I was told to. What the hell's this about?'

A blanket was thrown over his head and he was bundled out of the door.

'Would somebody tell me what's going on?'

Martin was ignored. He was half carried, half dragged through a door and down several flights of stairs in a stampede of boots, then through another door. He could hear traffic and realised he was outside. Within seconds he was thrown into the back of a van. His shins banged against the floor and he yelped but no one paid any attention to him. The van roared off.

Someone gripped Martin's arms and helped him on to a hard bench seat. He knew it was pointless to say anything, so he just sat where he was, covered in the blanket. She'd lied to him. The Special Branch woman had lied to him.

The van drove for half an hour or so, then came to a halt, and the policemen hauled Martin to his feet and into a building which he presumed was a police station. He heard voices, and the crackling of a two-way radio, then he was frogmarched down a corridor and pushed into a room. Hands clutched at his belt and he felt it being pulled away from his trousers, then his shoes were torn off his feet one by one. The handcuffs were roughly removed and he was pushed to the side. A metal door slammed shut and there was the double click of a key being turned in a lock. Martin listened, his chest heaving. He slowly slid the sheet off his head and let it drop to the floor. He was alone in a police cell. There was a low bed, nothing more than a concrete podium with a thin plastic mattress on top, a toilet bowl cemented to the floor, and, several feet above his head, a window made of thick glass blocks.

Martin sat down on the bed. He couldn't work out what had happened. He hadn't been arrested because they were supposed to caution him and give him the chance to speak to his lawyer.

And he knew enough about the legal system to know that he should have been processed before being thrown into a cell.

They hadn't asked his name, they hadn't charged him, they hadn't taken away his wallet or even searched him. Whatever had happened to him, it wasn't a straightforward arrest. He settled back against the wall. He had no choice other than to wait.

Mark Quinn was dying for a cigarette, but McCracken had forbidden smoking in the offices. He was standing over his electric wok, pushing the ammonium nitrate fertiliser around so that it didn't overheat. On the table next to the wok was a metal thermometer, and he pushed it into the mixture as he continued to stir. His arms ached and his head was throbbing from the fumes. The thermometer rose to one hundred and sixty and he turned down the heat. He really wanted a cigarette now, but the last time he'd asked McCracken for a break she'd given him a withering look and told him to stick at it.

Sweat was pouring down his face and the ski mask was making him itch furiously. He looked across at the pile of black rubbish sacks containing the treated fertiliser. They'd only done about a fifth. He looked over at O'Keefe, who was clearly as unhappy as he was. This was going to take for ever. It was all right for the Hayes woman, she didn't have to wear a mask, and McCracken didn't seem to mind how many breaks she took.

She was forever going to get a coffee or a sandwich. Quinn figured she was deliberately dragging her feet, trying to postpone the moment when the bomb would be finished. If it had been up to Quinn, he'd have given her a good slapping and told her to get stuck in.

He rolled up the sleeves of his overalls and grinned at O'Keefe. O'Keefe had a large tattoo on his left forearm, a lion leaping over a flag of St George, and McCracken had told him to keep it covered while the Hayes woman was around.

Quinn looked over to where she was sealing the powdered fertiliser in a Tupperware container. Her shirt was damp with sweat and it clung to her breasts. She'd rolled her sleeves up above her elbows and had tied the bottom of her shirt in a loose knot, exposing her stomach, which glistened with sweat. With her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked more like a teenager than a thirtysomething mother. She rubbed her forehead against her upper arm, trying to brush a stray lock of blond hair out of her eyes. The movement allowed Quinn to look down her cleavage. He stopped stirring and stared at her breasts, the fertiliser hissing in his wok.

She stopped what she was doing and slowly turned to look at him. Their eyes locked and Quinn grinned. She stiffened, her face an expressionless mask. Quinn stuck out his tongue and licked his lips suggestively. The Hayes woman stared back at him. He could feel the hatred pouring out of her eyes.

'Hey!' O'Keefe's yell startled Quinn and he flinched as if he'd been stung.

'What?'

O'Keefe pointed at Quinn's wok with short, stabbing movements.

Quinn looked down. The fertiliser was starting to bubble and smoke. Quinn cursed and frantically scraped it out of the wok and on to the table.

O'Keefe was laughing, his hands on his hips. 'You soft bastard,' he said.

McCracken looked up from her wok. 'What's going on over there?'

'Shit-for-brains nearly let his fertiliser overheat.'

'The wok was too hot,' said Quinn. 'That's all.'

'For God's sake be careful,' said McCracken. 'The place is full of fumes. Any sort of flame and the whole place'll go up.'

'I thought that was the fucking idea,' laughed O'Keefe. His laughter echoed around the office, and McCracken shook her head contemptuously. Quinn's cheeks reddened beneath his ski mask. It was the Hayes woman's fault. He glared over at her and made a silent promise to himself that he'd get his own back before this was over.

Martin Hayes sat up as he heard the jingle of the custody sergeant's key chain. He was on his feet when the door opened.

The sergeant stood aside and Martin found himself looking at a middle-aged couple who looked as if they had just walked out of a church service.

The man was in his sixties, balding and slightly overweight.

He was wearing a fawn raincoat over a greenish tweed suit and was carrying a battered tweed hat in one hand.

The woman was younger, in her mid-forties, with skin so white that she must have conscientiously avoided exposing it to the sun. Her hair was cut short with a fringe, its blackness emphasising the paleness of her face. She had bright, inquisitive hazel eyes, and a smile that could have concealed the darkest thoughts. Her right hand was outstretched. 'Mr Hayes? I'm Patsy. We spoke on the phone.'

Martin found himself shaking hands before her words had sunk in. He withdrew his hand and glared at her. 'You had me thrown in here?' he said angrily. 'You lied to me.'

Her smile grew even wider and she nodded comfortingly,

like a nurse breaking bad news. 'I'm sorry about that, Mr Hayes,

but I had to be sure that you wouldn't go running off.' She had a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck, and she fingered it with her left hand as she spoke. Around her wrist was a gold Carrier watch.

'Are you with Special Branch?' he asked.

She didn't answer his question, but turned to her companion.

'This is Chief Inspector Liam Denham.'

Denham held out his hand. The first and second ringers were stained brownish yellow with nicotine. 'Ex-Chief Inspector,' he said, his harsh accent betraying his Belfast origins. 'Why don't we go and get a cup of tea?'

'What the hell's going on?' asked Martin.

Denham pulled an apologetic face. 'Not here,' he said.

Martin looked down at his socks. 'They took my shoes. And my belt.'

'I do apologise for that,' said Patsy. The custody sergeant handed Martin his belongings. The two Special Branch officers waited while Martin sat down on his bunk and slipped on his shoes and belt, then they escorted him from the cell block,

through the custody reception area and up a flight of stairs to a white-tiled canteen, where a group of uniformed officers were drinking coffee.

'Tea?' asked Denham.

'Coffee. White. One sugar.'

'Let me get them, Liam,' said Patsy. She went over to the counter while Martin and Denham sat at a corner table.

Denham dropped his tweed hat on to the table. There was a small red fishing fly close to the brim. 'You don't fish, do you?'

he asked as he sat down.

'No. No, I don't. Sorry.' Martin felt suddenly ridiculous apologising for not being an angler. 'Look, what the hell's this all about?'

'Let's wait for Patsy, shall we?' said Denham. 'Save us going over the same ground twice.'

Patsy came over with three mugs on a tray. She nodded at one. 'That's yours, Mr Hayes. I put the sugar in for you.' Martin took his mug. Patsy put the tray down and passed one of the mugs over to Denham. He sipped his tea, then nodded his appreciation at Patsy as she sat down.

'How long have you known your wife, Mr Hayes?' asked Denham.

'Ten years.'

'And you met where?'

'Trinity. She was studying English literature.'

'And do you know what she did before that?'

Martin stared at the man for several seconds. Denham returned his stare with no trace of embarrassment, waiting for him to speak. 'No, not really,' said Martin eventually.

'What we're going to tell you is going to be something of a surprise, I'm afraid,' said Denham. 'A revelation. Please, bear in mind that we're here to help you.'

'We're on your side,' added Patsy.

They nodded in unison. Martin felt as if he were a child being humoured by two adults, and he resented the way they were treating him. He had a sudden urge to bang his hands on the table, to scream at them to stop patronising him and to find his wife and daughter. He forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't afford to lose his temper, not in a canteen full of policemen. 'Just tell me what the hell is going on,' he said.

Denham and Patsy looked at each other. There was an almost imperceptible nod from Patsy, as if she were giving Denham permission to go ahead. Martin wondered what role she played in Special Branch. Denham had retired, so maybe she'd taken over his job. Or perhaps she'd been his superior.

'Your wife, Mr Hayes, was once an IRA bombmaker.'

Martin's head swam. The walls of the canteen seemed to bulge in and out, and for a moment he felt as if he was going to faint. His eyelids fluttered and he tried to speak but no words would come. A feeble 'What?' was all he could manage.