Canning was stirring a pan of scrambled eggs when McEvoy banged open the kitchen door and stood in the doorway, scratching his stomach. 'What are ya cooking?' he asked.
'Eggs.'
'Eggs again? I fucking hate eggs.'
'They're not for you. They're for Katie.'
McEvoy walked across the fake marble linoleum to the cooker and stood behind Canning, so close that Canning could smell the man's stale breath. 'What's this with Katie? You'll be calling her Miss Hayes next. It's best to keep your distance, Mick. Don't let it get personal, yeah? Call her the kid. The girl. The bitch. Call her anything, but don't call her by her name. If the shit hits the fan, we might have to do her, and it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to do it if you've forged a relationship with her. Get it?'
'Got it.' Canning spooned the scrambled eggs on to a paper plate, then put the plate and a plastic fork on a tray. 'You've done this before, haven't you?'
'Not with a kid, no. But I've held guys before.'
'For ransom, like?'
'No. Not for ransom.'
'For what, then?'
McEvoy made himself a cup of instant coffee and spooned in three sugars. 'What is this, Twenty Questions?'
'Just want to know where I stand, that's all. Background.'
McEvoy folded his arms across his chest and leant against the fridge. 'Background it is you want, huh? Background? I used to work for a unit attached to the Civil Administration Team, how's that for background?'
Canning raised his eyebrows in surprise. He'd known that McEvoy was active in the IRA, but the Civil Administration Team was the organisation's internal security unit, composed of only the most trusted, and vicious, activists. When the IRA needed prisoners or traitors interrogated or tortured, it was the Civil Administration Team that was called in. And most of the men and women they interrogated ended up dead.
McEvoy saw the look of surprise. 'Yeah, the best of the best, the hardest of the hard.'
'Shit.'
'Yeah. If there was anyone they thought was bad, we'd go in and get them, hold them until we were sure we weren't being watched, then the heavy mob would move in. To do the business. They were hard bastards, Mick. You wouldn't want to meet them on a dark night. On any fucking night. You knew that if they were on the case, someone was gonna end up dead. That's what I mean about not getting involved. You don't use their names, you don't say please and thank you, you don't ask them how they are. Okay, you might smile and keep them chatting until you get them into the safe house, but then you tie them up and throw a blanket over their heads. You don't talk to them and you don't look at them. You treat them like meat because that's all they are. Meat. Dead meat.'
'And are you saying that's what Katie is? Dead meat?'
'She might be. She might not be.' He sipped his coffee. 'But why take the risk? Maybe her mother's going to do what Egan wants, maybe everything's going to go exactly the way Egan's planned, but if worst comes to worst, we've got to be prepared to do what's necessary.' He looked across at Canning with narrowed eyes. 'What we're being paid for.' He nodded at the tray. 'Her eggs are getting cold.'
– «»-«»-«»Lydia McCracken thanked the two shop assistants and gave them each five pounds. The two teenagers had trundled two tumble-driers and four electric ovens out of the discount warehouse and loaded them into the back of the blue Peugeot van, and they were both panting and sweating. They thanked her and walked away, grinning at the unexpected tip. Mark Quinn loaded four large coffee grinders and four electric woks into the van and slammed the door shut.
McCracken got into the passenger seat and told Quinn to drive back to the industrial estate. As he drove, she checked a computer print-out that she had attached to a metal clipboard. Most of the items on the list had now been purchased, and all the chemicals had already been delivered to the office in Cathay Tower. They were ready to go on to the next stage.
It took an hour to get back to the factory unit that they were using as their base. It was on a large industrial estate on the outskirts of Milton Keynes, less than half a mile from the M1. McCracken had leased the unit almost a year earlier in the name of a metal tubing manufacturing company. There was a parking area at the rear of the unit, with spaces for more than two dozen vehicles. The blue Transit van in the landscaping company livery was there, along with the two courier vans, a grey Volvo and a black VW Passat. There was also a 250CC Yamaha motorcycle with a black back-box, and a small scooter. All the vehicles had genuine paperwork and were taxed, insured and MoT'd.
Quinn parked the Peugeot next to one of the courier vans. 'Don and I'll take the Transit to the airport,' said McCracken. 'Leave the stuff in the van for now.'
They got out of the van and went inside the factory. O'Keefe was sitting at the table, playing Patience.
'She okay?' asked McCracken.
'Not a peep,' said O'Keefe, flicking the pack of cards with his thumbnail. His gun was hanging in its holster on the back of his chair. McCracken's gun was where she'd left it, on top of her holdall.
She looked at her wristwatch. 'Right, we're going to drop the Hayes woman at Shepherds Bush at two. Mark, you'd better head off now. Careful how you park the bike.'
'No sweat,' said Quinn. He went over to a large canvas duffel bag and pulled out a black crash helmet, a leather motorcycle jacket and a pair of padded leather gloves. 'Catch you later,' he said, heading for the door.
'Mark, hold on,' said McCracken. She went over to him, brushing her dyed blond hair behind her ears. 'Remember, keep your distance. No eye contact, right? Just check she gets there, and that she doesn't talk to anyone or use the phone.'
Quinn looked pained, as if he resented being given such specific instructions. 'I'm not stupid,' he said. He pulled the crash helmet over his head and flipped down the visor.
McCracken wanted to emphasise how important it was that Hayes didn't spot Quinn following her, but she could see that he wasn't receptive to any advice. He was young and headstrong, and McCracken was starting to wonder if it had been a mistake recruiting him. Not that it was her mistake. Egan had put the team together.
She took her ski mask off the table and put it on. O'Keefe put his on, too. Outside they heard Quinn start up the motorcycle and drive away.
McCracken slipped on her leather gloves and went through to the office section, where she called out Andy's name. Andy opened the door. She'd changed into a pair of black jeans and a white shirt.
'Have you got a suit?' asked McCracken. 'Something suitable for an office?'
Andy looked down at her jeans. 'No. I've got these and what I was wearing when you brought me here.'
'What are you? A size ten?'
'On a good day.'
'You can wear one of mine. We're about the same size.'
McCracken waved at Andy to follow her, and the two women went through to the factory area. McCracken sat down at the table next to O'Keefe. She nodded at the third chair and Andy sat down.
'We're moving out of here,' said McCracken. Her briefcase was on the floor next to her chair, and she swung it on to the table and clicked open the locks. She took out an A-Z London street directory and passed it over to Andy. 'Page forty-two,' she said. 'I've marked the building. It's called Cathay Tower. The address is on a card at the front.'
Andy flicked to the front of the book and found a three-by-four-inch piece of white card. On it was written 'ORVICE WILLIAMS BROKING INTERNATIONAL LIMITED' and an address.
'It's on the ninth floor,' said McCracken.
'I don't understand…' protested Andy, but McCracken held up a gloved hand to silence her.
'You don't have to understand,' she said. 'You just have to do as you're told.' She took a laminated identification badge from the briefcase and handed it to Andy. 'This'll get you into the building. You go there and wait for us. We'll be there first thing tomorrow morning.'
Andy looked at the badge. It had a small metal clip so that it could be attached to clothing. The name of the broking firm was on the badge. So was another name, Sally Higgs, a scrawled signature and Andy's photograph, the Polaroid picture that had been taken on her arrival at the factory unit.
McCracken stood up. 'On your way to the tower, you don't speak to anyone, you don't phone anyone. You will be watched, Andrea. Every step of the way. If you try to communicate with anyone, anyone at all, we'll simply disappear and you'll never hear from us again. Or your daughter.'
Andy stared at the badge.
'You understand?'
'Yes,' mumbled Andy. She looked around the factory as if trying to get her bearings. 'How do I get there?'
'I'll explain that later. But first there's something I want to show you.' She stood up, and Andy followed her across to the computer.
McCracken clicked on the mouse and a view of the Cathay Tower office filled the screen. Andy stared at it, not understanding.
'This is the office we'll be using,' explained McCracken. She clicked on the mouse again. Another view of the office appeared. 'We can see every bit of the office from here,' she said. 'So when you get there, just make yourself comfortable and wait for us. You'll be there on your own tonight, but we'll be watching you.'
Andy nodded, but said nothing.
'You're doing fine, Andrea,' said McCracken. 'Just keep on doing as we ask and this will all be over soon and you'll be back with your family.'
'I want to call my husband.'
'I can't let you do that, Andrea.'
Andy lowered her voice. 'If you don't, Martin'll go to the police, I know he will.'
'He won't. He'll be too worried about what'll happen to you and Katie.'
'No, you don't know him. He'll want to do something. He'll want to react, and by not communicating with him, you're not giving him any choice. There's only one thing he can do. He'll go to the police.'
Green-eyes studied Andy without replying.
'It's been almost five days since you took Katie. He hasn't heard from me since Wednesday night, so…'
Green-eyes stiffened. 'You spoke to him on Wednesday night? You called him from the hotel?'
'You didn't say I wasn't to,' said Andy. 'It was the only call I made. You just said I wasn't to call the police. He needed to know that I was okay. And he needs to know that I'm still okay. Because if he doesn't…' She left the sentence hanging.
'He's not going to do anything that might endanger you and your daughter,' said Green-eyes.
'If he doesn't hear from me, or from Katie, he's going to think that there's nothing to lose by going to the police. Five days is a long time when you're waiting for news. He's a builder, he works with his hands, he's used to doing things, don't you understand? He'll feel that he has to do something. And if you don't let me talk to him, I think he'll go to the police. He'll want to do something, anything, and by not communicating with him you've taken away all his options.'
'I can't trust you, Andrea. Look at that business with the letter at the hotel.'
'I'm sorry. That was stupid. Look, you know I want to talk to him because I miss him – you can understand that, can't you? I want to talk to my husband. But I know what will happen if he does go to the police and you find out. I don't want that to happen. I don't know why you're doing this and I don't want to know. I just don't want anything to happen to my daughter. And if Martin knows that I'm okay, and that Katie's okay, then he'll be more likely to wait and see how it works out.'
'Let me think about it,' said Green-eyes.
'You've got a mobile phone, haven't you? A cellular?'
Green-eyes didn't react.
'So let me use that. It's not in your name, is it? I mean, I'm assuming that…'
Andy wanted to say more but she didn't want to risk antagonising Green-eyes. Green-eyes hadn't known that Andy had phoned Martin from London. That meant the phone in Dublin wasn't tapped. There had to be a way that she could make use of that knowledge. Green-eyes looked across at her and Andy forced herself to smile.
Green-eyes went over to a table and picked up her mobile phone. 'What's the number?'
Andy gave her the number and Green-eyes tapped it in. She listened to check that it was ringing, then handed it to Andrea. 'Any tricks, any at all, and it'll be Katie who'll suffer. And I want you to ask him if he's gone to the police.'
'Okay. Okay.' Andy couldn't believe that Green-eyes was letting her use the phone. Part of her was convinced that she was going to snatch the handset away at the last moment.
Martin answered and Andy's heart pounded. 'Martin? It's me.'
'Oh, sweet Jesus, thank God. How are you? Where are you?'
'Martin, did you go to the police?'
'Where are you? Are you okay? Andy, what's happening?'
'Martin, listen to me. Did you go to the police?'
'No. No I didn't.'
Andy put her hand over the receiver. 'It's okay. He hasn't spoken to the police.' Green-eyes nodded and motioned for Andy to continue with the call.
Martin panicked. 'Andy, Andy, don't go. Talk to me, don't go…'
'It's okay,' said Andy. 'I'm here. But you have to listen to me. love. I'm okay, and they say that Katie's okay. I'm fine, too. They're not hurting me. Look, Martin, there's something they want me to do for them. It's not going to take long, then they say they'll let me come home. Katie, too.'
'I've got the money ready,' said Martin. 'Almost four hundred thousand pounds. Tell them I've got the money.'
'They don't want money, Martin. Listen to me, love. They don't want the money. They just want me to…'
Green-eyes stepped forward and tried to take the phone from Andy. Andy took a step back, trying to keep the phone away from her. 'No details,' Green-eyes hissed.
'Okay, okay,' said Andy. 'Sorry. I'm sorry.' She held the phone to her face again. 'Martin, they don't want money. That's all I can tell you. But they've assured me that so long as you don't go to the police, they won't hurt me or Katie. You have to promise me that you won't go to the police.'
'I promise,' said Martin. 'But what's happening? What do they want?'
Andy ignored his question.
'Just wait there and we'll be back with you soon. We'll all be together again, just like we were before. You can take us to Venice. Like you promised. It'll be so great to go back. You and me, and Katie. It's going to happen, Martin. Just don't do anything to rock the boat, okay?'
Andy was rambling; the words were tumbling out and running into each other as if she were scared that he might interrupt.
'Okay, love. I promise. Swear to God. I won't go to the police. Tell them, I won't go to the police.'
Green-eyes grabbed the phone and pulled it away from Andy. 'That's enough,' she said.
'Thank you,' Andy said. 'Thanks for letting me talk to him. He was frantic'
Green-eyes switched the phone off. She went over to the table and put the phone in her briefcase and locked it. 'What did you mean about Venice?'
'That's where we went on our honeymoon. He's been promising to take Katie there for ages. She saw the honeymoon pictures and wanted to know why she wasn't there. You know how kids are.'
Green-eyes turned to look at Andy, scowling. 'You weren't trying to be clever, were you, Andrea?'
'What do you mean?'
Green-eyes didn't reply. She sat down, steepled her fingers under her chin and stared at Andy with unblinking eyes.
'He hasn't gone to the police, and now he won't,' said Andy. 'Now he knows that I'm okay.' She dropped down on to one of the chairs. 'Are you really going to use it? The bomb?'
'Does it matter?'
'Of course it matters. Are you building it as a threat, or are you going to set it off?'
'Would it make you feel better if I said we weren't going to use it?'
'Of course.'
Green-eyes smiled thinly. 'Is that what you used to do in the IRA? Build bombs and not use them?'
'Sometimes you can get the same effect by just putting a bomb in place, if disruption's your aim. That's the purpose of coded warnings. You want civilians out of the way and you want to tie up the authorities. You make your point but you don't actually kill anyone.'
'Maybe that's what we're going to do, then. Does that make you feel better?'
'Now you're humouring me.'
'What do you expect me to do, Andrea? Do you think I'm going to tell you what we're planning to do? Why would I do that?'
'Have you thought this through? Have you thought through what'll happen if you explode a four-thousand-pound bomb in the City of London? Whatever it is you think you're going to achieve, the backlash will destroy you. Look at what happened when the bomb went off in Omagh. It finished the Real IRA. Everyone turned against them.'
Green-eyes picked up her briefcase. 'We've got work to do. Come on.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin absent-mindedly patted Dermott's chest and the dog panted happily. 'She's okay,' Martin said, and the dog's grin widened as if he understood and was as overjoyed as his owner. 'She's okay and Katie's okay.'
Martin felt light-headed, almost drunk. Part of him wanted to jump around and shout with relief. Andy was alive. So was his Katie. Over the past few days his imagination had run riot, and he'd come close to convincing himself that his wife and daughter were dead, that the only option he had left was to go to the police. He thanked God that he hadn't. He'd done the right thing by waiting. Andy was safe. And if what she'd said was true, she and Katie would be back home soon. They'd be a family again. His heart had almost stopped when she'd asked him if he'd spoken to the police. He realised that the kidnappers were monitoring the conversation, and he'd decided on the spur of the moment that he had to lie. If he'd told Andy that the police had turned up on his doorstep the kidnappers might think that he'd called them. Best not to mention it and hope that Sergeant O'Brien believed his story.
Martin's sense of relief was tempered by the realisation that he still didn't know what the kidnappers wanted. She'd made it clear that they didn't want money. So what did they want? What was so important that they needed Andy? It didn't make any sense at all. Andy was a housewife. A homemaker. She took care of him and she raised Katie and she did occasional freelance work for the Irish Independent and some Dublin magazines. She had been a journalist for a couple of years before Katie was born, a feature writer with a growing reputation, before she'd decided that she didn't want to miss out on Katie's childhood. Once Katie had been old enough to go to school, she'd tried to restart her career, but only in a half-hearted way. Her family was her main concern, and it wasn't as if they needed the money.
So what was it that the kidnappers wanted from her? It couldn't have been her journalistic skills. So what else did she have that they wanted? It was a mystery, and it was driving Martin crazy.
He stopped patting Dermott and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. And what had Andy meant by taking her to Venice? They'd never discussed going there. He'd never been to Venice. Neither had she. Hell, they'd never even been to Italy.
– «»-«»-«»McEvoy looked up from the portable television set. 'It's almost noon,' he said. 'The flight's at two-thirty.'
'Yeah, I know,' said Canning.
'So we'll need the fucking tapes. All seven of them.'
'For fuck's sake, George, I'll take care of it.'
'So take care of it.'
'Look, the wee girl's sick. Her throat's swollen up like I don't know what.'
'She's got flu, you said.'
'It looks like flu. But her throat's bad. She can barely talk.'
McEvoy looked at his wristwatch, then pushed himself up out of his armchair. 'Let's see if I can't get the little bird to sing.' He reached for the video camera and a stack of tapes on the table next to where Canning was filling in the crossword in the Irish Independent.
'I'll do it,' said Canning.
McEvoy patted him on the shoulder, then gripped it tightly, his fingers biting into Canning's flesh. 'You stay where you are, Mick. I'd hate to tear you away from your sword.'
McEvoy grinned wolfishly and put on his ski mask. He went down into the basement. The girl was curled up on her bed. She looked over her shoulder as he went up to her.
'Sit the fuck up,' he said.
'What?' she said sleepily. She rubbed her eyes.
'Sit the fuck up and do as you're told. I don't have time to piss around.'
'I don't feel well,' said Katie.
'Yeah, me neither.' He pulled the wooden chair away from the table and sat on it, facing the bed. 'Right, when I press this button, I want you to tell you mum and dad that you're all right. Tell them that you miss them, tell them anything you want. Then I want you to say that it's Sunday.'
'But it isn't. It's Saturday.'
McEvoy grabbed her by the hair. 'I don't give a flying fuck what day it is. I want you to say it's Sunday, okay?'
Tears sprang into Katie's eyes. 'I don't feel well.'
'You're going to feel a lot fucking worse if you don't do as you're told,' hissed McEvoy. 'Remember how I cut your hair? How would you like it if I cut off one of your ears? You wouldn't like that, would you?'
Katie shook her head. 'No,' she said.
McEvoy released his grip on her hair and she rubbed her head, glaring at him reproachingly. 'And if you don't wipe that fucking sour look off your face, I'll smack you good and proper.'
Katie forced a smile.
'That's better,' said McEvoy. 'Right. Now let's record this message. Then we'll do one for the rest of the days of the week. And if you give me any more trouble, any trouble at all, I'm going to cut off your ear, okay?'
Katie stared at him with wide eyes. She nodded slowly.
– «»-«»-«»Andy lay in the back of the Transit van, the sound of the engine muffled by the hood she'd been made to wear. Green-eyes was in the front passenger seat and the Wrestler was driving.
Next to her on the floor was a black briefcase that Green-eyes had given her. That and the dark blue suit and raincoat she'd been supplied with would give credence to her story that she was an office worker having to work a weekend shift. Green-eyes had said that the rest of Andy's belongings would be delivered the next day.
Outside the van she heard blaring horns and motorcycle engines, and in the distance the siren of an ambulance. They'd turned off the motorway some twenty minutes or so earlier.
'Nearly there, Andrea,' said Green-eyes. 'Are you okay?'
'No, I'm not okay,' said Andy. 'I'm hot and uncomfortable and I can hardly breathe.'
'Just a few minutes.'
The van braked and Andy slid along the metal floor, her knee banging against the briefcase. The van made a series of turns, then came to a halt.
'Now then, Andrea, listen to me carefully. I want you to sit up with your back to us, then take off the hood. Open the doors, close them, then walk away from the van. The Tube station is right ahead of you. Don't look back. Just keep walking into the station. And remember, you're going to be watched every step of the way. Do you understand?'
'Yes.'
'Go on, then.'
Andy followed the instructions and climbed out of the back of the van with the briefcase. She slammed the doors shut and walked straight to the station, keeping her head down. She knew they'd be watching her in the mirrors and didn't want to give them any reason to suspect that she was trying to sneak a look at them.
She went over to the ticket machines and bought a single ticket to Bank station with the change that Green-eyes had given her, then went through the barrier and took the escalator down to the eastbound Central Line platform.
The platform was crowded. The overhead indicator said that the next train would be along in two minutes. She walked along the platform, weaving in and out of the waiting passengers. She passed a chocolate vending machine and a public telephone. The phone was of the kind that took pre-paid phone cards and not cash, but even if she had a card there was no way she could risk making a call. There were almost a hundred people on the eastbound platform and any of them could have been tailing her. She walked by the phone and stood at the edge of the platform, staring down at the rails. A mouse scuttled along the sleepers, seeking the sanctuary of the tunnel.
Andy looked back along the platform. A businessman in a pin-stripe suit was looking at her. He smiled but she ignored him. A tall man in his twenties walked by nodding his head in time with the music he was playing through a Sony Walkman. He was wearing a denim jacket with a Harley Davidson emblem on the back, and had the volume up so high that other passengers were giving him dirty looks. A woman in a sheepskin jacket looked up from the copy of the Evening Standard she was reading and glared at the guy in the denim jacket. Could she be Green-eyes? wondered Andy. Had she got out of the van as soon as Andy had gone into the station? She had no way of knowing. The only means she had of identifying her was from her eyes, and she was too far away to see what colour they were.
A teenager in a black leather motorcycle jacket was leaning against the vending machine, picking his teeth with a match. He looked away. Could he be one of them? She'd heard a motorcycle drive away from the factory about half an hour before Green-eyes had given her the suit and told her to get into the back of the Transit. She looked away, then stole another quick glance at him. He seemed shorter than the Runner, and he was certainly thinner than the Wrestler, but there could be other members of the gang that she hadn't seen.
A breeze on her left cheek signalled the imminent arrival of the eastbound train, and Andy took a step back from the platform. The train pulled into the station and Andy stepped into a carriage. There were several empty seats but she was too tense to sit down. She held on to one of the overhead bars and braced herself as the doors closed and the train roared off into the tunnel. She looked around. The man in the motorcycle jacket was sitting at the far end of the carriage, picking his nose. Was he the one? Andy looked away, not wanting to establish eye contact with him.
The journey to Bank station seemed interminable. People got off. People got on. The man in the leather jacket stayed put, his arms folded across his chest.
Eventually Andy reached her destination. As she rode up the escalator to the surface, she looked over her shoulder. There was no sign of the man in the leather jacket.
After she'd passed through the ticket barrier, she took the A-Z street directory out of her raincoat pocket and used it to find her way to Cathay Tower.
There was a grey-haired security man with a drinker's nose sitting at a reception desk. He barely glanced at Andy's name badge. She walked past him to the lifts.
From the entrance to a building on the opposite side of the street, Quinn watched Andy go into Cathay Tower. He switched off his Walkman and pulled his headphones down around his neck. From the inside pocket of his denim jacket he took out a mobile phone and tapped out McCracken's number. She answered on the fifth ring. 'She's home and dry.' he said.
'Okay. Get back to the bike and head up to the factory,' she said. 'Keep an eye on the computer until we get back.'
She cut the connection. Quinn put the phone back into his pocket and put the headphones back on, then headed back to Bank station. He'd parked his motorcycle in a multistorey carpark in Shepherds Bush, his helmet and leather jacket locked in the back-box.
– «»-«»-«»Canning looked up as McEvoy came out of the basement and bolted the door. 'Easy peasy,' said McEvoy, tossing the videocassettes on to the kitchen table. 'I've always had a way with kids and small animals.'
Canning gathered up the cassettes and put them into a plastic carrier bag together with the two he'd recorded.
'Is she okay?'
McEvoy reached for a bottle of Bushmills and poured himself a glassful. 'She's fine and dandy, Mick, my boy. Don't you worry your pretty little head about her.' He looked at his wristwatch. 'You'd best be going.'
Canning looked across at the bolted door. He didn't like the idea of leaving McEvoy alone with the little girl, but didn't see that he had any choice. McCracken had said that he was to deliver the tapes, and he doubted that he'd be able to persuade McEvoy to go in his place. He put the carrier bag into his holdall and got his British Midland ticket from a drawer in the sitting room. When he got back to the kitchen, McEvoy was draining his glass. He held up the bottle. 'Get some more whiskey, will you?'
Canning nodded and went outside to the Mondeo. He drove to the airport, parked the car in a short-term carpark, and checked in an hour before his flight to Heathrow.
McCracken was waiting for him in the buffet on the arrivals floor of Terminal One, sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in front of her. Canning bought himself a coffee and a sandwich and sat at a neighbouring table with his back to her.
Everything okay?' McCracken asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
'Everything's fine,' said Canning, not looking around. He took the carrier bag from his holdall. A middle-aged couple with three unruly children sat at a nearby table. Two of the children started arguing about where they were going to sit on the plane, and the mother slapped the bigger of the two. Canning flinched. He'd never hit either of his own children – never had, never would. He put the carrier bag down on the floor and gently pushed it back under his seat.
He heard McCracken bend down and pull the carrier bag between her legs, then heard her open and close her briefcase. A few minutes later she stood up and walked away, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Canning stayed where he was, finishing his coffee. He listened to the three children squabbling and arguing and wished that he was with his own kids. His soon-to-be ex-wife he could live without, but his children were the most important things in his life.
– «»-«»-«»McCracken opened the door to the Transit and slid into the passenger seat, placing her briefcase on her lap. O'Keefe started the van and edged away from the terminal, squeezing in front of an Avis coach. McCracken wound down the window.
They drove in silence for a while, the slipstream tugging at McCracken's dyed blond hair. She took a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment and put them on. O'Keefe broke the silence first. 'What are we going to do with the Hayes woman?' he asked.
'What do you mean?'
'When it's over.'
McCracken tapped her red-painted fingernails on her briefcase but didn't reply.
'She did hear, didn't she?'
McCracken turned to look at him. 'I'm not sure. If she did, she hid it well.'
'She must have heard. She knows my name.'
'Maybe.'
'Maybe? That twat Quinn yelled it across the factory, right enough. She must have heard.'
McCracken screwed up her face as if she had a sour taste in her mouth. 'She might have heard, but that's not to say that she realised the significance.'
'Significance my arse,' hissed O'Keefe. 'He used my name. She heard it. If she tells the cops, I'm fucked. How long do you think it'd take to track me down?'
'All she heard – all she might have heard – was Don. Maybe she'll think you're a Mafia boss.'
'This isn't fucking funny, McCracken. This is my life we're talking about. I'll put a bullet in her myself rather than go down for this.'
McCracken turned away and stared out of the windscreen.
'She's got to be dealt with, McCracken. If I go down, we all go down. There's going to be no Marquis of Queensberry rules after this – it'll be a rubber-lined room with a drain in the floor, and they'll beat the fuck out of me until they get what they want.'
'No one's going down,' said McCracken quietly.
'So when it's over, she's dead.' O'Keefe banged on the horn as a minibus cut him up. He accelerated and overtook the minibus, flashing the driver a dirty look.
McCracken opened her briefcase and took out the carrier bag. She counted the tapes. Seven.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning parked the Mondeo by the wooden garage and let himself in through the back door. McEvoy was watching the portable television in the sitting room, his feet propped up on a low coffee table. The Smith amp; Wesson was in his lap, and he had a glass of Bushmills resting on his stomach.
Canning asked McEvoy if he wanted a coffee but McEvoy just lifted his whiskey glass and shook his head, his eyes never leaving the television screen.
'How's the girl?' asked Canning.
'No idea,' said McEvoy. 'How was McCracken?'
'She was there. I gave her the stuff and got the next plane back.'
'She say there were any problems?'
'Didn't say a word. Just took the tapes and left.'
McEvoy pulled a face. 'Must be going okay, then. I guess if it wasn't, she'd have told us to off the kid.' He grinned at Canning. 'Only messing with you, Mick.'
Canning nodded at the gun. 'You expecting trouble, George?'
'You can never have your gun too close,' said McEvoy. 'Didn't they teach you that in the INLA?' He noticed that Canning was holding a white plastic carrier bag. 'What's in the bag?'
'Comics. For Katie. Picked them up at the airport.'
McEvoy shook his head in disgust. 'You'll spoil the little brat.'
Canning held the bag to his chest as if he feared that McEvoy would try to take it away from him. 'The happier she is, the easier she'll be to handle.'
'Bribe her, you mean? Is that how you control your own kids?' He took a swig of his whiskey. 'Never got anything from my da, other than a clip around the ear when he'd had too much of the amber fluid.'
'Yeah, well, that probably accounts for your well-balanced personality and your easy-going nature,' said Canning.
'Never did me any harm,' said McEvoy.
'You an only child?' asked Canning.
'Nah. One of eight. Seven sisters. That's probably why me da used to knock me around. He'd never lift a finger against a woman.'
Canning leaned against the door. 'What about you, George?'
McEvoy balanced his glass on his stomach and stretched his arms above his head as he yawned. 'What do you mean?' he growled.
Canning gestured with his thumb at the door to the basement. 'Suppose McCracken had said that the mother wasn't co-operating. Suppose she said that we had to, you know…' He pointed with his first and second fingers, forming his hand into the shape of a gun and cocking his thumb. 'Would you?'
'Like a shot,' said McEvoy. He laughed at the unintentional pun. 'Like a fucking shot.' His belly rippled as he laughed and the glass tumbled to the floor. 'Fuck. Now look at what you've made me do,' he said. He sat up, retrieved the glass and poured himself a refill.
Canning headed towards the basement door.
'Where the fuck are you going?' said McEvoy.
'I'm going to give her the magazines.'
'She'll be asleep. Leave it until tomorrow.'
Canning stopped in the hallway. McEvoy was right – it was almost eleven o'clock. He'd give them to her tomorrow.
'Are you gonna cook?' asked McEvoy, lounging back in his chair and sipping his fresh glass of whiskey. He grinned when he saw the look of annoyance on Canning's face. He put down his whiskey and held up his hands in mock surrender. 'Okay, okay, I'll cook if you want. But you know it'll taste like shit.'
Canning walked back to the kitchen. McEvoy had only cooked once since they'd moved into the cottage, and it had been a disaster. Sausages fried to a crisp, mashed potatoes with half the peel still on them, and lukewarm peas. It had taken the best part of an hour to clean the frying pan afterwards. 'What do you feel like?' he asked.
'I feel like going out and getting my end away,' said McEvoy, kicking off his shoes. 'That's what I fucking feel like.' He took another swig from his glass. 'But I'll settle for beans on toast.'
– «»-«»-«»Mark Quinn clicked on the mouse and the picture on the VDU changed to a view of the bathroom. He leaned back in his chair and watched as the Hayes woman brushed her teeth. She held her blond hair in a ponytail as she spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth.
Her hair looked genuinely blond, soft and golden, not at all like McCracken's dyed hair which was dark brown, almost black, at the roots. She came out of the bathroom and Quinn clicked the mouse again. He found her in the giant trading room, walking across to one of the half-dozen desks that were still in place. There was a telephone on the desk and she reached out a hand to it.
'Naughty, naughty,' said Quinn. 'You've been told not to use the phone.'
The woman looked around furtively, squinting up at the ceiling.
'You'll never find it,' said Quinn. 'It's too well hidden.'
The woman looked at the phone again, her hand only inches away from it. Quinn grinned, wondering how she was going to resolve her dilemma. She'd been told not to use the phone, but she obviously wanted to talk to her husband.
There was a squeal of brakes outside and Quinn stiffened. A door opened and then slammed shut. Quinn relaxed. It was the Transit van. On the monitor, the Hayes woman was still frozen, hand outstretched. The second van door open and closed and Quinn heard McCracken say something to O'Keefe.
The side door opened and McCracken and O'Keefe came in. McCracken called across the factory floor, 'What's she doing?'
'Struggling with her conscience,' said Quinn.
McCracken walked up behind Quinn and looked at the monitor. On the screen, Andrea turned away from the phone and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
'No balls,' said Quinn.
'Well, that's the thing about women, Mark,' said McCracken. 'As I'm sure you'll learn one day.'
Quinn scowled at her. 'It would have been easier just to tell her that all the phones have been disconnected,' he said. McCracken had already walked off to the offices and didn't hear him. 'Bitch,' he added, under his breath.
– «»-«»-«»Egan had thought long and hard about what to do with Martin Hayes. Not that he had any doubts that Hayes had to die – that had been a foregone conclusion once the Garda Siochana had turned up on his doorstep. What concerned Egan was the method; he wanted to cause as few ripples as possible, and his first thought had been to kill Hayes the same way he'd disposed of the headmistress' secretary – talk his way into the house, hold a gun to his head, make him stand on the plastic sheeting, then put a bullet in his skull. It was relatively mess-free – the body could be wrapped up in the sheet of plastic, placed in the plastic-lined boot of the car, and then buried in some out-of-the-way place. The big drawback was that if Hayes disappeared, the police would start looking for him. And they'd start searching for his wife and daughter. They might turn to the media, and the last thing Egan wanted was to have Andrea Hayes's face splashed across the evening news.
The police would need a body, but if they knew it was murder they'd start a full-scale investigation, and that meant more publicity. They'd be looking for a killer, someone who had a reason for wanting Hayes dead, and that would start them looking into his background, and eventually that would lead them to his wife's past. Egan would have to give them a body, but in such a way that there wouldn't be a murder investigation, and that meant that Martin Hayes would have to kill himself.
On the passenger seat of the Scorpio was a length of rope, already knotted, in a white plastic carrier bag. Under his jacket, snug in its leather shoulder holster, was the Browning. There'd be no need to use the gun, no need even to threaten violence against Hayes. Egan would give the man a simple choice: Hayes could write a farewell note saying that he couldn't live without his wife and daughter, and then hang himself with the rope. If he refused, Egan would simply tell Hayes that he was going to kill him anyway, make it look like suicide, and then he would torture and kill his wife and child. Egan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Hayes would do anything if he thought it would save the lives of his wife and child. Even if it meant taking his own life.
Egan guided the Scorpio down a tree-lined road, his gloved hands light on the steering wheel. Ahead of him was Martin's redbrick house, its slated roof glistening wetly from a recent shower of rain. Egan checked his rear-view mirror. There was a police car behind him. No blue light, no siren, just two uniformed officers going about their duties, not suspecting that a few yards in front of them was a man with a gun who would shortly be forcing another human being to take his own life. Egan smiled to himself as he drove. It was going to be so easy, but then the best plans always were.
– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes was lying on the sofa watching the late-night news when the doorbell rang. Dermott started barking and ran into the hall. Martin shouted at the dog to be quiet and went to open the door. It was the two gardai who'd called the previous day. The older one, O'Brien, tapped the peak of his cap with a gloved hand. 'Evening, Mr Hayes.'
'What's wrong?' asked Martin.
O'Brien smiled without warmth. 'Why should anything be wrong, Mr Hayes?'
'It's ten o'clock at night and there are two officers of the Garda Siochana on my doorstep. I don't suppose you're here to sell me tickets to your Christmas ball.'
O'Brien chuckled, but his younger colleague stared at Hayes with hard, unsmiling eyes. Martin wondered if they'd rehearsed the 'good cop, bad cop' routine before pressing his doorbell, O'Brien playing the relaxed, matey garda you could trust, the younger one staring with barely concealed hostility, hoping to put Martin off balance.
He looked over O'Brien's shoulder, wondering if the kidnappers were watching the house, and if they were, what they'd make of a second visit by uniformed gardai within twenty-four hours. He knew there was no point in worrying – if the house was under surveillance, then the damage had already been done.
'Could we come in, Mr Hayes?' asked O'Brien.
Martin held the door open for them and sighed in resignation. O'Brien smiled and nodded as he walked by. 'It's a miserable night out,' he said.
Martin didn't reply. He closed the door and followed them into the sitting room. The gardai didn't sit down and Martin didn't ask them to. All three men stood in the middle of the room. O'Brien took off his cap. 'We were wondering if Mrs Hayes was back,' he said.
'No,' said Martin. 'Not yet.'
'But yesterday you said that she'd be back today, right?'
'That's what she said.'
'And she hasn't phoned?' he asked.
'Not since you were last here,' said Martin. The younger garda was looking around the room.
O'Brien pulled a face. 'Pity,' he said. 'We were hoping to have a word with her.'
'As soon as she calls, I'll have her phone you,' said Martin. 'I'm as keen as you are to put your minds at rest.'
'The thing is,' said O'Brien, 'we've spoken to your wife's Aunt Bessie.'
Martin caught his breath. He forced himself to smile. 'Really?'
'Took us a while to track her down, what with the limited information you had. Aunt Bessie. North Belfast. But we had a word with the local police and they were very cooperative.' He scratched his chin. 'Very co-operative,' he repeated.
Martin felt his hands begin to shake and folded his arms across his chest defensively. 'And?' he said.
'Oh. I think you know what the "and" is, Mr Hayes.'
Martin stared at O'Brien in silence. There was nothing he could say. If O'Brien really had spoken to the woman, then he'd already been caught in a lie.
Where is your wife, Mr Hayes?' O'Brien asked.
'Belfast.'
O'Brien shook his head slowly, but he was still smiling avuncularly, as if the worst he was going to do was cut off Martin's allowance.
The younger garda looked at the door to the hall. 'Do you have a bathroom I can use?'
Martin knew that the garda wanted to look around the house, and while he didn't like the idea of him prowling around, he couldn't refuse without appearing to have something to hide. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Upstairs. Second on the right.'
O'Brien tapped his cap against his leg. 'Did you and your wife have an argument, maybe?'
Martin swallowed. If he said he'd had a fight with Andy, then maybe they'd be more willing to accept that she'd left without warning. And if she was angry with him, that would explain why she'd taken Katie. He'd have to admit to lying, but it was an understandable lie. O'Brien was offering him a way out, but that didn't make any sense, not after all the questions. It was a trap, it had to be. Martin licked his lips. His mouth was painfully dry. All he had to do was admit to an argument and the pressure would be off him. He was just about to speak when he realised where the garda was leading him. Andy's car was in the drive. If she'd stormed off after a fight, she wouldn't have walked away, she'd have taken the car. The garda knew that, and he was hoping to catch Martin out in another lie. A lie that could imply he'd done something to harm his family. He looked O'Brien in the eye. 'No,' he said firmly. 'There was no argument.'
The garda nodded. 'All husbands and wives argue,' he said.
'I'm not disputing that,' said Martin. 'But Andy and I didn't have a fight on Wednesday.'
'Sarge!' called the younger garda from upstairs. 'There's something here you should look at.'
O'Brien sighed and smiled at Martin. 'Ah, the enthusiasm of youth,' he said. 'Why don't you come with me, Mr Hayes. Let's see what's got the boy all fired up.'
Martin and O'Brien went through into the hallway. The younger garda was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at the banister.
'What is it, Eamonn?' asked O'Brien.
'Have a look at this, Sarge.'
O'Brien climbed the stairs. He peered at the section of banister that his colleague was pointing at. It was the spot where Andy had fainted, Martin realised. Where she'd fainted and hit her head. 'It looks like blood,' said the younger garda.
O'Brien straightened up. 'I think you'd better come down to Pearse Street with us, Mr Hayes.'
They drove into the city centre in silence. Martin sat in the back of the patrol car, with O'Brien in the front passenger seat. They pulled up in front of the grey stone Garda station and O'Brien took Martin in. They walked through a reception area where a uniformed garda buzzed them through into a corridor. O'Brien led Martin to the far end of the corridor and showed him into a small room, barely three paces square. Martin turned to ask O'Brien how long he was going to be kept at the station, but before he could say anything the garda had closed the door.
There was a table which had been screwed to the concrete floor, and four plastic chairs, two each side. The walls were painted a mustard yellow which glistened under the fluorescent lights. Martin sat with his back to the door. The table was up against the wall to his right, and above it, on a thin chipboard shelf, was a black tape recorder with two cassette decks. Martin rested his elbows on the table and cupped his with the palms of his hands. He had no idea what he could do or say to get himself out of his predicament.
He tried to get his thoughts straight. The gardai obviously thought that Andy and Katie were missing. And they suspected that he had something to do with their disappearance, suspicions heightened by the discovery of the blood on the banister. They hadn't asked Martin for an explanation of the bloodstain, but he was sure that they'd test it and establish that it was Andy's. Then what? They'd assume that he'd hurt her, and the only way he'd be able to convince them otherwise would be to tell them about Katie's kidnapping.
– «»-«»-«»Egan settled back in the black Ford Scorpio and listened to the engine click as it cooled. He patted his left armpit and felt the reassuring hardness of his Browning Hi-Power pistol. The length of rope was under the front seat. Ahead of him he could see the grey granite frontage of Pearse Street police station. The two gardai had driven around to the back of the building and presumably taken Hayes inside through the rear entrance. From where he sat, Egan could see the front entrance and the way in to the carpark.
He had been just about to stop in front of Martin Hayes's house when a sixth sense had told him to keep on driving. He'd checked in his rear-view mirror and grinned to himself as the police car had pulled up at the kerb. Egan had driven on a few hundred yards past the house and waited. He'd seen the two gardai speak to Hayes on his doorstep, go inside, and then the three of them walk to the car several minutes later. Hayes looked pale, and he kept putting his hand up to his forehead as if trying to stave off a headache.
The two gardai were coldly efficient. One opened the back door for Hayes and got in next to him; the other, the younger one, waited until Hayes was in the back before climbing into the driving seat. The body language was enough to tell Egan that Hayes wasn't going willingly.
Egan doubted that Hayes would tell the police anything. Nothing he'd done so far suggested that he'd cave in under questioning. He'd stick to his story that his wife and daughter were out of town visiting a sick relative. But the police were suspicious, and they wouldn't be satisfied until they found out where his wife and daughter were. The more they probed, the more likely they were to discover what had happened.
They'd probably keep him in for a few hours, then release him. They'd have to let him go because they had nothing in the way of evidence against him. And once Hayes was back at home, Egan would pay him a visit. With the rope.
Apart from the arrival of the gardai, Egan was pleased with the way things were going. Following her phone call to her husband, the Hayes woman had been working hard on the bomb, and it looked as if it would be ready within three or four days. Well on schedule. Egan was looking forward to seeing the effects the massive bomb would have on the City of London. And to reaping the benefits. Seven million dollars.
Once the bomb had been detonated and the money had been transferred from Zurich to the Dutch Antilles, Egan would be able to start work on his next commission. He'd already been approached by a fanatical Muslim group in the Lebanon who wanted to blow up an El-Al flight. The Israeli airline was recognised as one of the safest in the world and had never been the victim of a successful terrorist attack. Egan was about to change all that. For a fee of two million dollars. But first things first. He had to take care of Martin Hayes.
– «»-«»-«»The door behind Martin opened but he didn't turn around. He sat where he was, his hands together on the table, fingers interlinked. Two men came into the room and sat opposite him. Not the gardai who'd brought him to the station – these were men in suits. Detectives. The man who sat directly opposite was in his late thirties, a thickset man with a comb-over and a sandy moustache. He looked at Martin over the top of spectacles with thick black frames, the sort Michael Caine used to wear in sixties spy films. He was wearing a grey suit with stains on the lapels and a brightly coloured Bugs Bunny tie. 'How are you doing, Mr Hayes?' he said jovially. 'My name is Detective Inspector James FitzGerald. My colleague here is Detective Sergeant John Power.'
The other man nodded. He was younger, in his late twenties maybe, and considerably better dressed. He had on an expensive blue pin-stripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with a crest on it, and gold cufflinks peeped out from his sleeves. He had a sharp, almost pointed nose, and inquisitive eyes that watched Martin's every move.
'Am I under arrest?' Martin asked.
'No, you're not,' said FitzGerald. He took off his spectacles and wiped them with the end of his tie. He looked up and saw Martin staring at the cartoon rabbit. 'Birthday present from my son, so I figured I had to wear it, you know? The wife bought it, obviously. My boy's only eight. I think she just enjoys embarrassing me.'
Martin said nothing. FitzGerald finished cleaning his lenses and put his spectacles back on, pushing them up his nose with his forefinger.
'So,' he said. 'Tell me about your wife, Mr Hayes.'
'What do you mean?'
'Does she embarrass you? Does she sometimes get on your nerves?'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'Your wife is missing, Mr Hayes. So is your daughter.'
'And you're saying I did something to them, is that it?' He jerked a thumb at the tape recorder. 'Shouldn't this be switched on? Shouldn't you be recording this?'
FitzGerald exhaled slowly through pursed lips. 'All we're doing at the moment is having a wee chat, Mr Hayes. If you want to make it official, we can do that. But then I'd have to caution you and then a whole process would start that once started can be difficult to stop. So if it's all right with you, I'd like to keep this low-key just at the moment.'
Martin nodded slowly. 'Okay.'
'So, where is Mrs Hayes?'
'She told me that she was going to Belfast. To see her aunt. Her Aunt Bessie. But I've just been told by your Sergeant O'Brien that she's not with Bessie.'
'But you told the school that she'd gone to see her mother. Your mother-in-law.'
Martin shook his head. 'No. She must have misheard. It's her aunt. That's what Andy told me. But now I don't know what to think.'
'And you told the gardai that you don't have this Aunt Bessie's telephone number or address.'
That's right.'
'So you can see why we're a little concerned, Mr Hayes. What with there being blood in the upstairs hallway and all.'
'Andy tripped. She tripped and banged her head.'
'Recently?'
'Last week.'
'Did she go to hospital?'
'There was no need. It was a small knock, that's all.'
'The thing of it is, Mr Hayes, we'd like to reassure ourselves that your wife isn't in any trouble,' said FitzGerald.
'I wish I could help,' said Hayes. 'Look, last time I spoke to my wife, she said she'd be back soon. As soon as she calls again, I'll have her telephone you. How's that?'
'Where did she call from?' asked Power. It was the first time he'd spoken since walking into the interview room.
'Belfast. Well, I assumed Belfast. Now I'm just plain confused.'
FitzGerald leaned forward. 'Are you sure there isn't something you want to tell us, Mr Hayes? Something you want to get off your chest?'
Martin folded his arms and sat back in his chair. 'This is a complete waste of time. My time and yours. When Andy turns up you're going to look pretty stupid.'
'I'm quite happy to look stupid if it means we find your wife and daughter, Mr Hayes,' said FitzGerald.
'It's not a question of finding them,' said Martin. 'They're not lost.'
FitzGerald and Power exchanged looks. Power shook his head. Martin had the feeling that they'd run out of questions.
'Can I go now?' he asked.
FitzGerald grimaced. 'To be honest, we'd rather you stayed here for a while yet, Mr Hayes. We're continuing with our enquiries, and it'd be a big help to us if you were here to answer any questions that might arise.'
'Enquiries? What sort of enquiries?'
'We're checking the blood on the banister, obviously. We'd like a Scene of Crime Officer to call round. With your permission, of course.'
'I've already explained about the blood. My wife tripped.'
'We'd still like to check. And have the SOCO take a look at the rest of the house. And the garden.'
'The garden?' Martin's jaw dropped. 'What the hell are you suggesting? That I've buried my wife and daughter in the garden?'
FitzGerald put his hands up. 'We're not suggesting anything, Mr Hayes. We're just working our way through a standard set of procedures, that's all.'
Martin shook his head. 'No, that's not all. You're suggesting I murdered my family.'
'Please, don't get upset,' said FitzGerald, in a soft, low voice that a parent might use to try to calm a petulant child. 'If everything happened as you've told us, you've nothing to worry about.'
Martin glared at the two detectives. He wanted to lash out, verbally and physically, but he knew that such a show of raw emotion would only be counterproductive. The only way he was going to walk out of Pearse Street was if he co-operated. Or at least, appeared to co-operate. He forced himself to smile. 'Okay,' he said. 'Do whatever you have to do.'
Power held out his hand. 'Can we borrow your keys?'
'Sure,' said Martin. He handed then over. 'Be careful of Dermott, will you?'
'Dermott?'
'Our dog. He might run off.'
'We'll be careful,' said Power.
'And what happens to me while your people are checking the house?'
FitzGerald and Power stood up. 'This room's free, so you're welcome to wait here,' said FitzGerald. 'I'll send a garda in with coffee. Maybe a sandwich.'
The two detectives left. They closed the door but Martin didn't hear a lock turning or a bolt being pushed across. He put his head in his hands, wondering what he should do, whether he should tell them what had really happened to Andy and Katie or continue to lie to them.