Canning switched on the light and unbolted the door to the basement. Katie was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, when he put the tray down on the table. 'Scrambled eggs and beans,' he said. 'Come and eat it before it gets cold.'
'What time is it?' she asked.
'Eight o'clock.'
'And it's Sunday today, isn't it?' Her voice sounded stuffy as if her nose was blocked.
'That's right.' He had three comics under one arm and he waved them at the little girl. 'I got these for you. Come and eat your eggs.'
Katie slid out of bed and padded across to the table. She picked up a glass of orange juice and drank half of it in one gulp.
'How's your throat?'
Katie shrugged and took another gulp of orange juice. 'It hurts a little bit.'
'Let me have a look,' said Canning. Katie tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Canning peered down her throat. It was still red, and when he gently touched the sides of her neck she winced.
Canning sat down at the table. He removed the glove from his right hand and touched her forehead. She still had a temperature.
'You didn't bring any clothes with me.' She pointed at her nightdress. 'This is smelly.'
Canning smiled. 'It's not smelly.' He put his glove back on, then took a pack of Day Nurse from his pocket, popped out a tablet and put it on the table. 'Eat your eggs and then swallow this,' he said.
Katie started to eat and Canning put his elbows on the table as he watched her.
'Mummy says that's bad manners,' she said.
Canning raised his eyebrows. 'What is?'
'Putting your elbows on the table while people are eating.'
Canning sat up straight. Katie put a forkful of egg in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then put down her plastic fork and leaned over her paper plate. 'If you let me go, I won't say anything. I promise.' She smiled. 'You won't get into trouble.' She waited to see what he'd say, smiling and nodding. Canning smiled behind his ski mask. Even aged seven, children, especially girls, could be so damn manipulative. His own daughter was the same. He could imagine Katie twisting her father around her little finger. Daddy, buy me this. Daddy, do this for me. Daddy, lift me up, carry me, love me.
Katie made the sign of the cross on her chest. 'Cross my heart and swear to die,' she said solemnly.
Canning shook his head. 'I can't let you go, Katie. Not yet. I'm sorry.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy lay on a sofa in the reception area, a big, sprawling sofa with huge cushions that seemed to fold around her like clouds. It had been just over four days since Katie had been kidnapped, and during those four days Andy's life had been turned upside down. Her daughter had been taken from her, she'd been forced to fly to London, she'd been kidnapped herself by three masked terrorists and told that she was to build a massive bomb in the City of London. Now here she was, sleeping on a sofa nine storeys up in an office block, under surveillance from hidden cameras, awaiting the arrival of the components of a bomb that, if successfully-detonated, could lay waste to several city blocks. As she drifted in and out of sleep, it felt as if it was all happening to someone else, as if it was a weird, surreal dream.
She half heard the lift doors open and close, but she didn't sit up until the doors to the outside corridor were flung open. It was the Wrestler, pushing a boxed spin-drier on a trolley. He was wearing dark blue overalls with the name of a kitchen-fitting firm emblazoned on the back in fiery red letters. 'Rise and shine,' he said. He wheeled the box by her sofa and into the office. He was followed by the Runner, who was also wearing overalls and pushing another loaded trolley. Even through the ski mask he was wearing, Andy could see that he was leering at her.
Green-eyes came in last, carrying several assorted boxes. Like the men, she was wearing overalls and training shoes. There wasn't a gun in sight, but that didn't mean anything because it wasn't the threat of being shot that was keeping Andy in the office.
'In here,' Green-eyes said to Andy, and Andy followed her through to the main office area. The Wrestler was manoeuvring the spin-drier off its trolley next to the wall farthest from the windows. Green-eyes put the boxes she was carrying down on the floor and pointed at the spin-drier. 'Andrea, you start taking them out of their boxes while we bring the rest of the stuff up.'
Andy tried opening the box with her bare hands but the cardboard was too tough. The Wrestler gave her a small penknife, and she hacked away at the box with it while her three captors went back outside.
It took them more than an hour to carry in all the equipment, and another half an hour until all the boxes were opened. The Wrestler had several extension cords, and he plugged in the spin-driers, ovens, electric woks and coffee grinders and checked that they were all functioning.
The Runner brought in a filter coffee-maker and took it along to the suite of offices at one end of the open-plan area, and a few minutes later he returned with mugs of steaming coffee. Green-eyes showed Andy her clipboard. On it was a computer print-out listing all the chemicals and equipment she had purchased. 'Am I missing anything?' she asked.
Andy scanned the list and shook her head. 'I don't think so.'
'I don't think so isn't good enough, Andrea. Check it carefully. Am I missing anything?'
Andy ran her finger down the list. Everything seemed to be there. Except for one thing. 'Detonators,' she said. 'You haven't got detonators.'
'That's in hand,' said Green-eyes. 'For the next couple of days, your only concern is the explosive, okay?'
Andy handed back the clipboard. 'In that case, it's all here.'
Green-eyes put the clipboard down on top of one of the spin-driers. 'Come this way,' she said, and she led Andy to a suite of offices, each with a floor-to-ceiling glass panel next to the door so that the interiors were visible from the corridor. One of the offices had been used as a meeting room and contained a long cherry-wood table with a dozen high-backed leather chairs around it. In one corner of the room was a large-screen Sony television and a video recorder. 'Sit down, Andrea,' said Green-eyes.
Andy did as she was told. The blinds were drawn, but the slats were a white opaque material and enough light seeped in to make the overhead fluorescent lights unnecessary. The coffee machine had been put on a sideboard along with several cartons of long-life milk, a bag of sugar and a box of Jaffa Cakes.
Green-eyes unlocked her burgundy briefcase and took out a small cassette tape. She slotted it into a larger cassette and fed it into the video recorder. 'You wanted to know that Katie's safe,' she said.
Andy leaned forward with anticipation. Green-eyes pressed the 'play' button. There were a few seconds of static, then Katie was there, smiling at the camera.
'Mummy, Dad, this is Katie. Your daughter,' said Katie. She sounded far away, as if she were at the end of a long, long tunnel. There was a short pause as if she were gathering her thoughts, then she continued. 'I'm fine. But I've got flu. I think.' She put her hand up to her throat, and Andy copied the gesture. 'My head hurts and my throat's sore. The nice man is going to give me some medicine to make it better so I should be okay soon.'
Katie paused and looked past the lens. Andy had the feeling that someone was prompting her to continue.
'He said to say it's Saturday and that I'm okay. Mummy. I want to come home…' The recording ended abruptly and Andy knew it was because her daughter had burst into tears.
Green-eyes clicked the video recorder off. 'She's safe, Andrea, and she'll stay that way so long as you do as we ask.'
'She's sick. I have to go to her,' said Andy.
'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped Green-eyes. She ejected the cassette and put it back in the briefcase. 'She's got flu,' she said. 'Kids get flu. She'll be fine.'
'She needs me.'
'What she needs is for you to do what you have to do. Then you can get back to Dublin and be with her. We're taking good care of her, Andrea. I promise you.'
'I want to talk to her.'
'That's not possible. Not now. Maybe later on in the week. We'll see how you get on.' She stood up. 'First things first. I need you to show the lads what to do. Step by step.'
She took her mobile phone out of her overall pocket and put it in the briefcase, then took out her pistol and flicked the combination locks closed.
Andy followed Green-eyes into the corridor. Green-eyes put the briefcase in the office opposite the meeting room, then took Andy back into the open-plan office area. The Wrestler and the Runner had lined up the four ovens next to each other and were unpacking dozens of clear plastic Tupperware containers. The Wrestler was wearing his shoulder holster and gun again. 'Can we open the windows?' Andy asked. 'It's going to get hot in here.'
Green-eyes looked over at the Wrestler and he shook his head. 'They're sealed,' he said. 'Double-glazed and sealed.'
'Is there a thermostat? If there is, set it to the lowest level.'
The Wrestler pointed to a thermostat on one of the walls and the Runner went to turn it down. Andy looked around the huge office area. 'Right, we're going to need a line of desks here. Close to the ovens.'
The four of them carried half a dozen desks over and lined them up. Green-eyes, the Wrestler and the Runner waited expectantly as Andy gathered her thoughts. Then, like an officer mustering her troops, she explained what they had to do.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning dropped the carrier bags on to the back seat of the Ford Mondeo and drove away from the shopping centre. It had been a long time since he'd bought clothes for a child and he'd found the experience somewhat daunting. He knew Katie's size, but he had no idea what she liked. Jeans, skirts, dresses – Canning had been overwhelmed by the choice on offer. He'd settled on a pair of blue Wrangler jeans, three different shirts in assorted colours, and two pairs of white socks. He'd decided against buying her any shoes because she wasn't going to be leaving the house, and anyway he wasn't sure of her size, but he'd found a pair of Garfield slippers that he figured would make her smile.
He thought of his own daughter as he drove back to the cottage. Mary was two years older than Katie. Mary's eyes were the same shade of green, though her hair was auburn, thick and curly, the same as her mother's. It had been almost three months since he'd last seen Mary. And his son, Luke. They were both with their mother in Larne, presumably being poisoned with stories about what a cruel, selfish bastard their father was. Canning looked at his watch, wondering what his children were doing.
He drove past a telephone box and pulled the car over. He sat for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Egan had been insistent that once the operation was under way there had to be no contact with family or friends. No letters. No phone calls. An ambulance went by, its blue light flashing but its siren off. Canning couldn't see what harm one phone call could do. His wife and children were hundreds of miles away, and they had no idea where he was. He climbed out of the Mondeo and walked back to the phone box, sorting through his pockets for change. It was starting to drizzle, and he jogged the final few yards. He had to pause and recollect his wife's number. It had been more than six weeks since he'd spoken to her, and that had ended in an argument over money. He slotted in half a dozen coins and tapped out the number, then closed his eyes as it began to ring, wondering if he was doing the right thing.
'Hello?' It was her. Canning thanked God it wasn't her mother.
'Maggie? It's Mick.'
'I know who it is.' Her voice was cold. Impersonal.
'How are you doing?'
'What do you want, Mick?' If anything her voice was even colder.
'I just wanted to call and see if the kids are all right.'
'They're fine.'
He waited for her to say something else, but the silence stretched on and on. It was as if she was challenging him to speak first.
'Can I have a word with them?'
'What about?'
'Just to say hello, you know. Come on now, Maggie, it's been weeks since I've spoken to them.'
'Well, whose fault is that?'
Canning took a deep breath. He didn't want to fight with his wife, but it seemed that every conversation he had with her ended in an argument. 'I just want a word. That's all.'
'Mary's in the bath. Luke's out.'
'Out where?'
'What business is it of yours, Michael Canning? You call once in a blue moon and you expect the whole world to be at your beck and call, is that it?'
'No, it's not that. Could you just tell them that I called to say hello? Give them my love.'
'Anything else?'
Canning could tell from her tone that she had no intention of passing on any message. 'No. I guess not.' The line went dead. Canning replaced the receiver and walked slowly back to his car.
– «»-«»-«»Andy wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Sweat was pouring off her, and she could feel beads of it trickling down the small of her back. She'd changed out of the suit that Green-eyes had given her and was wearing a blue checked shirt and loose-fitting denim jeans, but it was still uncomfortably hot in the office. She went over and looked at the thermostat. It was set to the minimum, but the temperature read-out showed that it was in the mid-nineties.
Green-eyes was at the water-cooler, helping herself to a cupful of water. Andy joined her. 'The air-conditioning isn't coping,' she said. 'We're going to need dehumidifiers.'
'It's not too bad,' said Green-eyes. She'd unzipped the overalls almost down to her waist, and Andy could see her white bra underneath. Sweat was dripping down her neck, and Andy figured the ski mask must have been annoyingly uncomfortable. The woman's neck was reddening and bathed in sweat.
Andy poured herself a paper cup of water and sipped it. All four ovens were working, their doors ajar. In each of the ovens were metal baking trays full of the ammonium nitrate fertiliser, four trays per oven. Other trays were lined up on the desks, waiting to be filled. The Wrestler was on his knees in front of one of the ovens, testing the temperature with a metal thermometer.
The Runner was taking trays out of the middle oven and tipping the heated fertiliser into Tupperware containers, which he was then sealing in black rubbish bags. At the far end of the office was a pile of black bags that had already been filled with fertiliser.
The doors of the ovens had to be left ajar so that the water could escape, and the temperature had to be constantly monitored because the fertiliser would liquefy at 170 degrees Fahrenheit. It would actually explode at 400 degrees, but it would start to bubble and smoke long before it reached that temperature. Andy had told the two men to make sure it didn't get above 150 degrees.
She drained her paper cup and tossed it into a basket at the base of the cooler, then rolled up her shirtsleeves. 'I want to show you something,' she said. She took Green-eyes over to the window and pulled back the vertical blinds to show her the window. It was blurry from condensation, and water was pooling at the bottom of the pane. Andy ran her finger down the glass and showed Green-eyes how wet it was. 'This is after four hours,' she said. 'It's going to get a lot worse. It's getting too humid.'
'So?'
Andy nodded at the electric ovens. 'So the point of this is to dry out the fertiliser. But if the atmosphere's this moist, the ammonium nitrate is going to soak the water right back up. Even when it's in the containers and bags. You've got to get the water out of the air. The best way would be to open the windows, but they're sealed. So the only thing you can do is to bring in dehumidifiers.'
Green-eyes put her hands on her hips. 'It'll have to be tomorrow,' she said.
'Whatever,' said Andy. 'And another thing. We're going to need fans, because when we start to use the alcohol, we're going to have to keep the air moving. If we don't… it'll explode. You won't even need a detonator. The fumes will be explosive enough.'
Mick Canning knocked on the basement door before slipping back the two bolts. 'What the fuck are you knocking for?' McEvoy shouted from the sitting room. 'This isn't a fucking hotel.'
Canning ignored him and went down the stairs. Katie was sitting at the table, reading one of the comics he'd given her. 'Hiya, kiddo,' he said.
She put her chin on her hands and pouted. 'I want to go home.'
'I know you do.'
'When can I go?'
'I don't know. Not long.'
'How long's not long?'
'I don't know.'
'You can't keep me here for ever,' she said.
'We don't intend to.'
She looked up at him. 'Are you going to kill me?' she asked.
The matter-of-fact way she asked the question took Canning's breath away. He sat down next to her. 'Of course not. We don't hurt little girls. You have to believe me, we're not going to hurt you. I promise.'
'Cross your heart?'
Canning made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'Cross my heart,' he said. 'Look, we've already sent the videotapes to your mummy so that she knows you're all right. And we've told her that you'll be home soon.' He crossed himself again. 'Swear to die.'
Katie smiled and nodded. 'Okay,' she said. 'I believe you.'
Canning showed her the carrier bags. 'I got you some clothes. And Garfield slippers.' He pushed the carrier bags towards her and she pulled out the clothes and looked at them.
'Are you hungry?'
'A bit.'
'I'll go and get you something. Beefburgers? With chips?'
Katie nodded. 'Can I use the bathroom first?'
'Of course you can.'
He held out his hand. Katie hesitated for a couple of seconds, then took it. Her hand felt tiny in his as he helped her up the stairs.
– «»-«»-«»James FitzGerald knocked on the door to the Chief Inspector's office and pushed it open as his boss gruffly told him to come in. Garda Chief Inspector Eamonn Hogan looked up from a stack of files that he'd been working his way through, fountain pen in hand. 'Morning, Jim, how's it going?' Hogan had turned fifty the previous week, though he looked almost a decade older, virtually bald with thick jowls that lay in folds against his shirt collar. There was a bag full of golf clubs leaning against one wall. Hogan rarely worked on Sundays, but they'd had two successful murder investigations completed during the previous week and the paperwork had mounted up. Like FitzGerald he wore spectacles, though his had wire frames. Hogan grinned at FitzGerald's Bugs Bunny tie. 'You know, in some parts of the country you could be arrested for wearing that.'
'It was a present,' said FitzGerald. He leaned against the door jamb. 'It's about this guy Martin Hayes.'
'The missing wife? Is he still in custody?'
'Helping us with our enquiries,' said FitzGerald. 'We put him in one of the cells overnight, but he's here of his own volition.'
'What's your take on it, Jim?'
FitzGerald shrugged and ran a hand through his thinning sandy hair, as if to reassure himself that it was still in place. 'He's hiding something, there's no doubt about that. But he's not a wife-killer. We've given the house and garden a going-over, and there's nothing to suggest foul play. We've spoken to neighbours and relatives and there've been no arguments. No rows. Just your average suburban family.'
Hogan sat back in his chair and put his pen down on top of his stack of files. 'You know as well as I do, Jim, your average suburban family pretty much accounts for half of our murder cases. All that suppressed anger. Crying babies. Kitchens full of knives.'
'Their daughter's seven, hardly a baby,' said FitzGerald, humouring his boss. 'No money problems, so far as we can see. And when we accuse him of doing something to his wife and child, he gets upset. Really upset. If it's an act, it's a bloody good one.'
'So she's left him. She's walked out on him.'
'So why doesn't he just say that? The thing of it is, there was blood on the banister upstairs, so there's something going on. But there are no signs of a struggle, and she's taken some clothes with her.'
'So she went away, took the daughter with her?'
'That's the way it looks.'
'Without telling him?' Hogan pulled a face as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. 'Bit unlikely, don't you think? No note?'
'He says not.'
'And you've checked with her relatives?'
'Sure. With her mother and an aunt. The aunt that Hayes said she'd gone to stay with. She's not with either of them. I've had both addresses checked by the RUC
Hogan took off his spectacles and polished them with a large blue handkerchief. 'So what's your feeling, Jim?'
'I don't think he's done anything to her. Or the daughter. He's not the type. Things like that don't happen out of the blue, and there's no history. Plus, if he had done anything, he wouldn't have left the blood on the banister. One thing he's not is stupid. No, he's not done away with them. But I think he knows where she's gone.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because if he didn't, he'd have been on to us, right? Wife and kid vanished. He'd have called us, for sure.'
'Unless he really believed that she'd gone to stay with the aunt.'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'He didn't have a phone number, she didn't take the car, he didn't know what train she was on. No, she didn't go to Belfast. She went somewhere else, and I think he knows where.'
'So why won't he tell you where she is?' Hogan put his spectacles back on.
'Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe she went off with someone he knows.'
'He's lying to the police to save himself from embarrassment?' Hogan pulled another face, screwing up his nose and wrinkling his eyes.
'Yeah, I know. It doesn't make much sense to me, either. But I figure that if he knows she's alive and well, he knows he's not going to be convicted of hurting her. He probably figures that if he just keeps on denying that he knows what's happened to her, eventually we'll just go away.' FitzGerald shrugged. 'Hell, maybe he figures she'll come back.' He scratched his chin. 'The O'Mara woman is a strange one, too. There's no sign of her. Spoken to her relatives – they haven't seen her. She hasn't withdrawn any money recently, didn't buy a ticket anywhere, car's still parked in front of her house. She's just disappeared into thin air.'
'But the only connection is that she worked at the school, right?'
'Well, it's a bit more than that. She spoke to Hayes the day she disappeared. Or the day before. Frankly, we're not quite sure when she went. She was last seen driving away from the school at five o'clock in the evening. The school rang us the following lunch-time when she didn't turn up at work.'
Hogan removed his wire-framed spectacles, took a small yellow cloth from his desk drawer and began polishing them again. 'You're not suggesting Hayes has had anything to do with her disappearance, are you?'
FitzGerald shrugged. 'I honestly don't know. There's no evidence he ever met her.'
'So it could just be a coincidence.' Hogan sighed and put his glasses back on. 'God, I hate coincidences,' he said. 'Bane of our lives, coincidences.'
'And another thing,' said FitzGerald. 'He's not asked for a solicitor. Keeps asking if we've finished and wants to go home, but he's not asked to call a solicitor. If he'd done something, he'd know that his best bet would be to be legally represented.'
'Unless he thinks he's smarter than we are.'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'No, he's not playing mind games with us. I think he knows he hasn't done anything wrong and that we're going to have to let him go eventually.'
Hogan put the yellow cloth back in his drawer and picked up his fountain pen. 'So you're going to treat it as a domestic?'
'I think so. Until I can prove otherwise. I thought John and I would have another go at him after lunch, and if he doesn't budge we'll let him go later this afternoon.'
'What about keeping an eye on him?'
'Yeah, are you okay with that? Overtime considerations and all.'
Hogan grinned. 'Ah, so you don't want to sit outside his house yourself, is that it?'
FitzGerald smiled ruefully. A night in a car wasn't his idea of a good time. He put his hands up in mock surrender.
'Go ahead, Jim. But have a word with uniforms first. See if they've got a couple of men spare. Just for a day or two, mind.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy twisted the metal tie around the black rubbish bag, then eased it into a second bag and sealed that as well. Even sealed inside two plastic bags, the fertiliser in the Tupperware containers would absorb moisture from the air to the extent that it would be uselessly damp within two weeks. She had explained the chemistry to Green-eyes, but Green-eyes had said that it wouldn't be a problem. That meant that whatever Green-eyes was planning, it would be over within a fortnight.
Sweat was beading on Andy's forehead and she wiped it with a towel. Early that morning, Green-eyes had sent the Wrestler and the Runner to buy dehumidifiers and electric fans, and they'd gone some way to lowering the humidity, but it was still in the mid-eighties in the open-plan office. It was somewhat cooler in the smaller individual offices and meetings room, so they all took frequent breaks to cool down.
They'd spent most of the day processing the fertiliser through the ovens and then sealing it in the Tupperware containers and black bags, but by midnight the offices had become so humid and hot that Andy had told Green-eyes it was pointless continuing. They'd have to let the air-conditioning recover. Green-eyes had given Andy a sleeping bag and told her to sleep in one of the offices and not to open the door until morning. Andy figured it was so they could take off their ski masks. The discomfort of wearing them for twelve hours while they worked the ovens must have been almost unbearable.
Now that the dehumidifiers had been brought in, they'd be able to work throughout the night, but it was still uncomfortably hot.
'I'm going to take a break,' Andy said to Green-eyes, who was checking the thermometer in one of the ovens.
Are you hungry?' Green-eyes asked. 'There are some sandwiches in the coffee room.'
Andy went along to the meeting room. There was a Marks and Spencer carrier bag next to the coffee machine, containing a dozen packs of sandwiches. Chicken salad, sausage and mustard, bacon, lettuce and tomato, cheese and pickle, smoked salmon. And there was an assortment of canned drinks. Andy popped open a Diet Coke and drank, and then took a smoked salmon sandwich and sat down at the long table.
She looked through the glass panel by the door at the office opposite. Green-eyes had a camp bed there, and it was where she kept her clothes. It was also where she'd left the briefcase. The mobile phone was in the briefcase, but the case had combination locks. Each lock had three dials. Zero to nine hundred and ninety-nine. If it took two seconds to try each combination, she could do all one thousand in just over half an hour. An hour to do both locks. Maximum. In all probability it would take a lot less than an hour. But what then? She'd have access to the phone, but who would she call? The police? She was no further on than when she was being held on the industrial estate. Sure, she knew where the bomb was, and the police would be able to arrest her three captors, but what would happen to Katie? Could she be sure that Green-eyes would confess all and tell the police where Katie was being held?
Andy chewed slowly, barely tasting the sandwich. First things first. The briefcase was in the office on the other side of the corridor. She put down her half-eaten sandwich and went to the door, easing it open carefully. She could hear her three captors working in the main office area. There was no way they could see her unless they were standing in the corridor itself.
Andy took a deep breath, then tiptoed across the corridor and opened the door to the second office, her heart in her mouth. The briefcase was on a teak desk. She set the first combination to zero, zero, zero. She tried the lock. It wouldn't move. She flicked the end dial. Zero, zero, one. Still locked. She looked at her watch. She'd try for five minutes, then she'd have to get back to the main office.
The door to the interview room opened and Martin Hayes looked up. It was the inspector. FitzGerald. 'Now what?' said Martin. 'Back to the cell?'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'You can go, Mr Hayes. I think we've taken up enough of your time.'
Martin ran his hand over the stubble across his chin. He'd been in the Pearse Street station for almost eighteen hours and hadn't been given the chance to shave or clean his teeth, though he'd managed to wash his face in a sink in the men's room. He felt dirty and his shirt was sticking to his back. 'You're letting me go?'
'It's not a question of letting you go, Mr Hayes. You're not under arrest. You've just been helping us with our enquiries. You've been free to leave at any time.'
Martin stood up. 'So you believe me?'
'Let's just say we've no evidence that you've had anything to do with the disappearance of your wife and daughter,' said FitzGerald, holding the door open wide. 'But we might want another word with you again soon. So don't leave town, as they say.'
'They've not disappeared,' said Martin, but he knew that the detective wasn't interested in his denials.
He walked away from the grey stone Garda station and caught a taxi near Trinity College. They'd let him go, but it was as clear as day that FitzGerald didn't believe him, and Martin didn't blame him. He had never been a good liar, and authority figures always made him nervous, even when he hadn't done anything wrong.
He stared out of the taxi with unseeing eyes, wondering what he should do next. They'd presumably taken him out of the house so that they could check the bloodstain on the banister, and they'd probably searched through the house, too. He'd already admitted that it was Andy's blood, so hopefully it wouldn't be an issue any more. But they'd keep digging, and if they were to speak to his financial advisers, they'd discover that he'd been liquidating his assets and transferring money into his current account. What would they make of that? Martin wondered. They'd assume that he was about to withdraw the money. That he'd killed his wife and daughter and was about to disappear himself.
If nothing else, he'd be hauled into Pearse Street again for more questioning, and the more often that happened the more likely it was that Katie's kidnappers would discover that he was in contact with the police.
The taxi dropped him outside his house and he went inside, where he was practically bowled over by Dermott. He went straight to his answering machine. There were no messages. He let the dog out into the back garden, then made himself a cup of instant coffee and took it upstairs. Dermott came running up the stairs after him, tail wagging like a metronome.
Martin went into Katie's bedroom and sat down on the bed. Dermott dropped down and rolled over on to his back, begging for his stomach to be rubbed. Martin patted the dog and sipped his coffee. He leaned over to put his cup on Katie's bedside table, and froze. There was a car outside his house. A Garda patrol car. Not exactly outside – they'd parked about a hundred feet away from the driveway, but they had a clear view of the house. Martin cursed under his breath. He hadn't put the light on so he didn't think they'd be able to see inside, but he slowly backed away from the window and went downstairs.
He paced around the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. They were giving him no choice. He'd have to leave Dublin. If the kidnappers saw the Garda car, they'd think they were there because he'd called them in. Even worse, there was a good chance that the detectives would haul him in again for more questioning. They surely suspected him -why else the overt surveillance?
It was late, probably too late to get a flight out of Dublin that night. Besides, there was an outside chance that FitzGerald had men at the airport watching for him. He'd be safer flying through Belfast.
He took a briefcase from his study and emptied out the papers it contained. He put in an unopened flight kit he'd been given on a business trip he and Padraig had made to Copenhagen a few months earlier, together with two clean shirts, underwear and socks. He put his mobile phone in his suit pocket. It was a GSM model and would work in the UK. He closed the briefcase. What else? Money. He'd need money. He had Visa cards that he could use to withdraw cash from money machines in the UK, but he also had some Irish money in his desk drawer. He took the money out and put the notes into his wallet.
He put his briefcase by the back door and then went out into the hallway and looked at the answering machine. What if Andy called again? Or if the kidnappers tried to get in touch? He recorded a fresh message, asking callers to telephone his mobile number, then checked it. He could hear the tension in his voice, the sound of a man about to go over the edge. He took a deep breath and recorded a second version. This time he sounded more relaxed.
In a cupboard under the hall were several electrical timers that he and Andy used to set lights to go on and off while they were on holiday. He went upstairs and fitted one to the plug of a lamp on the dressing table, timed to go off later that night. Then he drew the curtains and went downstairs. He fitted timers to lamps in the sitting room and the kitchen, overlapping the on and off times.
He took a last look around the house. Now what? Both cars were parked in the drive at the front. He'd have to go through the back garden and over the wall, maybe catch a taxi. He shook his head. No, a taxi driver might remember him. But he couldn't walk to the station. In fact, catching a train wasn't a good idea, either.
He went back into the kitchen and finished his coffee, then washed his mug. As he put it on the draining board, he realised what he'd have to do. He called Padraig on his mobile.
'Padraig. It's me, Martin.'
'What's up, Mart?'
'I need a favour. Big time.'
'Sure.'
'Can you pick me up on Morehampton Road? Opposite Bloomfield Hospital?' Martin went into the hallway and locked and bolted the front door, still talking on the mobile phone.
'No sweat. What's up? Car broken down, yeah?'
'Something like that. I'll explain when I see you. About ten minutes, okay?'
Martin thanked his partner and cut the connection. He looked down at Dermott, who was sitting with his head on one side, clearly wondering what was going on. 'What the hell am I going to do with you?' he said, and the dog woofed softly. He didn't want to leave Dermott locked in the house because he didn't know when he'd be back. But if he left the Labrador in the garden, he might bark and attract the attention of the watching garda. He decided he'd leave him inside.
Martin walked through to the kitchen, picked up his briefcase and let himself out of the back door. He locked it and slipped the key into his pocket. The sun was just about to dip below the horizon, smearing the grey sky with an orange glow. He jogged to the end of the garden and clambered over the brick wall that bordered a narrow path leading to the local golf course. He headed down the path, skirted the golf course and then walked through a carpark to the main road. Only then did he start to relax.
– «»-«»-«»Egan slid the Browning Hi-Power out of its brown leather shoulder holster and checked that the safety was off. He had followed the taxi from the Pearse Street Garda station, but he'd abandoned the tail as soon he realised that a Garda patrol car was also following Hayes. Hayes had been released, but it was clear that the police still suspected him and were planning to keep him under observation. When Egan had driven past the Hayes' house, the patrol car had been parked in the road outside. He had stopped his Ford Scorpio in a road that led to a housing estate bordering a golf course, well away from any streetlights.
In his left ear was a small earphone connected to a receiver that allowed him to listen in to the five bugs planted in the house. He'd missed the first few seconds of the conversation that Hayes had had with his partner, but he'd picked up the rest via the device in the hall. Hayes was going to run, and Egan had only minutes in which to stop him. There was no time for a suicide note, no time to coerce Hayes into using the knotted rope.
He leaned over and took a street map out of the glove compartment and flicked through it. He found the page where Bloomfield Hospital was, and traced a gloved finger from Morehampton Road to the house. Assuming he left through the back garden, Hayes would have to walk close to the golf course. He put the map back in the glove compartment, along with the receiver and earpiece, then got out of the car and walked towards the golf course, putting the collar of his leather jacket up against the wind.
There seemed to be no one around, so Egan jogged, his breath feathering in the evening air. The lights were on in the clubhouse and several golfers were still out on the course, though there were only minutes to go before the sun went down. He reached the golf club's carpark and stopped jogging, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
There was a path running around the edge of the course, and beyond it a line of three bunkers. To Egan's left was a clump of trees, to the right were the fringes of an up-market housing estate. Egan kept his face turned away from the carpark, and waited until he was past before taking out his handgun and screwing in a bulbous silencer.
He reached the path and headed towards the trees. There were voices off to his right, two men arguing over a missed shot. Egan kept the Browning pressed against his stomach inside his jacket, his finger inside the trigger guard. He scanned the path ahead of him. In the distance was Hayes, walking towards him, his head down, a coat flapping behind him. Egan took a quick look over his shoulder. There was no one behind him and the voices of the two arguing golfers had already faded into the distance. Egan picked up the pace. The silencer was efficient, but even so the farther away he was from the clubhouse, the better. An owl hooted above his head but he barely registered the sound; all his senses were totally focused on the man walking towards him.
Egan could feel sweat dribbling down his back. He was breathing shallowly, his chest barely moving, the gun tight against his stomach. Hayes had his head down as he walked, and there was something in his right hand, something that he was swinging back and forth. He was about fifty feet away. Midway between them was a broad-trunked beech tree, perfect cover for what Egan was about to do. Egan moved over to the right-hand side of the path so that Hayes would have to pass on the side closest to the tree. One shot to the side of the head, maybe a second to the heart if he had time. He'd drag the body behind the tree and then head back to the car. By the time the body was discovered, Egan would be in London. Thirty feet. Egan began to pull the gun out, his finger already tightening on the trigger.
Hayes stopped. He peered out across the golf course as if looking for someone. Then suddenly he whistled, a piercing shriek that stopped Egan in his tracks. A dog ran across the grass. It was a German Shepherd. It wasn't Hayes, Egan realised. He'd come within seconds of shooting the wrong man. It was just a guy out walking his dog. The object in his right hand was a dog lead.
Egan started walking again. The man was bending down, patting his dog, as Egan went by. There was no one else on the path, and Egan could see all the way up to the wall at the end of the Hayes' garden. Somehow Egan had missed him. He turned and went back the way he'd come, walking quickly, his head turned to the side as he went by the man with the German Shepherd.
– «»-«»-«»Martin looked at his watch and slowed down. He didn't want to have to hang around outside the hospital, just in case the Garda car was only making periodic visits to his house. He had no need to worry. Padraig arrived just as he was walking by the hospital's stone gateposts.
Padraig flashed the headlights of his BMW and Martin waved. He looked around as the car pulled up. A man in a leather jacket and jeans was walking along the pavement, his shoulders hunched against the cold. The passenger window slid down. 'Where's your car, Mart? I'll have a look at it.'
Martin heard rapid footsteps and turned to see who it was. The man in the leather jacket was running towards the car. As he ran he pulled his hand from under his jacket. Something glinted in the BMW's headlights. Something metallic. Martin pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the car. 'Drive!' he shouted.
Padraig sat stunned, his mouth open in surprise.
'Padraig! For fuck's sake, drive!'
The passenger window shattered, spraying Martin with cubes of glass. Martin ducked and held his briefcase over his face as Padraig put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator. The seat seemed to punch Martin in the small of his back as they roared away from the kerb. A second bullet thudded into the door, and then Martin caught a glimpse of the man in the leather jacket standing with his feet apart, the gun held in both hands, arms outstretched, his face totally relaxed.
Padraig looked anxiously in his mirror as they drove away. 'Christ, who was that?' he said, his voice shaking.
Martin twisted around in his seat. The man in the leather jacket was walking away from the hospital, his head down and his hands in his jacket pockets.
'I don't know,' said Martin.
'You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?' Padraig already had the car in fourth gear and they were doing almost eighty.
'Slow down, Padraig. You'll kill us.'
Padraig frowned, and then began to laugh. Despite his pounding heart and shaking hands, Martin laughed too, but it was an ugly, disjointed sound, and both men were soon silent again.
Padraig slowed slowed to just under the speed limit. 'What the fuck's going on, Mart?'
'I don't know. I really don't know.'
'Where do you want to go?' asked Padraig.
'North. Belfast.'
Padraig frowned. 'What?'
Martin pointed down the road. 'Belfast. I've got to get out of Ireland, and the police have probably got Dublin airport covered.'
'The police? The police are after you?'
Martin didn't say anything. He picked pieces of glass from his jacket and dropped them on to the floor of the car. Padraig drove, flashing Martin anxious looks as he headed north. Martin kept checking his mirror, wanting to reassure himself that no one was following him.
'Martin, what the hell's going on?' asked Padraig again eventually.
Martin hugged the briefcase to his chest. 'I can't tell you, Padraig. I really can't. I'm going to London for a few days. My mobile is going to be on, so if it's an emergency you'll be able to get me on that.'
'An emergency? What the hell do you call what just happened?'
Martin nodded. He tensed as he saw a police car in his mirror, but it streaked by them.
'The guy who shot at you. He wasn't a cop,' said Padraig.
'No,' said Martin.
'So who was he? For God's sake, Martin, I could have been killed back there. You owe me an explanation.'
Martin sighed. His partner was right. He'd put Padraig's life on the line – he had a right to know why.
'Katie's been kidnapped. They took her last week. The kidnappers wanted Andy to go to London. Now the cops have found out that Andy and Katie are missing and they think I've got something to do with it. I figure London's the best place for me. If Andy's left any sort of message for me, it'll be there. I know it sounds crazy, but that's the situation.'
'And who was the guy with the gun?'
'I don't know. One of the kidnappers maybe. They must have seen the Garda take me away. Or maybe they saw the car outside the house.' Martin put his head in his hands. 'If they think I'm co-operating with the cops, they're going to kill Katie. Oh, God.'
He explained about being taken to Pearse Street, and the patrol car parked outside his house.
'Jesus, Mart.' Padraig pushed down the accelerator and the BMW powered to ninety miles per hour. 'What are you going to do? You have to go to the police. You have to.'
'No. Not yet. I need time to think. Just take care of the company and don't tell the cops anything.'
'Mart, you can't just run away like this.'
'I can't stay in Dublin,' said Martin. He gestured at the smashed window. 'There's no saying he won't try again, whoever he was.'
Padraig looked anxiously in his rear-view mirror, but he was driving so fast there was no way anyone could be following them.
'So you go to London. What then?'
'I don't know,' said Martin flatly. 'I really don't know.'
– «»-«»-«»Egan walked back to his Ford Scorpio and climbed in. With hindsight, shooting at Martin Hayes had been a mistake. He'd missed him by inches but it had still been a mistake. Egan started the car and drove off, checking to see if anyone was watching him. No one was. And no one had seen him firing at the BMW. Egan knew he'd been lucky and he hated himself for depending on luck. Anyone could have driven by while he had the gun out; anyone could have seen him shooting at the car. He should have let Hayes go and followed at a distance, choosing his moment with more care. Now Hayes would be spooked, and Egan could only hope that he wouldn't be spooked enough to go to the police and tell them everything. So long as he was running scared, he wasn't a threat.
Hayes was running, but he had nowhere to run to. He clearly wasn't co-operating with the police, and there was no one else he could turn to. He'd probably lie low with his partner, the guy driving the BMW. Egan had intercepted the letter that his wife had left for him at the hotel, so that was a dead end. And there were only three days left before the bomb would be ready. Even if Hayes told the police that his daughter had been kidnapped and that his wife had disappeared in London, there was nothing they could do to prevent the bomb going off. Egan smiled to himself as he drove. Shooting at Hayes had been a mistake, but not a fatal one.
– «»-«»-«»The sky outside was beginning to darken, so Green-eyes switched on the banks of fluorescent lights in the main office area. She had to walk practically the full length of the office, almost a hundred and fifty feet, to get to all the switches. Andy put on a pair of oven gloves and began taking trays out of one of the ovens. The Wrestler was unclipping the lids of a dozen large Tupperware containers, and Andy carefully tipped fertiliser into them, scooping out the last few pounds with a wooden spoon. She put the metal tray on a pile of other used trays, then went over to the stack of fertiliser bags. She dragged one of the bags across to the table, then used one of the empty Tupperware containers as a scoop to refill the trays. They were down to the last ten sacks. By morning all the fertiliser would have been through the ovens and they'd be ready for the next step.
Green-eyes finished switching on the lights and then headed towards the meeting room. Andy watched her go as she levelled the fertiliser with her hands into a layer two inches thick. Any deeper and the fertiliser wouldn't dry all the way through to the bottom. She filled four trays and slotted them into the oven.
The Runner was checking the temperature of one of the other ovens. He looked across at her and loosened the bottom of his ski mask. 'This mask is a bitch,' he said. He reached up and grabbed the top of it. 'How about if I take it off, here and now.' He pulled at it gently and it moved up half an inch. 'How about that? Would you like to see what I look like?'
'No!' said Andy quickly.
'Why not?'
'You know why not.'
The Wrestler was standing over by the pile of sacks of fertiliser, watching them. Andy stared in horror as the Runner pulled the mask up another inch.
'Don't!' said Andy, holding out her hands, fingers splayed.
'Why not?'
'Because if I see your face…'
The Runner nodded and gave his mask another tug. Andy could see most of his neck, almost up to his chin. 'That's right,' he said. He laughed, a high-pitched whinny like that of a nervous horse.
Green-eyes came out of the meeting room, a mug of coffee in one hand. The two men stopped laughing as soon as they saw her. The Runner let go of his ski mask and bent down to check the thermometer again, and the Wrestler picked up a sack of fertiliser.
'Andrea, do you want anything?' Green-eyes asked.
'No, I'm okay.' What she really wanted was to be alone in the office so that she could continue working on the briefcase. She'd got up to the mid-three-hundreds before nipping back across the corridor to the meeting room. Another twenty minutes at most and she'd have one of the locks open. She still hadn't decided what she'd do if and when she got her hands on the mobile phone, but at least she was doing something.
– «»-«»-«»The girl was stunning, just short of six feet tall in her high heels, with glossy black hair that reached to just above her hips. She wore a skin-tight cheongsam, scarlet with a gold dragon entwined around it, its head breathing fire across her ample breasts. She said she was nineteen years old and that her name was May. Deng waved at the seat next to him and asked her to sit with him.
She bent forward and swiped a plastic card through a reader in the centre of the table. Customers in the nightclub were billed by the minute for the company of the hostesses. A bottle of champagne arrived. Deng hadn't asked for the champagne, but he knew the score. Girls like May didn't come cheap. She spoke Mandarin with a Hong Kong accent. Cantonese was her first language, but with an ever-growing number of mainland Chinese businessmen and financiers visiting the former British colony, Mandarin was a necessity in her line of work.
She sat with a delicate hand on his thigh, her red-painted fingernails gently scratching the material of his Armani suit as she made small talk. Her skin was like porcelain, smooth and unblemished, and she smelt of flowers. After fifteen minutes of banal chatter she asked if a friend of hers could join them. Deng readily agreed. Her friend was just as tall as May, with longer hair and larger breasts. She wore a bright yellow evening dress cut low at the front to emphasise her cleavage. Her name was Summer, and she spoke better Mandarin than May, and almost perfect English. She swiped her card through the reader and a second bottle of champagne arrived.
After half an hour May whispered into Deng's ear that a regular customer of hers had arrived and did he mind if she left his table. He kissed her on the lips and told that he was more than happy with Summer. May swiped her card through the reader and went over to another table.
An hour later and Deng was in bed with Summer in a Kowloon Tong love hotel. It was one of Deng's favourite places to take girls – every room had a different theme. There was an Arabian Nights room, a Wild West room, a Parisian Brothel room, and each came with a set of costumes which could be worn if desired. Deng had been more than a dozen times and had never been in the same fantasy twice. He and Summer were in a room made up to look like a Swiss cottage, lined with wood, a big cuckoo clock on one wall and a mural of an Alpine scene framed in a mock window.
Deng lay on his back as Summer rode him, her mouth slightly open, showing perfect white teeth, her head thrown back so that her hair brushed against his thighs every time she ground against him. She was good, she was very good, and Deng had to fight to stop himself from coming too soon. His hands moved up her soft, compliant body and he caressed her breasts. She put her hands on top of his, squeezing him, moaning softly. She'd told him that she wanted to be an actress, that she was taking acting lessons and had a producer friend who'd promised her a part in his next kung-fu film. Deng could see that she had talent.
He could feel himself passing the point of no return and he pounded into her, half disappointed that he hadn't managed to last longer. He came inside her and she fell down on top of him, kissing his neck and whispering his name. That was a nice touch, he thought. Almost as if she cared. She squeezed him inside her, draining every last drop from him. Deng smiled and stroked her hair. Another nice touch. He'd be back to see Summer again, he decided. Maybe even offer to set her up in a flat. A small one, mind – there was no reason to be extravagant, not when Hong Kong was so full of pretty young girls.
Deng heard a noise at the door. The sound of a key being turned. 'We've not finished yet,' he shouted in Cantonese. He'd paid for two hours and he still had thirty minutes left. There was silence, and muffled voices, then the door burst open. Summer rolled off him and pulled the sheet around her. Deng sat up. What little remained of his erection shrank to nothing. It was Michael Wong. And three of his Red Poles. Triad heavies. One of the Red Poles closed the door and stood with his back against it. The other two men had handguns. Big ones.
Wong grinned, showing a gold tooth at the back of his mouth. 'Good, was she?' he asked in guttural Mandarin.
Deng pushed himself back against the headboard. 'What's this about, Michael?'
Wong walked over to Summer. She looked up at him fearfully, forcing a smile. 'Hello, Summer,' he said, in Cantonese. 'Long time no see.'
Summer was shaking, and her smile was little more than a baring of teeth, the smile of a frightened dog. 'Hello, Mr Wong,' she said. She wasn't such a good actress after all, Deng realised.
Wong grinned at Deng again. 'Did she go down on you? Great mouth, Summer has. She's got this trick of taking it all, you know? All the way in.' He looked across at the frightened girl. 'Don't you, Summer?'
She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. Wong beckoned for her to come closer. She crawled over to him, letting the sheet slip from her body. Her skin was still glossy with sweat. Wong unzipped his fly and took his penis out. Without being asked, Summer slipped off the bed and knelt down in front of him. He gripped her hair tightly with one hand as he worked himself in and out of her mouth, barely giving her a chance to breathe. Deng turned his head away in disgust.
'Don't you look away, you piece of shit,' said Wong. Summer was moaning softly, caressing the back of Wong's thighs, her head moving back and forth, matching his rhythm. Wong came quickly, holding Summer's head tightly until he was sure that she'd swallowed, then he grunted and pushed her away. She crawled back to the bed and wrapped the sheet around herself. She bent almost double, as if trying to make herself as small as possible, and scampered towards the bathroom. Wong pulled a silenced automatic from inside his jacket and pointed it at her. She froze. He pointed the gun at one of the armchairs and she went over to it and sat down, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees.
'There's no need for this, Michael,' said Deng.
'Where's my fucking money?'
'You'll have it soon.'
'That's not what I've heard.' He nodded at the frightened girl. 'The thing I can't work out is why you're in a short-time hotel fucking hookers when what you should be doing is getting back my twenty million dollars.'
'It's in hand,' said Deng. 'One more week and our problems are solved, I promise.'
'I've heard your promises before, Deng.'
Summer began to whimper. She begged Wong to let her go, and he glared at her with contempt. 'Shut up, whore,' he said in Cantonese.
Summer fell silent and pulled the sheet tighter around her neck. Tears began to run down her cheeks.
'The triad entrusted you with twenty million dollars,' Wong said, walking to the foot of the bed and staring down at Deng. 'Twenty million US dollars. Then you come and tell us that we're at risk of losing that investment.'
Deng held his hands up defensively in front of his face. 'We're all in the same boat, Michael,' he said. 'The bank invested more than a hundred million dollars of its own money. We've investors in Singapore and Thailand. We've all…'
The gun kicked in Wong's hand. The only noise it made was a slight coughing sound. A bullet buried itself in the pillow by Deng's side and a few small white feathers fluttered into the air. 'I don't care about your bank. I don't care about the other investors. You lied to us. You took the Triad's twenty million dollars and you fucking lied to us.' Wong looked at Deng dispassionately, tapping the barrel of his silenced gun against his lips. 'How can I convince you how serious I am?' he asked. He slowly pointed the weapon at Deng's left foot. 'Perhaps if I gave you a limp. Do you think then you'd realise how important this is to me and my associates?'
Deng drew his foot back. Wong grinned malevolently and pointed the gun at Deng's groin.
'Or maybe I should blow something else off? Something a little closer to home? Do you have children?'
Deng nodded. 'Two.'
'Boys or girls?'
'Two boys.'
Wong nodded thoughtfully. 'Two sons? You are a lucky man. It's good to see how flexible the motherland is regarding the one family, one child policy.' He tightened his finger on the trigger. Deng's hands went across his groin in a reflex action. 'There's no flexibility here in Hong Kong, Deng. We want our money. All of it.'
'I told you, you'll have it. Every last penny.'
'That's good. Because if we don't, I'll kill you, your wife, your two precious sons, and every other member of your family I can find. That goes for you and the rest of the members of the board. I want you to tell them that, Deng. Tell them from me.'
Deng nodded furiously. 'I will. Of course I will.'
Wong shook his head. 'But I have to do something to show you how serious I am.'
Deng shook his head even faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 'Please don't,' he whimpered.
Wong grinned scornfully. He pointed the gun at Deng's chest, then quickly moved his gun arm in a smooth motion around to his right and shot Summer in the face. Blood and bone fragments splattered across the wall behind her, a smear of red across the Alpine snow scene, and she fell backwards without a sound, what was left of her face staring up at the ceiling.
Deng put his hands up to his mouth, horrified at what the Triad leader had done, but relieved, too, that it had been the prostitute who had died. It could so easily have been him.
'I'll leave the mess for you to clean up,' said Wong, putting his gun back inside his jacket. 'I'm sure you know the right sort of people.'