The Bombmaker (21 page)

Martin folded the letter up and put it back in his jacket pocket. Andy had obviously assumed that it would be found after her death. So far as Martin knew, she was still alive, but the fact that the police were now involved meant that she was in danger. Her life was on the line. The kidnappers wouldn't know that the police had been called in by Katie's school -- they'd assume that it was Martin who'd gone to them. And if they assumed that, what was to stop them killing Katie and Andy?

Martin had to do something, and he had to act quickly. But what could he do? Alone, he was powerless. He had a partial description of the van that had taken Andy away, but he had no way of finding out who it belonged to. He couldn't speak to the Irish police, not now that he'd run away from them. They'd regard everything he said with suspicion. Besides, Andy wasn't in Ireland, she was in England, and the Irish police had no jurisdiction over the water. Martin dropped a couple of pound coins on the table and left the cafe. He had only one option, the option that Andy had given him.

He walked through Covent Garden, sidestepping a juggler who was tossing flaming torches high into the air, and found a call-box in King Street. He popped a pound coin into the slot and tapped out the Belfast number that Andy had given him. It was answered on the third ring. 'Yeah?' It was a man's voice.

Hard and guttural.

'I'd like to speak to Liam Denham.'

'Who's calling?'

'Is he there? It's urgent.'

'Who's calling?'

'Look, this is an emergency. I need to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Liam Denham. This is Special Branch, isn't it?'

The line went quiet for a few seconds, then a second man spoke, his voice softer. 'Who am I speaking to?' asked the second man.

'That's not important,' said Martin. He looked at the digital read-out on the phone. Half his money had already gone. He slotted in a fifty-pence coin. 'Just tell Liam Denham that I have to speak with him.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible,' said the man. 'How did you get this number?'

Martin slammed his hand against the wall of the call-box.

Not possible? What did he mean, not possible? 'Look, is this Special Branch or not?'

'Where did you get this number from?' the man repeated.

Martin wanted to shout at the man, but he clamped his jaws together and fought to stay calm. Denham could help,

Andy had said. He was the only lifeline that Martin had, and he had to hang on to it. 'My wife gave me the number,' said Martin slowly. 'My wife gave me the number and said that I was to ask for Chief Inspector Liam Denham. Now is he there or not?'

'And you wife's name would be what?'

'Andy. Andrea. Andrea Hayes.'

Martin heard a clicking sound and realised that the man was typing on a computer keyboard.

'I'm not familiar with that name,' said the man.

'I don't give a shit whether you're familiar with her name or not. She told me to ask Denham for help. That's what I'm doing. Get him on the line, now.'

'You're Mr Hayes, is that right?'

'Yes, damn you.'

'What's your wife's maiden name?'

'What?'

'Her maiden name. Before she married you.'

'Sheridan.'

More typing on the keyboard. 'No. I'm not familiar with that name either.'

Martin wanted to scream. His wife and daughter were missing, maybe they were dead already, and the voice on the end of the line was being as cold and impersonal as a telephone answering machine. It was like speaking to a robot. The phone read-out showed that he had only thirty pence left. 'Look, you have to help me,' Martin pleaded. 'You have to put Denham on the line.'

'I've already said that I can't do that.'

'What the hell is wrong with you? My wife said that I was to call this number and to ask for Denham. To tell him that it was about some guy called Trevor. Shit, I don't know . . . what more can I do?'

Martin heard the clickety-click of the keyboard. Then a sudden intake of breath. 'Mr Hayes?'

'Yes. I'm here.'

'Where are you railing from?'

'London. Covent Garden. I'm in a call-box, and I'm running out of money.'

'Give me the number.'

Martin gave the man the number of the call-box. The man repeated it back to him. 'Mr Hayes, please stay by the phone.

Someone will call you back shortly.'

Martin was midway through thanking the man''when the line went dead. It was only then that he remembered the mobile phone in his briefcase. He should have given that number to the man, but it was too late now. He waited in the call-box. An elderly man in a blue blazer and yellow cravat rapped on the door with a walking stick. Martin pointed at the phone and shrugged apologetically. 'I'm waiting for a call,' he mouthed.

The man glared at him. Martin turned around. He could feel the man's eyes burning into his back. The seconds ticked by. The man knocked on the door again. Martin tried to ignore the noise, but he was embarrassed at having to behave so badly.

The phone rang and he grabbed the receiver. 'Denham?' he said.

'I'm afraid Mr Denham isn't available at the moment,' said a woman. She sounded middle-aged, certainly over thirty, and there was the vague hint of a West Country accent.

'Where the hell is he?'

'Please try to stay calm, Mr Hayes. I'm trying to help you.

Okay?'

'Okay. I'm sorry.'

The man in the blazer walked around the call-box and continued to glare at Martin. He had tufts of white hair protruding from his ears and nostrils and deep wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. He rapped on the glass and tapped his wristwatch. Martin turned his back on him again.

'Right. Good. Now, my name is Patsy, Mr Hayes. I want you to tell me exactly what's happened to your wife.'

Martin told her about Katie's kidnapping and Andy's disappearance in London. Patsy listened without interrupting. He told her about the gardai coming around to his house, and how he'd fled to London. He told them about going to the hotel, and finding the note.

'How did you know to look behind the painting?' Patsy asked.

Martin told her about the brief phone conversation he'd had with Andy on Sunday night.

'Did she tell you anything else? Anything that might suggest where she'd been taken?'

'No. She was only on the line for about twenty seconds. She just said she was okay, and that she was doing what they asked her.'

'She didn't say who “they” were?'

'No. No, she didn't.'

'Okay, Mr Hayes, you're doing just fine. Now, it's important that you do exactly as I tell you.'

'What about this man Denham? Andy said I should speak to him.'

'Chief Inspector Denham retired some time ago, Mr Hayes.

We're trying to contact him now.'

'What's all this about? Why does my wife know him?'

'There'll be time for explanations later, Mr Hayes. First, we want you to go along to a police station in London so that someone can talk to you face to face. I'm going to arrange for you to be met at Paddington Green . . .'

'No way am I talking to the police,' interrupted Martin.

'They think I did something to Andy and Katie. And I hit a guy,

in the hotel.'

'You don't have to talk to them, Mr Hayes. This is far too important to be handled by the police. But I need you to be somewhere safe until we can meet.'

'I'm not going into a police station,' Martin insisted. The man in the blazer appeared in front of him, his cheeks flaring red,

his upper lip curled back in a snarl. Martin stared at the man, but barely saw him. His mind was a million miles away. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to think. He had to work out what to do.

'Mr Hayes?'

'I'm still here. I'm confused.'

'I understand that. But if we're to get your wife and daughter back, we have to stay calm. Do you understand, Mr Hayes? We have to act professionally.'

'Who the hell are you?' hissed Martin.

'You know who we are, Mr Hayes. You called us. Now, will you just do as I ask, go along to Paddington Green police . . .'

'No,' said Martin. 'We'll meet somewhere else.'

'Where, then?'

'I'll book into a hotel. You can come and see me there.'

'Fine. Which hotel?'

Martin tried to think of a hotel. The Savoy flashed into his mind. He'd stayed there with Andy six months earlier. But the Savoy wouldn't do because there was an outside chance that he might be recognised. He wouldn't be able to use his own name because he'd told the receptionist at the Strand Palace that he was Andy's husband and they'd have been sure to have called in the police by now. He remembered a hotel he'd stayed at during a business trip to London a few years previously, a big hotel close to the City with hundreds of rooms. A big hotel guaranteed anonymity. 'The Tower,' he said. 'It's near the Thames. Near Tower Bridge.'

'Okay,' said Patsy. 'Check in and stay in your room. We're trying to track down Chief Inspector Denham now. But someone will contact you later this afternoon. You shouldn't check in under your own name, Mr Hayes, you realise that?'

'Of course. I'll use Sheridan. Martin Sheridan. Okay?'

'Fine. Please go to the hotel immediately, Mr Hayes.'

The line went dead. Martin replaced the receiver and left the call-box. The man in the blazer had gone. Martin went off in search of a cab.

Andy used a wooden spatula to scrape the hot ammonium nitrate from the wok into a coffee grinder. She had a blinding headache, the result of breathing in the alcohol fumes for several hours. It was repetitive and backbreaking work, and she was thankful that she didn't have to wear a ski mask like Green-eyes and the two men. She put the glass cap on top of the coffee grinder and pressed down on it. It whirred loudly,

the vibrations travelling up her arm as it reduced the fertiliser to a fine powder.

The Wrestler was doing the same about thirty feet away,

using both his hands on the cap of the grinder. Green-eyes had taken a break, and the Runner was by the water-cooler, his back to Andy, splashing water on to his face, the ski mask pushed up on his head. Andy hurriedly looked away and turned her back to him. She didn't want to take the risk of seeing his face.

It was taking the best part of seven minutes to wash, dry and grind a four-pound portion of fertiliser. If all four of them worked flat out, it would take them almost twenty-four hours to process it all. And that wasn't taking into account breaks for sleep and food. Andy figured it would take at least two full days to get it all done. Then there was the mixing of the other ingredients.

Say another day. Three days, then the explosive would be ready.

Did Green-eyes actually plan to use the bomb? Andy was still clinging to the hope that she had something else in mind, that the construction of the device was part of some political strategy that wasn't going to end in an explosion and death. Green-eyes still hadn't explained what she was going to use as a detonator.

The ammonium nitrate mixture was a powerful explosive, but it needed an equally powerful detonator, components that the IRA were able to acquire through their worldwide terrorist connections but which weren't the sort that could easily be purchased in England. The fact that she hadn't mentioned the detonation system meant that perhaps, just perhaps, she had no intention of using the bomb. It was a slim hope, but one that Andy clung to as she sweated over the electric wok and the coffee grinder.

The Wrestler's shoulder holster was fastened over the top of his overalls, and Andy found her gaze constantly returning to the butt of the pistol nesding under the man's left armpit. It was held in place by a thin strap across the trigger which had to be undipped before the weapon could be slid out. If she caught him unawares, Andy could probably pull the gun out before he realised what was happening. But what then? She could threaten to shoot him unless he told her where Katie was being held, but what if he refused? Could she shoot him? And what if she did and she killed him? Then she'd never know where Katie was.

There had to be another way, but no matter how hard Andy racked her brains, she couldn't think of one.

Liam Denham looked up from the fishing fly he was tying and scowled in annoyance at the rattling window. He pushed up his magnifying visor and put his tweezers down on the mahogany desktop. The window overlooked his sprawling garden, the best part of five acres which he and his wife had transformed from a cow pasture into a manicured lawn, a Japanese rock garden,

several large curving rockeries, and a rose garden which produced blooms that had twice won first prize at the local agricultural shows. Not to mention an orchard and vegetable garden that meant they hadn't had to visit a greengrocer's for years.

Something flashed above the house, clattering and roaring,

then just as quickly it had gone. Denham stood up and peered upwards. Seconds later, the helicopter appeared again and the windows shook even more violently than before. The helicopter was a Wessex, dark green. Army colours. Denham took his visor off and put it down next to the vice that held the brightly coloured fly that he'd been working on. He turned around to find his wife standing at the door to the study, her arms folded across her chest.

'That'll be for you, then,' she said. Like Denham, she was in her early sixties, though she looked a few years younger, with hair that had kept its auburn lustre and skin still tanned from their winter cruise.

'Aye. I suppose so,' said Denham. He ran a hand over his bald patch and down to the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons tightening already.

'Did you know they'd be coming?'

Denham tutted. 'If I knew they'd be coming, I'd have told them to keep their infernal machine away from the roses.' He nodded at the window. 'I'd best be seeing what they want.'

He walked out of the study, past the line of framed hunting prints in the hallway, and through the kitchen into the back garden. His two King Charles spaniels were standing by the kitchen door, tails between their legs, shaking. 'It's okay, boys,

it's only a helicopter,' he said.