Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

– «»-«»-«»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.'