Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

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.