Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

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?'