Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

He went back into the bedroom and put his briefcase on the dressing table. The bell-boy was still on his hands and knees, peering under the bed. Martin took his wallet out and gave the teenager a twenty-pound note. 'There's no point in me holding you up, lad,' said Martin. 'I'll have a look around myself, yeah?'

'Are you sure, sir?' said the teenager as the note smoothly disappeared into his pocket. 'I don't mind helping.'

'Nah, you go on down. I won't be long.'

The bell-boy left, closing the door behind him. Martin stood in the middle of the bedroom. 'Come on, Andy,' he whispered. 'You must have left me something. You must have.'

He looked at the bed. She couldn't have left anything there – the bedding would be changed after every guest. He went over to the desk and checked the drawers. There was a wallet of hotel stationery and Martin went through it piece by piece. Nothing. He flicked through the pages of the Gideon Bible. Nothing. Most of the drawers were empty. There was a picture above the writing desk. A banal water-colour, probably reproduced in its hundreds specifically to hang in hotel bedrooms. Martin reckoned he could probably have done a better job himself. It was a gondola with a young couple cuddling in front, a bored gondolier in a large black hat standing at the rear. The perspective was wrong – the buildings at the far side of the canal seemed to be leaning to the right, and the shadows weren't consistent. It didn't even look like Venice. Martin's breath caught in his throat. Venice? What had Andy said when she phoned? Going back to Venice. A place she'd never been to. He ran his hands around the frame. It wouldn't move. It was screwed to the wall. There were four screws, two on the right, two on the left.

With trembling hands, Martin searched through his pockets for a penny. He found one, and used it to take out the screws. He pulled the painting away from the wall and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Martin tossed the painting on to the bed and picked up the sheet of paper. As he straightened up, he was startled by an angry voice behind him.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

The receptionist in the black suit was standing in the doorway, the key to the room in his hand.

'I'm sorry,' said Martin. He folded the piece of paper and thrust it into his jacket pocket.

The receptionist looked at the picture, and at the space on the wall where it had been hanging.

'I'll pay for the damage,' said Martin, taking out his wallet.

'You'll stay right where you are,' said the man, holding his hands up as if warding off an attack. 'I'm calling Security.'

'There's no need for that. All I did was take the painting down.' He pointed at the desk. 'Look, the screws are there. Hell, man, I'll even put it back for you.'

The man went over to the phone by the bed and picked it up. 'Don't touch anything,' he said.

Martin tossed two twenty-pound notes on to the bed, picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

'No you don't,' said the receptionist, grabbing for Martin's arm.

Martin hit the man across the head with his briefcase and he fell to the floor. He kicked the door shut, then pulled the bed cover over the man and roughly tied him up with the phone cord before running out of the room. He dashed down the emergency stairs, knowing that the man wouldn't stay tied up for long.

He reached the ground floor and burst through into the reception area. Heads turned as he dashed over to the main doors and out into the Strand. He kept running as hard as he could, the briefcase banging against his leg, his chest heaving with the effort. He didn't know whether or not he was being pursued, but he didn't care – he just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the hotel as he could.

He barged through a group of tourists and sprinted down a side road. He ran in front of a black cab and the driver slammed on his brakes, cursing him through the side window.

Martin looked over his shoulder as he ran. There was no one following him, and he slowed to a jog, then a walk. He was sweating and his heart was pounding. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. He began to relax.

He walked across the main plaza in Covent Garden, where a clown was walking along a broom handle suspended across a pair of stepladders. A dwarf in a clown suit was walking around a crowd of onlookers, collecting money in a red plastic bucket. Martin threaded his way through the crowds and went into a large cafe. There were plenty of empty tables outside, bordering the plaza, but Martin chose a table inside, close to the toilets. He ordered a cappuccino from a pretty blonde Australian waitress, then took the sheet of paper out and carefully unfolded it. It was a piece of hotel notepaper. The writing was Andy's.

Dear Martin My love. If you've found this it can only mean something's gone terribly wrong and that you've called in the police. Dear God, my hands are shaking so much as I write this. Please, just know that I love you, I love you with all my heart. If it has gone wrong, you must never stop looking for Katie. They've told me to go to a carpark in Bedford Court and to get into a van. A dark blue Transit van. They say it's got the name of a landscaping company on the side. I don't know where they're going to take me or what they plan to do. I'll do whatever it takes to get Katie back, I promise. Martin, if the worst has happened, if you've had to go to the police or if I'm dead (God, it feels so strange writing that), then there's someone I want you to call. Someone who might be able to find out where Katie is. His name is Detective Chief Inspector Liam Denham. He works for Special Branch in Belfast. Tell him it's about Trevor. Tell him what's happened. He'll help, if anyone can. Please, my love, never, ever forget that I love you.

At the bottom of the letter was a Belfast telephone number.

Martin reread the letter several times, his mind in a whirl. A Special Branch detective? Trevor? What in God's name was Andy talking about?

The waitress returned with his coffee. Martin left it untouched as he sat staring at the letter. Who was this Liam Denham? And who was Trevor? In the ten years he'd known Andy, she'd never mentioned either name. Special Branch? They dealt with terrorists. They were the elite of the Northern Ireland police. Why on earth would Andy have been involved with them?

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.