Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

'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 calling 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.