Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

He went straight up to the room to wait for the Special Branch detectives. He called up room service and ordered a club sandwich and a pot of coffee and then showered. The doorbell rang as he was getting dressed. When he opened the door, four heavily built uniformed policemen burst in. One of them grappled Martin to the floor, face down. His hands were wrestled behind his back and he felt handcuffs snap around his wrist. 'What the hell's going on?' he shouted.

Hands gripped his shoulders and he was hauled to his feet.

'I'm doing what I was told to. What the hell's this about?' A blanket was thrown over his head and he was bundled out of the door.

'Would somebody tell me what's going on?' Martin was ignored. He was half carried, half dragged through a door and down several flights of stairs in a stampede of boots, then through another door. He could hear traffic and realised he was outside. Within seconds he was thrown into the back of a van. His shins banged against the floor and he yelped but no one paid any attention to him. The van roared off. Someone gripped Martin's arms and helped him on to a hard bench seat. He knew it was pointless to say anything, so he just sat where he was, covered in the blanket. She'd lied to him. The Special Branch woman had lied to him.

The van drove for half an hour or so, then came to a halt, and the policemen hauled Martin to his feet and into a building which he presumed was a police station. He heard voices, and the crackling of a two-way radio, then he was frogmarched down a corridor and pushed into a room. Hands clutched at his belt and he felt it being pulled away from his trousers, then his shoes were torn off his feet one by one. The handcuffs were roughly removed and he was pushed to the side. A metal door slammed shut and there was the double click of a key being turned in a lock. Martin listened, his chest heaving. He slowly slid the sheet off his head and let it drop to the floor. He was alone in a police cell. There was a low bed, nothing more than a concrete podium with a thin plastic mattress on top, a toilet bowl cemented to the floor, and, several feet above his head, a window made of thick glass blocks.

Martin sat down on the bed. He couldn't work out what had happened. He hadn't been arrested because they were supposed to caution him and give him the chance to speak to his lawyer. And he knew enough about the legal system to know that he should have been processed before being thrown into a cell. They hadn't asked his name, they hadn't charged him, they hadn't taken away his wallet or even searched him. Whatever had happened to him, it wasn't a straightforward arrest. He settled back against the wall. He had no choice other than to wait.

– «»-«»-«»Mark Quinn was dying for a cigarette, but McCracken had forbidden smoking in the offices. He was standing over his electric wok, pushing the ammonium nitrate fertiliser around so that it didn't overheat. On the table next to the wok was a metal thermometer, and he pushed it into the mixture as he continued to stir. His arms ached and his head was throbbing from the fumes. The thermometer rose to one hundred and sixty and he turned down the heat. He really wanted a cigarette now, but the last time he'd asked McCracken for a break she'd given him a withering look and told him to stick at it.

Sweat was pouring down his face and the ski mask was making him itch furiously. He looked across at the pile of black rubbish sacks containing the treated fertiliser. They'd only done about a fifth. He looked over at O'Keefe, who was clearly as unhappy as he was. This was going to take for ever. It was all right for the Hayes woman, she didn't have to wear a mask, and McCracken didn't seem to mind how many breaks she took. She was forever going to get a coffee or a sandwich. Quinn figured she was deliberately dragging her feet, trying to postpone the moment when the bomb would be finished. If it had been up to Quinn, he'd have given her a good slapping and told her to get stuck in.

He rolled up the sleeves of his overalls and grinned at O'Keefe. O'Keefe had a large tattoo on his left forearm, a lion leaping over a flag of St George, and McCracken had told him to keep it covered while the Hayes woman was around.

Quinn looked over to where she was sealing the powdered fertiliser in a Tupperware container. Her shirt was damp with sweat and it clung to her breasts. She'd rolled her sleeves up above her elbows and had tied the bottom of her shirt in a loose knot, exposing her stomach, which glistened with sweat. With her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-something mother. She rubbed her forehead against her upper arm, trying to brush a stray lock of blond hair out of her eyes. The movement allowed Quinn to look down her cleavage. He stopped stirring and stared at her breasts, the fertiliser hissing in his wok.

She stopped what she was doing and slowly turned to look at him. Their eyes locked and Quinn grinned. She stiffened, her face an expressionless mask. Quinn stuck out his tongue and licked his lips suggestively. The Hayes woman stared back at him. He could feel the hatred pouring out of her eyes.

'Hey!' O'Keefe's yell startled Quinn and he flinched as if he'd been stung.

'What?'

O'Keefe pointed at Quinn's wok with short, stabbing movements. Quinn looked down. The fertiliser was starting to bubble and smoke. Quinn cursed and frantically scraped it out of the wok and on to the table.

O'Keefe was laughing, his hands on his hips. 'You soft bastard,' he said.

McCracken looked up from her wok. 'What's going on over there?'

'Shit-for-brains nearly let his fertiliser overheat.'

'The wok was too hot,' said Quinn. 'That's all.'

'For God's sake be careful,' said McCracken. 'The place is full of fumes. Any sort of flame and the whole place'll go up.'

'I thought that was the fucking idea,' laughed O'Keefe. His laughter echoed around the office, and McCracken shook her head contemptuously. Quinn's cheeks reddened beneath his ski mask. It was the Hayes woman's fault. He glared over at her and made a silent promise to himself that he'd get his own back before this was over.

– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes sat up as he heard the jingle of the custody sergeant's key chain. He was on his feet when the door opened. The sergeant stood aside and Martin found himself looking at a middle-aged couple who looked as if they had just walked out of a church service.

The man was in his sixties, balding and slightly overweight. He was wearing a fawn raincoat over a greenish tweed suit and was carrying a battered tweed hat in one hand.

The woman was younger, in her mid-forties, with skin so white that she must have conscientiously avoided exposing it to the sun. Her hair was cut short with a fringe, its blackness emphasising the paleness of her face. She had bright, inquisitive hazel eyes, and a smile that could have concealed the darkest thoughts. Her right hand was outstretched. 'Mr Hayes? I'm Patsy. We spoke on the phone.'

Martin found himself shaking hands before her words had sunk in. He withdrew his hand and glared at her. 'You had me thrown in here?' he said angrily. 'You lied to me.'

Her smile grew even wider and she nodded comfortingly, like a nurse breaking bad news. 'I'm sorry about that, Mr Hayes, but I had to be sure that you wouldn't go running off.' She had a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck, and she fingered it with her left hand as she spoke. Around her wrist was a gold Carder watch.

'Are you with Special Branch?' he asked.

She didn't answer his question, but turned to her companion. 'This is Chief Inspector Liam Denham.'

Denham held out his hand. The first and second fingers were stained brownish yellow with nicotine. 'Ex-Chief Inspector,' he said, his harsh accent betraying his Belfast origins. 'Why don't we go and get a cup of tea?'