Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

The two agents nodded. They were both single and had no regular partners, so Patsy knew it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for them. In fact, they made a good-looking couple. He was tall with a runner's build and a crop of thick, blond hair. Carter was a few inches shorter with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair that she normally had tied back in a ponytail. They were both stylish dressers – he favoured dark Boss double-breasted suits and she generally wore well-fitting suits in pastel shades, usually cut just above the knee. There was clearly no attraction between the two of them, however. No sideways looks, no cute smiles when they thought no one was watching. Patsy had a keen eye for intra-office relationships and there was no sign of one developing, which was one of the reasons she'd given them the job of baby-sitting Martin Hayes.

She could see from the look on Fanning's face that he wasn't happy about the assignment as he slowly folded his arms across his chest. He was keen to be part of the team chasing the bombmaker and obviously regarded looking after the husband as being sidelined. If Carter was disappointed, she hid it well, smiling amiably with her Mont Blanc pen poised over a small leather-bound notebook that Patsy thought might have a Chanel logo on the front.

'There's something I didn't mention at the briefing, and I want it to remain between us, for the time being at least.'

Patsy had to resist the urge to smile as she saw Fanning's reaction. His whole body language changed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward expectantly, eager to hear what she had to say.

'They allowed her to phone her husband. On Sunday.'

Fanning and Carter both raised their eyebrows in surprise.

'Little was said, just that she was okay. And that there was something she had to do for them. She was obviously being closely monitored during the call, but our feeling is that if she managed to convince them to allow her to make one call, she should be able to do it again the closer she gets to completion.'

'Hell of an error,' said Fanning. 'Considering our technical capabilities.'

'Most of which isn't public knowledge,' said Patsy. 'Besides, the husband had been told not to contact the police. That if he did, his daughter would be killed. I think that under the circumstances they'd be justified in thinking that a tap would be unlikely in the extreme. Whatever, they allowed the call, and if they allowed one, they might allow another. Or, a more likely scenario in my opinion, she'll find a way of getting to a phone without them knowing. Either way, we've arranged with British Telecom and Telecom Eireann to have all calls to the Hayes house to be routed to an office here.' She nodded at the door to an adjoining room. 'In there, in fact. So far as the caller's concerned, they'll be through to the house. We'll be running a trace, but I doubt they'll be on long enough. Still, nothing ventured…'

'There is the possibility that she'll ask to speak to her daughter, of course,' said Carter.

Patsy nodded. 'That's where it gets complicated,' she said. 'We'll be monitoring all England-Ireland phone traffic, looking for key words. But that's going to be done through GCHQ. I've already been in touch with our liaison officer at Cheltenham. But even if we do locate the daughter, she's not our prime concern. Though Mr Hayes must absolutely not be aware of that. Are we clear?'

Fanning and Carter nodded. Patsy put her hands flat on the desk blotter and pushed herself up. 'Right,' she said, 'let's get to it.'

– «»-«»-«»They said barely half a dozen words during the drive from the airport. They were both tall, wearing Barbour jackets over suits, and Denham figured that their combined ages just about equalled his own sixty-five years. Denham sat in the back of the Rover and stared at the back of their heads. They were both balding. The driver had a bare patch the size of a fifty-pence piece! the other hadn't done so well in the genetics lottery and had a bald spot as big as a saucer. Denham wondered if it was stress-related. In his early days with the RUC he'd had a thick crop of black hair that required a handful of gel to keep it in place; it was only when he'd transferred to Special Branch that he'd started to lose it.

They'd been waiting for him on the tarmac, the rear door of the Rover already open for him as he walked off the RAF Hercules transporter and down the metal stairway. He hadn't asked where they were going. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the man he was going to see.

They drove north towards Antrim, and Denham felt a touch of sadness as they passed within five miles of his own house. Under any normal circumstances he'd have asked the men to make a quick detour, but the mission he was on was too important. His wife would have to wait.

He lit another cigarette, his third since he'd got into the Rover. When he'd lit the first one the driver had coughed pointedly, but Denham had ignored him. He looked around the back of the car for an ashtray but there wasn't one, so he was reduced to flicking his ash out of a gap in the window, though more often than not the slipstream blew it back into the car.

They joined the M22 and headed west with the vast expanse of Lough Neagh to their left, until the motorway merged into the A6. Just past Castledawson they turned right and started driving along smaller country roads. The driver was good, Denham had to admit. He drove quickly but safely, and wasn't averse to switching lanes and driving on the wrong side of the road if it meant he had a better view of what lay ahead. He was constantly checking the mirrors, but Denham doubted that anyone would have been able to keep up with them. The speedometer rarely fell below seventy as they sped between the fields.

The car eventually came to a halt by a stone bridge. The driver turned around to look at Denham and nodded, just once. 'You boys stay with the car,' Denham said. He climbed out of the Rover, dropped the remains of his cigarette on to the damp grass and trod it into the soil. The sun was a hand's width from the horizon and reddening, and Denham buttoned up his raincoat. He walked down towards the fast-flowing stream, holding his arms out for balance as his Hush Puppies skidded and slipped along the muddy gravel path.

The man standing in the stream must have heard Denham coming, but he didn't turn his head. He flicked the rod in his hand and a fly whisked through the air and plopped almost silently on to a quiet stretch of water close to the far bank.

'You always did have a hell of a smooth cast, Mr McCormack,' said Denham. Only then did Thomas McCormack turn to acknowledge his presence.

'I'm told you're no mean fisherman yourself, Chief Inspector Denham.'

McCormack turned his back on Denham and wound in his line. He was wearing bright green waders, a quilted waistcoat over a thick green pullover, and on his head was a shapeless tweed hat that could have been a close cousin to the one Denham was wearing.

'It's Mr Denham now. Retired almost ten years now.'

'Oh, I know that, Chief Inspector.'

'Same as you know I'm a fisherman?'

McCormack flicked his rod again and sent the fly high into the air, nodding with satisfaction as it dropped on to the same stretch of water as before. 'We knew about the little stream you used to favour, up by Ballymena. Lovely spot, with the beech trees right up to the water's edge.' He turned to look at Denham as he wound in his line. 'Could have got you any time, Chief Inspector. Before or after your retirement.' He grinned mischievously. 'But that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it?'

Denham tapped a cigarette out and lit it.

'Still on eighty a day?' asked McCormack.

'Down to twenty,' said Denham.

'The wife?'

'Yes, the wife,' sighed Denham.

'Where would we be without them, huh?'