Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

Patsy narrowed her eyes. 'What are you getting at?'

Denham sighed. He hadn't wanted to pick a fight with Patsy Ellis, but he could feel himself being forced into a corner, and he'd never relished the role of human punchbag. 'I'm starting to feel that in the rush to apprehend the bombers, the little girl is being forgotten. That's all.'

'You're retired, Liam. You're here at my request. You're not here to direct the enquiry and you're certainly not here to criticise my performance.'

'I wasn't being critical, Patsy. That I wasn't. I was trying to help and I'm sorry if you think my attempt was misguided.'

'Misguided isn't the word that springs to mind,' said Patsy. 'I was considering reckless. Irresponsible, maybe.'

'I've apologised once, Patsy. I don't see what more I can do.'

'What's annoying me, Liam, is that you don't seem to appreciate the damage that your friend Hogan might do.'

'He'll be careful.'

'He's got more black marks on his record than I've had ladders in my tights, Liam. He's sailed so close to the wind that he's lucky to have a job, never mind a Chief Inspector's rank. If he was in the Met he'd have been out on his ear years ago.'

Denham wanted to defend Hogan, but he knew that to do so would only antagonise Patsy even more. He sat with his head down, holding his tweed hat with both hands and fingering the fly in the brim. 'You haven't got children, have you, Patsy?'

Patsy looked at him coldly. 'No, Liam, and at forty-three I doubt that I ever will. But I don't see what my lack of maternal instincts has to do with your irresponsible behaviour.'

'Somewhere in Ireland there's a little girl, scared out of her wits, a little girl who doesn't know why she's been taken away from her family, who doesn't know that she's a pawn in a bigger game. And down the corridor there's a father who's going out of his mind with worry. He doesn't know if he's ever going to see his daughter again. Hell, he doesn't even know if she's dead already, lying in a ditch somewhere with a plastic bag over her head or a bullet in her heart. When all this over, however it works out, Martin Hayes is going to want to know what we did to try to save his little girl. And just now, from where I'm sitting, it looks as if we're not doing a goddamned thing.' He raised his head and looked her squarely in the eyes. She stared back at him. 'I know there are hundreds of lives at stake, here in London. Hundreds of lives and millions of pounds. I know you have to consider the big picture. But I know what it's like to lose a child, Patsy. It's not something you're going to want on your conscience.'

Patsy continued to stare at Denham for several seconds. 'We're not going to agree on this, Liam,' she said eventually. 'I'm sorry.' She stood up. 'I'd rather you didn't leave the building again, until this is over.'

'So I'm under house arrest, is that it?'

'No. I just want you here if she does call.' She opened the door for him and he hauled himself out of the uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair which had clearly been designed to be admired and not used. He massaged the small of his back with the knuckles of his left hand as he left the office.

'I suppose there is one good thing to have come out of your little escapade,' she said. 'We know that the GCHQ monitoring works. Your call was flagged immediately Hogan said "Katie".'

Denham nodded but didn't say anything. Patsy closed the door behind him as he walked down the corridor, reaching for his packet of cigarettes.

– «»-«»-«»Andy put her ear to the door and screwed up her face as she tried to hear what was going on outside. Her cheek was still smarting from when Green-eyes had slapped her. She hadn't expected her to react so violently. She wondered if it was guilt, if the woman was finally realising the horror of what they were doing. Bombs in the abstract could be fascinating, exciting even, but at the end of the day they were inhumane weapons of destruction that brought nothing but sadness and grief in their wake.

She heard a man's voice, but through the door it was little more than a faint rumble, and she couldn't even tell if it was the Wrestler or the Runner. The Runner hadn't returned with Green-eyes from the dry run – maybe this was him coming back now.

She looked down at the burgundy briefcase. If she was going to do anything, she had to do it now. The bomb was ready. All that was left to do was set the timer and put it in the middle of the bags of explosive. Green-eyes was more than capable of doing that on her own. Andy had reached the stage where she was dispensable, which meant that they'd either release her or kill her.

She knelt down and pulled the briefcase from under the table. The combination locks were as she'd left them, both set to eight-six-four. She flicked the catches and pulled open the lid. The mobile phone was there. But so was something else, something that took her breath away. Five videocassettes, small ones that had been taken from a video camera.

– «»-«»-«»Egan walked over to the pile of black garbage bags. 'All done?'

'All four thousand pounds of it,' said O'Keefe, pulling off his ski mask and rubbing his face. 'We should have asked for more money.'

'You're being well paid,' said Egan, lifting one of the bags to gauge its weight.

'What's going to happen to Quinn's share, now that he's… retired?'

'Retired?' laughed Egan. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a grey crew-neck pullover and black Levi jeans. He ran his eyes over the bags, counting quickly. When he was satisfied that the full complement was there, he turned to O'Keefe. 'Okay, Don. You and Lydia can split the money I was going to give to Quinn. Happy now?'

O'Keefe grinned and rubbed his gloved hands together. 'Suits me,' he said.

McCracken took off her ski mask and went over to the Semtex-filled briefcase. Egan joined her, and they looked down at the electric circuit that lay on top of the explosive. Egan cast his eyes over the tangle of wires. 'So everything's ready?' he said.

'All she has to do is push the detonators into the Semtex and set the timer. We don't actually need her for that.'

'No. She has to do it all.'

'So that her signature's on it?'

Egan looked across at her, frowning. 'Who told you about signatures?'

McCracken gestured with her chin to the office where she'd sent Andrea. 'She did.'

Egan's frown deepened. 'Not getting too close, are you?'

'Don't be stupid,' snapped McCracken. 'We were talking, that's all.'

Egan smiled amicably. 'Anyway, you're right. It's her signature that matters. It has to look like an IRA bomb, and even the slightest deviation will tip off the investigators. How's she been?'

'She's doing as she's told. What about her daughter?'

'Her daughter's fine. For the moment.'

O'Keefe came over and looked down at the Semtex. 'What happens to her? Afterwards?'

'The daughter?'

O'Keefe nodded.

'We'll let her go. This isn't about killing children.'

'And her?' O'Keefe nodded at the offices.

'Ah,' said Egan. 'That's a whole different ball-game. She has to go up with the bomb. It's not going to work if she's around to tell her story afterwards.'

'And us?' asked O'Keefe, watching Egan's face for any reaction. 'What about having us around afterwards?'

Egan grinned and put a hand on O'Keefe's shoulder. His leather jacket swung open and O'Keefe saw the butt of a gun in a shoulder holster. Unlike his own black nylon holster, Egan's was glossy brown leather that glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights.

'Don, you're as much a part of this as I am. You're hardly likely to go spilling your guts to the cops, are you? Plus, you don't exactly have an IRA pedigree, do you? I'm paying you to do a job, and providing you behave like a professional, I'll treat you like one. Might even have more work for you after this.' He patted O'Keefe gently on the cheek, then pulled a black ski mask from his jacket pocket. 'Right, final stretch. Let's get on with it.'