'That's where we went on our honeymoon. He's been promising to take Katie there for ages. She saw the honeymoon pictures and wanted to know why she wasn't there. You know how kids are.'
Green-eyes turned to look at Andy, scowling. 'You weren't trying to be clever, were you, Andrea?'
'What do you mean?'
Green-eyes didn't reply. She sat down, steepled her fingers under her chin and stared at Andy with unblinking eyes.
'He hasn't gone to the police, and now he won't,' said Andy. 'Now he knows that I'm okay.' She dropped down on to one of the chairs. 'Are you really going to use it? The bomb?'
'Does it matter?'
'Of course it matters. Are you building it as a threat, or are you going to set it off?'
'Would it make you feel better if I said we weren't going to use it?'
'Of course.'
Green-eyes smiled thinly. 'Is that what you used to do in the IRA? Build bombs and not use them?'
'Sometimes you can get the same effect by just putting a bomb in place, if disruption's your aim. That's the purpose of coded warnings. You want civilians out of the way and you want to tie up the authorities. You make your point but you don't actually kill anyone.'
'Maybe that's what we're going to do, then. Does that make you feel better?'
'Now you're humouring me.'
'What do you expect me to do, Andrea? Do you think I'm going to tell you what we're planning to do? Why would I do that?'
'Have you thought this through? Have you thought through what'll happen if you explode a four-thousand-pound bomb in the City of London? Whatever it is you think you're going to achieve, the backlash will destroy you. Look at what happened when the bomb went off in Omagh. It finished the Real IRA. Everyone turned against them.'
Green-eyes picked up her briefcase. 'We've got work to do. Come on.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin absent-mindedly patted Dermott's chest and the dog panted happily. 'She's okay,' Martin said, and the dog's grin widened as if he understood and was as overjoyed as his owner. 'She's okay and Katie's okay.'
Martin felt light-headed, almost drunk. Part of him wanted to jump around and shout with relief. Andy was alive. So was his Katie. Over the past few days his imagination had run riot, and he'd come close to convincing himself that his wife and daughter were dead, that the only option he had left was to go to the police. He thanked God that he hadn't. He'd done the right thing by waiting. Andy was safe. And if what she'd said was true, she and Katie would be back home soon. They'd be a family again. His heart had almost stopped when she'd asked him if he'd spoken to the police. He realised that the kidnappers were monitoring the conversation, and he'd decided on the spur of the moment that he had to lie. If he'd told Andy that the police had turned up on his doorstep the kidnappers might think that he'd called them. Best not to mention it and hope that Sergeant O'Brien believed his story.
Martin's sense of relief was tempered by the realisation that he still didn't know what the kidnappers wanted. She'd made it clear that they didn't want money. So what did they want? What was so important that they needed Andy? It didn't make any sense at all. Andy was a housewife. A homemaker. She took care of him and she raised Katie and she did occasional freelance work for the Irish Independent and some Dublin magazines. She had been a journalist for a couple of years before Katie was born, a feature writer with a growing reputation, before she'd decided that she didn't want to miss out on Katie's childhood. Once Katie had been old enough to go to school, she'd tried to restart her career, but only in a half-hearted way. Her family was her main concern, and it wasn't as if they needed the money.
So what was it that the kidnappers wanted from her? It couldn't have been her journalistic skills. So what else did she have that they wanted? It was a mystery, and it was driving Martin crazy.
He stopped patting Dermott and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. And what had Andy meant by taking her to Venice? They'd never discussed going there. He'd never been to Venice. Neither had she. Hell, they'd never even been to Italy.
– «»-«»-«»McEvoy looked up from the portable television set. 'It's almost noon,' he said. 'The flight's at two-thirty.'
'Yeah, I know,' said Canning.
'So we'll need the fucking tapes. All seven of them.'
'For fuck's sake, George, I'll take care of it.'
'So take care of it.'
'Look, the wee girl's sick. Her throat's swollen up like I don't know what.'
'She's got flu, you said.'
'It looks like flu. But her throat's bad. She can barely talk.'
McEvoy looked at his wristwatch, then pushed himself up out of his armchair. 'Let's see if I can't get the little bird to sing.' He reached for the video camera and a stack of tapes on the table next to where Canning was filling in the crossword in the Irish Independent.
'I'll do it,' said Canning.
McEvoy patted him on the shoulder, then gripped it tightly, his fingers biting into Canning's flesh. 'You stay where you are, Mick. I'd hate to tear you away from your sword.'
McEvoy grinned wolfishly and put on his ski mask. He went down into the basement. The girl was curled up on her bed. She looked over her shoulder as he went up to her.
'Sit the fuck up,' he said.
'What?' she said sleepily. She rubbed her eyes.
'Sit the fuck up and do as you're told. I don't have time to piss around.'
'I don't feel well,' said Katie.
'Yeah, me neither.' He pulled the wooden chair away from the table and sat on it, facing the bed. 'Right, when I press this button, I want you to tell you mum and dad that you're all right. Tell them that you miss them, tell them anything you want. Then I want you to say that it's Sunday.'
'But it isn't. It's Saturday.'
McEvoy grabbed her by the hair. 'I don't give a flying fuck what day it is. I want you to say it's Sunday, okay?'
Tears sprang into Katie's eyes. 'I don't feel well.'
'You're going to feel a lot fucking worse if you don't do as you're told,' hissed McEvoy. 'Remember how I cut your hair? How would you like it if I cut off one of your ears? You wouldn't like that, would you?'
Katie shook her head. 'No,' she said.
McEvoy released his grip on her hair and she rubbed her head, glaring at him reproachingly. 'And if you don't wipe that fucking sour look off your face, I'll smack you good and proper.'
Katie forced a smile.
'That's better,' said McEvoy. 'Right. Now let's record this message. Then we'll do one for the rest of the days of the week. And if you give me any more trouble, any trouble at all, I'm going to cut off your ear, okay?'
Katie stared at him with wide eyes. She nodded slowly.
– «»-«»-«»Andy lay in the back of the Transit van, the sound of the engine muffled by the hood she'd been made to wear. Green-eyes was in the front passenger seat and the Wrestler was driving.
Next to her on the floor was a black briefcase that Green-eyes had given her. That and the dark blue suit and raincoat she'd been supplied with would give credence to her story that she was an office worker having to work a weekend shift. Green-eyes had said that the rest of Andy's belongings would be delivered the next day.
Outside the van she heard blaring horns and motorcycle engines, and in the distance the siren of an ambulance. They'd turned off the motorway some twenty minutes or so earlier.
'Nearly there, Andrea,' said Green-eyes. 'Are you okay?'
'No, I'm not okay,' said Andy. 'I'm hot and uncomfortable and I can hardly breathe.'
'Just a few minutes.'
The van braked and Andy slid along the metal floor, her knee banging against the briefcase. The van made a series of turns, then came to a halt.
'Now then, Andrea, listen to me carefully. I want you to sit up with your back to us, then take off the hood. Open the doors, close them, then walk away from the van. The Tube station is right ahead of you. Don't look back. Just keep walking into the station. And remember, you'r
e going to be watched every step of the way. Do you understand?'
'Yes.'
'Go on, then.'
Andy followed the instructions and climbed out of the back of the van with the briefcase. She slammed the doors shut and walked straight to the station, keeping her head down. She knew they'd be watching her in the mirrors and didn't want to give them any reason to suspect that she was trying to sneak a look at them.
She went over to the ticket machines and bought a single ticket to Bank station with the change that Green-eyes had given her, then went through the barrier and took the escalator down to the eastbound Central Line platform.
The platform was crowded. The overhead indicator said that the next train would be along in two minutes. She walked along the platform, weaving in and out of the waiting passengers. She passed a chocolate vending machine and a public telephone. The phone was of the kind that took pre-paid phone cards and not cash, but even if she had a card there was no way she could risk making a call. There were almost a hundred people on the eastbound platform and any of them could have been tailing her. She walked by the phone and stood at the edge of the platform, staring down at the rails. A mouse scuttled along the sleepers, seeking the sanctuary of the tunnel.
Andy looked back along the platform. A businessman in a pin-stripe suit was looking at her. He smiled but she ignored him. A tall man in his twenties walked by nodding his head in time with the music he was playing through a Sony Walkman. He was wearing a denim jacket with a Harley Davidson emblem on the back, and had the volume up so high that other passengers were giving him dirty looks. A woman in a sheepskin jacket looked up from the copy of the Evening Standard she was reading and glared at the guy in the denim jacket. Could she be Green-eyes? wondered Andy. Had she got out of the van as soon as Andy had gone into the station? She had no way of knowing. The only means she had of identifying her was from her eyes, and she was too far away to see what colour they were.
A teenager in a black leather motorcycle jacket was leaning against the vending machine, picking his teeth with a match. He looked away. Could he be one of them? She'd heard a motorcycle drive away from the factory about half an hour before Green-eyes had given her the suit and told her to get into the back of the Transit. She looked away, then stole another quick glance at him. He seemed shorter than the Runner, and he was certainly thinner than the Wrestler, but there could be other members of the gang that she hadn't seen.
A breeze on her left cheek signalled the imminent arrival of the eastbound train, and Andy took a step back from the platform. The train pulled into the station and Andy stepped into a carriage. There were several empty seats but she was too tense to sit down. She held on to one of the overhead bars and braced herself as the doors closed and the train roared off into the tunnel. She looked around. The man in the motorcycle jacket was sitting at the far end of the carriage, picking his nose. Was he the one? Andy looked away, not wanting to establish eye contact with him.
The journey to Bank station seemed interminable. People got off. People got on. The man in the leather jacket stayed put, his arms folded across his chest.
Eventually Andy reached her destination. As she rode up the escalator to the surface, she looked over her shoulder. There was no sign of the man in the leather jacket.
After she'd passed through the ticket barrier, she took the A-Z street directory out of her raincoat pocket and used it to find her way to Cathay Tower.
There was a grey-haired security man with a drinker's nose sitting at a reception desk. He barely glanced at Andy's name badge. She walked past him to the lifts.
From the entrance to a building on the opposite side of the street, Quinn watched Andy go into Cathay Tower. He switched off his Walkman and pulled his headphones down around his neck. From the inside pocket of his denim jacket he took out a mobile phone and tapped out McCracken's number. She answered on the fifth ring. 'She's home and dry.' he said.
'Okay. Get back to the bike and head up to the factory,' she said. 'Keep an eye on the computer until we get back.'
She cut the connection. Quinn put the phone back into his pocket and put the headphones back on, then headed back to Bank station. He'd parked his motorcycle in a multistorey carpark in Shepherds Bush, his helmet and leather jacket locked in the back-box.
– «»-«»-«»Canning looked up as McEvoy came out of the basement and bolted the door. 'Easy peasy,' said McEvoy, tossing the videocassettes on to the kitchen table. 'I've always had a way with kids and small animals.'
Canning gathered up the cassettes and put them into a plastic carrier bag together with the two he'd recorded.
'Is she okay?'
McEvoy reached for a bottle of Bushmills and poured himself a glassful. 'She's fine and dandy, Mick, my boy. Don't you worry your pretty little head about her.' He looked at his wristwatch. 'You'd best be going.'
Canning looked across at the bolted door. He didn't like the idea of leaving McEvoy alone with the little girl, but didn't see that he had any choice. McCracken had said that he was to deliver the tapes, and he doubted that he'd be able to persuade McEvoy to go in his place. He put the carrier bag into his holdall and got his British Midland ticket from a drawer in the sitting room. When he got back to the kitchen, McEvoy was draining his glass. He held up the bottle. 'Get some more whiskey, will you?'
Canning nodded and went outside to the Mondeo. He drove to the airport, parked the car in a short-term carpark, and checked in an hour before his flight to Heathrow.
McCracken was waiting for him in the buffet on the arrivals floor of Terminal One, sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in front of her. Canning bought himself a coffee and a sandwich and sat at a neighbouring table with his back to her.
Everything okay?' McCracken asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
'Everything's fine,' said Canning, not looking around. He took the carrier bag from his holdall. A middle-aged couple with three unruly children sat at a nearby table. Two of the children started arguing about where they were going to sit on the plane, and the mother slapped the bigger of the two. Canning flinched. He'd never hit either of his own children – never had, never would. He put the carrier bag down on the floor and gently pushed it back under his seat.
He heard McCracken bend down and pull the carrier bag between her legs, then heard her open and close her briefcase. A few minutes later she stood up and walked away, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Canning stayed where he was, finishing his coffee. He listened to the three children squabbling and arguing and wished that he was with his own kids. His soon-to-be ex-wife he could live without, but his children were the most important things in his life.
– «»-«»-«»McCracken opened the door to the Transit and slid into the passenger seat, placing her briefcase on her lap. O'Keefe started the van and edged away from the terminal, squeezing in front of an Avis coach. McCracken wound down the window.
They drove in silence for a while, the slipstream tugging at McCracken's dyed blond hair. She took a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment and put them on. O'Keefe broke the silence first. 'What are we going to do with the Hayes woman?' he asked.
'What do you mean?'
'When it's over.'
McCracken tapped her red-painted fingernails on her briefcase but didn't reply.
'She did hear, didn't she?'
McCracken turned to look at him. 'I'm not sure. If she did, she hid it well.'
'She must have heard. She knows my name.'
'Maybe.'
'Maybe? That twat Quinn yelled it across the factory, right enough. She must have heard.'
McCracken screwed up her face as if she had a sour taste in her mouth. 'She might have heard, but that's not to say that she realised the significance.'
'Significance my arse,' hissed O'Keefe. 'He used my name. She heard it. If she tells the cops, I'm fucked. How long do you think it'd take to track me down?'
'All she heard – all she might have heard – was Don.
Maybe she'll think you're a Mafia boss.'
'This isn't fucking funny, McCracken. This is my life we're talking about. I'll put a bullet in her myself rather than go down for this.'
McCracken turned away and stared out of the windscreen.
'She's got to be dealt with, McCracken. If I go down, we all go down. There's going to be no Marquis of Queensberry rules after this – it'll be a rubber-lined room with a drain in the floor, and they'll beat the fuck out of me until they get what they want.'
'No one's going down,' said McCracken quietly.
'So when it's over, she's dead.' O'Keefe banged on the horn as a minibus cut him up. He accelerated and overtook the minibus, flashing the driver a dirty look.
McCracken opened her briefcase and took out the carrier bag. She counted the tapes. Seven.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning parked the Mondeo by the wooden garage and let himself in through the back door. McEvoy was watching the portable television in the sitting room, his feet propped up on a low coffee table. The Smith amp; Wesson was in his lap, and he had a glass of Bushmills resting on his stomach.
Canning asked McEvoy if he wanted a coffee but McEvoy just lifted his whiskey glass and shook his head, his eyes never leaving the television screen.
'How's the girl?' asked Canning.
'No idea,' said McEvoy. 'How was McCracken?'
'She was there. I gave her the stuff and got the next plane back.'
'She say there were any problems?'
'Didn't say a word. Just took the tapes and left.'
McEvoy pulled a face. 'Must be going okay, then. I guess if it wasn't, she'd have told us to off the kid.' He grinned at Canning. 'Only messing with you, Mick.'
Canning nodded at the gun. 'You expecting trouble, George?'
'You can never have your gun too close,' said McEvoy. 'Didn't they teach you that in the INLA?' He noticed that Canning was holding a white plastic carrier bag. 'What's in the bag?'
'Comics. For Katie. Picked them up at the airport.'
McEvoy shook his head in disgust. 'You'll spoil the little brat.'
Canning held the bag to his chest as if he feared that McEvoy would try to take it away from him. 'The happier she is, the easier she'll be to handle.'
The Bombmaker Page 12
