'So,' he said. 'Tell me about your wife, Mr Hayes.'
'What do you mean?'
'Does she embarrass you? Does she sometimes get on your nerves?'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'Your wife is missing, Mr Hayes. So is your daughter.'
'And you're saying I did something to them, is that it?' He jerked a thumb at the tape recorder. 'Shouldn't this be switched on? Shouldn't you be recording this?'
FitzGerald exhaled slowly through pursed lips. 'All we're doing at the moment is having a wee chat, Mr Hayes. If you want to make it official, we can do that. But then I'd have to caution you and then a whole process would start that once started can be difficult to stop. So if it's all right with you, I'd like to keep this low-key just at the moment.'
Martin nodded slowly. 'Okay.'
'So, where is Mrs Hayes?'
'She told me that she was going to Belfast. To see her aunt. Her Aunt Bessie. But I've just been told by your Sergeant O'Brien that she's not with Bessie.'
'But you told the school that she'd gone to see her mother. Your mother-in-law.'
Martin shook his head. 'No. She must have misheard. It's her aunt. That's what Andy told me. But now I don't know what to think.'
'And you told the gardai that you don't have this Aunt Bessie's telephone number or address.'
That's right.'
'So you can see why we're a little concerned, Mr Hayes. What with there being blood in the upstairs hallway and all.'
'Andy tripped. She tripped and banged her head.'
'Recently?'
'Last week.'
'Did she go to hospital?'
'There was no need. It was a small knock, that's all.'
'The thing of it is, Mr Hayes, we'd like to reassure ourselves that your wife isn't in any trouble,' said FitzGerald.
'I wish I could help,' said Hayes. 'Look, last time I spoke to my wife, she said she'd be back soon. As soon as she calls again, I'll have her telephone you. How's that?'
'Where did she call from?' asked Power. It was the first time he'd spoken since walking into the interview room.
'Belfast. Well, I assumed Belfast. Now I'm just plain confused.'
FitzGerald leaned forward. 'Are you sure there isn't something you want to tell us, Mr Hayes? Something you want to get off your chest?'
Martin folded his arms and sat back in his chair. 'This is a complete waste of time. My time and yours. When Andy turns up you're going to look pretty stupid.'
'I'm quite happy to look stupid if it means we find your wife and daughter, Mr Hayes,' said FitzGerald.
'It's not a question of finding them,' said Martin. 'They're not lost.'
FitzGerald and Power exchanged looks. Power shook his head. Martin had the feeling that they'd run out of questions.
'Can I go now?' he asked.
FitzGerald grimaced. 'To be honest, we'd rather you stayed here for a while yet, Mr Hayes. We're continuing with our enquiries, and it'd be a big help to us if you were here to answer any questions that might arise.'
'Enquiries? What sort of enquiries?'
'We're checking the blood on the banister, obviously. We'd like a Scene of Crime Officer to call round. With your permission, of course.'
'I've already explained about the blood. My wife tripped.'
'We'd still like to check. And have the SOCO take a look at the rest of the house. And the garden.'
'The garden?' Martin's jaw dropped. 'What the hell are you suggesting? That I've buried my wife and daughter in the garden?'
FitzGerald put his hands up. 'We're not suggesting anything, Mr Hayes. We're just working our way through a standard set of procedures, that's all.'
Martin shook his head. 'No, that's not all. You're suggesting I murdered my family.'
'Please, don't get upset,' said FitzGerald, in a soft, low voice that a parent might use to try to calm a petulant child. 'If everything happened as you've told us, you've nothing to worry about.'
Martin glared at the two detectives. He wanted to lash out, verbally and physically, but he knew that such a show of raw emotion would only be counterproductive. The only way he was going to walk out of Pearse Street was if he co-operated. Or at least, appeared to co-operate. He forced himself to smile. 'Okay,' he said. 'Do whatever you have to do.'
Power held out his hand. 'Can we borrow your keys?'
'Sure,' said Martin. He handed then over. 'Be careful of Dermott, will you?'
'Dermott?'
'Our dog. He might run off.'
'We'll be careful,' said Power.
'And what happens to me while your people are checking the house?'
FitzGerald and Power stood up. 'This room's free, so you're welcome to wait here,' said FitzGerald. 'I'll send a garda in with coffee. Maybe a sandwich.'
The two detectives left. They closed the door but Martin didn't hear a lock turning or a bolt being pushed across. He put his head in his hands, wondering what he should do, whether he should tell them what had really happened to Andy and Katie or continue to lie to them.
DAY SIX
Canning switched on the light and unbolted the door to the basement. Katie was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, when he put the tray down on the table. 'Scrambled eggs and beans,' he said. 'Come and eat it before it gets cold.'
'What time is it?' she asked.
'Eight o'clock.'
'And it's Sunday today, isn't it?' Her voice sounded stuffy as if her nose was blocked.
'That's right.' He had three comics under one arm and he waved them at the little girl. 'I got these for you. Come and eat your eggs.'
Katie slid out of bed and padded across to the table. She picked up a glass of orange juice and drank half of it in one gulp.
'How's your throat?'
Katie shrugged and took another gulp of orange juice. 'It hurts a little bit.'
'Let me have a look,' said Canning. Katie tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Canning peered down her throat. It was still red, and when he gently touched the sides of her neck she winced.
Canning sat down at the table. He removed the glove from his right hand and touched her forehead. She still had a temperature.
'You didn't bring any clothes with me.' She pointed at her nightdress. 'This is smelly.'
Canning smiled. 'It's not smelly.' He put his glove back on, then took a pack of Day Nurse from his pocket, popped out a tablet and put it on the table. 'Eat your eggs and then swallow this,' he said.
Katie started to eat and Canning put his elbows on the table as he watched her.
'Mummy says that's bad manners,' she said.
Canning raised his eyebrows. 'What is?'
'Putting your elbows on the table while people are eating.'
Canning sat up straight. Katie put a forkful of egg in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then put down her plastic fork and leaned over her paper plate. 'If you let me go, I won't say anything. I promise.' She smiled. 'You won't get into trouble.' She waited to see what he'd say, smiling and nodding. Canning smiled behind his ski mask. Even aged seven, children, especially girls, could be so damn manipulative. His own daughter was the same. He could imagine Katie twisting her father around her little finger. Daddy, buy me this. Daddy, do this for me. Daddy, lift me up, carry me, love me.
Katie made the sign of the cross on her chest. 'Cross my heart and swear to die,' she said solemnly.
Canning shook his head. 'I can't let you go, Katie. Not yet. I'm sorry.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy lay on a sofa in the reception area, a big, sprawling sofa with huge cushions that seemed to fold around her like clouds. It had been just over four days since Katie had been kidnapped, and during those four days Andy's life had been turned upside down. Her daughter had been taken from her, she'd been forced to fly to London, she'd been kidnapped herself by three masked terrorists and told that she was to build a massive bomb in the City of London. Now here she was, sleeping on a sofa nine storeys up in an office block, under
surveillance from hidden cameras, awaiting the arrival of the components of a bomb that, if successfully-detonated, could lay waste to several city blocks. As she drifted in and out of sleep, it felt as if it was all happening to someone else, as if it was a weird, surreal dream.
She half heard the lift doors open and close, but she didn't sit up until the doors to the outside corridor were flung open. It was the Wrestler, pushing a boxed spin-drier on a trolley. He was wearing dark blue overalls with the name of a kitchen-fitting firm emblazoned on the back in fiery red letters. 'Rise and shine,' he said. He wheeled the box by her sofa and into the office. He was followed by the Runner, who was also wearing overalls and pushing another loaded trolley. Even through the ski mask he was wearing, Andy could see that he was leering at her.
Green-eyes came in last, carrying several assorted boxes. Like the men, she was wearing overalls and training shoes. There wasn't a gun in sight, but that didn't mean anything because it wasn't the threat of being shot that was keeping Andy in the office.
'In here,' Green-eyes said to Andy, and Andy followed her through to the main office area. The Wrestler was manoeuvring the spin-drier off its trolley next to the wall farthest from the windows. Green-eyes put the boxes she was carrying down on the floor and pointed at the spin-drier. 'Andrea, you start taking them out of their boxes while we bring the rest of the stuff up.'
Andy tried opening the box with her bare hands but the cardboard was too tough. The Wrestler gave her a small penknife, and she hacked away at the box with it while her three captors went back outside.
It took them more than an hour to carry in all the equipment, and another half an hour until all the boxes were opened. The Wrestler had several extension cords, and he plugged in the spin-driers, ovens, electric woks and coffee grinders and checked that they were all functioning.
The Runner brought in a filter coffee-maker and took it along to the suite of offices at one end of the open-plan area, and a few minutes later he returned with mugs of steaming coffee. Green-eyes showed Andy her clipboard. On it was a computer print-out listing all the chemicals and equipment she had purchased. 'Am I missing anything?' she asked.
Andy scanned the list and shook her head. 'I don't think so.'
'I don't think so isn't good enough, Andrea. Check it carefully. Am I missing anything?'
Andy ran her finger down the list. Everything seemed to be there. Except for one thing. 'Detonators,' she said. 'You haven't got detonators.'
'That's in hand,' said Green-eyes. 'For the next couple of days, your only concern is the explosive, okay?'
Andy handed back the clipboard. 'In that case, it's all here.'
Green-eyes put the clipboard down on top of one of the spin-driers. 'Come this way,' she said, and she led Andy to a suite of offices, each with a floor-to-ceiling glass panel next to the door so that the interiors were visible from the corridor. One of the offices had been used as a meeting room and contained a long cherry-wood table with a dozen high-backed leather chairs around it. In one corner of the room was a large-screen Sony television and a video recorder. 'Sit down, Andrea,' said Green-eyes.
Andy did as she was told. The blinds were drawn, but the slats were a white opaque material and enough light seeped in to make the overhead fluorescent lights unnecessary. The coffee machine had been put on a sideboard along with several cartons of long-life milk, a bag of sugar and a box of Jaffa Cakes.
Green-eyes unlocked her burgundy briefcase and took out a small cassette tape. She slotted it into a larger cassette and fed it into the video recorder. 'You wanted to know that Katie's safe,' she said.
Andy leaned forward with anticipation. Green-eyes pressed the 'play' button. There were a few seconds of static, then Katie was there, smiling at the camera.
'Mummy, Dad, this is Katie. Your daughter,' said Katie. She sounded far away, as if she were at the end of a long, long tunnel. There was a short pause as if she were gathering her thoughts, then she continued. 'I'm fine. But I've got flu. I think.' She put her hand up to her throat, and Andy copied the gesture. 'My head hurts and my throat's sore. The nice man is going to give me some medicine to make it better so I should be okay soon.'
Katie paused and looked past the lens. Andy had the feeling that someone was prompting her to continue.
'He said to say it's Saturday and that I'm okay. Mummy. I want to come home…' The recording ended abruptly and Andy knew it was because her daughter had burst into tears.
Green-eyes clicked the video recorder off. 'She's safe, Andrea, and she'll stay that way so long as you do as we ask.'
'She's sick. I have to go to her,' said Andy.
'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped Green-eyes. She ejected the cassette and put it back in the briefcase. 'She's got flu,' she said. 'Kids get flu. She'll be fine.'
'She needs me.'
'What she needs is for you to do what you have to do. Then you can get back to Dublin and be with her. We're taking good care of her, Andrea. I promise you.'
'I want to talk to her.'
'That's not possible. Not now. Maybe later on in the week. We'll see how you get on.' She stood up. 'First things first. I need you to show the lads what to do. Step by step.'
She took her mobile phone out of her overall pocket and put it in the briefcase, then took out her pistol and flicked the combination locks closed.
Andy followed Green-eyes into the corridor. Green-eyes put the briefcase in the office opposite the meeting room, then took Andy back into the open-plan office area. The Wrestler and the Runner had lined up the four ovens next to each other and were unpacking dozens of clear plastic Tupperware containers. The Wrestler was wearing his shoulder holster and gun again. 'Can we open the windows?' Andy asked. 'It's going to get hot in here.'
Green-eyes looked over at the Wrestler and he shook his head. 'They're sealed,' he said. 'Double-glazed and sealed.'
'Is there a thermostat? If there is, set it to the lowest level.'
The Wrestler pointed to a thermostat on one of the walls and the Runner went to turn it down. Andy looked around the huge office area. 'Right, we're going to need a line of desks here. Close to the ovens.'
The four of them carried half a dozen desks over and lined them up. Green-eyes, the Wrestler and the Runner waited expectantly as Andy gathered her thoughts. Then, like an officer mustering her troops, she explained what they had to do.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning dropped the carrier bags on to the back seat of the Ford Mondeo and drove away from the shopping centre. It had been a long time since he'd bought clothes for a child and he'd found the experience somewhat daunting. He knew Katie's size, but he had no idea what she liked. Jeans, skirts, dresses – Canning had been overwhelmed by the choice on offer. He'd settled on a pair of blue Wrangler jeans, three different shirts in assorted colours, and two pairs of white socks. He'd decided against buying her any shoes because she wasn't going to be leaving the house, and anyway he wasn't sure of her size, but he'd found a pair of Garfield slippers that he figured would make her smile.
He thought of his own daughter as he drove back to the cottage. Mary was two years older than Katie. Mary's eyes were the same shade of green, though her hair was auburn, thick and curly, the same as her mother's. It had been almost three months since he'd last seen Mary. And his son, Luke. They were both with their mother in Larne, presumably being poisoned with stories about what a cruel, selfish bastard their father was. Canning looked at his watch, wondering what his children were doing.
He drove past a telephone box and pulled the car over. He sat for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Egan had been insistent that once the operation was under way there had to be no contact with family or friends. No letters. No phone calls. An ambulance went by, its blue light flashing but its siren off. Canning couldn't see what harm one phone call could do. His wife and children were hundreds of miles away, and they had no idea where he was. He climbed out of the Mondeo and walked back to the phone box, sorting through
his pockets for change. It was starting to drizzle, and he jogged the final few yards. He had to pause and recollect his wife's number. It had been more than six weeks since he'd spoken to her, and that had ended in an argument over money. He slotted in half a dozen coins and tapped out the number, then closed his eyes as it began to ring, wondering if he was doing the right thing.
'Hello?' It was her. Canning thanked God it wasn't her mother.
'Maggie? It's Mick.'
'I know who it is.' Her voice was cold. Impersonal.
'How are you doing?'
'What do you want, Mick?' If anything her voice was even colder.
'I just wanted to call and see if the kids are all right.'
'They're fine.'
He waited for her to say something else, but the silence stretched on and on. It was as if she was challenging him to speak first.
'Can I have a word with them?'
'What about?'
'Just to say hello, you know. Come on now, Maggie, it's been weeks since I've spoken to them.'
'Well, whose fault is that?'
Canning took a deep breath. He didn't want to fight with his wife, but it seemed that every conversation he had with her ended in an argument. 'I just want a word. That's all.'
'Mary's in the bath. Luke's out.'
'Out where?'
'What business is it of yours, Michael Canning? You call once in a blue moon and you expect the whole world to be at your beck and call, is that it?'
'No, it's not that. Could you just tell them that I called to say hello? Give them my love.'
'Anything else?'
Canning could tell from her tone that she had no intention of passing on any message. 'No. I guess not.' The line went dead. Canning replaced the receiver and walked slowly back to his car.
– «»-«»-«»Andy wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Sweat was pouring off her, and she could feel beads of it trickling down the small of her back. She'd changed out of the suit that Green-eyes had given her and was wearing a blue checked shirt and loose-fitting denim jeans, but it was still uncomfortably hot in the office. She went over and looked at the thermostat. It was set to the minimum, but the temperature read-out showed that it was in the mid-nineties.
The Bombmaker Page 14
