Green-eyes was at the water-cooler, helping herself to a cupful of water. Andy joined her. 'The air-conditioning isn't coping,' she said. 'We're going to need dehumidifiers.'
'It's not too bad,' said Green-eyes. She'd unzipped the overalls almost down to her waist, and Andy could see her white bra underneath. Sweat was dripping down her neck, and Andy figured the ski mask must have been annoyingly uncomfortable. The woman's neck was reddening and bathed in sweat.
Andy poured herself a paper cup of water and sipped it. All four ovens were working, their doors ajar. In each of the ovens were metal baking trays full of the ammonium nitrate fertiliser, four trays per oven. Other trays were lined up on the desks, waiting to be filled. The Wrestler was on his knees in front of one of the ovens, testing the temperature with a metal thermometer.
The Runner was taking trays out of the middle oven and tipping the heated fertiliser into Tupperware containers, which he was then sealing in black rubbish bags. At the far end of the office was a pile of black bags that had already been filled with fertiliser.
The doors of the ovens had to be left ajar so that the water could escape, and the temperature had to be constantly monitored because the fertiliser would liquefy at 170 degrees Fahrenheit. It would actually explode at 400 degrees, but it would start to bubble and smoke long before it reached that temperature. Andy had told the two men to make sure it didn't get above 150 degrees.
She drained her paper cup and tossed it into a basket at the base of the cooler, then rolled up her shirtsleeves. 'I want to show you something,' she said. She took Green-eyes over to the window and pulled back the vertical blinds to show her the window. It was blurry from condensation, and water was pooling at the bottom of the pane. Andy ran her finger down the glass and showed Green-eyes how wet it was. 'This is after four hours,' she said. 'It's going to get a lot worse. It's getting too humid.'
'So?'
Andy nodded at the electric ovens. 'So the point of this is to dry out the fertiliser. But if the atmosphere's this moist, the ammonium nitrate is going to soak the water right back up. Even when it's in the containers and bags. You've got to get the water out of the air. The best way would be to open the windows, but they're sealed. So the only thing you can do is to bring in dehumidifiers.'
Green-eyes put her hands on her hips. 'It'll have to be tomorrow,' she said.
'Whatever,' said Andy. 'And another thing. We're going to need fans, because when we start to use the alcohol, we're going to have to keep the air moving. If we don't… it'll explode. You won't even need a detonator. The fumes will be explosive enough.'
Mick Canning knocked on the basement door before slipping back the two bolts. 'What the fuck are you knocking for?' McEvoy shouted from the sitting room. 'This isn't a fucking hotel.'
Canning ignored him and went down the stairs. Katie was sitting at the table, reading one of the comics he'd given her. 'Hiya, kiddo,' he said.
She put her chin on her hands and pouted. 'I want to go home.'
'I know you do.'
'When can I go?'
'I don't know. Not long.'
'How long's not long?'
'I don't know.'
'You can't keep me here for ever,' she said.
'We don't intend to.'
She looked up at him. 'Are you going to kill me?' she asked.
The matter-of-fact way she asked the question took Canning's breath away. He sat down next to her. 'Of course not. We don't hurt little girls. You have to believe me, we're not going to hurt you. I promise.'
'Cross your heart?'
Canning made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'Cross my heart,' he said. 'Look, we've already sent the videotapes to your mummy so that she knows you're all right. And we've told her that you'll be home soon.' He crossed himself again. 'Swear to die.'
Katie smiled and nodded. 'Okay,' she said. 'I believe you.'
Canning showed her the carrier bags. 'I got you some clothes. And Garfield slippers.' He pushed the carrier bags towards her and she pulled out the clothes and looked at them.
'Are you hungry?'
'A bit.'
'I'll go and get you something. Beefburgers? With chips?'
Katie nodded. 'Can I use the bathroom first?'
'Of course you can.'
He held out his hand. Katie hesitated for a couple of seconds, then took it. Her hand felt tiny in his as he helped her up the stairs.
– «»-«»-«»James FitzGerald knocked on the door to the Chief Inspector's office and pushed it open as his boss gruffly told him to come in. Garda Chief Inspector Eamonn Hogan looked up from a stack of files that he'd been working his way through, fountain pen in hand. 'Morning, Jim, how's it going?' Hogan had turned fifty the previous week, though he looked almost a decade older, virtually bald with thick jowls that lay in folds against his shirt collar. There was a bag full of golf clubs leaning against one wall. Hogan rarely worked on Sundays, but they'd had two successful murder investigations completed during the previous week and the paperwork had mounted up. Like FitzGerald he wore spectacles, though his had wire frames. Hogan grinned at FitzGerald's Bugs Bunny tie. 'You know, in some parts of the country you could be arrested for wearing that.'
'It was a present,' said FitzGerald. He leaned against the door jamb. 'It's about this guy Martin Hayes.'
'The missing wife? Is he still in custody?'
'Helping us with our enquiries,' said FitzGerald. 'We put him in one of the cells overnight, but he's here of his own volition.'
'What's your take on it, Jim?'
FitzGerald shrugged and ran a hand through his thinning sandy hair, as if to reassure himself that it was still in place. 'He's hiding something, there's no doubt about that. But he's not a wife-killer. We've given the house and garden a going-over, and there's nothing to suggest foul play. We've spoken to neighbours and relatives and there've been no arguments. No rows. Just your average suburban family.'
Hogan sat back in his chair and put his pen down on top of his stack of files. 'You know as well as I do, Jim, your average suburban family pretty much accounts for half of our murder cases. All that suppressed anger. Crying babies. Kitchens full of knives.'
'Their daughter's seven, hardly a baby,' said FitzGerald, humouring his boss. 'No money problems, so far as we can see. And when we accuse him of doing something to his wife and child, he gets upset. Really upset. If it's an act, it's a bloody good one.'
'So she's left him. She's walked out on him.'
'So why doesn't he just say that? The thing of it is, there was blood on the banister upstairs, so there's something going on. But there are no signs of a struggle, and she's taken some clothes with her.'
'So she went away, took the daughter with her?'
'That's the way it looks.'
'Without telling him?' Hogan pulled a face as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. 'Bit unlikely, don't you think? No note?'
'He says not.'
'And you've checked with her relatives?'
'Sure. With her mother and an aunt. The aunt that Hayes said she'd gone to stay with. She's not with either of them. I've had both addresses checked by the RUC
Hogan took off his spectacles and polished them with a large blue handkerchief. 'So what's your feeling, Jim?'
'I don't think he's done anything to her. Or the daughter. He's not the type. Things like that don't happen out of the blue, and there's no history. Plus, if he had done anything, he wouldn't have left the blood on the banister. One thing he's not is stupid. No, he's not done away with them. But I think he knows where she's gone.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because if he didn't, he'd have been on to us, right? Wife and kid vanished. He'd have called us, for sure.'
'Unless he really believed that she'd gone to stay with the aunt.'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'He didn't have a phone number, she didn't take the car, he didn't know what train she was on. No, she didn't go to Belfast. She went somewhere else, and I think he knows
where.'
'So why won't he tell you where she is?' Hogan put his spectacles back on.
'Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe she went off with someone he knows.'
'He's lying to the police to save himself from embarrassment?' Hogan pulled another face, screwing up his nose and wrinkling his eyes.
'Yeah, I know. It doesn't make much sense to me, either. But I figure that if he knows she's alive and well, he knows he's not going to be convicted of hurting her. He probably figures that if he just keeps on denying that he knows what's happened to her, eventually we'll just go away.' FitzGerald shrugged. 'Hell, maybe he figures she'll come back.' He scratched his chin. 'The O'Mara woman is a strange one, too. There's no sign of her. Spoken to her relatives – they haven't seen her. She hasn't withdrawn any money recently, didn't buy a ticket anywhere, car's still parked in front of her house. She's just disappeared into thin air.'
'But the only connection is that she worked at the school, right?'
'Well, it's a bit more than that. She spoke to Hayes the day she disappeared. Or the day before. Frankly, we're not quite sure when she went. She was last seen driving away from the school at five o'clock in the evening. The school rang us the following lunch-time when she didn't turn up at work.'
Hogan removed his wire-framed spectacles, took a small yellow cloth from his desk drawer and began polishing them again. 'You're not suggesting Hayes has had anything to do with her disappearance, are you?'
FitzGerald shrugged. 'I honestly don't know. There's no evidence he ever met her.'
'So it could just be a coincidence.' Hogan sighed and put his glasses back on. 'God, I hate coincidences,' he said. 'Bane of our lives, coincidences.'
'And another thing,' said FitzGerald. 'He's not asked for a solicitor. Keeps asking if we've finished and wants to go home, but he's not asked to call a solicitor. If he'd done something, he'd know that his best bet would be to be legally represented.'
'Unless he thinks he's smarter than we are.'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'No, he's not playing mind games with us. I think he knows he hasn't done anything wrong and that we're going to have to let him go eventually.'
Hogan put the yellow cloth back in his drawer and picked up his fountain pen. 'So you're going to treat it as a domestic?'
'I think so. Until I can prove otherwise. I thought John and I would have another go at him after lunch, and if he doesn't budge we'll let him go later this afternoon.'
'What about keeping an eye on him?'
'Yeah, are you okay with that? Overtime considerations and all.'
Hogan grinned. 'Ah, so you don't want to sit outside his house yourself, is that it?'
FitzGerald smiled ruefully. A night in a car wasn't his idea of a good time. He put his hands up in mock surrender.
'Go ahead, Jim. But have a word with uniforms first. See if they've got a couple of men spare. Just for a day or two, mind.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy twisted the metal tie around the black rubbish bag, then eased it into a second bag and sealed that as well. Even sealed inside two plastic bags, the fertiliser in the Tupperware containers would absorb moisture from the air to the extent that it would be uselessly damp within two weeks. She had explained the chemistry to Green-eyes, but Green-eyes had said that it wouldn't be a problem. That meant that whatever Green-eyes was planning, it would be over within a fortnight.
Sweat was beading on Andy's forehead and she wiped it with a towel. Early that morning, Green-eyes had sent the Wrestler and the Runner to buy dehumidifiers and electric fans, and they'd gone some way to lowering the humidity, but it was still in the mid-eighties in the open-plan office. It was somewhat cooler in the smaller individual offices and meetings room, so they all took frequent breaks to cool down.
They'd spent most of the day processing the fertiliser through the ovens and then sealing it in the Tupperware containers and black bags, but by midnight the offices had become so humid and hot that Andy had told Green-eyes it was pointless continuing. They'd have to let the air-conditioning recover. Green-eyes had given Andy a sleeping bag and told her to sleep in one of the offices and not to open the door until morning. Andy figured it was so they could take off their ski masks. The discomfort of wearing them for twelve hours while they worked the ovens must have been almost unbearable.
Now that the dehumidifiers had been brought in, they'd be able to work throughout the night, but it was still uncomfortably hot.
'I'm going to take a break,' Andy said to Green-eyes, who was checking the thermometer in one of the ovens.
Are you hungry?' Green-eyes asked. 'There are some sandwiches in the coffee room.'
Andy went along to the meeting room. There was a Marks and Spencer carrier bag next to the coffee machine, containing a dozen packs of sandwiches. Chicken salad, sausage and mustard, bacon, lettuce and tomato, cheese and pickle, smoked salmon. And there was an assortment of canned drinks. Andy popped open a Diet Coke and drank, and then took a smoked salmon sandwich and sat down at the long table.
She looked through the glass panel by the door at the office opposite. Green-eyes had a camp bed there, and it was where she kept her clothes. It was also where she'd left the briefcase. The mobile phone was in the briefcase, but the case had combination locks. Each lock had three dials. Zero to nine hundred and ninety-nine. If it took two seconds to try each combination, she could do all one thousand in just over half an hour. An hour to do both locks. Maximum. In all probability it would take a lot less than an hour. But what then? She'd have access to the phone, but who would she call? The police? She was no further on than when she was being held on the industrial estate. Sure, she knew where the bomb was, and the police would be able to arrest her three captors, but what would happen to Katie? Could she be sure that Green-eyes would confess all and tell the police where Katie was being held?
Andy chewed slowly, barely tasting the sandwich. First things first. The briefcase was in the office on the other side of the corridor. She put down her half-eaten sandwich and went to the door, easing it open carefully. She could hear her three captors working in the main office area. There was no way they could see her unless they were standing in the corridor itself.
Andy took a deep breath, then tiptoed across the corridor and opened the door to the second office, her heart in her mouth. The briefcase was on a teak desk. She set the first combination to zero, zero, zero. She tried the lock. It wouldn't move. She flicked the end dial. Zero, zero, one. Still locked. She looked at her watch. She'd try for five minutes, then she'd have to get back to the main office.
The door to the interview room opened and Martin Hayes looked up. It was the inspector. FitzGerald. 'Now what?' said Martin. 'Back to the cell?'
FitzGerald shook his head. 'You can go, Mr Hayes. I think we've taken up enough of your time.'
Martin ran his hand over the stubble across his chin. He'd been in the Pearse Street station for almost eighteen hours and hadn't been given the chance to shave or clean his teeth, though he'd managed to wash his face in a sink in the men's room. He felt dirty and his shirt was sticking to his back. 'You're letting me go?'
'It's not a question of letting you go, Mr Hayes. You're not under arrest. You've just been helping us with our enquiries. You've been free to leave at any time.'
Martin stood up. 'So you believe me?'
'Let's just say we've no evidence that you've had anything to do with the disappearance of your wife and daughter,' said FitzGerald, holding the door open wide. 'But we might want another word with you again soon. So don't leave town, as they say.'
'They've not disappeared,' said Martin, but he knew that the detective wasn't interested in his denials.
He walked away from the grey stone Garda station and caught a taxi near Trinity College. They'd let him go, but it was as clear as day that FitzGerald didn't believe him, and Martin didn't blame him. He had never been a good liar, and authority figures always made him nervous, even when he hadn't done anything wrong.
&
nbsp; He stared out of the taxi with unseeing eyes, wondering what he should do next. They'd presumably taken him out of the house so that they could check the bloodstain on the banister, and they'd probably searched through the house, too. He'd already admitted that it was Andy's blood, so hopefully it wouldn't be an issue any more. But they'd keep digging, and if they were to speak to his financial advisers, they'd discover that he'd been liquidating his assets and transferring money into his current account. What would they make of that? Martin wondered. They'd assume that he was about to withdraw the money. That he'd killed his wife and daughter and was about to disappear himself.
If nothing else, he'd be hauled into Pearse Street again for more questioning, and the more often that happened the more likely it was that Katie's kidnappers would discover that he was in contact with the police.
The taxi dropped him outside his house and he went inside, where he was practically bowled over by Dermott. He went straight to his answering machine. There were no messages. He let the dog out into the back garden, then made himself a cup of instant coffee and took it upstairs. Dermott came running up the stairs after him, tail wagging like a metronome.
Martin went into Katie's bedroom and sat down on the bed. Dermott dropped down and rolled over on to his back, begging for his stomach to be rubbed. Martin patted the dog and sipped his coffee. He leaned over to put his cup on Katie's bedside table, and froze. There was a car outside his house. A Garda patrol car. Not exactly outside – they'd parked about a hundred feet away from the driveway, but they had a clear view of the house. Martin cursed under his breath. He hadn't put the light on so he didn't think they'd be able to see inside, but he slowly backed away from the window and went downstairs.
He paced around the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. They were giving him no choice. He'd have to leave Dublin. If the kidnappers saw the Garda car, they'd think they were there because he'd called them in. Even worse, there was a good chance that the detectives would haul him in again for more questioning. They surely suspected him -why else the overt surveillance?
The Bombmaker Page 15
