The Bombmaker (18 page)

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.

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?

It was late, probably too late to get a flight out of Dublin that night. Besides, there was an outside chance that FitzGerald had men at the airport watching for him. He'd be safer flying through Belfast.

He took a briefcase from his study and emptied out the papers it contained. He put in an unopened flight kit he'd been given on a business trip he and Padraig had made to Copenhagen a few months earlier, together with two clean shirts, underwear and socks. He put his mobile phone in his suit pocket. It was a GSM model and would work in the UK. He closed the briefcase. What else? Money. He'd need money. He had Visa cards that he could use to withdraw cash from money machines in the UK, but he also had some Irish money in his desk drawer.

He took the money out and put the notes into his wallet.

He put his briefcase by the back door and then went out into the hallway and looked at the answering machine. What if Andy called again? Or if the kidnappers tried to get in touch? He recorded a fresh message, asking callers to telephone his mobile number, then checked it. He could hear the tension in his voice,

the sound of a man about to go over the edge. He took a deep breath and recorded a second version. This time he sounded more relaxed.

In a cupboard under the hall were several electrical timers that he and Andy used to set lights to go on and off while they were on holiday. He went upstairs and fitted one to the plug of a lamp on the dressing table, timed to go off later that night. Then he drew the curtains and went downstairs. He fitted timers to lamps in the sitting room and the kitchen, overlapping the on and off times.

He took a last look around the house. Now what? Both cars were parked in the drive at the front. He'd have to go through the back garden and over the wall, maybe catch a taxi. He shook his head. No, a taxi driver might remember him. But he couldn't walk to the station. In fact, catching a train wasn't a good idea,

either.

He went back into the kitchen and finished his coffee, then washed his mug. As he put it on the draining board, he realised what he'd have to do. He called Padraig on his mobile.

'Padraig. It's me, Martin.'

'What's up, Mart?'

'I need a favour. Big time.'

'Sure.'

'Can you pick me up on Morehampton Road? Opposite Bloomfield Hospital?' Martin went into the hallway and locked and bolted the front door, still talking on the mobile phone.

'No sweat. What's up? Car broken down, yeah?'

'Something like that. I'll explain when I see you. About ten minutes, okay?'

Martin thanked his partner and cut the connection. He looked down at Dermott, who was sitting with his head on one side, clearly wondering what was going on. 'What the hell am I going to do with you?' he said, and the dog woofed softly.

He didn't want to leave Dermott locked in the house because he didn't know when he'd be back. But if he left the Labrador in the garden, he might bark and attract the attention of the watching garda. He decided he'd leave him inside.

Martin walked through to the kitchen, picked up his briefcase and let himself out of the back door. He locked it and slipped the key into his pocket. The sun was just about to dip below the horizon, smearing the grey sky with an orange glow.

He jogged to the end of the garden and clambered over the brick wall that bordered a narrow path leading to the local golf course. He headed down the path, skirted the golf course and then walked through a carpark to the main road. Only then did he start to relax.

Egan slid the Browning Hi-Power out of its brown leather shoulder holster and checked that the safety was off. He had followed the taxi from the Pearse Street Garda station, but he'd abandoned the tail as soon he realised that a Garda patrol car was also following Hayes. Hayes had been released, but it was clear that the police still suspected him and were planning to keep him under observation. When Egan had driven past the Hayes'

house, the patrol car had been parked in the road outside.

He had stopped his Ford Scorpio in a road that led to a housing estate bordering a golf course, well away from any streetlights.

In his left ear was a small earphone connected to a receiver that allowed him to listen in to the five bugs planted in the house. He'd missed the first few seconds of the conversation that Hayes had had with his partner, but he'd picked up the rest via the device in the hall. Hayes was going to run, and Egan had only minutes in which to stop him. There was no time for a suicide note, no time to coerce Hayes into using the knotted rope.

He leaned over and took a street map out of the glove compartment and flicked through it. He found the page where Bloomfield Hospital was, and traced a gloved finger from Morehampton Road to the house. Assuming he left through the back garden, Hayes would have to walk close to the golf course. He put the map back in the glove compartment, along with the receiver and earpiece, then got out of the car and walked towards the golf course, putting the collar of his leather jacket up against the wind.

There seemed to be no one around, so Egan jogged, his breath feathering in the evening air. The lights were on in the clubhouse and several golfers were still out on the course,

though there were only minutes to go before the sun went down. He reached the golf club's carpark and stopped jogging,

not wanting to draw attention to himself There was a path running around the edge of the course, and beyond it a line of three bunkers. To Egan's left was a clump of trees, to the right were the fringes of an up-market housing estate. Egan kept his face turned away from the carpark, and waited until he was past before taking out his handgun and screwing in a bulbous silencer.

He reached the path and headed towards the trees. There were voices off to his right, two men arguing over a missed shot.

Egan kept the Browning pressed against his stomach inside his jacket, his finger inside the trigger guard. He scanned the path ahead of him. In the distance was Hayes, walking towards him,

his head down, a coat flapping behind him. Egan took a quick look over his shoulder. There was no one behind him and the voices of the two arguing golfers had already faded into the distance. Egan picked up the pace. The silencer was efficient, but even so the farther away he was from the clubhouse, the better.

An owl hooted above his head but he barely registered the sound; all his senses were totally focused on the man walking towards him.

Egan could feel sweat dribbling down his back. He was breathing shallowly, his chest barely moving, the gun tight against his stomach. Hayes had his head down as he walked,

and there was something in his right hand, something that he was swinging back and forth. He was about fifty feet away.

Midway between them was a broad-trunked beech tree, perfect cover for what Egan was about to do. Egan moved over to the right-hand side of the path so that Hayes would have to pass on the side closest to the tree. One shot to the side of the head,

maybe a second to the heart if he had time. He'd drag the body behind the tree and then head back to the car. By the time the body was discovered, Egan would be in London. Thirty feet.

Egan began to pull the gun out, his finger already tightening on the trigger.

Hayes stopped. He peered out across the golf course as if looking for someone. Then suddenly he whistled, a piercing shriek that stopped Egan in his tracks. A dog ran across the grass.

It was a German Shepherd. It wasn't Hayes, Egan realised. He'd come within seconds of shooting the wrong man. It was just a guy out walking his dog. The object in his right hand was a dog lead.

Egan started walking again. The man was bending down,

patting his dog, as Egan went by. There was no one else on the path, and Egan could see all the way up to the wall at the end of the Hayes' garden. Somehow Egan had missed him. He turned and went back the way he'd come, walking quickly, his head turned to the side as he went by the man with the German Shepherd.

Martin looked at his watch and slowed down. He didn't want to have to hang around outside the hospital, just in case the Garda car was only making periodic visits to his house. He had no need to worry. Padraig arrived just as he was walking by the hospital's stone gateposts.

Padraig flashed the headlights of his BMW and Martin waved. He looked around as the car pulled up. A man in a leather jacket and jeans was walking along the pavement, his shoulders hunched against the cold. The passenger window slid down. 'Where's your car, Mart? I'll have a look at it.'

Martin heard rapid footsteps and turned to see who it was.

The man in the leather jacket was running towards the car. As he ran he pulled his hand from under his jacket. Something glinted in the BMW's headlights. Something metallic. Martin pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the car. 'Drive!' he shouted.

Padraig sat stunned, his mouth open in surprise.

'Padraig! For fuck's sake, drive!'

The passenger window shattered, spraying Martin with cubes of glass. Martin ducked and held his briefcase over his face as Padraig put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator.

The seat seemed to punch Martin in the small of his back as they roared away from the kerb. A second bullet thudded into the door, and then Martin caught a glimpse of the man in the leather jacket standing with his feet apart, the gun held in both hands, arms outstretched, his face totally relaxed.

Padraig looked anxiously in his mirror as they drove away.

'Christ, who was that?' he said, his voice shaking.

Martin twisted around in his seat. The man in the leather jacket was walking away from the hospital, his head down and his hands in his jacket pockets.

'I don't know,' said Martin.

'You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?'

Padraig already had the car in fourth gear and they were doing almost eighty.

'Slow down, Padraig. You'll kill us.'

Padraig frowned, and then began to laugh. Despite his pounding heart and shaking hands, Martin laughed too, but it was an ugly, disjointed sound, and both men were soon silent again.

Padraig slowed slowed to just under the speed limit. 'What the fuck's going on, Mart?'

'I don't know. I really don't know.'

'Where do you want to go?' asked Padraig.

'North. Belfast.'

Padraig frowned. 'What?'

Martin pointed down the road. 'Belfast. I've got to get out of Ireland, and the police have probably got Dublin airport covered.'