The Bombmaker (2 page)

'Nevertheless,' said Deng, 'we are of the opinion that we should proceed as planned.'

'No problem,' said Egan. 'As soon as the next tranche is deposited irl Zurich, we'll move on to the next stage.'

The PLA general wheezed and then leaned over to Deng and whispered to him in Mandarin. Deng listened, pushing his spectacles higher up his nose. When the general had finished whispering, Deng nodded and then looked at Egan. 'Time is still of the essence, Mr Egan. Do we have your assurance that everything will be completed on time?'

'You do,' said Egan. He was well aware of how anxious the men from Beijing were that his mission be completed without delay. He knew that their lives would be forfeit if he failed.

'The money will be in your account within the hour,' said Deng.

There were two of them, stocky men wearing matching blue track suits, black Reebok trainers and black ski masks. They vaulted over the back wall and ran, bent double, along the grass to the kitchen door of the house. They crouched at the door for several seconds, then one of the men nodded and reached for the door handle. It opened. They weren't surprised. They'd been watching the house for two weeks and they knew the routine of the occupants. The kitchen door was never locked until the family's golden retriever had been allowed out just after midnight.

The men slipped into the kitchen and gently closed the door behind them. They stood for a while, listening. They could just about hear the television in the sitting room. A comedy programme. Loud studio laughter. They reached into their track-suit tops and pulled out guns. Black automatics with bulbous silencers. The men didn't expect to have to use them.

But they were prepared to, if necessary.

Their biggest worry was the dog. People could be threatened,

people knew the damage that guns could do, but dogs would just growl and bark, maybe even attack to protect what they considered to be their territory. The dog was in the sitting room, so if they moved carefully they wouldn't be heard.

One of them eased open the door to the hallway. More studio laughter. They moved on the balls of their feet, hardly breathing as they crept to the stairs. The stairs would be the dangerous part. Stairs creaked. They went up two stairs at a time,

keeping close to the wall, guns at the ready.

They froze as they heard a police siren, but then relaxed as they realised it was on the television. Somebody had changed channels.

They heard a roar. A football match, maybe. Then muffled voices.

Then studio laughter again. The men moved along the upper hallway and knelt down at the door to the back bedroom. One of the men was wearing a small rucksack, and he slipped it off and placed it on the carpet. From the rucksack he pulled out a cloth and a small glass bottle containing a colourless liquid. He unscrewed the top and doused the cloth with the liquid, turning his head to avoid the worst of the fumes. When the cloth was soaked, he nodded at his companion, who opened the door and stepped inside.

They moved quickly through the darkness to the bed. A small girl was asleep, her blond hair spread across the pillow, a cuddly Garfield toy clutched to her chest. The man with the cloth held it tightly against the girl's face. She stopped struggling after a few seconds, but he kept the cloth pressed over her mouth and nose for a full minute before releasing his grip on her.

The other man put a white envelope on a bedside table and gathered up the little girl. The Garfield toy slipped on to the floor. The man who'd drugged the girl picked up the cuddly toy, hesitated for a second, and then put it and several other toys into his rucksack. The man holding the unconscious girl made an impatient clicking noise. Even with most of his face covered by the ski mask, it was clear he was glaring at his companion. He nodded at the door.

The two men moved down the stairs as silently as they'd gone up, and two minutes later they were in a Ford Mondeo,

driving south with the little girl hidden under a tartan blanket.

The chloroform would keep her unconscious for the best part of thirty minutes, and they didn't have far to go.

'Coffee?' asked Martin Hayes.

His wife grinned at him. 'Are you making it, or are you asking me to get one for you?'

Martin pushed himself up off the sofa. The golden retriever at his feet wagged its tail hopefully. 'Okay, Dermott - I'll let you out.' He looked pointedly at his wife.

'You're all heart,' said Andrea Hayes. Martin leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then ruffled her soft, blond hair. 'Woof,' she said. 'I'll go and check on Katie.'

Martin went through to the kitchen and let the dog out before switching on the electric kettle. The coffee was in the freezer. If it had been up to Martin, he'd have made do with instant, but Andy was fussy about her coffee. And she could tell the difference. Martin had long ago given up trying to test her.

She didn't think his attempts to palm her off with Nescafe were funny.

'Martin!'

'What?'

'Martin, come here.'

Martin could tell from her voice that something was wrong.

He ran down the hall and up the stairs. 'What? What?' he shouted, a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He found Andy standing at the foot of the bed. He put his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. The bed was empty.

Katie had gone. He looked around the room. Nothing. He turned around and went to the bathroom. The door was open and he could see immediately that Katie wasn't there, but he pulled back the shower curtain to assure himself that she wasn't hiding there, that she wasn't playing some sort of crazy game.

'Katie!' he called.

'She's not here. I looked everywhere.'

Martin fought to stay calm. Katie was a seven-year-old girl,

and seven-year-old girls didn't just disappear. He knelt down and looked under the bed.

'I did that,' said Andy, her voice quivering. 'I looked there.'

'She has to be here somewhere,' said Martin. 'Maybe she's sleepwalking.'

'She doesn't sleepwalk.'

'Maybe she's started.'

Martin straightened up. They both jumped as they heard a noise downstairs.

'Thank God,' said Andy.

They rushed downstairs, shouting their daughter's name.

Andy went into the sitting room. A stand-up comedian was telling a joke but she couldn't follow what he was saying, her thoughts were too jumbled. She couldn't concentrate. Katie wasn't there. Andy even checked behind the sofas. Nothing.

The TV laughter annoyed her and she switched the set off.

'Katie, if you're doing this on purpose, you're in big trouble,'

she shouted. Her voice echoed around the room.

The dog came scrabbling along the carpet, pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.

'It was Dermott,' said Martin. 'He was scratching at the door.'

'She's not in the garden?'

Martin shook his head.

'Oh, Jesus.' Andy put her hands up to her face, her fingers splayed across her cheeks. 'This can't be happening.'

Martin went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. 'We don't know that anything's happened,' he said.

'There's got to be an explanation for this. She's fallen asleep somewhere, that's all.'

'Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.'

Martin shook her gently. 'Come on, love. Pull yourself together. Let's search the house from top to bottom. She'll be somewhere. She has to be. We'd have heard her if she'd gone out.'

'We were watching TV,' said Andy.

Martin closed his eyes and tried to quell the rising sense of panic that kept threatening to overwhelm him. 'It's going to be all right,' he whispered, but he could hear the doubt in his voice.

He opened his eyes again. 'You check upstairs. I'll check the rooms downstairs.' Andy didn't move. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved his face up close to hers. 'Okay?'

Andy nodded uncertainly. Her eyes were brimming with tears and Martin brushed them away. 'We'll check the house and if there's still no sign of her then we'll phone the police,

okay?'

'Police?' she repeated.

'We'll find her,' said Martin. 'Go on, up you go. Check the bedrooms. When I've finished down here, I'll come up and check the loft.' He knew they were clutching at straws but he wanted to do something, anything other than picking up the telephone and calling the police. Calling in the police meant that their daughter was missing. Up until the moment he picked up the phone little Katie was sleepwalking or hiding, somewhere in the house. She wasn't lost. Or worse. Martin was prepared to clutch at any straw within reach before he picked up the phone and dialled 999.

He took Andy by the hand and half led, half pulled her into the hallway. He waited until she was climbing the stairs before he went through to the study. Nothing.

He closed the study door and went to the kitchen. He began opening all the kitchen cupboards, knowing that it was useless but wanting to check nevertheless.

'Martin!'

Martin's head jerked round. 'What? Have you found her?'

Even as he said the words he knew that she hadn't. He dashed upstairs. Andy was walking down the landing, an envelope in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other. 'What is it?' asked Martin. 'What's happened?'

'They've take her,' gasped Andy. 'They've taken my baby.'

Her legs gave way beneath her and she fell. Her head smacked against the banister, smearing it with blood before she crashed to the floor and rolled on to her back, the letter still clutched in her fist.

The man in the passenger seat of the Ford Mondeo twisted around and lifted the corner of the tartan blanket.

'Is she still out?' asked the driver.

Katie lay on her back, snoring softly. 'Yeah. You think I should give her more chloroform?'

'Nah. We're almost there.'

'Do you think they'll have read the note yet?' He draped the blanket back over the child.

The driver looked at the digital clock on the dashboard.

'Maybe. They'll let the dog out first, then check on her.'

The passenger settled back in his seat. 'I'm not sure about being so close to their house.'

'Makes no odds,' said the driver. 'Here, the North, over the water -- they're not going to know where to look.'

They drove in silence for a while. The passenger spoke first.

'What if... you know? What if they don't do what they're supposed to?'

The driver shrugged but didn't reply.

'Would you . . . you know?'

'Would I what?'

The passenger made a gun with his forefinger and thumb.

'Would you?'

'It won't come to that. The threat'11 be enough.'

'Are you sure of that?'

The driver threw him a quick look. 'Are you having second thoughts, Mick?'

'No, but ..."

'There can't be any buts. Buts are what get people killed.

We've been told what we've got to do and we do it.'

Another silence, longer this time. Again, it was the passenger who spoke first. 'George?'

'Aye?'

'Have you ever . . .?' He made the gun with his hand again.

'You know?'

'You know I have,' said George McEvoy.

'Nah, I mean a kid. Have you ever offed a kid?'

McEvoy shrugged. 'Man, woman, kid. A life's a life, Mick.'

Mick Canning nodded. He twisted around in his seat and lifted the blanket again. The little girl's mouth was wide open and a thin trickle of frothy dribble was running down her chin.

Canning reached across and used a corner of the blanket to wipe the mess away.

'Stop fiddling with her,' said McEvoy tersely. 'You don't want to get too attached.'

Canning frowned and did as he was told.

Andy opened her eyes and bunked. For a second or two she thought she'd been asleep, and then the horror of it all came rushing back and broke over her like an icy wave. Martin was dabbing at her forehead with a damp cloth. 'Easy, love, you had a nasty fall.' Andy tried to sit up, but as she did so her head swam and she felt consciousness slip away again. Martin helped her lie back on the sofa. 'Take it easy,' he said, pressing the cloth to the bridge of her nose.

'What happened?' she asked.

'You feinted.'

Andy took several deep breaths, trying to gather her thoughts. She'd been in Katie's bedroom. The letter. Oh my God, the letter. She pushed Martin away and forced herself up.

'The letter,' she whispered.

'I've got it,' said Martin.

Andy held out her hand. 'Give it to me.'

Martin gave her the sheet of paper and she read it quickly,

even though she could remember it word for word.

ANDREA HAYES WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. SHE WILL NOT BE HARMED IF YOU DO EXACTLY AS WE SAY. YOU ARE TO TAKE FLIGHT EI172 TO LONDON TOMORROW. A ROOM HAS BEEN BOOKED IN YOUR NAME AT THE STRAND PALACE HOTEL. WAIT THERE FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. IF YOU CONTACT THE POLICE YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR DAUGHTER AGAIN. YOUR HUSBAND IS TO CARRY ON HIS NORMAL ROUTINE. YOU WILL BOTH BE WATCHED. IF WE BELIEVE 15 STEPHEN LEATHER YOU HAVE CONTACTED THE POUCE YOUR DAUGHTER WILL DIE.

Andy blinked away tears. 'Why?' she asked. 'Why us?'

Martin took the letter from her. It was typed, all capital letters. It looked as if it had been done on a laser printer. The same typeface was on the envelope. Just two words there.

ANDREA HAYES.

Martin read the letter again. 'It doesn't say how much,' he said.

'What?'

'It doesn't say how much they want us to pay.' Martin ran his hand through his hair, frowning. 'What sort of ransom demand doesn't mention money?'

'Maybe they'll phone,' said Andy.

'But then why do they want you to go to London? Our money's here, in Ireland. Everything we own is here. If they want paying in London we'd have to fly over with the money.

This doesn't make sense.'

'Sense? Why should it make sense? They've kidnapped Katie, they came into our house and took her, why should anything they do make sense?' She could hear the hysteria in her voice and she fought to stay calm.

Martin took her hands in his. 'Don't worry, love. We'll get this sorted. We'll get Katie back. I promise.'

'You can't promise something like that, Martin.'

Martin shook his head. 'They've obviously planned this,

Andy. They've thought it all out. They knew where Katie was,

they knew where we were. They had the note ready. They've got the hotel room booked in London. It's all been well planned. Kidnapping is a straightforward business transaction.

That's what I'm good at, business. We give them money. They give us Katie. That's business. There's no profit in either side trying to screw things up. Okay?'

Andy nodded. What he was saying made sense. It was horrible, it was frightening, but it was logical. It wasn't a pervert who'd stolen her child, it wasn't a sex killer or a paedophile, it was a kidnapper. It wasn't about sexual thrills or sadism, it was about money, and she could just about cope with that. 'What do we do?' she asked.