The Bombmaker (15 page)

O'Brien smiled and nodded as he walked by. 'It's a miserable night out,' he said.

Martin didn't reply. He closed the door and followed them into the sitting room. The gardai didn't sit down and Martin didn't ask them to. All three men stood in the middle of the room. O'Brien took off his cap. 'We were wondering if Mrs Hayes was back,' he said.

'No,' said Martin. 'Not yet.'

'But yesterday you said that she'd be back today, right?'

'That's what she said.'

'And she hasn't phoned?' he asked.

'Not since you were last here,' said Martin. The younger garda was looking around the room.

O'Brien pulled a face. 'Pity,' he said. 'We were hoping to have a word with her.'

'As soon as she calls, I'll have her phone you,' said Martin.

'I'm as keen as you are to put your minds at rest.'

'The thing is,' said O'Brien, 'we've spoken to your wife's Aunt Bessie.'

Martin caught his breath. He forced himself to smile.

'Really?'

'Took us a while to track her down, what with the limited information you had. Aunt Bessie. North Belfast. But we had a word with the local police and they were very co-operative.' He scratched his chin. 'Very co-operative,' he repeated.

Martin felt his hands begin to shake and folded his arms across his chest defensively. 'And?' he said.

'Oh, I think you know what the “and” is, Mr Hayes.'

Martin stared at O'Brien in silence. There was nothing he could say. If O'Brien really had spoken to the woman, then he'd already been caught in a he.

'Where is your wife, Mr Hayes?' O'Brien asked.

'Belfast.'

O'Brien shook his head slowly, but he was still smiling avuncularly, as if the worst he was going to do was cut off Martin's allowance.

The younger garda looked at the door to the hall. 'Do you have a bathroom I can use?'

Martin knew that the garda wanted to look around the house, and while he didn't like the idea of him prowling around,

he couldn't refuse without appearing to have something to hide.

'Go ahead,' he said. 'Upstairs. Second on the right.'

O'Brien tapped his cap against his leg. 'Did you and your wife have an argument, maybe?'

Martin swallowed. If he said he'd had a fight with Andy,

then maybe they'd be more willing to accept that she'd left without warning. And if she was angry with him, that would explain why she'd taken Katie. He'd have to admit to lying,

but it was an understandable he. O'Brien was offering him a way out, but that didn't make any sense, not after all the questions. It was a trap, it had to be. Martin licked his lips. His mouth was painfully dry. All he had to do was admit to an argument and the pressure would be off him. He was just about to speak when he realised where the garda was leading him. Andy's car was in the drive. If she'd stormed off after a fight, she wouldn't have walked away, she'd have taken the car. The garda knew that, and he was hoping to catch Martin out in another lie. A he that could imply he'd done something to harm his family. He looked O'Brien in the eye. 'No,' he said firmly. 'There was no argument.'

The garda nodded. 'All husbands and wives argue,' he said.

'I'm not disputing that,' said Martin. 'But Andy and I didn't have a fight on Wednesday.'

'Sarge!' called the younger garda from upstairs. 'There's something here you should look at.'

O'Brien sighed and smiled at Martin. 'Ah, the enthusiasm of youth,' he said. 'Why don't you come with me, Mr Hayes. Let's see what's got the boy all fired up.'

Martin and O'Brien went through into the hallway. The younger garda was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at the banister.

'What is it, Eamonn?' asked O'Brien.

'Have a look at this, Sarge.'

O'Brien climbed the stairs. He peered at the section of banister that his colleague was pointing at. It was the spot where Andy had fainted, Martin realised. Where she'd fainted and hit her head. 'It looks like blood,' said the younger garda.

O'Brien straightened up. 'I think you'd better come down to Pearse Street with us, Mr Hayes.'

They drove into the city centre in silence. Martin sat in the back of the patrol car, with O'Brien in the front passenger seat.

They pulled up in front of the grey stone Garda station and O'Brien took Martin in. They walked through a reception area where a uniformed garda buzzed them through into a corridor.

O'Brien led Martin to the far end of the corridor and showed him into a small room, barely three paces square. Martin turned to ask O'Brien how long he was going to be kept at the station,

but before he could say anything the garda had closed the door.

There was a table which had been screwed to the concrete floor, and four plastic chairs, two each side. The walls were painted a mustard yellow which glistened under the fluorescent lights. Martin sat with his back to the door. The table was up against the wall to his right, and above it, on a thin chipboard shelf, was a black tape recorder with two cassette decks. Martin rested his elbows on the table and cupped his eyes with the palms of his hands. He had no idea what he could do or say to get himself out of his predicament.

He tried to get his thoughts straight. The gardai obviously thought that Andy and Katie were missing. And they suspected that he had something to do with their disappearance, suspicions heightened by the discovery of the blood on the banister. They hadn't asked Martin for an explanation of the bloodstain, but he was sure that they'd test it and establish that it was Andy's. Then what? They'd assume that he'd hurt her, and the only way he'd be able to convince them otherwise would be to tell them about Katie's kidnapping.

Egan settled back in the black Ford Scorpio and listened to the engine click as it cooled. He patted his left armpit and felt the reassuring hardness of his Browning Hi-Power pistol. The length of rope was under the front seat. Ahead of him he could see the grey granite frontage of Pearse Street police station. The two gardai had driven around to the back of the building and presumably taken Hayes inside through the rear entrance. From where he sat, Egan could see the front entrance and the way in to the carpark.

He had been just about to stop in front of Martin Hayes's house when a sixth sense had told him to keep on driving. He'd checked in his rear-view mirror and grinned to himself as the police car had pulled up at the Kerb. Egan had driven on a few hundred yards past the house and waited. He'd seen the two gardai speak to Hayes on his doorstep, go inside, and then the three of them walk to the car several minutes later. Hayes looked pale, and he kept putting his hand up to his forehead as if trying to stave off a headache.

The two gardai were coldly efficient. One opened the back door for Hayes and got in next to him; the other, the younger one, waited until Hayes was in the back before climbing into the driving seat. The body language was enough to tell Egan that Hayes wasn't going willingly.

Egan doubted that Hayes would tell the police anything.

Nothing he'd done so far suggested that he'd cave in under questioning. He'd stick to his story that his wife and daughter were out of town visiting a sick relative. But the police were suspicious, and they wouldn't be satisfied until they found out where his wife and daughter were. The more they probed, the more likely they were to discover what had happened.

They'd probably keep him in for a few hours, then release him. They'd have to let him go because they had nothing in the way of evidence against him. And once Hayes was back at home,

Egan would pay him a visit. With the rope.

Apart from the arrival of the gardai, Egan was pleased with the way things were going. Following her phone call to her husband, the Hayes woman had been working hard on the bomb, and it looked as if it would be ready within three or four days. Well on schedule. Egan was looking forward to seeing the effects the massive bomb would have on the City of London.

And to reaping the benefits. Seven million dollars.

Once the bomb had been detonated and the money had been transferred from Zurich to the Dutch Antilles, Egan would be able to start work on his next commission. He'd already been approached by a fanatical Muslim group in the Lebanon who wanted to blow up an El-Al flight. The Israeli airline was recognised as one of the safest in the world and had never been the victim of a successful terrorist attack. Egan was about to change all that. For a fee of two million dollars. But first things first. He had to take care of Martin Hayes.

The door behind Martin opened but he didn't turn around. He sat where he was, his hands together on the table, fingers interlinked. Two men came into the room and sat opposite him. Not the gardai who'd brought him to the station - these were men in suits. Detectives. The man who sat directly opposite was in his late thirties, a thickset man with a comb over and a sandy moustache. He looked at Martin over the top of spectacles with thick black frames, the sort Michael Caine used to wear in sixties spy films. He was wearing a grey suit with stains on the lapels and a brightly coloured Bugs Bunny tie.

'How are you doing, Mr Hayes?' he said jovially. 'My name is Detective Inspector James FitzGerald. My colleague here is Detective Sergeant John Power.'

The other man nodded. He was younger, in his late twenties maybe, and considerably better dressed. He had on an expensive blue pin-stripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with a crest on it,

and gold cufflinks peeped out from his sleeves. He had a sharp,

almost pointed nose, and inquisitive eyes that watched Martin's every move.

'Am I under arrest?' Martin asked.

'No, you're not,' said FitzGerald. He took off his spectacles and wiped them with the end of his tie. He looked up and saw Martin staring at the cartoon rabbit. 'Birthday present from my son, so I figured I had to wear it, you know? The wife bought it,

obviously. My boy's only eight. I think she just enjoys embarrassing me.'

Martin said nothing. FitzGerald finished cleaning his lenses and put his spectacles back on, pushing them up his nose with his forefinger.

'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,