Brute Force

26

I dug a hole about a foot deep with a big cooking spoon not too far away from the back door, threw in the det and replaced the earth. I'd connected a metre or so of two-strand wire I'd ripped from a table lamp to its terminals. I couldn't just leave the device lying around. The easiest way to dispose of it was with a controlled explosion, and then to burn the PE separately.

I touched the wires to the battery terminals, but the plan went the way of all the others I'd made this Christmas. There was no dull thud in the mud as the circuit was completed. Yet the wiring was correct, and the det hadn't been tampered with. It was very rare for a det to malfunction, so that could only leave the battery. I touched the terminals to my tongue, with no effect. No mild fizz. Batteries keep their charge better in cold conditions, so it could only mean the fucking idiots had used a dud and not tested it.

I took the bulb out of the torch, connected the wires to it and switched it on. There was a dull, reassuring thud and a tremor in the mud.

I scooped a few handfuls to one side and threw in the slab of PE. I held a lighter to a corner. It ignited, and burned rapidly with a hiss and a bright white flame. All it was doing was combusting as it would have done if the det had initiated it, but much more slowly. It still generated enough heat to melt metal, and made short shrift of the Tupperware and the circuit board. I pushed the mud back over the residue and went back inside.

The girls had taken their suitcases with them. The only stuff left was the Wii machine, my holdall and the mountain of bedding. I packed, locked up, went out, opened the boot and threw it in.

I drove down to the road and turned left. Dom had checked out Duff's address. I checked the maps. It was sixty-four Ks to the north. An hour maybe, an hour and a half at the most.

Who would have murdered him? Dom had got out of his car and taken me out of earshot. The papers were full of conjecture. One of them had even conducted an opinion poll. Most of their readers thought it was PIRA, but some suspected the Brits. Who knew what beans the old sailor boy had been about to spill? The only question I wanted an answer to was: whatever individual, faction or organization was responsible, had they also planted the device under my car?

The link looked cast-iron, which was why I was going to Duff's to see what I could see. The police had probably bagged everything up and taken it away, but I might see something that they had missed.

As I drove, the same question ricocheted around in my head. Who knew both how to find me, and how to construct and plant a device? Unless it was some totally random hater of tourists or Merc drivers, he probably knew how to find me again. That was a good thing, as far as I was concerned. Next time I'd be waiting.

I pulled into town and parked outside the Spar. Before getting out of the car I checked for anyone watching or waiting. I memorized the last three digits of any passing plate for later.

I got out, zipped up my muddy fleece, and headed into the shop. The old guy behind the counter didn't look startled or surprised to see me alive. It was a fair assumption he wasn't the tout. He asked me how my Christmas was going, which was probably a superfluous question given that I was clutching a pack of manky, two-day-old sandwiches, some ready-salted, and a can of Coke. No, mate, this ain't quite the way I'd imagined the festive season turning out.

Back out on the dimly lit street I didn't stop to check who was looking and waiting, just got back into the car and drove. If they were there, I'd soon know about it.

Maybe it was Dom they were after? Maybe they'd confused us. There were a good few people who might feel they had a score to settle with him. Dom had lifted a lot of lids over the years that everyone from PIRA to the Firm would have preferred to remain sealed. It was Dom who'd reported the story about the busting of the drug-smuggling ring the Yes Man ran over here. But he was only the messenger. He didn't claim any credit for it. I was the one who'd made enemies of the drug chain that would have to start all over again . . .

After fifty minutes I turned off the main road and onto a narrow lane. The track that led to Duff's house was a mile and a half further north.

Maybe my enemy was inside the Firm. Maybe the bomb-maker hadn't been shown how to use pigtails in one of the Middle Eastern camps before coming home to put it into practice; maybe he was one of the original trainers now working for the Firm?

The Firm had the motive. Sundance and Trainers were small fry, low life like me. No one would be pissed off about them becoming history. But the Yes Man?

I came to the track leading to Duff's cottage, and carried straight on. Parked right across the gate was a white Ford with the word Garda emblazoned in black across the fluorescent yellow flash along its side. The two officers inside watched me intently. I was probably the first sign of life they'd seen all shift.

I'd have to carry on north. I couldn't turn round and come back past them again. They'd probably already logged my number.

I pushed the Merc another three or four miles before I finally hit the junction I wanted. I turned right and had gone no more than half a mile when my mobile rang. It was Dom.

'Nick, I've just received a really weird message from the station . . . A man called, fifties maybe. English. He said—'

'Don't say it. Have you got to where I thought you were going?'

'Yes.'

'I'm on my way.'