The Tick Tock Man

20

‘The suitcases are in the car,’ McGirl said. ‘Leo and Liam are outside.’ iClodagh Dougan nodded her acknowledgment and glanced round the room, checking for the umpteenth time that nothing had been overlooked. If the Trafalgar House talks went their way, they would not return to the house and High Farm would be put back on the market; the movement might even make a small profit with land prices inching up again. But if Bishop McLaverty failed and PIRA’s demands were not met, she and McGirl would be back.

Either way, no trace should be left in the meantime. The place had been scrubbed from top to bottom, all surfaces washed or polished to remove fingerprints. Apart from those retained in one of her suitcases, all the leftover circuit boards, components for making the TPUs, together with surplus supplies of Semtex, were buried in waterproofed toolboxes in the garden under a flagstone, where they would be retrieved at a later date by the mainland flying column.

She and McGirl had lit a bonfire in the overgrown vegetable patch and burned any rubbish that might have provided forensic clues, along with all of her father’s clothes. That had been painful, yet, strangely, spiritually cleansing. She might never know the location of her father’s grave, but at least the bonfire had been like a symbolic cremation. Better than nothing. At last she had been able to grieve, to allow the tears to flow as she clung to McGirl’s arm. Although he said nothing, she sensed that he understood and she was grateful for that.

Now they would move on, to a new safe house provided by the flying column and their network of fixers, either willing or unwitting.

‘Come on,’ McGirl urged.

The telephone rang. Its strident tone abruptly shattered the quietness of the room. She stared down at the receiver.

Five rings, silence; then it rang again.

‘Answer it, then,’ McGirl said irritably.

‘Hello.’

‘Mrs Mayo?’ It was the liaison officer of the flying column.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen this afternoon’s Standard?’

‘No.’

‘Your picture and all the team names.’

‘Christ!’

‘Get out now. Make absolutely certain you’re not being followed. And don’t go near the farm.’ He hung up.

She told McGirl what had been said.

‘Don’t panic,’ he replied. ‘If they were that close to us they wouldn’t be putting our names and your picture in the press. They’re after information from the public. If they’ve got names it’ll be a leak from over the water. Some loose-mouthed bastard will be going for his tea.’

She knew the euphemism for execution. ‘What do we do?’

‘Continue as planned. Stay calm.’

‘I want to call in at the post office in Marlow. See if there’s mail from Caitlin.’

McGirl laughed harshly. ‘I said stay calm, not calmly stick your head in a noose. Forget it.’

She followed him out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her. There were two cars in the driveway, Muldoon and Doran were in the first. As McGirl opened the door of the second, they heard it. The screech of tyres from behind the boundary hedge, the high-revving engines, the white police car glimpsed speeding northwards past the gate. Then another and another. No sirens, no flashing lights. Heading towards High Farm.

Muldoon drove out onto the road first. And turned south.

‘Hurlingham School,’ McGirl said.

As always, the novelty salesman’s intelligence was faultless. Clodagh Dougan looked across the road from the passenger window of the car. Twin spreadeagles of carved stone stood atop the gate posts, between which the gravel drive swept into the grounds of the Wokingham private school. ‘Must cost a fortune to send a child here.’

‘Harrison’s on a major’s salary and his wife’s family’s got money. All good chinless English stock.’ He tossed his cigarette end out of the window. ‘All set?’

She nodded grimly. ‘How do I look?’

At the safe house, a rented basement flat in Slough, she had plucked her eyebrows and redrawn them in pencil. She had also dyed her hair mid-brown, which she now wore pinned up with a tortoiseshell clip. The mustard-coloured business suit, white blouse and sheer white tights completed the effect.

‘Good enough,’ McGirl said, engaging first gear, ‘I’d trust you with my old granny.’

The car turned into the drive, crunching its way between the cropped lawns and herbaceous borders to the converted Tudor manor house, ivy crawling over the worn red bricks and timber beams. As they opened the car doors, they could hear the excited distant shouts of young male voices.

‘Wednesday,’ McGirl said flatly. ‘Rugby.’

Someone had already appeared at the top of the steps, a boy of about eleven in grey flannels and a school blazer. Clodagh noted the floppy wing of hair over the open smiling face.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

Clodagh whispered: ‘Stay here,’ to McGirl before turning to the boy. ‘I’ve come to see the headmaster.’

‘Oh, of course, is he expecting you?’

She smiled tightly. ‘Can you just show me the way?’

He thought better than to argue. ‘Yes, if you’d like to follow me.’ The doors opened onto a chequered tile floor, the walls and stairway in dark timber and smelling of polish. ‘Mr Hugget likes parents to make appointments.’

‘I’m not a parent.’

‘Oh.’ Then a thought, cheeky. ‘You’re not a schools inspector?’

Clodagh smiled. ‘No, I’m not a schools inspector.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Jamie — ‘ He corrected himself: ‘Well, actually I prefer James.’

Worth checking, she thought. ‘Well, James, do you happen to know a boy called Archie Harrison?’

‘ “Bomber” Harrison, oh, yes, he’s a friend of mine. He’s playing rugby at the moment.’

‘You’re not.’ They were in a panelled corridor now.

‘Sprained knee, rotten luck. Why, has Bomber done something wrong? You’re not from the police?’

‘Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid.’

He stopped outside the heavy polished door with the brass plaque and knocked.

‘Come!’

James pushed it open. ‘Please, sir, there’s a lady here who’d like to see you.’

Rows of books lined the wall behind the leather-topped desk where the headmaster worketi, his bald head looking up from an accounts book. ‘Oh?’

Clodagh stepped forward. ‘I’m so sorry to intrude, Mr Hugget.’

Pale grey eyes blinked in the narrow, waxy-white face, the thin lips curling into a somewhat insipid smile as he registered his glamorous and statuesque visitor. Self-consciously he removed the round wire spectacles and adjusted his master’s cloak. ‘Oh, dear, have I overlooked an appointment, Mrs?’

‘Mrs ScaifeCompton,’ she said with a stiff smile. Go for a double-barrelled name, McGirl had advised; the English class system was such that no one ever questioned someone with a double-barrelled name. ‘And I don’t have an appointment. I’m from the MOD, Ministry of Defence.’

‘Oh?’

‘Welfare Department. I’m afraid it’s about the father of one of your boys, Archie Harrison.’

Mr Hugget’s face paled as the name registered and he anticipated what was to follow.

‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s been injured. Oh, not too badly I’m pleased to say.’

She heard the gasp of surprise from young James behind her, as the headmaster said: ‘Was it a bomb?’

‘No, some accident with routine ordnance handling.’ She thought that sounded convincing. ‘The thing is he’s in hospital and is asking to see his son. It would be a great comfort to him.’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘I’ve been asked to take him along.’

Mr Hugget looked visibly shaken by the news. ‘I’m just surprised his mother hasn’t telephoned me.’

Clodagh concealed her smile of triumph. ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t contact her. They’ve separated, you know, and we didn’t have an address or telephone number.’

The headmaster raised a forefinger. ‘Ah, I can help you there! If only you’d phoned first.’ He reached for his telephone. ‘I’ll call her now.’

Suddenly Clodagh panicked; she hadn’t anticipated this. ‘It’s most important I take the boy…’

‘Come, come,’ Hugget chided as he dialled. ‘Philippa Harrison must be told. And if the father isn’t critical, then it’s only right that his mother goes with Archie. I’m sure that’s what she’ll want. Bit too much for a young chap to take — even a Hurlingham boy.’ He placed his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What hospital?’

She’d rehearsed that, read a newspaper story about the injured Expo called Appleyard. ‘The Cambridge Military in Aldershot.’

‘Good, that’s not far, and it doesn’t take Mrs Harrison long to drive here… Ah, Mrs Harrison! Hugget here from Hurlingham, I’m afraid I’ve some bad news…’

Clodagh was hardly listening. Damn it, damn it! What the hell was she doing? Just standing here taking this crap? There was McGirl sitting outside with a gun and she was letting the headmaster take control because — Christ, because he was the headmaster! She almost laughed through her frustration.

Then, as she listened to the man explain the situation to Philippa Harrison, she forced herself to keep calm and to think. She could hardly demand Archie be dragged off the rugby pitch at gunpoint with an entire school of onlookers. Someone would phone the police or raise the alarm. A time lapse after the abduction was essential in order to cover their tracks and get clear of the area. Besides which, it was imperative that the whole business be kept low profile. Headlines about the Provies kidnapping schoolboys would not go down well with Fitzpatrick and the other IRA leaders just now.

And there could be another bonus. Philippa Harrison would be an additional hostage, another lever of pressure. She could also console and look after her son, saving them the trouble…

Hugget replaced his receiver. ‘She’s on her way.’

While she waited apprehensively, the headmaster went with James to the rugby field to break the news to the boy. It was half-an-hour before they returned, Archie having showered and changed into his uniform, his neatly parted hair still damp.

‘This is Mrs — er?’ the headmaster began.

‘ScaifeCompton.’

The boy had been crying, the skin red round his eyes. He sniffed heavily as he extended his hand to her. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. How is my father?’ ‘

Christ, she thought. How bloody English, formal and stiff upper lip! They start them young, so they do. And the handshake, those little bones in her palm, so strong and manly.

Ridiculously she felt her heart go out to him. Recognised the pain in his eyes, the bravery of the man’s words spoken with a boy’s voice. Doing what was expected. She wondered if he in any way resembled his father. ‘He’s fine, Archie. Well, not fine exactly. A few burns and stuff, but he’ll get better soon.’

The assertive clatter of high heels beyond the door heralded the arrival of Philippa Harrison. As she entered, Clodagh was surprised how petite she was, almost fragile. Yet the illusion was shattered by her confident stance and her articulate speech. ‘Thank you so much for calling, Headmaster. I don’t know why they couldn’t find my number. Typical army incompetence, I suppose.’ She turned to Archie; he was almost his mother’s height. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. Daddy will be all right.’ She hugged him briskly. ‘Don’t go letting him see you cry now.’

Clodagh was becoming impatient and increasingly agitated. ‘We really ought to go now.’

Philippa appeared to notice her properly for the first time. ‘You’re the person from Army Welfare? Really, you ought to get your act together. I’m still Tom’s next of kin and you really should have my new address details.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She sighed, resigned. ‘Oh, well, I suppose you do have the right hospital? I phoned the Cambridge before I left and they knew nothing about Tom.’

Clodagh felt suddenly malicious. ‘As you said, we ought to get our act together — anyway, I expect Major Harrison just arrived before his medical notes. Bureaucracy. That would explain it.’

‘And exactly how is he?’

‘Really not too bad, Mrs Harrison, I’ll give you the details in my car on the way ‘

‘Oh, but mine…’

‘My car,’ Clodagh insisted. ‘There are a lot of roadworks and a new traffic system — it’s easy to get lost. We’ll drop you back here.’

For a moment Philippa’s wide and wary eyes stared directly into hers. Was she annoyed at Clodagh’s insistent tone? Or was there just a hint of doubt? Then: ‘Very well.’

Outside, McGirl stood with the front passenger door open and smiled as he helped Philippa inside. Clodagh joined Archie in the back. McGirl climbed in and pressed the central locking.

The vehicle jolted forward, heading up the drive.

‘This is fairly old for a Ministry car,’ Philippa observed sniffily.

‘Defence cuts,’ McGirl replied with a grin and swung into the road, heading north towards the M4.

‘Is that an Irish accent?’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ he joked. ‘We’re both Irish.’

Archie looked up at Clodagh. ‘You sound English.’

She laughed. ‘When I make the effort.’

McGirl glanced at Philippa and saw the transformation on her face, the cloud of concern in her eyes, the tightening of her jawline as she looked at the passing roadsign.

‘This isn’t the Aldershot road. That’s the other way.’

Clodagh reached into her bag on the floor and drew out the pistol. The muzzle was pressed against the back of Philippa’s neck. ‘One more word from either of you and you’re dead. Now shut up!’

McGirl kept to the country lanes, threading his way on a route that ran westwards, parallel with the M4.

To begin with, Philippa had attempted to bluster defiantly until McGirl was obliged to take one hand from the wheel and slap her hard across the cheek. Only then did she seem to accept her fate, sitting in shocked silence with tears dripping down her cheeks, muttering words of comfort to her son.

Harrison has been married to this woman, Clodagh thought, as she studied the slender neck beneath the gun muzzle. She could see the tiny hairs, each pore. How close and familiar had Harrison been to this same skin, smelled this same expensive perfume? Run his hands through this hair before her eyes? Made love to this same trim body; laughed with this woman, got angry with her?

Somehow it made Clodagh feel almost as if she knew the man she’d never met. It was being so close to those who were part of his life, sharing their intimate secrets. Was she any nearer to knowing the man for this? Probably not. More likely she’d see the nature of Harrison in the boy. The white frightened creature sitting rigidly next to her with his hands on his knees. A tearstained face, but not crying now. Eyes wide and alert and terrified and watching her every move. Being brave.

Yet somehow she rather liked the boy. Stupid really. This was Harrison’s boy. He’d screwed this woman with her neck so thin she was sure she could snap it with her bare hands. He and she had produced this child. Archie was Philippa’s and his flesh, part of him. And the funny thing was, she would have been proud to have a son like him herself.

Soon McGirl pulled over into a lay-by that was screened from the road by trees. Both mother and son were blindfolded before ‘ Philippa was ordered into the boot and Archie made to lie on the floor in the back before the journey resumed.

The old brewery building stood beside the Kennet river. A four-storey Edwardian structure, it had since been converted into a light-engineering factory until the company had apparently collapsed at the start of the last recession. A weather-tattered Land for Development sign stood beside the tall wiremesh gates, one of which was swung open by Muldoon as they approached. The car swept onto the weed-ridden concrete concourse and round to the rear of the building where the second car had been parked.

Philippa was shaking when she was released from the boot, unable to see the decrepit wall towering above her and the hundreds of broken windows like sightless eyes. She and her son were led through the back entrance and up several flights of steps to the top floor. There Muldoon and Doran had taken over the row of partitioned offices once used by the production manager and his staff.;

The hostages were taken into one of them and ordered to sit with their backs to the old-fashioned radiator to which one arm was handcuffed. Their shoes were removed and then the blindfolds. Two camping mattresses had been unrolled over the broken glass and smashed floor tiles. A yellow plastic bucket stood between them. By awkwardly stretching out an arm and sliding the handcuff along the radiator pipe they could either sleep or use the bucket. But nothing more.

Philippa glowered up at them. ‘What are you going to do with us?’

‘Nothing,’ Clodaghsaid. ‘Provided your husband cooperates, you and the boy will go free. We’ll take him in your place.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘He will.’

McGirl said: ‘She should have his telephone number. Save us some calls.’

‘Whose?’ Philippa asked.

‘Your husband’s stupid,’ McGirl snarled.

Philippa felt suddenly, deeply nauseated as the true nature of the situation sank in. The feeling of relief that at least Tom hadn’t been hurt had long passed. Now she was being asked to betray him. Archie’s father. Inexplicably a vision of their wedding day flashed through her mind. Not like a photograph, but like virtual reality. The feel of the white satin cool on her skin, the scent of the rose bouquet, the warmth of the sun, Tom’s hand in hers. Warm, dry. A squeeze of reassurance to quell her nerves. She was being asked to weigh the value of her life and Archie’s against Tom’s. How could she make such a choice?

McGirl drew the heavy automatic and purposefully pumped a I round into the chamber. He didn’t need to point it at Archie’s head.

Philippa was flustered, tried to think logically. ‘I don’t know where Tom is. He’s on leave now, he could be anywhere.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘He’s with that…’ She nearly said tart. ‘He’s living with a i journalist.’

‘Have you got the number?’ ‘No,’ she lied. ‘What’s her name?’ ‘Casey Mullins.’

‘Her?’ McGirl was incredulous; but when he thought about it, it made sense. She was obviously one of his press contacts. Now he knew it was more. Explained a lot of things. ‘That was going to be our original route.’ He” put the gun away.

Clodagh left with him then, closing the door behind them. There was no key for the lock, but Doran had fined two heavy duty bolts. The remaining two offices were as empty and derelict as the makeshift cell, each with two more camping mattresses. A stock of provisions had been purchased — mostly boil-in-the-bag dishes, coffee and powdered milk — and a Trangia camping stove that ran on methylated spirit.

‘We’ve got to decide,’ McGirl said, glancing at his watch. They hadn’t known how long the abduction might take; already it was forty-five minutes later than planned. ‘It’s three thirty. Do we go ahead now or wait until tomorrow?’

‘Now.’ Clodagh was decisive. ‘The longer we wait, the sooner for someone to realise what’s happened or for something to go wrong. Surprise and shock tactics.’

‘If we can’t reach him?’

‘Then it’ll have to be tomorrow, but we must go for it now if we can.’ She looked at McGirl and waited for his agreement, wondered if he still thought of himself as running the show. ‘First we’ll tape-record the boy reading something from today’s newspaper. Then you must get well away from here before you call. An hour’s drive. Depending on where Harrison is, give him the minimum time to get here. He must have no time to think or to plan. No time to collude with the police or intelligence people. Pile on the pressure. Leave him in no doubt what will happen because, by Christ, it will if he doesn’t show.’

‘Did my grandmother teach me to suck eggs?’ McGirl shook his head. ‘Who found this place, Clodie, who showed you how it could be done?’

She placed her hand gently on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Pat, sure I just got carried away there for a minute.’

To his surprise she kissed him, albeit briefly on the cheek, in full view of Muldoon and Doran. They shuffled their stance uncomfortably.

She turned on them sharply. ‘Right, while we do the tape recording, you unload the explosives. This place is going to be turned into one gigantic bomb.’

‘Where are they now?’ Casey asked.

She had just returned from a late pub lunch at the Elephant and Castle in Holland Street. It was someone’s birthday and a group of them had followed on to a wine bar to celebrate. Now she was feeling deliciously lightheaded.

Eddie Mercs was just back from the AntiTerrorist Branch’s briefing. ‘Where they always are, Paddington Green. One Irishman — no name released, but I got it on the nod that it’s none of those you named. The other bloke was a local lad, maybe an unwitting accomplice.’

‘And it was a farm?’

Mercs nodded. ‘Near Henley. Bleedin’ great barn full of fertiliser explosive. Reckon if the place had gone up it would have been like a nuclear explosion. It would have levelled the pub just down the road.’

‘God, how awful.’

A shrug. ‘They don’t care about things like that. Caches are always turning up in flats and garages in residential areas.’

The telephone rang on her work station.

‘Mullins — features.’

‘It’s Bill here, friend of Tom’s. I expect he’s mentioned me.’

Casey laughed. ‘Tom’s got a lot of friends, Bill! But anyway, I’m sure he has mentioned you, I’ve just got cloth ears, that’s all.’

‘Look, sorry to trouble you, but I’m trying to reach him. It’s quite important.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, he’s sorting out some paperwork at Vauxhall Barracks this afternoon.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Near Oxford.’ She frowned. ‘You’re not with EOD then?’ The drink had slowed her reactions, at first allowing her to miss the Ulster accent that slipped into his speech. Suddenly she experienced alarm bells ringing. ‘Not Irish, Bill, are you?’

‘Listen, cow, this is AID AN!’ The strident Ulster voice was unmistakable now, the strangulated vowels harsh with his anger. ‘Don’t say anything! Don’t call anyone! We’ve got Harrison’s son and his wife. Understand? You take one step out of line and they get blown away, got it?’

She’d already beckoned Mercs closer, now she pushed him away. He thought she was joking, pressed forward. She glared with enough ferocity to draw blood. ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’

‘Shut up and listen. Tell him his wife and son are sitting on three pounds of explosive. It goes off in exactly one hour and thirty minutes unless he hands himself over to us. In return they go free.’ He was speaking faster, carried away on his own adrenalin rush. Mercs now sensed that something was wrong, saw it in the frozen rigidity of Casey’s stance, her knuckles white on the receiver. He edged closer and she tilted the earpiece so that he could share the words. ‘He drives alone to the village of Inkpen, that’s to the west of Newbury. Check your watch. It’s four forty-five now. We don’t. want to kill them because of a silly mistake like that, do we? He must be there by six fifteen. I’ll want to check his progress, so he’ll need a mobile phone. I’ve also got a tape of his son I’ll play him.’

Casey thought quickly. ‘I don’t think he’s got a mobile.’

‘Then he’d better borrow one,’ McGirl snapped. ‘I’ll phone you back for the number in half-an-hour.’

Christ, she thought, I can’t be stuck here. ‘Look, I’ve got a mobile, take the number. It’ll be more secure than going through our switchboard.’

‘Give!’ he ordered, jotting it down as she told him. ‘Remember, no police, no reporters, nothing t/that wee boy and his mother are going to live out the next two hours.’

The telephone went dead in her hand, the tone drilling harshly into her ear, leaving her with an aching sense of uselessness.

‘AIDAN?’ Mercs asked. She nodded. ‘And he’s talking about Tom?’

‘They’ve got Archie and his wife. They’re offering a swap.’ She felt the panic swelling in her chest. ‘God, there’s no time to do anything.’

Mercs stared at her, still not quite comprehending. ‘I suppose that’s the idea… I’ll call the police.’

‘No, Eddie!’

He started at the fierceness of her words. ‘This is between me and Tom -1 shouldn’t have let you hear anything. Please, please don’t say anything,’ she pleaded.

Mercs raised his hands. ‘Okay, okay.’

Already she was dialling Harrison’s number. ‘Tom must decide about the police.’

She caught him at Vauxhall Barracks just minutes before he was about to leave for the drive back to her flat. He was laughing, sharing a joke with the duty officer as he answered. Suddenly his world collapsed, her words sending his head swimming in shock and disbelief.

Then there was silence for a brief moment as he struggled to recover. ‘I’ll have to check with the school,’ he said at last.

‘Of course.’ She hadn’t thought of that. ‘But I’m sure it was genuine, Tom. He actually said he had a tape of Archie’s voice. No one would pull a practical joke like that.’

‘Hold on,’ he ordered and used another line. It took just four minutes to confirm the story without revealing his identity or alerting the headmaster to the nature of the problem. He prayed it was a cruel hoax, believed that somehow it just had to be. It wasn’t. His voice was quaking with emotion as he came back to her. ‘Look, there’s a mobile I can use and I’ve got the car. I’m not sure where this Inkpen is, but presumably they’ve left sufficient time.’

‘Tom, you can’t go!’ she protested.

‘I’ve no choice.’

‘You’ve no guarantee they’ll let them go.’

‘But I’ve got to try it, Casey. I’ve no other option.’

‘You must tell the police. I can call…’

‘NO!’ There was a brief hesitation. ‘Sorry. Christ, this is a nightmare. Look, they’.ve allowed us no time. If we involve the police, it’ll be the local plod, some inexperienced rural chief constable who sees this as his moment of glory, some gungho regional SWAT team.’

‘Tom, think it out, for God’s sake. If you don’t call the police, nobody will know where you or Archie and Pippa are.’

Be rational, he told himself. ‘Archie and Pippa are no use to them. It’s me they want, Casey, I’m the senior British officer they’ll want to swank about — to kill or to hold hostage, although God knows why?’

Suddenly she realised. ‘The Trafalgar House talks, Tom. To use you as a bloody bargaining chip, that’s why. It must be.’

‘Then no police.’ He was adamant. ‘Let them dump Pippa and Archie somewhere, then we’ll bring the police in.’

She had an idea, but time was running out. ‘I must see you, Tom. I’m leaving now and I’ll meet you somewhere on the road. Give me the number of your mobile.’

As soon as she’d taken it down, she hung up without giving him the chance to argue. She looked around frantically, surprised to find that Mercs had already located a road atlas and had spread it out on the empty work station next to hers. ‘I’ve found Inkpen. I can see why they chose it. It’s in the North Downs and bloody, miles from anywhere. All farmland and country lanes.’ He looked up. ‘And he won’t call the police?’

She shook her head. ‘He says there’s no time. It would just lead to a cock-up. I see his point.’

Mercs nodded his agreement. ‘There’d be no time for them to set up covert surveillance. That’s what’s needed.’

God, she thought, was there no solution? She turned to him. ‘We could do it.’

‘Who?’

‘You and me. Two cars and two mobiles.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Why not, Eddie?’

‘It’s fucking dangerous for one thing.’

‘If no one follows, no one will know where Tom is. Or his wife and son if those bastards decide not to release them. We’ve got to, Eddie, don’t you see?’

He frowned and puckered his lips. ‘It could be a good way to get Tom killed. If they know we are following… I know something about this sort of work. I did this report on undercover police units once. You use at least four vehicles. Form a box, they call it. One vehicle takes over from another, then if the quarry stops suddenly, you drive past and another takes up the tail.’

‘That’s not so difficult.’

‘Motorcycles are good. Don’t get stuck in traffic and can go anywhere.’

‘Hal,’ she said. ‘Is Hal in? I thought I saw him a few minutes ago.’

Mercs stared at her. ‘Casey, this is bloody lunacy.’

Harrison drove out of Vauxhall Barracks in a daze. Traffic registered, but it was in a kind of blur, his driving purely reflex and automatic, his mind trawling over the implications of what had happened. Trying desperately to inject some logic into what action he should take.

Time and again he went over what he had told Casey. That the release of Archie and Pippa was paramount, his own safety secondary. He’d used the same criteria for his decision to avoid police involvement at too short notice. Even he was panicking that he wouldn’t make the rendezvous on time; he could imagine the chaos as the police tried to locate expert covert forces and deploy them to the scene against the clock. Yet despite that, Casey’s warning echoed in his head: no one would know where he or his family were.

It was like evaluating a bomb threat, weighing the odds and probabilities, but never being absolutely certain…

At first he’d been hostile to Casey’s suggestion that they meet somewhere on the road, but as he made good time down the A34, crossed under the M4 and proceeded through the town of New bury, he began to welcome the thought of a few minutes with her. It might be the last they ever spent together.

She had kept in touch by mobile, her progress unbelievably quick. Thankfully the Standards offices in Kensington High Street were on the direct urban artery that fed into the M4 motorway. Even so she had some forty-seven miles to cover in order to reach Newbury. It would be touch and go whether or not she would make it.

He had just pulled into the village of Hamstead Marshall, a mere three miles from Inkpen, when she came through again.

‘I’ve got us another fifteen minutes,’ she said breathlessly. ‘When he called through for your mobile number and your car registration, I said you’d been caught up in heavy traffic’

‘You took a risk.’ He was angry that she’d done it, relieved that she had succeeded. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Getting lost in Newbury — no, it’s okay. I need both hands in these country lanes now. I’ll be with you in minutes.’

He put down the receiver and lay back in his seat, shutting his eyes. His heart was pounding. Keep calm, he told himself, keep calm.

The mobile bleeped. He opened his eyes and stared at it. There was little doubt who it would be. Suddenly that small comforting piece of plastic was transformed into something altogether evil and contaminated.

Slowly he reached out. ‘Harrison.’

‘Where are you?’ The accent was harsh Ulster, full of scarcely suppressed venom. % ‘Newbury,’ he lied. ‘I’m stuck at traffic lights.’

‘Don’t fuck me around.’

‘I’m not. I’ll make it.’

‘That’s right. Listen.’ There was a buzz and a whir, the tinny voice of a child, a boy. The reassuring tones of Pippa, her words calm but threatening to break up in hysteria.

‘Turn it off,’ Harrison snapped. ‘I believe you. I’ll be there.’

‘Inkpen in twenty minutes or I phone the order.’ The man had hung up.

Rage boiled over. He pounded his fist on the wheel, yelled at his own reflection in the mirror. ‘BASTARD!!’

He threw open his door, stepped out into the lay-by, gulping down draughts of fresh air, his entire body trembling.

Casey rounded the bend then, the Mini Cooper in a four-wheel drift, tyres screeching and headlamps blazing even though it was still daylight. The vehicle slid behind his and her long legs appeared out of the door. Before he knew it, she was in his arms, her tears hot against his cheek. ‘God, Tom, I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe this is happening.’

He eased her away. There was so little time. ‘Listen, I’ll tell them to contact you about the release of Pippa and Archie. That way you’ll be the first to know.’

‘When do you think they’ll let them go?’

‘It should be immediate, but I suppose I should allow twelve hours or so for unexpected eventualities.’ He didn’t really want to dwell on the negative aspect.

‘And if I haven’t heard then, do I call the police?’

He shook his head. ‘Contact Don. He’ll know the right buttons to push. If anyone comes busting in, I want it to be the SAS, not some local police firearms unit.’

She wondered again whether to tell him what she intended to do, but feared he would reject the idea. And she understood all too clearly why he might. But while she shared his desperate concern over Archie and Pippa, the safety of Harrison himself was even more important to her.

‘I must go now.’

‘Yes.’ She kissed him hard on the lips. ‘I love you.’

He pulled away then and walked back to his car. She watched him drive away, the memory of the exhausted and haunted expression in his eyes, she knew, would be etched in her mind for ever.

As his car disappeared from view, the first motorcycle came along the road from the other direction and swung in.

Hal Hoskins steadied himself and flipped up his visor. ‘Hi, Case, am I in time?’ ‘Just,’ she replied with relief, ‘Tom’s just gone.’

At that moment the second motorcycle appeared, ridden by a friend of Hal’s, ‘Bodger’, who was another photographer.

‘I’ll work with you,’ Hal told her, ‘and Bodge will form a second team with Eddie.’ He punched the single digit code into his mobile and almost immediately Mercs answered. ‘Where are you, Eddie?’

‘Just past a place called Crockham Heath. Can’t be more than minutes away. Sorry I’m late — took a wrong turn.’

Hal looked at Casey and grinned. ‘Let’s go. Bodge will wait here for Eddie. We can move up to Inkpen, and then I’ll follow your instructions.’

Instructions, that was a joke. ‘I’m so grateful, Hal. But whatever you do, don’t get too close. Those people will be armed.’ She climbed back into her car. ‘Keep behind me unless I lose Tom, then overtake. If Tom or whoever pulls over suddenly and I have to go past, you stop — well back — and get ready to take up the chase. If you lose both of us, stop immediately and get on the mobile.’

Hal appeared to be treating the whole thing as a game. ‘Roger, Ten Four,’ he said and gave her the thumbs-up sign.

She started the engine and turned the Mini Cooper onto the Inkpen road. Her hands were shaking. With full radio communications they might have been in with a chance. But reduced to using mobiles, which meant Hal and Bodger had to stop in order to speak or take a message, the omens were not good. Over the telephone on their separate drives down from London, she and Eddie had discussed the best method of operating. But she doubted now that it would be good enough. And if it wasn’t, then Harrison could very well end up dead.

He arrived at Inkpen village with three minutes to spare. The AID AN caller had not been specific about where he should stop, so he pulled over outside the first house of the village. It was a picture of rural tranquillity. Looking around he could see no sign of the terrorists’ presence. A few parked cars, a woman pushing a pram, a couple of elderly men gossiping by a cottage gate. He looked in his rearview mirror, saw a car and wondered. But almost immediately it pulled in, much too far away for him to identify the make.

The mobile rang and he snatched it up. ‘Harrison.’

‘You’re there?’

‘Yes.’ Irritable, angry and impatient.

‘Leave the line open. I’ll give you directions to Walbury Hill. Now start driving south through the village…’

He let out the clutch and pulled out. ‘Keep going… take a left, then a right.’ After a mile or so he was in open country, the road starting to climb, through a cutting towards the beauty spot and the viewpoint north over West Woodhay Down.

‘Turn left,’ ordered the voice and Harrison obeyed.

As he did so he spotted the Mazda saloon pull out from the cinder car park and fall in some fifty yards behind him. That was it, he decided. The instructions continued.

Minutes ticked by, the navigation tortuous as the terrorist slowly negotiated his way through myriad country lanes. It was only because the sun was mostly behind him that Harrison was able to establish that they were heading in an eastward direction. Place names vaguely registered. Woolton Hill. Penwood. Whitway.

They’d joined the A34, moving south, and now turned off left, moving east again towards Kingsclere.

‘Slow down,’ McGirl ordered, after they’d been travelling nearly forty-five minutes.

Crossroads ahead. Narrow farmtracks to either side.

‘Keep going.’

The road dipping now.

‘Pull over by the bridge.’

Harrison applied the brakes and steered into the grass verge, the Mazda pulling up close behind him.

Another car drove quickly past. Then nothing.

‘Get out, face away from the car with your hands behind your back.’

He climbed stiffly to his feet, noticed that there was now no other traffic on the road, just undulating farmland all around. Turning towards the bridge parapet, he could see that the road carried over a steep-sided cutting, part of a disused railway line. It was dusk now and he could just determine the overgrown track of cinders, brambles and weeds that curved away to the north.

Then he felt the cold steel of the gun muzzle in the nape of his neck. ‘Nice and easy, Harrison.’

A plastic loop was slipped over his wrists, the freezer tie rasping as it was locked tight. He was pushed sideways towards the broken wire fence at the edge of the bridge. He stumbled, slid on the muddy slope, his shoes slipping on the steep gradient of the cutting. He half stepped and half fell his way down, skidding on his bottom until he could regain purchase with his feet, the hand behind relentlessly pushing him on. By the time they reached the old railway track, his clothes were torn by brambles and caked in mud.

From somewhere in the twilight, perhaps from the bridge above, he heard the passing burble of a motorcycle exhaust.

‘I’ve lost them,’ Hal said.

‘Where?’ Casey demanded.

‘On the bridge where they stopped. Both cars are abandoned. There’s a disused railway line and I think they’re walking along it.’

‘Which way?’

‘North.’

She cursed. The narrow farm road she was on, didn’t even feature on her road map. ‘Look, Hal, they’re obviously not going to walk for long. See if you can pick up a road or something alongside the old railway track.’ But she wasn’t as optimistic as she sounded. ‘Meanwhile, Eddie and I will position at the next two main villages and hope we can pick them up on their way through.’

Casey was plunged into the depths of despondency as she called up Mercs and ordered him to Ecchinswell while she drove on to Kingsclere. The terrorists’ plan was clearly to switch vehicles and throw any would-be tail by using the railway line. So neither she nor Mercs would know what make of car they were looking for even if they saw it.

And, as it turned out, had it not been for their good fortune in having Hal Hoskins’s motorcycle, diat would indeed have been the end of the trail. But heading north along the narrowest of lanes towards Burgclere, which he reasoned could be running parallel with the railway, the photographer had passed a car parked on a short side road in the shadow of an industrial building. He glimpsed the dark shape of a man waiting beside it, looking anxious as he dragged on a cigarette.

Hoskins drove on for fifty metres, pulled over and, taking his mobile with him, retraced his tracks.

From a hidden viewpoint on the overgrown verge, he saw two figures approach the car: one man, looking dishevelled and exhausted, pushed along by the other.

The photographer pressed the dial code. ‘Casey, I think I’ve got them.’

Doran opened the gate and Muldoon drove through.

Sitting blindfolded in the back seat, Harrison could see nothing.

‘Out,’ McGirl ordered as Muldoon opened the rear passenger door.

The air was chill for the time of year, an eddying breeze sending an empty can rattling across an open space. Harrison smelt the decay, the atmosphere of abandonment and desolation. Felt the weeds underfoot, growing between cracks in the concrete. A derelict factory, he thought, or possibly a warehouse. Nearby he detected the gurgling rush of water. Somewhere an owl hooted, adding to his sense of isolation.

He was frogmarched forward. Suddenly there was a distinct stench of damp bricks and rotting garbage.

His blindfold was pulled free and instantly torchlight dazzled him, as rough hands pushed him into the entrance of the building.

‘Careful!’ someone warned. ‘She’s got booby traps everywhere. Turn that torch off until we’re round the bend.’

‘What?’ McGirl demanded.

‘A photo-slave cell. Shine a light on that and we’ll all go up.’

They stumbled forward in the gloom, Doran leading the way to the base of the stairwell. Then he turned on his torch and began climbing the first flight, glass crunching beneath their soles. Harrison could hear the distant drip of water, its melancholy plink magnified and echoing in the open body of the factory.

It was a wearying haul to the top floor. Eventually they followed the torchbeam across what was once a clerk’s office. A broken desk remained, an upturned chair and posters and charts hanging in tatters on the wall. Three doors confronted them. Only one was open, illuminated by the flickering light of a hurricane lamp. The unmistakable shape of a woman stood silhouetted in the doorframe, legs apart and a gun in her hand.

‘A present for you,’ McGirl said, pushing Harrison forward.

He stumbled and the girl stepped back, the light of the lamp catching both their faces.

She regarded him for what seemed like several long moments, her eyebrows arched in an expression of curiosity. ‘So you are Harrison,’ she said at last, as though she could not quite believe it herself. Or was she just relishing the words, savouring her victory. ‘Major — Tom — Harrison. The man whose evidence convicted my father…’

It had to be her, he thought. ‘Clodagh Dougan?’ She didn’t confirm it. ‘According to the papers we’ve been playing quite the hero, haven’t we? And then you deliberately set us up for an accident. I couldn’t believe that at first when I read it.’ She was close now, her eyes only inches from his own. They were dark and fathomless, burning with an intensity that was both beautiful and disturbing. He could see each pore of her skin, the whiteness of her teeth. Smell the shampoo she’d used on her hair. ‘I wondered what sort of man could do that? What he would look like.’

He ignored her rambling..‘Archie — my son. And my wife. You agreed they were to be released as soon as I arrived. Well, I’m here. You can let them go now.’

‘You’re not giving orders here, Major,’ McGirl sneered.

Clodagh appeared not to have heard either of them. ‘You don’t look much really,’ she was saying. ‘Quite ordinary really. Not the sort to deliberately lure an old man to his death. That was a pretty sick trick.’

Harrison glared back at her. ‘What are you talking about?’ He glanced around, searching for the face now so familiar from the file. ‘Presumably your father’s here?’

Her laugh was brittle. ‘Hardly likely, Harrison. His remains were spread over half of Deptford.’

That shook him; everyone had assumed the unidentified terrorist had been one of PIRA’s expendable footsoldiers. Nash’s ploy had worked more effectively than any of them could have hoped, and they didn’t even know. He said: ‘That’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Funny man,’ she sneered.

‘I’ve faced the same occupational hazard every time I’ve had to tackle one of your father’s bombs. He’s killed several of my colleagues over the years. So don’t expect my sympathy vote.’

She wore an expression of contempt. ‘None of that would have been necessary if you bastard Brits had got out of Ireland.’

It was difficult to believe that this was the sister of Caitlin. The timid mouselike mother and housewife who wanted nothing more than to be left in peace, yet dreaded either Provo or Orange gunmen at her door because she’d married a Protestant.

Harrison said: ‘I’m not political. My job is to save life and property and that’s what I do.’

‘Very noble, I’m sure.’

‘Not really, I get paid for it,’ he answered back sharply. ‘Now, can I see my wife and son?’

For a moment she paused, unsure whether to give him another verbal lashing, then changed her mind. ‘Take him in.’

McGirl shoved him unceremoniously sideways towards the second door, Clodagh following with the lamp. The door was unbolted and pushed open, a feeble light illuminating the bare room with its crumbling plaster and a heavy blanket covering the window.

Pippa was jolted awake by the sudden entry and looked up from the floor where she’d been dozing with her back to the radiator and Archie’s head in her lap. Harrison had never seen her look so small and weak. A frightened animal, her hair dishevelled and falling over her face, her tights laddered and skirt torn.

She shielded her eyes against the influx of light. ‘Tom?’

He went to her, knelt down, feeling anger and humiliation because he couldn’t even hold and comfort her. ‘Pippa — are you all right?’

Her free hand reached out, round his neck, and drew his face to hers. She didn’t speak, couldn’t. Her throat was choked with emotion, tears drenching her face.

‘Dad, is it you?’

‘Hello, son.’ Tears were in his own eyes now, but the hot tears of anger that they could have done this. He forced out his words in an effort to comfort the boy. ‘Been looking after Mummy?’

Archie nodded, sniffing hard, and stretched his unclasped arm round the necks of both his parents.

Glodagh remained at the door, McGirl by her side. ‘Very touching,’ he said.

Then Harrison turned towards them, climbed awkwardly to his feet, unbalanced by the bound hands behind his back. ‘Where will you take them? I’d like them picked up as soon as possible.’

McGirl looked at Clodagh. ‘I was thinking,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ve got no real need to release them now that we’ve got Harrison.’

‘It’s what we agreed, Pat.’

‘That hardly matters, c’mon now. It’s possible they know more than we think. They’ll have a description of the inside of this place. It’ll make it easier for the police to locate and then it’ll have all been for nothing.’

Clodagh hesitated.

Harrison said: ‘They’re harmless, innocent. You can’t keep a, young boy and his mother like this. It’s inhuman.’

‘Shut up,’ Clodagh snapped. ‘You’ve still got your son. My father lost his children for nearly twenty years while he was inside. Do you think he wanted that?’

‘He didn’t have to do the things he did.’

Clodagh glared. ‘Oh, yes, he did, Harrison. That’s what you Brits have never understood. He had to do it, just like you’d fight anyone who invaded your country, occupied your towns and cities.’

‘Don’t waste your time on him,’ McGirl said. ‘Let’s at least keep them for a few days. Maybe by then the Trafalgar House talks will have reached a conclusion.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Harrison protested.

McGirl reached into the room for the handle of the door and, without a further word, slammed it shut.

The bolts went home.