The Tick Tock Man

6

The press hounds were out in force. The pack had descended on the small village in the Surrey hills. They i doorstepped Brenda Murray’s modern detached house on the outskirts until she made a brief appearance at the front door. She wore dark glasses to hide her grief; her hair was lank and dishevelled. The cameramen with their probing telephoto lenses had the picture they wanted.

It made all the tabloid front pages the next day, although the dark glasses made her look slightly sinister, more like the wife of a serial killer than that of an innocent national hero. Because that was what Jock Murray had become.

Casey Mullins had started it with her poignant firsthand account, but by the next morning it had been taken over by the national big boys, her original contribution lost in a welter of column inches and big pictures with headlines screaming for the blood of the IRA terrorists who had killed their new-found hero.

One reporter wheedled his way into the household in the guise of a representative of Jock’s life insurance company; after gleaning what he could about the family’s finances, he stole a photograph of Jock, his wife and children.

A police constable was put on the door of the Murray house, ‘ so the hounds resorted to telephoning at all hours of the day and night until the receiver had to be left permanently off the hook. They took over the local pub and quizzed neighbours for snippets of gossip. Then, getting bored the day before the funeral, some hacks began asking if Jock had been having an affair? Was that why his mind wasn’t fully on the job at Seven Dials? It was splashed by one paper on the morning of the funeral.

When Casey arrived at the village with Eddie Mercs and Hal Hoskins, she had difficulty in finding a place to park, finally abandoning her Porsche at the edge of the village. It was difficult walking in the black high heels that matched her flared skirt, jacket and wide-brimmed hat. Nevertheless she turned down offers to carry the simple wreath.

‘You look good in black/ Mercs remarked. ‘I always think widows look sexy.’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Eddie.’

‘And brides. Widows and brides.’

‘I’m neither, Eddie.’

‘Just an observation.’

Cars were parked all along the grass verge that bordered the churchyard, many with photographers standing on the bonnets, trying to peer beyond the trimmed hawthorn hedge. A small knot of reporters and villagers were gathered at the lych gate where a police sergeant stood with a clipboard of names.

‘Sorry, folks, only those on my list.’

‘This is supposed to be a place of public worship,’ one hack complained.

‘Not today, it isn’t,’ the policeman countered. ‘There’s a security aspect to this, the IRA and all. And if we catch any of you scaling the walls or hedges…’

‘Trespass isn’t criminal, Sergeant, it’s a civil matter.’

‘…then you’ll be charged with causing a breach of the peace. Now, please give Mrs Murray a break, eh? You’ll get your chance when she leaves.’ ^

Casey turned to Mercs. ‘There’s no way he’s going to let me in.’

‘Bluff it out, sweetheart,’ he urged. ‘You’re dressed for the occasion, these oiks aren’t. And put your sunglasses on in case anyone recognises you.’ As she fumbled in her handbag, Mercs pushed her forward through the bystanders. ‘Step aside, gents, let the lady through.’

‘Hello, Eddie,’ someone said. ‘Long time no see.’

He ignored the man. ‘Morning, officer. Can’t you control this rabble? The lady here will miss the service.’

The policeman did a double-take at the sight of the tall, elegant woman, the sunlight on her coppery hair in striking contrast to the charcoal material of her hat and jacket.

‘It’s all right, miss, you’re in good time. Can I have your name please?’

She was aware of the hot, perspiring faces of the hacks all around her, their ears straining and pencils poised. Another relative? A mystery blonde, or would you call her a redhead? Jock Murray’s phantom lover? Now that would be a turn-up…

‘Casey — ‘ she began, her voice hoarse with embarrassment.

‘Pardon me?’ the policeman couldn’t hear.

‘That’s Eddie Mercs! What’s he doing with that bird?’

She cleared her throat and grabbed at a name. ‘Tracey Collins.’

The policeman consulted his list.

‘What’s your game, Eddie, you old reprobate?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see the name here,’ the sergeant said, realising now that Mercs was a reporter. ‘Are you with the press, miss?’

‘Hardly, officer. I’m a friend of the family and I’ve come a long way to get here.’ She thrust her wreath towards him.

‘Ah, an American,’ he said, now picking up her accent. He looked awkward. ‘It’s a bit difficult, see. Your name’s not here and I’ve got my instructions…’

‘Is there a problem, officer?’ The new voice came from behind her shoulder, resonant and with a natural authority. As she turned she caught sight of him. He stood a couple of inches taller than her own five foot eleven in heels and his shoulders looked solid beneath the navy blazer. She was distracted by his tie — green with the repeated motif of an orange hand and a cartoon cat — before ‘ she noticed his face. It was full and serious with dark brows and steady brown eyes that had the bright glint of someone enjoying a private joke. She noticed the small cleft in his chin and the bluish sheen to his skin that suggested he needed to shave twice a day.

‘And you, sir?’ the policeman asked.

‘Harrison. Major and Mrs Harrison.’ He added: ‘And son.’

Casey twisted round to see the woman who stood by his side. She looked doll-like beside her husband, a pale and delicately boned face with wide and wary eyes beneath the upturned brim of her hat. A young boy clutched nervously at her hand.

‘That’s fine, sir,’ the policeman ticked his list.

‘And the lady?’ Harrison pressed, smiling at Casey to let her know she wasn’t forgotten.

‘I’m afraid I’ve no Miss Collins here.’

Casey said: ‘I’m not really expected. I didn’t think I could get away. Mrs Murray wouldn’t have put my name down.’

‘Brenda didn’t think you’d be able to come?’ Harrison asked. ‘You’re from America?’

‘California.’

Harrison turned to the policeman. ‘We can’t have a family friend come all the way from California to be turned away at the funeral, Sergeant. It’s okay, she can come in with us…’

The policeman was pleased to have his dilemma solved and stepped aside to allow the four of them to pass.

Casey breathed a sigh of relief, despite the insistent voice of a reporter calling after her. ‘Miss Collins! What’s your connection with the Murrays? Miss Collins!’

Ahead, an old flagged path meandered beneath brooding dark cedars, lichen-stained gravestones on either side. The mourners were gathering by the porch of the church; many wore police or army uniforms.

‘Looks as though they’ve managed to keep the gutter press out,’ Harrison observed.

‘It’s really disgusting,^Pippa said. Her voice was cultivated and perfectly pitched in the traditional BBC announcer’s manner. Casey imagined Harrison’s wife always had that slightly affronted tone whatever she was saying; it was the kind of voice she’d grown to associate with Ascot, Henley and the Peter Jones store in Chelsea. ‘Usually I don’t give them the satisfaction of reading their rags. In fact it was some time before I learned that Jock was dead. I usually just read the features — being in PR, I have to really. But as for what they rate as news nowadays.’ She made a vague gesture towards the gate. ‘You’d think they’d leave poor Brenda in peace for today at least. After all, she is burying her husband.’

Casey was irritated by the woman’s superior attitude and felt an instinctive urge to defend the indefensible. ‘I suppose they’re just doing their jobs.’

‘It strikes me,’ Pippa responded, ‘that they just like to build people up in order to be able to knock them down. It’s just a game to them. I just hope they don’t try to do that to Jock’s memory. I mean, did you read what one of those scandal sheets said today?’

‘Forget it, Pippa,’ Harrison chided. ‘They’re not worth your breath.’

They stopped on the fringe of the gathering. ‘You’re right, Tom, of course.’ She looked at Casey directly for the first time. ‘You’re a friend of Brenda’s? I didn’t quite catch your name? Tracey?’

‘Casey. Casey Mullins. It’s a bit complicated, but I sort of knew Jock.’

Pippa’s long eyelashes fluttered in a bewildered sort of way. ‘Oh, really.’

Harrison frowned. ‘I thought you said…’

Casey smiled demurely and removed her glasses. ‘Actually I think you jumped to a couple of conclusions. But thanks anyway for sorting out that confusion with the policeman.’

Pippa had taken a step back. Rather stiffly she said, ‘Well, anyway, we ought to introduce ourselves properly. I’m Philippa Harrison and this is my husband Tom.’

‘Major, is that right?’ Casey asked.

He nodded.

‘You’re not in uniform.’

‘No, I’m not with the pallbearers or in the guard of honour. We don’t wear uniforms off duty nowadays.’

‘I see.’ Ś 1 ‘Best not to advertise to terrorists.’

‘That’s awful,’ Casey said. ‘And how long had you known Jock?’

‘A long time. He was the best man at our wedding. Served with me in 321 EOD.’

‘Pardon me?’

He smiled at the very American intonation. ‘Explosives Ordnance Disposal Squadron in Northern Ireland.’

‘You’re a bomb man, too?’

Pippa looked pained, but Harrison just laughed lightly. ‘We’re called ATOs. Ammunition Technical Officers.’

‘That makes it sound very dull.’

His wife began to feel excluded, so she placed her hands on her son’s shoulders and propelled him forward. ‘This is our offspring, Archie. Say hello to Miss Mullins.’

He offered his hand shyly and bowed stiffly at the waist. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Mullins.’

She smiled at his Victorian formality and impeccable manners. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you too, Archie. But please call me Casey and we’ll get on fine. How old are you?’

‘I’m ten. Nearly eleven.’

‘And tell me, do you intend to be a bomb man when you grow up, like your daddy?’

‘Over my dead body,’ Pippa intervened. ‘It’s bad enough with one of them in the family.’

Again Casey felt an unreasonable irritation at Philippa Harrison’s manner. Ignoring her, she said; ‘And what do you think, Archie?’

He glanced sideways at his mother. ‘Actually, I think I might like to, but I’m not sure I’d be brave enough.’

Casey couldn’t help herself, she laughed brightly and loudly enough to prompt several heads to turn. ‘How sweet! Oh, Archie, I’m sure you’d be quite brave enough.’

And while Pippa scowled, Casey noticed that his father gave his son a tight, proud {nig around his small shoulders.

It was then that Brenda Murray extricated herself from the gathering of mourners and approached them. She had dark features like Pippa, although she was considerably taller and the ringlets of hair beneath her hat were distinctly grey.

‘Pippa — Tom — little Archie — I’m so glad you could come.’ Her accent was so heavily Glaswegian that even Casey had no trouble in placing it. Through the veil she could see that Jock’s widow had a wide and generous mouth, managing to smile despite the sad look in her eyes.

‘We’re so, so sorry, Brenda,’ Pippa said as the two women embraced and exchanged kisses on the cheek.

Brenda nodded, clearly finding it difficult to talk beyond perfunctory greetings.

Harrison said: ‘This is Casey Mullins. I believe she was a friend of Jock’s.’

She looked towards the tall American, an expression of puzzlement on her face as she extended her hand.

Casey felt her cheeks colour. ‘This suddenly seems like a great impertinence, Mrs Murray. I had no idea it would be so — so busy.’ She gestured vaguely at the sizeable gathering and the pressmen beyond the gate. ‘I just wanted to sit quietly at the back of the church and pay my respects.’

‘How did you know Jock?’

‘Well, I didn’t really. My daughter and I were caught in Seven Dials on the day of the bombing. Your husband came and spoke to us, reassured us. I was very grateful. We were right next to the car, you see.’ .

Brenda Murray’s features seemed to freeze for a moment. Then she reached out for Casey’s arm. ‘My dear, you were actually there when it went off?’

Casey nodded, not sure what else to say.

‘Then you were probably the last person to see Jock alive.’

She found her voice. ‘He was very kind.’

Brenda noticed the wreath. ‘And you’ve brought this — I’ll put it with the others. Silly really, but Jock used to get terrible hayfever from flowers.’ Her voice quavered for a second, then she regained her composure. ‘It was good of you to come. But you won’t know anyone. Perhaps Pippa and Tom will be kind enough to look after you.’

‘Of course,’ Harrison said.

‘ ‘We’d best go in now,’ Brenda said, adding: ‘Do come back to the house afterwards, Miss Mullins. It’s just sherry and a few snacks.’

Then she was gone and Casey stayed with the Harrisons, joining the end of the queue of mourners as they were swallowed up into the 17th-century church.

Despite Brenda’s warm reception, Casey couldn’t help feeling like an intruder. A gatecrasher into others’ very private grief. For it became clear that this was a family in more than the usual sense of the word.

Almost all the men in the packed church were bound together in the brotherhood of the bomb. Harrison seemed to be known to almost all of them. It marked them out as men apart, men who alone knew what it meant to take the long walk that Jock Murray had taken. Theirs was an elite, a closed order in which it was not possible for the outside world to share, let alone begin to understand. Their work, their language and their jargon and their secret world of private fears were scarcely understood even by fellow soldiers and policemen. So how could someone like Casey begin to comprehend? Men from the British Army and the Explosives Section of New Scotland Yard stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bent in silent prayer. For Jock and his family, she wondered, or for themselves the next time a bomb warning was received?

And the women, too, were set apart. Who but they would know what it meant to be the wife or lover of a bomb-disposal man? Their private, silently screaming agony whenever they saw a newsflash on the television. Did they hush the kids and turn up the sound? Or did they look away and pretend that the real sordid world didn’t exist? Did they just say Daddy will be home this weekend and leave it at that? A bomb in Northern Ireland or an explosion in the West End. What did it mean to them? All the time knowing that of all the places in all the world, that was exactly where their men were expected to be.

The service lasted half-an-hour; the lesson was read by a man called Les Appleyard, who Harrison explained had been Jock’s closest friend, and a tribute was paid by a Yorkshireman called Midgely from the Explosives Section. He told the congregation that he was standing in for his chief who’d been delayed in London because of the current terrorist campaign.

Apparently at Jock’s own request, when he was still very much alive and full of mischief, it concluded with the melancholy lament of a kilted piper.

There was a burning sensation in Casey’s throat and her eyes were stinging as the pallbearers, police officers to which the Explosives Section was attached, stepped forward and manhandled the coffin onto their shoulders. Brenda Murray with her children fell in behind the silent procession, Jock’s former colleagues, seniorpolice and army officers following. Casey joined the Harrisons at the rear, passing the guard of honour formed by policemen and men in the white belts and peaked caps of the Royal Logistics Corps, on the way to the churchyard where the freshly dug grave waited.

She drew back then, distancing herself physically and mentally from the others who shared Jock Murray’s strange world. Watching each solemn face in turn until she came to Brenda, a handkerchief pressed beneath her veil. Her children staring down at the lowered coffin, their eyes looking puzzled, almost frightened. Perhaps not understanding or perhaps just beginning to.

And Gwen. She thought of Gwen, lying as she had last seen her, and how she would carry the legacy of that day with her for ever if she managed to survive. Her punishment for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cruelly maimed and disfigured, her daughter taken from her.

And how many others were there like Gwen, she wondered, quietly struggling through the rest of their lives in Northern Ireland or in some suburb of London? Some without limbs, some with horrendous internal injuries but patched together with the wondrous technology of steel and plastic, or in a world of permanent darkness. Forgotten by the press who reported the events at the time, their stories giving way to the next day’s news.

And what of the bombers? What of the men who planted the Seven Dials bombs, what were they doing this bright but chill July ‘ morning? At home with their own families? Or hiding up somewhere? Or were they laughing and drinking in some pub in Eire or Ulster? Perhaps even watching the television set above the bar as it relayed the pictures from the news cameras outside this very church in the Surrey hills?

Who were they? What drove them to such monstrous actions? Did they have a conscience or a soul?

The first handful of dry earth rattled on the coffin lid. Then others followed, splashes of soil spreading out to obscure the polished oak. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Then it was over and the relief was tangible in the air. The crowd began to move away, allowing the sunlight to fall on the grave and the black marble headstone. Amongst the wreaths one in particular caught her attention — again it was the cartoon cat set in flowers against the orange hand of Ulster. A cooling breeze picked up, rustling the cedars and breaking the spell; someone made a joke and someone else laughed.

Hugh Dougan and Clodagh had planned it. Pat McGirl was responsible for the operational details.

The final briefing had been held the night before at the rented house near Henley-on-Thames where the bomb maker and his daughter were staying. McGirl and Dougan hit it off well enough, but an unspoken antagonism existed between the Northern Brigade commander and the girl. Nothing specific, just bad chemistry which resulted in silent friction. An unspoken hostility. He sensed her lack of respect for his authority and was irked by her constant questioning of his decisions. She considered him uncouth and ill-educated, he was sure. But then he could live with that. What made it worse was that he found her disturbingly attractive and, much as he tried to hide the fact, he was damn sure she knew it.

He had left the house at midnight, driven out of the integral garage and taken the road to the farm a few miles away.

The others were waitftig, anxious to be going. Moira Lock was a farmer’s daughter from Fermanagh and Leo Muldoon had been born and brought up in Derry’s Catholic Bogside area. Liam Doran was a Dubliner and Joe Houlihan was of London-Irish stock. None had a record for terrorist activity.

Four Transit vans were lined up in the barn, each the same colour and bearing false number plates identical to those of legitimate vehicles spotted in the London area. Inside each one was loaded ten heavy-duty plastic sacks containing one thousand pounds of ANS-milled fertiliser and icing sugar mix.

The vans left at twenty-minute intervals, slipping quietly out of the yard and onto the dark and deserted country road. McGirl left in the last vehicle with Moira Lock. Their destinations were four separate lock-up garages that had been rented, cash down, by the Provisionals’ mainland ‘flying column’ months earlier. Once safely under lock and key, the Transits were left until the following day.

Such was the size of the operation that McGirl had to draw in two other mainland active service units which had been operating in the UK for some time. One was a London-based reconnaissance unit which would place getaway vehicles close to the four target areas, each one legally parked, the keys given to McGirl for redistribution.

The second ASU was brought down from Humberside. This comprised six ‘trainees’ who had been cutting their teeth on low-grade economic targets. As such they were considered to be more ‘expendable’ than theťtwo other seasoned cells operating in England at the time. Now would be the chance for the youngsters to prove their mettle, mounting the co-ordinated diversionary attacks.

At midday McGirl and Moira Lock returned to the garage in Willesden from the safe house where they had stayed overnight. They drove towards Kew Bridge until, nearing their destination, McGirl pulled up alongside the parked getaway car to let Moira climb out.

Then he drove on alone until he reached the Chiswick flyover which carried the heavy flow of M4 traffic in and out of central London. As he passed beneath the enormous canopy of reinforced concrete, he switched on the van’s hazard lights and pulled over. With cars speeding past, he reached for the TPU beneath the passenger seat and pulled the two dowel pins: each released the pressure on a Memo Park mechanical timer, one set at thirty minutes to arm the antihandling devices, the second to set the main charge for sixty minutes.

He stepped onto the road, tugging up his jacket collar and pulling down the peak of his flat cap to obscure his face, before he propped open the bonnet to peer at the engine.

Later a motorist would recall how he saw the broken-down Transit with its hazard flashers blinking and noticed the driver, hunch-shouldered and with hands in pockets, walking away. Presumably the unfortunate man was going off to telephone one of the breakdown services.

The motorist thought no more about it at the time. He was not to know that an identical incident had occurred at three other locations around London. All at exactly the same time.

‘Casey!’ She turned; it was Harrison. ‘I thought we’d lost you. C’mon, I’ll give you a lift to Brenda’s.’

‘Where’s your wife?’

‘Pippa and Archie have gone in one of the official cars with Brenda.’

She fell into step beside him. ‘It was a lovely service.’

‘Jock would have liked it. He always said his final vengeance on all of us would be to have a piper at his funeral.’

‘I thought it was very moving.’

Harrison smiled. ‘That’s not what any of his mates would ever admit. Love of the pipes is a very Scottish thing. He always said it would be his last laugh on us for all the leg-pulls. That and the sweetest revenge of all — beating the life insurance company.’

She glanced sideways at him. ‘You’re being very flippant.’

He looked surprised, almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. If you’d known Jock for any time, you’d understand. You can’t afford to be sentimental in our game.’

‘I suppose not.’ Ť

They had reached the lych gate and Casey replaced her sunglasses. ‘Afraid of being recognised?’ Harrison joked.

‘My mascara’s run.’

The press pack that had been clamouring for a quote and the best picture of the grieving widow and her children had lost interest now that the crowds had dwindled. She saw no sign of Eddie Mercs or Hal Hoskins.

Harrison’s car was parked in a side street alongside a rose-pink thatched cottage. Without a word he dropped down beside the rather battered blue Vauxhall Cavalier, checking the chassis and wheelarch on the driver’s side.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, but even as she spoke she realised with a small sense of shock that she already knew the answer.

‘Just checking,’ he replied lightly, opening his door and reaching across to open hers.

‘You don’t really expect a bomb, do you?’ she asked as she took her seat.

He started the engine. ‘You can’t be too careful. This funeral’s been a high-profile affair and PIRA are always watching.’

‘Here?’ She was incredulous. In the Surrey hills?

‘We’re only thirty miles from the centre of London, and I’d be considered a good catch by PIRA. The Senior ATO in Northern Ireland.’

‘That’s your job?’ ‘.

‘Running all the EOD sections in Northern Ireland, yes. Above me is the Colonel or Chief ATO. I’m in day-to-day command while he attends all the meetings with the top brass, looks after overall strategy and all that. Or in theory. The reality is rather less formal. Many of our duties are really shared and we stand in for each other as the need arises.’

She frowned. ‘Is he the one I’ve heard referred to as Top Cat?’

Harrison drove past the church, the crowds now dispersed. ‘That can be him or me, but the term’s a bit old hat now. It used to be our radio call sign in the old days. And “Felix” for any bomb-disposal operator. The nimble cat with nine lives.’

She shivered involuntarily, remembering Jock Murray at Seven Dials. ‘No wonder your wife isn’t happy with what you do.’

The major smiled gently. ‘She’s never really understood and I doubt that many wives do. There is the odd — let’s say dramatic — moment, but mostly it’s just routine. It’s rarely hands-on stuff, that’s strictly for the movies.’

‘But you’ve had casualties?’

He nodded, studying the road as it opened up beyond the congested high street. ‘We’ve lost twenty in Northern Ireland since the troubles began and twenty-four injured. The majority were in the early days while our techniques were being developed, but you still can’t eliminate all the risks.’

She was intrigued, trying to imagine what his service life was like. ‘Are you ever at risk, Tom?’

‘Only from dying of boredom with all the paperwork,’ he laughed. ‘My job’s to supervise. I’ve done my bit — being a born coward I’m quite happy for the youngsters to have their turn now.’

Somehow she didn’t quite believe his reply. It came a little too easily; too glib and well-practised.

Pippa had said as much to him the previous night when he’d returned to the family home in Pimlico, a house that his wife’s father had bought for them.

Harrison had made the mistake of mentioning his involvement with the Europa suitcase bomb. It was still fresh in his mind, his nerves still raw and he’d wanted to talk to someone about it. Pippa was not the wisest choice.

‘What is it with you, Tom?’ she’d challenged. ‘You’re always trying to convince me you don’t get involved any more and now you come up with this one. How many other times do you do this and don’t tell me? For God’s sake, you’ve done your share over the years — God knows how many weeks’ sleep I’ve lost with the nightmares — so why? So you happened to be there and the ATO wasn’t. Who cares if the bloody Europa blows up?’

He had poured himself a drink at the Louis Quatorze cabinet — another gift from Pippa’s father. ‘It’s my job. Blowing up the Europa has always been one of the Provos’ big dreams and it would be the biggest possible propaganda victory for them. I took all necessary precautions, minimised the risk and did the business. It’s what I’m paid for.’

‘I’m not your bloody colonel, Tom!’ she had almost shrieked. ‘Don’t give me your bloody official sitrep or whatever your jargon is. It’s me you’re talking to, your wife. Jock died last week and I expect he gave Brenda exactly the same bullshit. Oh, darling, there’s nothing to worry about, it’s all remote nowadays — and now he’s dead and it could have been you the other night in friggin’ bloody Belfast!’

He had downed his double finger of whisky hard, enjoying the burning rasp in his throat. ‘So what do you expect me to do about it?’

She stood across the room from him and glared. ‘What do I want you to do, or what do I expect you to do? I want you to jack it in, Tom, like I’ve always wanted. I want you to put me and Archie fucking well first for once.’ She was small and beautiful and magnificent in her rage. Her slightly plummy voice excited him when she resorted to gutter language; in bed she would sometimes use words he would hardly have guessed she knew. ‘You know there’s a place for you in the company, on the board.’

‘Daddy’s company,’ he mimicked unkindly. But he knew really that he meant it and so did Pippa. ‘I know nothing about public relations and I’ve no time for the press — that hardly qualifies me.’

She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Yes, Tom, that is what I expected you to do. Bloodyť nothing. This silly thing you’ve got about Daddy. You resent this house and you resent his offer of a board position in his company. Why? He was a major once, just like you. He comes from a military family. So what is it? Is it this damn I‘11-stand-on-my-own-two-feet thing, resenting a helping hand from your wife’s rich family ‘

‘Don’t be crass, Pippa,’ he said, but he knew she wasn’t too far from the truth. Her father had risen to the rank of brigadier in the Brigade of Guards and never tired of letting Harrison know that he didn’t consider technical ‘blue-collar’ arms of the services, like ordnance disposal, to be ‘proper soldierin’ ‘, as he liked to put it. Without saying so directly, he made it perfectly plain that he would have considered a cavalry officer to have made a far more suitable husband for his daughter. ‘I’m staying with bomb disposal because it’s what I know and what I’m good at. And I happen to enjoy it.’

‘Even though it means living apart from me?’ she challenged.

‘That was your decision.’

She didn’t like that; it edged her onto the defensive. ‘I’ve played the dutiful wife, Tom. I spent nine years living behind the wire while Archie was growing up. It’s my turn now. I’ve got my career to think of.’

‘I know that.’ He meant it. ‘And so have I.’

Pippa shook her head slowly as though in exasperation at an irascible child. ‘But it means we continue living apart, Tom, and that’s not good for our marriage. You can’t always expect me to be waiting with a warm bed for your nine days’ R and R every six months.’

If it had been a warning, or a hint of things to come, then Harrison had missed it. After three months of enforced celibacy in Lisburn, Pippa looked more dark and delicious than ever, a sheen of perspiration on her face after a long summer’s day in her hectic office, her silk blouse and the hip-flaring business skirt looking fetchingly tired and crumpled.

Hoarsely he said: ‘Let’s go to bed.’

She had given a small, tight smile, but had not resisted.

Now Casey Mullins was saying: ‘I can sympathise with your wife,’ as he approached the driveway to the Murrays’ mock Georgian home. ‘Especially having seen what happened to Jock. But at the same time I’d be very proud of you.’

He glanced sideways at her and caught her smile; it was wide and infectious and it lifted his spirits as he turned into the driveway and parked.

‘Just one thing, Casey,’ he said as he switched off the engine. ‘Can you remember if Jock opened the door of that car?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘Definitely not. He actually told me he’d break through the window in case the bomb had been wired to the courtesy light or something.’

“That’s good. Running out of time is one thing, I hate to think of Jock getting caught out by that old trick.’

She walked with him towards the house, puzzled that such an academic point could mean so much to him. After all, Jock Murray was dead — did it really matter how?

The front door was ajar and they were almost bowled over by two of the mourners’ children playing tag, the funeral forgotten and their lives to lead. People were standing in the hall, chatting and trying to balance plates of tiny sausage rolls and glasses. Their relief at the return to normality was obvious. But the good humour was a little forced, the laughter too loud. Even Brenda was making a determined effort, talking articulately in the packed chaos of the front lounge, her hat and veil abandoned.

Followed by Casey, Harrison made his way to the kitchen where bottles and cans had been laid out in readiness for the invasion of mourners.

‘To Jock,’ Midge Midgely, the Yorkshireman, was saying. He toasted the lager can with Les Appleyard. ‘To Jock.’ Then he saw Harrison: ‘Hello, Tom. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak earlier.’

‘A lot of people.’

Appleyard nodded. He was a tall, thin man with swept-back hair that emphasised his angular features and prominent beaked nose. ‘Jock was well liked. A good send-off, nothing more than he deserved.’ He noticed Casey and grinned enthusiastically. ‘What can I get you? Seems I’m the unpaid bar staff. Looks like lager or sherry.’ ‘.

‘A lager, please.’

A wink. ‘American? No root beer, I’m afraid.’

‘Lager’s fine.’

Harrison took two cans; they were out of glasses. ‘This is Casey ‘

‘A sort of family friend,’ she said quickly. If these were Jock’s working colleagues she didn’t want to end up talking about the events at Seven Dials. She wondered if Harrison might tell them, but something in his eyes when he looked at her made her think he wouldn’t. That he would understand her reticence to talk about it.

Midgely said:’ Al’s not too happy about this turn of events, Tom. You might as well be warned if you hadn’t already guessed.’

Harrison took a swig of the beer. ‘I’m not too chuffed about it either, Midge.’

‘Al’s like a bear with a sore head at the best of times.’ Appleyard added. ‘At the moment it’s like working with a cocktail shaker full of nitroglycerine. If you squint you can almost see the old black dog trailing round after him.’

‘That bad, eh?’

‘Moody sod,’ Midgely agreed. ‘Mind you, this new campaign is getting us all down. It feels sort of personal — and I’ve never felt that before. Like someone’s deliberately trying to catch us out and make us look chumps into the bargain.’

‘Whoever’s behind it, is good,’ Appleyard said with an air of professional detachment. ‘After all, he or they got old Jock.’ He looked at Harrison. ‘But you’d know all about AID AN, Tom.’

A vision of the third-floor corridor in the Europa flashed through Harrison’s mind, the silvery photographer’s case seeming to beckon him like a siren’s song. He took another draught of lager. ‘Sure, we’ve had that codeword in Belfast for — what? — two months now. I think that’s about when it began. One ATO dead and two injured — the first in a long while. Not to mention two ‘barrows destroyed.’

‘Then that’s two lives saved,’ Appleyard mused. ‘Our bomber’s been a busy little bugger then, hasn’t he?’

Midgely was about to respond when his bleeper went.

‘Use the wall phone,’ Appleyard suggested.

The Yorkshireman picked up the extension receiver and punched in a central London number. ‘Al, it’s Midgely here. What gives?’ He listened intently, his inscrutable flat features giving nothing away. But his knuckles turned white as he slowly crushed the lager can in his left fist. He tossed it into the waste bin. ‘Okay, Al, we’ll be waiting — Listen, Al, Tom Harrison’s here at the funeral. Shall I — ?’ His lips clamped shut as he continued to listen to the voice at the other end. Midgely said nothing more before replacing the receiver.

‘Well?’ Appleyard asked.

Midgely was grim. ‘All hands to the pump. There’ve been bomb warnings coming in from all over London. Four vans left abandoned under the Chiswick flyover, the A40(M) flyover into Marylebone, the M25/M4 junction and the Blackfriars Bridge underpass — all with our friend AIDAN’s calling card. Then, just for good measure, there’s a suspect package at Clapham Junction and a threat of firebombs in Oxford Street — the greatest time wasters of all.’

‘Are those AIDAN-coded too?’ Appleyard asked.

Midgely shook his head. ‘Apparently not, but why make life simple for us? Al reckons it’s all part of the same setup, otherwise it would be too much of a coincidence. Anyway there’s a squad car on its way from Dorking police station.’

Appleyard glanced at his watch. ‘If the driver’s good we can make it in twenty minutes.’