The police investigation did not come anywhere near the two men.
Before leaving university — to a job suggested by Bellamy — Gill murdered once more: a high-flying female student who was also suspected of being a lesbian. He murdered her with a knife and relished every single slice he took off her.
Since then, on Bellamy’s instructions, Gill had murdered fifteen other people, all in some way connected to the ‘corrupt system’ that Bellamy wanted to make right. The methods of his killings varied and the police never really made any connections, which Bellamy found ironic and amusing, and fitted in nicely with his strategy.
There were occasions, though, when Gill needed to be cooled down for his own good — usually when he had carried out murders close together. Then the urge to kill was very strong in him and he needed to be talked down to some kind of normality, though Bellamy could only guess at the normality which existed in Gill’s mind.
‘David, you have done well this week. It has been hectic for us all. We all have had to go the extra mile. Things are coming together nicely. The end result is close. I’m sorry I had to ask you to kill the girl, but she knew too much about me.’
‘You petrol-bombed the detective, didn’t you?’
Bellamy nodded. ‘It was an opportunity not to be missed, it increased the pressure. But Geri knew and I could not take the risk of her talking to the police to save herself. That was why I asked you to kill her, even though I know it was a difficult thing for you to pull off. But you did it and I thank you.’
Bellamy patted Gill’s arm. ‘Now you need to step back, David. David — hah! David. I can’t get used to calling you David. Here, come here.’ Bellamy beckoned Gill into his arms. Gill fell into the embrace and held onto his mentor. ‘That’s good, that’s good. You’ve done well. Other things are starting to happen on other fronts now. The American is here,’ Bellamy whispered.
Gill drew back, wide eyed. ‘That’s fantastic! Can I meet him?’
Bellamy shook his head. ‘No one meets him, not even me. That is how he wants it. I don’t even know where he’s staying. I just know he’s here and he’ll be producing a bomb for us. I’ll keep you informed of where it will be placed, for your safety. In the meantime, though, David, keep a low profile. Your next job is the most important you will have ever done. Your crowning achievement.’
Once more he and Bellamy embraced.
Bellamy could do this to Gill. Twist him, manipulate him, make him realise he was wrong, take him in any direction he wished. Gill nodded, once again awed by Bellamy, the man he most respected in the world. He reckoned Bellamy was the one who had made him what he was, who had shown him the way. Bellamy had been the one with the big ideas and the way to achieve them. Gill knew he was simply a cog in the bigger machine of right-wing extremism. A miner beavering away at the coalface, doing the dirty but vital work.
The bomber breathed in the fresh sea air deeply. He looked out across Morecambe Bay from where he stood on the promenade in Fleetwood, to the north of Blackpool. In the distance, rising up from the swirling mists like two medieval castles were the twin nuclear power plants at Heysham. He wondered what the hell it would look like if they blew up. Pretty spectacular, he thought. From a purely professional point of view it was something he would have liked to witness. On a personal note, he hoped he would be in another continent if it happened.
He put his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the twin reactors, then swept across the bay, holding for a moment on the Isle of Man ferry which had just departed Fleetwood docks. Then he moved to a point on the shoreline, some fifty metres in front of him where several hundred oyster catchers had gathered to feast on the harvest uncovered by the receding tide. He watched them with some pleasure for a few minutes before strolling on.
Eventually he found a seat in a large shelter near the miniature golf course. Both shelter and course were devoid of people. He slid the rucksack off his back and fished out a small flask from which he poured himself a very welcome cup of coffee. It tasted wonderful against the chill of the fast disappearing afternoon.
Few people were about the place. One or two old folk with dogs, that was all.
The bomber sighed contentedly. Life had been good for the past couple of months on tour, as he thought of it, in Europe. His offer to several organisations had been snapped up on the back of his lone success in America and he had fulfilled his promises to them, and more.
Germany had been fantastic.
He had combined his visit there with a sight-seeing tour of the remains of the concentration camps and of Berlin. He had felt an emotional rush to be so close to what had been a wonderful campaign and those who had led it. He had been more than happy to provide two bombs which helped keep the movement alive and in the public eye and in which two Jews had died.
Then there had been France and Spain. One bomb in each. These countries did not have the buzz of Germany, but they had been pleasant nonetheless. Now he was in England which he was also enjoying. After this he would head home to resume business there.
He placed the rucksack between his feet and unzipped the hood. He eased a pair of latex gloves onto his hands before sliding his fingers into the rucksack and removing a plastic sandwich box. There was a timer strapped to the outside of the box and inside was a lovely nail bomb. Instead of big fat nails, the bomber had packed over a thousand steel panel pins into the plastic explosive. These would have their own particularly devastating effect. He had used a similar one in Chicago and had taken out forty eyes, totally blinding eight people and killing two blacks. That had been a good one. A delicate bomb, he had called it. Refined. It was also equipped with a beautiful trembler device just in case someone moved it either by accident or design once the timer had been set. He put the bomb into a plastic Asda shopping bag and wrapped it tightly with elastic bands.
He pushed the deadly package down behind the bench in the shelter, wedging it out of sight of the casual observer.
Now he could relax. Delivery made. He finished his coffee and walked back along the promenade, making a quick call on his mobile phone.
‘Well?’
It was a demanding word, requiring explanation.
For a moment, Henry thought it was part of a dream.
‘Well?’ The word came again, probing, piercing.
Henry moaned, feeling very ill because the word had pulled him back up from the depths of a deep, black sleep. He wanted to ignore it, roll over, burrow into the bed, wrap the pillows tightly round his head and just bloody ignore it.
‘I want to know who she was, what she was doing here and what the hell has been going on!’
Henry’s eyes flickered open. Difficult, as they were caked in sleep. He was on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
‘Who — what?’ he said, mouth dry.
‘That woman — that woman!’
He moved his head and blinked at Fiona. She was in her veterinary gear, green overalls and wellington boots, her hair tucked inside an elasticated cap on her head. Her arms were folded across her chest. She meant business, but was on the edge of tears.
‘What woman?’ he asked dumbly. His brain had not clicked into gear and he was beginning to resent being woken up again.
‘The one who was kissing you — that woman,’ Fiona explained.
‘Oh. . right,’ it dawned on him. ‘You mean Jane?’ He shook his head. This was the confrontation he had been dreading.
‘I don’t know who I mean because I don’t know who she is, do I? All I know is that when I opened the back door I saw you and her kissing. . and God knows what else had gone on before that.’