Finbar closed his eyes. His voice had become hoarse. ‘That’s another thing no bomber ever seems to understand. It’s not just those who lose their lives or their legs who suffer: everyone involved goes through their own kind of agony. I bundled the girl indoors, told Reg to take care of her. Then I phoned you. Sorry if I sounded panic-stricken — the thought that someone wants you dead is a bit of a downer. Anyway, I wanted to have your advice first before I started shooting off my mouth.’
‘Advice? About what?’
‘How to play it with the police.’
‘I don’t follow. You don’t have to play at anything. Just tell them the facts.’ Then light began to dawn. ‘Finbar, do you have any idea who planted the bomb?’
For a second Finbar hesitated. Then he said, ‘No, that’s just what I’m getting at. I haven’t clue who could have done this. And I don’t want to start pointing the finger at anyone if they’re not guilty.’
Harry grunted. He doubted the profession of ignorance, but if Finbar was determined to camouflage the truth he thought it better to let the matter rest for the present and return to the attack later.
‘When did you arrive here?’
‘Half past two. At least, that was when I brought Sophie. But I’d left the car here in the morning. I often do, on a hopeful day. It avoids the rip-off parking fees in the city centre and makes for a quick getaway if the need arises: say the lady I’m with gets twitchy about the kids or her old feller and wants to fly back to the nest. I like to offer a lift. Simply paying for a taxi seems so clinical.’
Resisting the temptation to explore the complex contradictions that comprised Finbar’s moral code, Harry said, ‘So the bomb might have been planted during the morning?’
‘Put it that way and the answer must be yes.’
‘You need to tell the police everything. Whoever is responsible for this has come close to committing murder. More than likely he torched your studio into the bargain. You can’t afford finer feelings, your life’s at stake.’
Finbar looked mulish. ‘Harry, the police and me, we’ve never got on. They may reckon it’s an insurance fiddle, anyway.’
‘And is it?’
‘No.’ Course not. But I had a good policy on the car, and to tell you the truth it had crossed my mind that if something were to happen to the blessed thing, it was such a rust heap, I’d be quids in.’
A fierce banging on the door forestalled Harry’s reply.
‘Finbar,’ said a voice, muffled but urgent, ‘this is Reg. Let me in.’
The Irishman opened the door to admit the proprietor of the Blue Moon: a balding middle-aged man with a round face, no doubt sunny of temperament in ordinary circumstances, but now evidently frightened after a close call with serious violence.
‘How’s the girl, Reg?’
‘She is in a poor way,’ said Sharma. ‘A policewoman is comforting her. They can get little sense out of her at present.’
‘And what are the police up to?’ asked Harry.
Sharma looked at him warily, as if he were a tax inspector.
‘This is Harry Devlin,’ Finbar said. ‘He’s my brief.’
‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Devlin. The police, they are talking to everyone. Searching for witnesses. Taking statements. They wish to speak to everyone in the hotel. I thought you would like some advance warning — especially as they seem not to know who owned the car destroyed in the explosion.’
‘Ta,’ said Finbar. He turned to Harry. ‘Ah well, I suppose we’d better think about putting your expert counsel to the test. You willing to be with me when I have a word with them?’
‘Why else would I be here?’
Finbar winked. He was beginning to regain his composure. ‘Who knows, lawyers are such devious buggers. You might see the chance of all kinds of business in this situation.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ said Harry. ‘Can I persuade you to draw up a will for starters?’
Chapter Nine
‘So you have no thoughts about who may be behind this incident, who may have been responsible for placing the device under your vehicle?’ asked Detective Inspector Sladdin.
Were members of the Special Branch trained, Harry wondered, in the art of neutral phrasing? Or was Sladdin’s borrowing of a bureaucrat’s bland vocabulary simply his way of combating the horrors he met through his job? If a bomb became a mere ‘device’ and a brush with death no more than an ‘incident’, did that make it easier to choke off all emotion and concentrate on the job in hand?
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Finbar. He sat with his hands in his lap, a picture of bewilderment.
Sladdin raised his eyebrows, leaving Harry and Finbar in no doubt that he judged the picture a fake. But all he said was, ‘I see.’
The detective was, Harry estimated, in his mid-thirties, but his hair had turned prematurely grey and his worn features might have belonged to a man old enough to be his father. Perhaps those were occupational hazards, like nights broken by telephone calls bringing bad news and files closing with justice still undone.
During the last hour, here in the police station, he had done little more than test Finbar’s defences. He spoke softly and, if he carried a big stick, he was keeping it hidden for the present. Although he must be feeling under pressure to come up with a strong line of inquiry, he had the knack of remaining polite, detached, without concealing his scepticism.
And there was plenty to be sceptical about. Finbar was a victim who had enjoyed a narrow escape from annihilation rather than a suspect, but with a frown here and a puzzled query there, Sladdin conveyed the clear message that while all victims are innocent, some are distinctly less innocent than others. He could be excused a measure of mistrust, given Finbar’s insistence that Harry be allowed to sit in while he explained who and what he was and described the events leading up to the explosion.
‘A solicitor, sir?’ Sladdin had asked. ‘Do you think you’re in need of legal counsel?’
‘Harry’s a pal, Inspector, he’s been a tower of strength. I’d like him to stay, if you don’t mind.’
Finbar’s initial reluctance to make the short journey to the police station had also led to some shadow boxing.
‘Reg Sharma has very kindly offered to put his private rooms at your disposal, Inspector. And I’m sure you’ll understand, after such a dreadful shock I’d feel more comfortable there, however well you’d look after me.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he added.
Harry held his breath, wondering what dreadful secret was about to be revealed. But Finbar was not that naive. He did no more than state the obvious and dress it up as a heartfelt admission.
‘Truth is, I’m rather embarrassed by the circumstances which brought me to the hotel. You’re a man of the world, Inspector, I’m sure you’ll understand. I’m going through a difficult divorce at the present time and Harry here is advising me on how not to put another foot wrong.’
Sladdin maintained weary courtesy whilst making it plain that the interview must take place on his own territory rather than in the Blue Moon. Harry nodded, signalling Finbar not to push his luck. The detective would want the questions and answers recorded on tape and, if irked, could make sure he had his way. Finbar was Irish and a bomb had gone off: easy to make out a case for detaining him under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Once they had arrived at the station, the interrogation had been shrewd rather than hostile. Harry recognised techniques he often employed in court when cross-examining a witness whose devotion to the truth was uncertain. Cautious probing was called for at first, with direct attack an option all the more effective for being held in reserve.
In his search for a motive for the bombing, Sladdin inevitably touched on Finbar’s Irish antecedents and allowed himself a doubting smile when Finbar protested ignorance of anyone from his native land who might wish him dead. ‘Thank you, Mr Rogan,’ he said, for the benefit of the tape recorder operating silently on the table between them, and motioned to the constable accompanying him to switch off the machine. The gesture was obviously intended to encourage Finbar to greater frankness.