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.