His friend frowned. ‘Serious?’
‘She wants a divorce and I think she means it.’
‘Oh, shit, really? I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I think it’s been on the cards for a long time.’
Trenchard considered for a moment. ‘Look, Tom, why don’t you stay at my place. Haven’t seen it, have you? A bijou two-bedroom job in Knightsbridge. I’ll lend you a shoulder to cry on.’
Harrison was relieved to find he still had at least one friend left. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘I’m sure you won’t cramp my style. We’ll have a ball.’ Trenchard gave him a friendly slap on the back. ‘And we can start with a nice bit of nosh at a little Italian bistro I know. Lovely waitress and great pasta. We can chat over a couple of things.’
Harrison realised that there had to have been a reason for the unexpected visit. ‘Like what?’
Trenchard removed his fedora and ran a hand through his hair, loosening the crinkled waves. ‘Look, I appreciate this isn’t really the best time…It’s about what you said at the meeting this morning. About the more complex a bomb, the more dangerous it is to the person who plants it.’
‘So?’ He wasn’t really concentrating, his mind on Pippa and Archie.
‘It got my boss, John Nash, thinking. He asked me to come and talk to you. He thinks that maybe it’s something we could encourage.’
‘We can hardly phone up PIRA and suggest it.’
Trenchard jerked his thumb towards the front door. ‘No, but indirectly that lot can. They’re baying for a story.’
‘I wouldn’t trust them. I’m in enough trouble with the press.’
‘Not any more.’ He tapped his nose with his finger. ‘I’ve been pouring oil over troubled water. Before I left I phoned Al Pritchard, the Home Office and the rest and told them — confidentially — that it’s all been part of our ploy. It wasn’t when it happened, of course, but it is now.’
‘What ploy?’
‘To cultivate that Mullins woman.’
Harrison almost choked. ‘Forget it!’
‘It’s been sanctioned by she who can do no wrong — Clarissa Royston-Jones herself, queen of the Security Service.’
‘Look, Don, get this straight. If it involves Casey Mullins, then I am not interested.’
Eddie Mercs said: ‘Wherever Casey Mullins goes, the others follow.’
She turned from the collection of morning newspapers spread across the desk of her work station and peered at him over the top of her reading specs. ‘Don’t wind me up, Eddie, I’m a black dan of the fifth belt or something equally lethal. Don’t mess with my emotions.’
‘He’s right, though,’ the photographer Hal Hoskins added, sipping at a plastic mug of coffee. ‘I was down at his place last night. All the hacks reckon you’re on the inside track, especially after that funeral story. Green with envy, they are.’ He looked down at the large front-page picture of Philippa Harrison putting up a hand to shield herself from the prying cameras. ‘Had to make do with a shot of his wife — looks like a bit of a dragon there — sort of faded film starlet.’
‘You didn’t see Major Harrison then?’ she asked, removing her spectacles.
Hoskins wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah, but a couple of blokes did a runner out of a side-alley later on. Odds are one of them was him.’
‘Oh dear. I don’t think he’ll be very pleased about all this. I never thought the other papers might track him down in his home.’
‘The qualities are all right,’ Mercs sniffed. ‘It’s the pops who’ve been going overboard on the doorstepping.’
‘But our own headline,’ she protested. ‘Where did that expression Tick Tock Man come from? Half the tabloids have copied it.’
‘Reg in subs,’ Mercs said. ‘It was his brainwave.’
‘I think that’s rather good,’ Hoskins observed, biting noisily into an apple. ‘Sort of tick-tock, bang. Clever that. And catchy.’
‘I’m sure Major Harrison won’t like that,’ Casey said, shaking her head. ‘Makes him sound like a clockwork soldier.’
‘Not your problem, sweetheart,’ Mercs said. ‘Serves the government right for trying to manipulate the media. All this baloney about on top of the situation and everything being under control when any fool can see they’re running shit-scared.’
‘Don’t want to panic Joe Public, I suppose,’ Hoskins remarked absently.
Mercs gave a snort of derision. ‘Panic is nature’s answer to danger, airhead. You see a bomb sitting there ticking… you panic and run. Panic is what saves lives.’
The telephone trilled and Casey picked it up. ‘Mullins speaking, features.’
‘Miss Mullins?’ The voice was deep, the tone crisp. ‘Harrison here.’
She felt the blood flood into her cheeks. ‘Oh… It’s lovely to hear from you, Tom — er — Major…?’
‘Tom will be fine,’ he said, but there was no mistaking the hard edge to his voice. *
‘Look, Tom, if it’s about what I wrote yesterday?’
‘Forget it, that was yesterday. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. I wondered if you might be free for lunch. It’ll be a good opportunity to put this current PIRA campaign into perspective.’
‘Let me check my diary, Tom.’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Mercs. ‘It’s my Tick Tock Man. He wants me to go to lunch. What shall I do?’
Mercs smirked. ‘Are you hungry?’
She poked out her tongue, but she knew he was right. ‘Hello, Tom, yes I can make that. And who is it you want me to meet?’
‘You’ll see.’ He gave her the address. ‘See you at one o’clock.’
Senator Abe Powers knew it was a gamble. But it was a risk he was willing to take, bringing the three of them together at this stage. Ian Findlay, adviser to Paisley’s hard-line Democratic Unionists, would be the most intransigent, the least willing to compromise. But persuade him, and the milder-mannered Peter Rawlings of the Ulster Unionists would be sure to follow.
However, the big question was, could there ever be any common ground between these two staunch Protestants and little Fern Kelly of the Catholic SDLP?
Liverpool had been chosen as neutral ground. Certainly Powers had lost his appetite for venues across the water after the bomb attack at the Europa Hotel. And he had selected the Adelphi simply because he liked the faded opulence of the old railway hotel. Or was it really, he wondered, because the building seemed symbolic of the long slow death of a once great trading nation? Another fallen empire of which Ireland had been both its first and last long-suffering colony?
He turned away from the panoramic view of the city’s rooftops as his American bodyguard opened the door of the suite to admit the diminutive Fern Kelly.
A bluestocking, he decided immediately. A bluestocking in blue stockings to be precise. At least they were feminine and sheer, blending elegantly with the smooth grey wool suit and ribbon bowed navy blouse. As businesslike as the simple bob cut of sleek black hair.
The hand was tiny, white and cool in his ownj he could feel her delicate bones in his palm, reminding him of an injured sparrow he had once held as a boy.
‘Take a seat, m’dear,’ he invited and instantly regretted his choice of words. Because, although she graciously accepted his offer, he did not miss the flicker of irritation in the beautiful dark eyes behind the unflattering round student’s glasses.
No more sexist endearments, he told himself, and seriously considered whether to address her formally as Ms Kelly. But the problem was resolved with the arrival of Ian Findlay and Peter Rawlings — the senator decided on Christian name terms for all.
After serving coffee, he said: ‘A short while ago I received an initial reaction from you two gentlemen regarding my proposal for Voting Registration as a way out of the Northern Ireland impasse…’