Clodagh Dougan stood silhouetted in the doorway to the kitchen. He noted her long black hair and the slender outline of her body, accentuated by the black denims and black turtleneck sweater. Then he saw the gun.
‘You can put that away, Clodie. Don’t want you shooting yourself in the foot.’
Her voice was quiet and assured. ‘Don’t patronise me, McGirl.’
He ignored her, brushing his way past into the kitchen, grinning into her face as he went. ‘Where’s the old man?’
Clodagh flipped on the safety and tucked the automatic in the waistband of her trousers. ‘My father’s asleep. He’s had an exhausting time.’
McGirl regarded her closely. She was a handsome woman, he thought, slim but firm-bodied, and assertive. There was a challenge in the tone of her voice. Demanding respect for Hughie Dougan and daring him not to give it. She gave no indication of the fear usually found in those who worked under him and which he came to expect. Perversely he found himself smiling at her stand of defiance against his authority.
‘I’d like a wee word with your da.’ He felt oddly obliged to add: ‘It is rather important.’
She held his gaze for a long moment, her dark eyes seeming to burn into his. It was as though she wanted to be sure he knew the score, accepted that no one pushed her or her father around. He knew Donny Fitzpatrick had been impressed by her and now he knew why. This was the woman who had avenged the man who she believed had betrayed her father. The woman who had calmly sat on the back seat of a car in County Sligo and opened her legs to that man. Who had brought down the hammer on his head as he had been lapping between her thighs. McGirl felt a twitch of life in his loins.
Clodagh said: ‘I’ll make some tea and wake him. He’ll be parched.’
I’ll do what you ask, but on my terms; he understood what she was telling him. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup myself.’
She glanced at him as she picked up the kettle and for a second he thought her expression had softened. That there might have been a hint of a smile on those lips.
He glanced round the kitchen as she prepared the china pot, the cups and saucers. The cupboard over the worktop was open, filled with half-a-dozen packets of essential groceries, nothing more. A few vegetables in the rack and, he guessed, a few cuts of meat in the fridge. There was no air of permanence; it was the larder of someone on a week’s self-catering holiday.
Then he noticed the wheelchair in the corner. That had been Hughie’s idea. To be a blind cripple pushed around in a wheelchair by his devoted daughter. Deliberately to draw attention and sympathy from neighbours and local shopkeepers, knowing full well that the sight of invalids made people feel uncomfortable and unlikely to ask too many questions. And if they did, there was a simple explanation: she and her father had returned to their original homeland having once emigrated to America. The old man had an incurable wasting disease and wanted to be on his own turf when he died, as he knew he soon would. That was why they just rented a house. A year, that was the most the doctors gave him.
People were embarrassed to ask more, and no one ever spoke to people in wheelchairs; it was as though they didn’t exist. And if any local buck fancied his chances with the daughter, he would know better than to waste his time because clearly the old man could never be left alone.
McGirl had to admit they made the most unlikely pair of terrorists. He said: ‘Anything unusual this week?’
She knew what he meant. ‘A double-glazing salesman on Monday. I got his name and later phoned his company. He checked out.’ She stirred the pot. ‘Then a window-cleaner touting for business. He left a card and just a number. An answering machine so I can’t be sure, but he seemed like the real thing.’
McGirl sympathised. ‘Doesn’t do much for the blood pressure.’
‘And the local Methodist minister. I hadn’t anticipated that. He was a real pain, the creepy do-gooder. Wanted to make sure the Social Services were giving us proper help. Offered to sit with Da if I wanted to go out of an evening. But the way he looked at me, I think he had something else in mind.’
I bet, McGirl thought. ‘What did you say?’
‘The truth, that we were staunch Catholics.’
McGirl chuckled.
The door opened. It was Hugh Dougan, his hair awry and his collarless shirt open at the throat. ‘I heard voices.’
‘It’s Pat,’ Clodagh replied. ‘And there’s a brew on.’
Five minutes later they were seated round the table, drinking tea and eating sweet biscuits. McGirl asked how the bomb production operation was going. Dougan answered that it was going grand, all the TPUs and other devices for the next phase of the campaign were almost complete and would be collected by the unit’s other members the following night and delivered to the nearby farm. There, two new van bombs would be fitted using the massive quantities of fertiliser and icing sugar that had now been refined. Other free-standing devices would also be assembled.
‘About the new phase,’ McGirl said, coming to the main purpose of his visit. ‘I’ve heard from the Chief of Staff. He wants us to consider a change of tactics.’
Dougan blinked slowly. ‘But it’s all been agreed, planned for…’
McGirl took the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it, spreading the pages across the table. ‘Have you read this?’
Dougan took his half-moon reading glasses from his pocket. ‘What’s this?’
‘Last night’s Evening Standard. Quoting that bastard SATO they’ve brought over from Belfast. Reckons they’ve got us sorted. Says these new devices are tricky, but they’ve got the upper hand.’
Dougan wiped the sleep from his eyes. ‘That’s bollocks.’
McGirl pulled a tight smile. ‘He quotes the flyover bombs. Says they diffused three of them.’
‘You don’t believe that?’ Clodagh demanded. ‘Before, they claimed three were hoaxes.’
‘How do I know what to believe, sweetheart? All I know is that, except for some restrictions at Chiswick, the rush-hour traffic still pours over them each morning…’
Dougan shrugged and sipped at his tea. ‘So, you can’t win them all. There was nothing wrong with Seven Dials and you know the chaos we caused in the West End. And the secondary on the Haymarket car.’
‘We can’t be complacent, Hughie. They’ve got the SATO over here now, maybe he’s starting to make a difference. That’s what the Chief of Staff thinks.’
The bomb maker slowly replaced his cup on its saucer; Clodagh watching him closely, keeping silent. ‘This,’ he said, tapping a forefinger on the newspaper, ‘is crap. They’re winding us up, trying to reassure the public. The bomb-disposal teams have got a bit lucky, that’s all.’
McGirl helped himself to another biscuit. ‘Then perhaps it’s time they got a bit unlucky.’ His teeth snapped into the digestive.
Clodagh could see her father’s eyes narrowing, recognised the pulsing vein of anger in his temple. Gently she placed her hand on his wrist. ‘Da, I think perhaps Pat has a point. There’s the propaganda element to all this. They’ve said publicly that they’ve got us beat. We have to prove them wrong.’
Dougan sat back in his chair and sniffed heavily, saying nothing.
‘Can you do it?’ McGirl pressed.
‘Of course he can,’ Clodagh replied testily.
The bomb maker pursed his lips. ‘It’ll need some thought. I’ll need some time.’
‘How long?’ ‘A week.’
McGirl looked at Clodagh Dougan and smiled; her lips twitched momentarily before she averted her eyes from his. ‘You’ve got it.’