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Authors: Stephen Leather
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meddlesome woman. And quickly.
It had taken just one telephone call to the school's personnel office, pretending to be an official of the Revenue Commissioners wanting to check her employment details, and Egan had all the information he needed.
Katie was sitting at the Formica-covered table when she heard the bolts slide back. She looked up apprehensively, wondering which of her captors it was. It was the man who'd been nice to her, the one who'd given her Garfield. He was carrying a tray.
'Are you hungry?' he asked as he carefully made his way down the stairs.
Katie wasn't, but she said that she was. He placed the tray on the table in front of her. It was scrambled eggs on a paper plate and a paper cup of milk. She smiled up at him. 'Thank you,' she said.
'I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs,' he said. 'I'm sorry if they're too runny.'
'They're fine,' said Katie. They weren't, they looked horrible,
pale yellow and watery, but she wanted to be nice to him.
If she was nice to him then maybe he'd be nice to her. She picked up the plastic fork and took a small bite of the eggs.
'Delicious,' she said.
The Nice Man headed for the stairs, but then turned and looked across at her. 'Is there anything you like to eat? I'll try to get it for you.'
'Heinz tomato soup. And fish fingers.'
'Same as my kids.'
'You've got children?'
The Nice Man went stiff, as if she'd said the wrong thing.
Then he turned around and went up the stairs without saying anything else. Katie looked down at the eggs in disgust. They tasted horrible.
She wondered what the Nice Man looked like underneath his mask. She was sure of one thing -- he'd be better-looking than the other man, the man who'd cut her hair. He'd been really rough with her as if he'd wanted to hurt her. He was ugly.
Really ugly. Katie hoped with all her heart that the Ugly Man wouldn't come down the stairs again.
Andy sat on the floor with her back to the wall. The padded envelope was in her lap. In her hands, she held the locks of Katie's hair. There was a lot of hair. Clumps of it. Big clumps.
Someone had savaged Katie's head. There'd probably be bald patches. Poor, poor Katie. She had always been so proud of her hair. Every night, before she went to sleep, she would sit in front of her dressing-table mirror, brushing her blond locks a hundred times. She'd loved it when Andy had brushed it for her. Katie would count the strokes, and wouldn't let Andy get away with even one less than the hundred.
They'd left her in a disused office. Bare white walls, faded blue carpet tiles on the floor, polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.
Two fluorescent tubes filled the office with a clinical white light.
They hadn't locked the door. There was no need. She couldn't run because if she ran she'd never see her daughter again. She was as trapped as if they'd chained her to the floor.
Andy lifted the hair to her face and gently sniffed it, inhaling Katie's fragrance. She closed her eyes and imagined that her face was up against her daughter's neck. God, had it been just thirty six hours ago? Less than two days? Two days in which her life had been turned upside down.
Who were they, these people? Terrorists? Why else would they want a bomb? Could they be Irish? The only one who'd said anything at length was the woman, and the more Andy listened to her, the more she was sure there was an Irish accent mixed with Scottish. But that didn't mean anything. They could be Provisional Irish Republican Army. Or INLA. Or any of the Republican splinter groups like Real IRA or Continuity IRA.
But then why would they need her? The IRA had their own 57 STEPHEN LEATHER explosives experts, experts who were far more up to date than Andy was. And if it was the IRA, why the kidnapping? She knew most of the members of the Army Council by name, and they knew her. They could have summoned her before them at any time over the past decade and she would have gone. Maybe not willingly, but she would have gone. So if
It had taken just one telephone call to the school's personnel office, pretending to be an official of the Revenue Commissioners wanting to check her employment details, and Egan had all the information he needed.
Katie was sitting at the Formica-covered table when she heard the bolts slide back. She looked up apprehensively, wondering which of her captors it was. It was the man who'd been nice to her, the one who'd given her Garfield. He was carrying a tray.
'Are you hungry?' he asked as he carefully made his way down the stairs.
Katie wasn't, but she said that she was. He placed the tray on the table in front of her. It was scrambled eggs on a paper plate and a paper cup of milk. She smiled up at him. 'Thank you,' she said.
'I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs,' he said. 'I'm sorry if they're too runny.'
'They're fine,' said Katie. They weren't, they looked horrible,
pale yellow and watery, but she wanted to be nice to him.
If she was nice to him then maybe he'd be nice to her. She picked up the plastic fork and took a small bite of the eggs.
'Delicious,' she said.
The Nice Man headed for the stairs, but then turned and looked across at her. 'Is there anything you like to eat? I'll try to get it for you.'
'Heinz tomato soup. And fish fingers.'
'Same as my kids.'
'You've got children?'
The Nice Man went stiff, as if she'd said the wrong thing.
Then he turned around and went up the stairs without saying anything else. Katie looked down at the eggs in disgust. They tasted horrible.
She wondered what the Nice Man looked like underneath his mask. She was sure of one thing -- he'd be better-looking than the other man, the man who'd cut her hair. He'd been really rough with her as if he'd wanted to hurt her. He was ugly.
Really ugly. Katie hoped with all her heart that the Ugly Man wouldn't come down the stairs again.
Andy sat on the floor with her back to the wall. The padded envelope was in her lap. In her hands, she held the locks of Katie's hair. There was a lot of hair. Clumps of it. Big clumps.
Someone had savaged Katie's head. There'd probably be bald patches. Poor, poor Katie. She had always been so proud of her hair. Every night, before she went to sleep, she would sit in front of her dressing-table mirror, brushing her blond locks a hundred times. She'd loved it when Andy had brushed it for her. Katie would count the strokes, and wouldn't let Andy get away with even one less than the hundred.
They'd left her in a disused office. Bare white walls, faded blue carpet tiles on the floor, polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.
Two fluorescent tubes filled the office with a clinical white light.
They hadn't locked the door. There was no need. She couldn't run because if she ran she'd never see her daughter again. She was as trapped as if they'd chained her to the floor.
Andy lifted the hair to her face and gently sniffed it, inhaling Katie's fragrance. She closed her eyes and imagined that her face was up against her daughter's neck. God, had it been just thirty six hours ago? Less than two days? Two days in which her life had been turned upside down.
Who were they, these people? Terrorists? Why else would they want a bomb? Could they be Irish? The only one who'd said anything at length was the woman, and the more Andy listened to her, the more she was sure there was an Irish accent mixed with Scottish. But that didn't mean anything. They could be Provisional Irish Republican Army. Or INLA. Or any of the Republican splinter groups like Real IRA or Continuity IRA.
But then why would they need her? The IRA had their own 57 STEPHEN LEATHER explosives experts, experts who were far more up to date than Andy was. And if it was the IRA, why the kidnapping? She knew most of the members of the Army Council by name, and they knew her. They could have summoned her before them at any time over the past decade and she would have gone. Maybe not willingly, but she would have gone. So if
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