That’s open to question,’ snapped Wolfe, grinding out his cigarette.
‘But steps were taken to communicate with them,’ Hagen said, sharply.‘We realise such men pose a threat to the peace process. We’re as anxious to see peace in our country as you are.’
‘A great many compromises have been made to hasten a complete end to the situation in Northern Ireland,’ Howe said. ‘Most of them, I might add, by this government.’
‘Are you implying that your government are more anxious for peace than we are?’ snapped Hagen.
‘My colleague was implying nothing of the kind,’ Pressman offered, raising a hand as if in supplication. ‘We are committed to finding a peaceful solution to the problems in Northern Ireland. I find what happened in Belfast as shocking as you.’
‘How can you guarantee it won’t happen again?’ Wolfe wanted to know.
‘With the greatest of respect, Mr Wolfe,’ said Howe almost apologetically, ‘how can you?’
‘Certain measures will be undertaken,’ Pressman assured the men seated opposite him. This government will continue to support and encourage a peaceful settlement that is acceptable to all parties concerned. You have my word on that.’
‘It’s a matter of trust,’ Howe echoed.
‘So, what do you intend to do?’ enquired Wolfe.
Pressman sipped from his glass and cleared his throat. ‘I feel an example must be made,’ he began.
For the first time during the meeting he smiled.
SEPTEMBER 5th, 1994:
The headstone was black marble. The rain that had been falling for most of the day trickled down it like tears as if imitating those that had been shed at the graveside earlier.
In the damp, night air the smell of flowers was still strong. They lay in their cellophane-wrapped bundles around the graveside, the falling rain beating a tattoo on the clear covering.
The smell of freshly turned earth mingled with the sickly sweet aroma and,
through the stillness of the night, the scraping of metal on wood sounded.
A spade had connected with the wood of the coffin.
One of the two men standing inside the hole pulled a torch from his jacket pocket and aimed it at the top of the box. The light reflected off the brass nameplate.
The man sought out the six screws that held the coffin lid in place and bent to the closest of them. His companion, still sweating from his exertions, nudged him and shook his head.
No need to open the fucking thing.
There was more movement from the graveside.
Something heavy was being dragged across the wet earth. Two of the bouquets were crushed beneath it.
The body was wrapped in plastic bin liners, wound around with gaffer tape. It resembled the cocoon of some huge, malevolent butterfly. But there would be no hatching from this plastic pupa.
The heavy form was tumbled into the grave and it landed with a dull thud on top of the coffin. It took less than half an hour to refill the gaping hole.
The bouquets were placed back on top of the mound. The men prepared to make their way back to the car which awaited them just beyond the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery.
One of them paused a moment longer and glanced once more at the headstone.
DOUGLAS WALSH
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
ASLEEP IN THE ARMS OF GOD
He nodded, almost reverentially. Now Douglas Walsh had someone to share eternity with him. The man looked up at the clouds and lit another cigarette.
The rain continued to fall.
BELFAST:
Mr Doyle, I cannot stress strongly enough my disapproval at what you’re about to do.’
Doctor Simon Bellamy watched in exasperation as Doyle hauled himself out of the hospital bed and carefully put his weight on his bandaged leg. The counter terrorist winced at the first contact then seemed to become accustomed to the pain.
The wounds are not sufficiently healed,’ Bellamy stressed.
‘They’re fine, doc,’ Doyle told him, searching in the bedside table for his clothes. He was relieved to find they’d been washed.Although walking (or hobbling) out of the hospital with bloodstained gear wouldn’t have bothered him.
He began to dress.
‘You need at least three more days under observation,’ Bellamy insisted.‘What the hell are you trying to prove?’
‘I’m not trying to prove anything. Now, if there’s some piece of paper you want me to sign, clearing you of responsibility, then great, give me the bloody thing.
But I’m not staying in here a day longer.’ He pulled on his T-shirt, feeling the tear where Leary’s blade had sliced it.
‘What’s your hurry?’
I’ve got work to do.’
‘You’re not going to be in a fit state to do anything if you leave here like this.’
Doyle eased his jeans carefully up his bandaged leg and fastened them. Then he pulled on his socks and stepped into the worn cowboy boots he’d also pulled from the locker.
He put more weight on his injured leg and gritted his teeth.
More pain.
‘What’s the worst that can happen, doc?’ he asked, conversationally.
‘Your stitches could open.’
Doyle shrugged, pulled on a denim shirt and tucked it into his jeans. ‘I’ll see my own quack when I get the chance,’ he said, as if that was meant to make
Bellamy feel better.
‘Mr Doyle—’
‘There are people who need these beds more than I do,’ Doyle snapped, cutting him short. ‘I’m doing you a favour and some other poor sod. Look at it that way if it makes you feel better.’
‘Right now, you need to be in that bed,’ Bellamy answered.
Doyle pulled on his leather jacket and dug in the pockets for his cigarettes.
He was out.
‘No good asking you for a fag is it, doc?’ he smiled.
Bellamy shook his head resignedly.
Doyle’s phone rang. He looked at the doctor, the only sound in the room the shrill tone of the mobile.
Bellamy held up his hands as if in surrender and stepped out of the room.
Doyle answered the call.
‘How are you feeling?’ said the voice.
He recognised it immediately. Well spoken, calm, measured tones.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
‘I had a full report on what happened.’
‘Yeah, I bet you did. Listen, I had Leary. He—’
‘Then why are you the one in hospital?’
There was a moment’s silence then the voice continued, ‘I understand the injuries you received were severe.’
‘A knife’s better than a car bomb,’ Doyle replied.
‘I’m glad you’re okay, Doyle.’
‘Am I supposed to say thanks for the call?’
‘You’re not supposed to say anything, just listen to me. I want you to take the first flight out of Aldergrove back to London.’
‘What for? I got Finan but Leary’s still on the fucking loose. What’s the point in me flying back to London now? The business is here.’
‘It wasn’t a request, Doyle. I’m giving you an order. I want you out of Belfast as quickly as possible. Do you understand? I want to see you in my office the day after tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
‘Are you sending someone else after Leary?’ Doyle snapped.
‘Leary isn’t your concern any longer. Just get on that bloody plane.’
‘You know I’m the only one who can find him.’
‘My office. Ten o’clock, the day after next.’
Doyle was about to say something else but Jonathan Parker, Director of the Counter Terrorist Unit in London, ended the call.
‘Shit,’ Doyle hissed.
He gazed at his mobile for a few seconds more then switched it off.