Target

'But' – and here Donald paused for effect, feeling especially pleased with himself – 'the beauty of the design is that, because the tubes are made from toughened plastic, the power of the blast will be contained within each tube itself – think of it like a blanket smothering the flames – so the cylinders will get peppered with holes and thrown all over the place, but the gas itself won't get ignited. We might lose a couple, because it's not entirely foolproof, and a few won't get punctured, but I'm reckoning that ninety-five per cent of the cargo will be released into the surrounding air undamaged. With a little bit of a breeze and no rain, everyone in a mile radius will be breathing in pure poison. It'll be the most lethal terrorist attack in UK history. The Brits won't know what fucking hit them.'

'And you've put in the modifications we talked about?' asked Hook quietly.

When he'd hired Donald, Hook had stipulated that the bomb had to explode no matter what, even if the lorry was intercepted by the security forces, otherwise none of them would get their money. Technically speaking, this wasn't a problem at all, as Donald had explained. All it required was a pressure pad placed under the driver's seat connected to the bomb's battery pack. Once the bomb was live – and it could be made live with the flick of a switch before the lorry had even begun its journey – then the moment the driver lifted his weight from the seat, the movement from the pressure pad would set off the bomb, so even if he was shot dead while driving and toppled over, it would still explode. It was a tactic used by terrorist groups with vehicle bombs across the Middle East to ensure that, even if their suicide bombers experienced a sudden loss of nerve, their deadly cargoes would still detonate.

There was only one problem. When Donald had agreed to do the job, he hadn't realized that the driver was going to be a volunteer from the old days.

'They'll be put in before the end,' he answered. 'It's only a five-minute job. But does it have to be O'Toole who drives? He's one of our people. Why not use Stone? He's nothing to us.'

Hook stared at him blankly. 'Stone's too stupid. We need someone reliable. It's going to be O'Toole.'

Donald dragged hard on his cigarette, looking over Hook's shoulder to where O'Toole and Stone were working away. O'Toole would never suspect that his old comrades would betray him, and the fact that the man who'd hired him couldn't give a shit pissed Donald off.

'You never really believed, did you, Michael?' he said rhetorically, using the other man's real Christian name. 'In any of what we were doing.'

'That's none of your business.'

'You know, what I can't understand is why you're doing this. I'm doing it because I hate the Brits. Because I owe them for four hundred years of oppression, and because they never baulked at killing innocents, so why the hell should I? But what do you get out of this? I mean, I know your client, whoever he is, is bound to be paying you a lot of money, but it strikes me that a man like you has already got plenty of cash, and this kind of job, leaving so many dead and every cop in the country hunting you down… No amount of money's worth that.' He took a last drag on his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. 'So, what's your motivation?'

Hook leaned forward and his whole face seemed to darken. 'Because I fucking can,' he hissed, eyes sparkling maliciously. 'Now, do me a big favour, Eamon Donald, and get back to work.'

The two men eyeballed each other for several seconds, but it was Donald who backed down and turned away, immediately regretting that he'd seen fit to rile the other man. Regretting, too, that he'd ever agreed to work with him in a freelance capacity. The pay was good – a hundred and fifty grand, fifty already in his hands, the other hundred following as soon as the job was finished. But for the first time he wondered if he was going to actually receive this last instalment. If Hook was prepared to leave O'Toole dead, why not Donald himself as well?

He decided he was going to have to watch his back.

Fifty-three

I was sitting up in bed, thinking about Jenny Brakspear, when there was a knock on the door and who should step inside but my old friend Dom, holding a box of chocolates in one hand and a Waterstone's book bag in the other. He was dressed in an open-neck shirt and well-cut suit, and his face was lean and tanned. He'd lost weight and it looked like he'd been working out.

I grinned, pleased to see him, but a part of me was also jealous. This was Jenny's boyfriend, the man she'd been with for close to a year, and who'd been living it up in Dubai when she'd needed him most. Unlike me. I'd been there when it mattered.

'Hello mate,' he said with a supportive smile. 'How are you? Brought you a few bits and pieces.' He laid the chocolates and the book bag on the table beside the bed and shook my good hand. His grip was weak. Usually it was tight and confident, but I guess I didn't look like I could handle a firm handshake.

'Thanks, mate, it's appreciated.'

He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and awe. 'I can't believe what's happened to you. I really can't.'

'The evidence is here.' I gestured at the police guard still outside the room. 'It happened.'

'I heard Maxwell's dead.' I'd introduced Dom to Maxwell a while back because he'd always wanted to meet a real live gangster. Maxwell had told me he thought Dom was an arsehole.

I nodded. 'I saw him die.'

And then it all seemed to hit me in one go, a huge rolling wave of shock: how close I'd come to death, not once but twice; the crystal-clear image of Maxwell's corpse in that muddy grave… For several seconds I couldn't speak.

Dom looked worried and asked me if I was all right.

'Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a moment.' I ran my good hand through my hair, amazed that my body didn't ache more than it did, although I suspect that was the drugs, then took a slug of water. 'I don't know what's happened to me, Dom. It's like I've stepped into some kind of nightmare.'

'I can't believe anyone could get to Maxwell.'

I grunted, remembering the way he'd begged for his life. 'These people are way out of Maxwell's league. They're way out of anyone's league. And the worst thing is, they've still got Jenny.'

'I know,' he said.

'Why would anyone kidnap her? And kill so many people to cover it up? That's what I can't understand.'

'Have the police not given you any ideas why she might have been snatched?'

'Not that they've told me, but I'm out of the loop now. I've asked them to keep me posted, but I'm not holding my breath.'

'What are you going to do now?'

It was a good question. I couldn't go home as my flat was now a crime scene – not that I wanted to go back there anyway. To be honest, I never wanted to go back there again. 'I don't know,' I told him. 'I don't want to stay here any longer, and apparently they're removing my police guard because I'm no longer considered to be in danger, so…' I let the sentence trail off, hoping it would act as a hint.

It did. 'Why don't you come and stay with me for a few days?' he suggested, looking like he meant the offer. 'I took today off. I should be able to get the rest of the week too.'

'Are you sure?' I asked, hoping he was.