Her cheeks were reddening and she put up a hand to her face as if testing the temperature of her face. “It took the ambulance half an hour to get there, as if they knew that he was dead and they didn’t care. The police didn’t want to know, either. The RUC didn’t even send a forensic team around to survey the area. They just towed away the car and took a statement from me. Case closed. Like they didn’t care, either. Like they expected it. So, Cramer, were you one of the men in ski-masks?”
“I didn’t kill your husband,” said Joker, his voice little more than a whisper. “And I didn’t kill Sean Morrison, either.”
At the mention of Morrison’s name, Hennessy’s head jerked up. Her eyes narrowed. “How do you. .?”
“I read your file,” he said before she could finish.
“Do you know how they killed him?” she asked quietly.
Joker shook his head.
“He died here, in the States. In New York. Sean was found in his bath, with his throat cut. There was a razor blade in his hand and blood everywhere. The New York City Police Department said it was suicide.” She raised her eyebrows. “Sean always used an electric razor. I never saw him with a razor blade. Ever. They killed my husband. And they killed the man I loved. You and your cronies did that, Cramer.” She walked up closer to him, but kept her distance from his legs. “You want to know something, Cramer? Liam and Sean had nothing to do with the bombing of the airliner. They were trying to stop the bombings on the mainland, they were doing all they could to get the IRA to negotiate with the British Government. There was no need to kill them, no need at all.” Her eyes were blazing with anger and her small hands formed tight fists by her side. “You bastards killed them, and if it takes me forever I’ll have my revenge. On you and the rest of your kind.” She picked up the pruning shears and waved them under Joker’s nose. “I’ll make you bleed like they bled, until there’s not a drop left in your body.”
She knelt by his feet and grabbed at his left ankle, forcing the blades down towards his toe. As the metal touched his skin the door to the basement was flung open and Bailey came down the first few steps, shouting. “Mary! Mary!”
Hennessy’s head jerked up and the blades of the shears sliced together, narrowly missing Joker’s toe. He pulled his foot back and it slipped from Hennessy’s grasp. She stood up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The television,” he shouted. “We’re on the bloody box.”
Hennessy frowned, totally confused. “What do you mean?”
Bailey leant against the rail and gripped it with both hands. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and manic. “Just come and look. They’re bloody well on to us.” He scrambled back up the stairs and Hennessy followed him.
Carlos was in the sitting room, sitting the wrong way on a wooden chair, his arms clasped around the back as if he was giving it a bear hug. Rashid was curled up on a green sofa, her legs tucked up under her chin. Both were facing the television screen on which were two colour photographs: Hennessy and Bailey. Underneath their pictures was a 1-800 number.
Carlos looked up as she came into the room. “We have a problem, Mary.”
“What did they say?” she asked. “Do they know what we’re planning?”
Carlos shook his head. “They said the FBI wants you in connection with a drug-smuggling operation in Florida.”
“What?” Hennessy was stunned. She looked at Bailey, who was equally astonished.
“Why didn’t that woman Armstrong tell you about this?” Carlos spat.
Hennessy ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. She’s only just made contact with the agents in Washington. Maybe they didn’t tell her.”
“Or maybe they don’t trust her. Maybe she’s blown?”
“I arranged to meet her tomorrow, I’ll be sure to ask her then,” said Hennessy, her voice loaded with sarcasm.
Carlos looked as if he was going to argue, but he calmed himself down. He stood up and swung the chair back so that it was against the wall. “Okay, okay, let’s sort out what we do next,” he said. “The FBI obviously don’t want to give the real reason that they’re looking for you. The drugs story doesn’t mean anything. What matters is that they know that you’re in the country and that they’re looking for you.”
“We have to call it off,” said Bailey, his voice trembling.
“No,” said Carlos.
“Definitely not,” said Hennessy.
“But they’re onto us. . they know we’re here, they. .”
“Matthew, they think we’re in Florida. Not Baltimore.” Hennessy could see that the younger man was starting to fall apart. He was physically shaking and his eyes were darting between her and Carlos.
“Maybe they followed me there, maybe they know where I am now. .”
Hennessy went over and put her hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me, Matthew, if they knew where we were they wouldn’t be putting our photographs on national television. They don’t know where we are, and they don’t know what we’re doing. There’s nothing they can do to stop us, not now.” She held his gaze, smiling reassuringly and squeezing his shoulders.
“B-b-but what about the Sass-man?” he said.
“He knows nothing either,” she said reassuringly. She turned to look over her shoulder at Carlos. “We’re going to have to leave the house,” she said quietly. “The woman who leased it to me might have been watching. And they’re sure to get a line on the credit cards we’ve been using.”
“I agree,” said Carlos. “We can book into a motel for tonight, there shouldn’t be a problem so long as you stay out of sight.”
Hennessy turned back to Bailey. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. She could feel him shaking and she stroked the back of his neck.
“What about Cramer?” asked Carlos.
Hennessy kept her eyes on Bailey. She didn’t want to leave him alone, he seemed ready to run off in a blind panic. She had to calm him down. “Can you handle it, Ilich?” she asked quietly.
Carlos understood immediately. “Of course,” he said.
Rashid unwound herself from the sofa and put a hand on Carlos’ shoulder. “Let me, Ilich,” she said softly. Carlos was about to refuse when he felt her press the full length of her lithe body against his back. “Please,” she whispered into his ear, her breath warm against his neck.
Ed Mulholland stood with his hands on his hips as he watched the short item on the FBI hunt for Hennessy and Bailey. Within seconds of the 1-800 number appearing at the bottom of the screen, all the lights on Helen’s console began to blink. Mulholland’s producer friend had warned him that he would be overwhelmed by the response. The programme had more than two dozen people answering its own phones, and there were just as many police officers on hand to follow up serious leads. The show had an admirable record: during the five years it had been running they had helped capture more than three hundred perpetrators, including sixty-seven murderers. It had also consistently increased its viewing figures and was now one of the network’s top money-spinners. The jaded American viewer, fed up with a diet of unfunny comedy shows and under-budgeted made-for-TV movies, couldn’t get enough of reality television and its real-life heroes and villains.
Helen began to work her way efficiently across the console, passing the calls on to the agents with a minimum of fuss. As soon as she dealt with a call and switched it across to one of the desks, its light would begin to flash immediately as another call came through. She was wearing a pair of lightweight headphones with a microphone suspended an inch from her lips. She smiled across at Mulholland, happy at her work. She was an absolute treasure, Mulholland had realised, and he decided that when the operation was over he’d try to persuade her to leave the White House staff and join the FBI in New York.