Secret Asset (13 page)

28

To those who criticised Dublin—lamenting its new commercialism, or the destruction of yet another Georgian square—Maddie would react with the defensiveness of a native. But she wasn't a native, and it was not the virtues of Dublin she admired but the simple fact that it wasn't Belfast.

She had left that city as soon as she was able, coming south against the wishes of her parents to read Law at University College Dublin. After taking her degree (a good one; she had worked hard) and qualifying, Maddie had been offered what was supposed to be a short-term placement with a Dublin firm of solicitors. This morning, as she entered the Victorian building of grey stone that housed Gallagher O'Donnell, she realised she had been at the firm for exactly fifteen years.

What had made her flee Belfast at the earliest opportunity? Her father—even Sean Keaney's recent death had failed to dent the unalloyed hostility she still wore like mental armour. It was an antipathy she had felt for as long as she could remember.

Reaching work, Maddie took the creaky old lift to the third floor. She stopped in the outer office where Caitlin O'Hagan, the unhelpful secretary she shared with another partner, sat. “Good morning,” Maddie said. “What have I got today?”

Caitlin patted her dyed blonde hair, pursed her lips, and looked reluctantly at the desk diary. “There's a Mr. Murphy coming to see you in a quarter of an hour.”

“What does he want?” Maddie specialised in conveyancing, working mainly with a few large developers. It was rare to have a new client.

“I don't know,” said Caitlin. “He said you'd been highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I didn't think to ask,” said Caitlin, aggrieved that so much should be expected of her.

Maddie occupied the next ten minutes in phone calls—to her ex-husband about his maintenance payments (late again), and another to the owner of a Georgian town house who was seeking planning permission to convert it into flats. Then Maddie's phone purred and Caitlin informed her that her appointment was waiting in reception. When Maddie came out, she found a tall shambling figure of a man, putting down the
Irish Times
and slowly getting up from his chair.

He looked to be in his late sixties, possibly older. In marked contrast to her mainly young and sharply dressed clientele, this man wore a long raincoat over a thick sweater and shirt. It hung like heavy drapes from its padded shoulders.

Maddie found her palm engulfed by a hand the size of a large animal's paw. She looked up into a doughy, weather-beaten face that looked as if it had seen too much of life.

There was something familiar about the man, but she couldn't place it, and the name rang no bell. But then in Dublin, Murphy was not exactly a remarkable surname.

She ushered the man into her office, then closed the door. “Will you have tea or coffee?”

“I will not,” he said as he sat down. His voice was low and soft.

From behind her desk, Maddie glanced at the man and lined up her notepad and pencil. She clasped her hands and conjured up a professional smile. “So how can I help you, Mr. Murphy?”

“It's Maguire,” the man said slowly. “James Maguire.”

Then Maddie understood why he seemed familiar. It had only been a glimpse or two—the tall shaggy figure climbing the stairs behind her sister, then later leaving the Belfast house without a word of goodbye. But she remembered the raincoat.

She felt herself begin to tremble, for no reason that she could define. She hadn't shared her father's enemies any more than she had shared his politics, but she had known who they were. Hence her astonishment the day when Maguire had come to see her father, that day her father was dying.

So what was the man doing here now, and under a false name? She felt a chill as she looked at her father's enemy across the desk. Was this to be the moment that had haunted her childhood: a sense of certain visitation, the masked men bursting in, the gun drawn and fired as she and her parents sat in front of the television, sitting there of an evening just like normal people. Only normal people didn't grow up waiting for that summons, that knock at the door.

She wondered what she should do as she watched her visitor, trying all the time to still the sense of panic. Call out to Caitlin in the ante-room? Before the woman had even got up from her desk, this man could be on her. Pick up the phone and ring the Garda? Before Maddie had begun to dial he could have a gun out. She thought of her daughter, and fear began to shake her, almost noisily, like a rattle in an empty box. Sweet Jesus, she thought, this is not the way I want to die.

And then suddenly the man's face creased like worked leather into a gentle smile. “Don't be alarmed,” he said, for he must have seen the fear in her eyes. “I wasn't sure you'd agree to see me if I used my real name.”

It took a moment for Maddie to gather herself. “Well then, Mr. Maguire, what do you want with me?”

“It's about your father,” he said simply. “Maybe you remember my visit on the day he died. He asked me to come.”

She looked at him silently.

“He made certain requests of me. But I'm hampered, you see, by not knowing enough.”

“I doubt I can help you,” she said, her voice still shaky. “I kept myself well out of my father's affairs.”

For a moment Maguire gazed at her, as though summing her up. “He wanted me to get in touch with some professor he knew. A sympathiser to the cause, you understand.”

Maddie shrugged. “As I said, I stayed out of my father's business.”

Maguire ignored this. “He was Irish, this man, but I believe he spent some time teaching at Oxford.”

Maddie gave a harsh laugh. “It doesn't sound very likely. My father was not an educated man, Mr. Maguire.”

He looked at her, unconvinced. “He was very clear about it. It was his dying wish that I get hold of this man. I'd hardly be bothering you otherwise, now would I, Miss Keaney?”

Maddie felt irritation overcome any residual sense of alarm. Why was this man dragging her into whatever mucky errand he'd agreed to carry out for her father? She wanted no vestige of that sordid business in her life. “Why didn't you ask my father when you saw him?” she demanded.

“My dear,” said Maguire, oblivious to how this made Maddie bristle. “Your father was barely conscious when I saw him.” He had shaken off his hangdog look and was staring at her intently. “I'm not sure he remembered the name himself by that stage. The only thing he said to me was ‘Ask Kirsty Brien.' You know her, don't you?”

“She used to be my best friend,” said Maddie dully, her heart sinking. She tried to think of her former best friend with equanimity, but it was difficult.

They'd met at University College Dublin and for a time been inseparable, despite all manner of differences between them. Kirsty was tall where Maddie was short, Kirsty was blonde where Maddie had mouse-coloured hair, Kirsty was strikingly pretty where Maddie—she knew this, no one had to tell her—was at the very best “not bad.”

And most of all, Kirsty was political where Maddie hated even the word. She'd been left wing had Kirsty, about almost every conceivable issue, from nationalised industry to Palestine, capital punishment to Third World relief, but the bedrock of all her beliefs had been a vision of a united Ireland. She worked tirelessly to achieve it—demonstrating, writing letters, organising boycotts. Kirsty was called the new Bernadette Devlin so often that she seemed to believe it herself.

None of this would have mattered at all to their friendship, if Maddie had not taken her best friend home one spring break to stay with her family.

Sean Keaney took to her at once, and she to him. They shared a commitment to the Struggle, of course, but it was more than that. Sean had admired young Kirsty's fiery spirit, her determination, and what he liked to call her “gutsiness.” In contrast, Maddie assumed, to the diligence, steadiness and not inconsiderable accomplishments of his own daughter, who didn't give a fig if Ireland was ever united or not.

There was nothing unsavoury about the closeness between her father and her best friend—not even in her sourest moments had Maddie thought so. It was worse than that. Sean Keaney was not merely an avuncular figure for Kirsty—no, thought Maddie bitterly, he was an admired
father
figure. Kirsty had unforgivably occupied the space she did not want herself.

“Please,” Maguire said gruffly, as if it were an alien word in his vocabulary. “It's important.” The bags under his eyes made him look peculiarly mournful. “It can't hurt your father now.”

“Why aren't you talking to Kirsty Brien instead of me? She'll tell what you need to know.”

Maguire shook his great moose head again, as if she'd missed the point. “I've tried, but she won't see me.”

“Did you explain to her that you saw my father before he died? And that he asked you to do something?”

“Of course,” said Maguire simply, as if resenting the question. “But it cut no ice with her.”

That made sense. Kirsty would be rock solid in her loyalties, just like Sean Keaney had been.

“So what do you want to know?” she asked, dreading already the prospect of ringing her former closest friend. She had seen Kirsty once in ten years—across the grave at Sean Keaney's funeral.

“I want to know who this academic man is.”

She said nothing.

“Look,” he said, “you know your father and I didn't see eye to eye. Perhaps you didn't always see eye to eye with him, either.”

“Perhaps I didn't,” she conceded, adding tartly, “but that doesn't mean I'm likely to see eye to eye with you.”

He smiled a little, almost ruefully. “That may be. But one thing we'd all be agreed on is that the battle's over now. The fighting's done. Your father knew that; so do I. What he wanted me to do for him is not to harm anyone. It's meant to keep the war shut down for good, not open it up again.”

Maddie looked at him sceptically. “Even if I could accept that about him, how do I know you're telling me the truth?”

“You can't,” he said simply. “All you can do is look this old man in the face; then I think you'll be able to tell.”

And she did as he said, and found his gaze unflinching. After a moment he said, “Will you help me?”

“Give me a minute,” she said, looking down at her desk. She stood up. “I'll get us some coffee.” She needed time to marshal her thoughts.

That last spring at university in Dublin, she had seen very little of Kirsty. Part of it was her own doing—she was already determined to stay in the Republic, and determined to get a good degree. Her interviews with Dublin law firms had gone well, but a poor degree would put paid to her prospects. She worked day and night studying for her finals.

But Kirsty was busy in her own way, too. She had taken up with a postgraduate student, older, good-looking but flamboyant—Maddie thought it strange, he didn't look the type to be interested in girls. But he and Kirsty became inseparable in a matter of weeks. They did everything together.

The man was brilliant, everyone said, though arrogant with it. He had just won a Junior Research Fellowship at Oxford, which he was taking up the following year. Maddie wondered if their relationship would survive the distance, though in truth she wasn't quite sure just what the relationship was.

Then one Saturday night, fed up with studying, Maddie had run into Kirsty by herself at the Students' Union. Spontaneously they had gone out, just like old times, to the new wine bar in the Golden Mile. Maddie had drunk three Tom Collins, and had finally plucked up courage to ask Kirsty about her new friend. “So are you?”

“Am I what?” Kirsty had demanded, her indignation inflamed by her own consumption of Bailey's on ice.

“Are you sleeping with him or not?”

And Kirsty had laughed so loudly that the neighbouring table of students stopped talking to look at them both, as if expecting some imminent outrage. “Don't be ridiculous,” Kirsty finally said.

“So he is gay then?” Maddie had said.

Kirsty shook her head. “If you ask me, he's probably nothing at all. But how would I know anyway?” She finished her drink with a flourish and shook the ice in her glass like lucky dice. “I'm only seeing him for your father's sake.”

“
What
?” Maddie had been speechless, and wanted an explanation. But Kirsty had seemed immediately to regret her admission, and she had stood up abruptly. “Come on,” she said. “There's Danny Mills and his mates. Let's join them. I know you fancy him.”

The memory dissolved as now she handed Maguire his coffee. “Will you ring her for me then?” he asked entreatingly.

She shook her head. “There's no need to, Mr. Maguire. I know the man you're looking for.”

29

T
helma Dawnton was just about to leave for the badminton club when a man who said he was from the letting agency phoned to ask about the house next door. She was in a hurry to get to her doubles match so, unusually for her, the conversation was brief.

She played doubles in the mixed competition, alongside Evan Dewhart, unattached but so dull that even Trevor, Thelma's husband, couldn't summon up any jealousy. They lost in the final set, against a young married couple—the wife had played for the county. Afterwards Thelma and Evan bought the drinks, and Thelma stayed longer than usual—pleased to be socialising with someone who had played at county level.

When she got home Trevor was in front of the telly. As his programme ended, she mentioned the call from the letting agency earlier that evening.

“What did they want?” her husband asked grumpily.

“He was asking about the house next door. He said they were trying to get in touch with the person who'd signed the lease. He wanted to know if he might be living there now.”

“Why's he asking you? Why couldn't he ask the lot next door direct?”

“That's just it. When I said there were three Asians next door, he sounded surprised. I explained they had only been there a couple of weeks, but he said they shouldn't have been there at all. He was very serious. Said it might be a police matter, so please could I not mention our conversation to any of them until he'd had time to call the authorities.”

When Trevor looked sceptical, she said defensively, “That's what he said. Anyway, I said I wasn't likely to let them know, being as we hadn't ever exchanged much more than a nod.” Encouraged by the rare interest on her husband's part, Thelma asked, “Do you think something funny's going on over there?” She jerked her head in the direction of their neighbours. “Could we have terrorists living next door to us or something?”

“Not any more,” said Trevor, chewing on the last segment of his nan bread. “Those three Pakis moved out tonight. I saw them packing up their car when I got home. If you ask me, they've cleared out for good.”

“Oh dear,” said Thelma, “I'd better ring the letting agent in the morning and tell him they've gone.”

Trevor snorted. “I should think he'll be pleased to see the back of them. I am.”

         

But Thelma never rang. At five-thirty in the morning she was wakened by the sound of someone knocking on a door. At first she thought it was her door, but as her head cleared and she listened intently over the mild snores of Trevor beside her, she realised it was coming from the house next door. She got up and looked out of the window, curious about who would come so early to an empty house.

What she saw was astonishing.

There was a group of men at her neighbour's front door. Three of them wore helmets and held rifles of the kind she'd seen policemen carrying at Heathrow. One of them, in a policeman's uniform, was pounding on the door, shouting. “Open up,” he roared. “The house is surrounded. At the count of ten, we will force our way in if you do not answer the door. One…two…”

From her vantage point, Thelma could see into the strip of garden at the back of the house, and she saw three other men, their weapons held at the ready.

“Three…four…five…”

In the street lined up were three police cars, a white police van and two Range Rovers.

“Six…seven…eight…”

The police had placed two lines of tape across the street and Thelma saw that at one of them a man in shorts and T-shirt stood, arguing with two constables. It was Dermot Simpson, who lived three doors down, now on the wrong side of the cordon. He was an inveterate early morning jogger and wanted to get back to his house.

“Nine…ten.” There was a pause, and when she looked down at the front door she saw that two other men had appeared, carrying what looked to be a large metal lipstick. Swinging it between them, they suddenly launched it at the front door, and she heard a splintering noise followed by a thud, and then the men disappeared from view into the house.

“Jesus Christ!” It was Trevor, who came to the window and stood next to her in his pyjamas. “Didn't you tell them they've all gone?”

“How could I?” she asked plaintively. “You only told me last night. I was going to call the agency when they opened this morning.”

Trevor snorted and pointed at the congregation of armed policemen on the street in front of the neighbouring house. “Do they look like letting agents to you?” He suddenly opened the window, leaned out and bellowed, “Officer, they've all gone!”

A man with a megaphone detached himself from the tense group. Pointing it right at Trevor and Thelma, his voice was astonishingly clear in the morning air. “STAY INSIDE! MOVE BACK FROM THE WINDOWS. I REPEAT: MOVE BACK FROM THE WINDOWS.”

They retreated at once and, grabbing some clothes, went into the spare bedroom on the far side of the house from their invaded neighbours. “Stay against this wall,” commanded Trevor, and Thelma nodded weakly. “They may have a bomb.” And they huddled together, sitting with their backs to the wall, for a quarter of an hour, until there was more knocking. This time it was their door.

“I'd better answer it,” said Trevor.

“Do you have to?” said Thelma, frightened at the prospect of being left alone. “What if it's someone from next door? You know, one of the terrorists.” By now, there was no doubt in her mind about the status of her former neighbours.

“It's not very likely, now is it, Thelma?” said her husband, rising and moving towards the spare-bedroom door. “Not with half the police force outside.”

“I'm coming with you,” declared Thelma, getting up and moving past her husband so quickly that she got downstairs first and opened up the front door.

There was a man standing there, wearing a parka. Behind him stood a policeman, cradling an automatic weapon. “Mrs. Dawnton?” the man in the parka said. “We spoke last night.”

“You're the gentleman who rang?” He didn't look like a letting agent, especially with that policeman behind him.

Dave nodded impatiently. He was not in the mood for social niceties. “You told me there were three Asian men staying next door.” His tone was mildly accusing.

“That's right,” said Thelma.

“There were, Officer,” said Trevor, insinuating himself between Thelma and the man, in what was either old-fashioned gallantry or bruised pride that he was not the Dawnton being addressed. “But they left last night.”

“After we spoke,” explained Thelma anxiously. “You see, I was going to ring the agency this morning—”

Dave cut her off. “What time did they go?” he asked Trevor.

“Half-seven, quarter to eight.”

“Did they have a car?”

Trevor nodded. “I think it was a Golf. They didn't have much gear. Couple of bags, that's all I could see.”

A policeman came up to Dave and whispered in his ear. “Excuse me,” said Dave. “I'd like to come back. Say in half an hour?”

“I don't know,” said Trevor, “I've got work to go to.”

“I'd be very grateful if you went in late today,” said Dave. “I'd be happy to ring your boss if you like, and explain we need to talk to you first.”

Trevor looked slightly miffed by the offer. “I'll tell him. No need for you to speak to him.”

“Right then,” said Dave. “See you a little later on.”

It was almost ninety minutes before he came back. In the meantime the Dawntons had watched the dogs go in—an Alsatian and two spaniels, their tails wagging wildly. Out of sight of the watchers, upstairs in the house, all three dogs had become very excited when they sniffed the carpeted floor of the wardrobe in one of the three small bedrooms. When white-suited forensics officers disinterred an almost infinitesimal residue from the worn carpet that had triggered this vociferous reaction, their conclusion was that fertiliser had been stored in the house. Stored recently, in fact.

The euphoria of the forensics team after this discovery was not shared by Dave Armstrong, who drove back to London late that night in an unusual state of alarm. It was not simply that he knew he and his colleagues could now proceed in the certainty that the three young men they sought were bombers. That was bad enough, especially since they had no idea where they'd gone, or what they planned to blow up.

But even more worrying was the fact that they had left in a rush—according to Trevor Dawnton, “they looked like they were two steps in front of the bailiffs.” It was true Rashid's sister had told Rashid the police were looking for him, but that would not have triggered such a panicked departure, since after all, the sister had no idea of his whereabouts. Dave had spent another hour with the Dawntons, long enough to persuade himself that it was simply inconceivable that either of the couple would have tipped off the three suspects after he had rung from the letting agency to inquire about them.

Covering all the bases, Dave also rang Mr. Penbury at home, catching him just after he'd walked the dog. He had confirmed, making noises of outraged denial, that he had made no contact with anyone to do with the rented house on Somerset Drive. So as he drove along the M4 going east past Slough, Dave Armstrong was pretty confident that neither the letting agency nor the neighbours were responsible for tipping off the suspects. So why then had they fled in the nick of time? Was it possibly just a coincidence? Had the trio planned such a move, just one of many, from safe house to safe house, up until the date they struck?

Perhaps, but Dave Armstrong wasn't paid to believe in coincidence, and he was certain he was right to proceed on the assumption that the three men they were looking for had been tipped off. Ruling out Penbury, the Dawntons and Rashid's sister left him with possible sources for the tip-off which did nothing but worry him. It was this worry which led him to ring and leave a message on Charles Wetherby's voicemail, asking to see him first thing in the morning.