was surprised to see a red stain spreading across the khaki material. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears as he began to fight for breath and the rifle fell from his nerveless fingers. The last thing he saw was the black silhouette take another step towards the Landrover, then Taylor slumped forward, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel. The girl began to scream hysterically and the minister cursed as he struggled to stand up. Before Taylor died he heard two more shots, but he didn’t see the two bullets strike the minister, one in the head, one in the heart.
Dermott Lynch put a pound coin in the slot and dialled Thomas McCormack’s number. He didn’t identify himself when McCormack answered but McCormack recognised his voice immediately. ‘Where are you?’ McCormack asked.
‘London,’ replied Lynch.
‘Where exactly? I’ll need an address.’
‘Is this line safe?’
‘For God’s sake, Dermott, my phones are swept every day. You’re going to need cash and I have to know where to send it.’
‘I’m staying with Eamonn Foley.’
‘In Maida Vale?’
‘Yeah. What’s happening there? Has the Quinn boy turned up yet?’
‘No news. But they don’t seem to be looking for you. No one’s been to your house and O’Riordan seems to be in the clear, too.’
‘Maybe Quinn’s tougher than we thought.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but you’re better off out of it, Dermott. Stay where you are and keep your head down. We’ll get this sorted out.’
Pat O’Riordan drove the tractor into the barn and killed the engine. It continued to run for a few seconds and he made a mental note to check the timing when he had the chance. He climbed down and arched his back. He’d been sitting on the machine for the best part of four hours and he was suffering. The farm was a bit larger than his own holding in Ballymena but the owner, Seamus Tierney, had given over two of his fields to mobile homes and caravans, a cash crop that pulled in several thousand pounds a month during the summer. Tierney was renovating several of the mobile homes and so O’Riordan had volunteered to do some work about the place. It was the least he could do, considering Tierney and his wife were giving him free room and board.
One of the farm’s many cats walked stiff-legged into the barn, its ears pricked up and its tail flicking to and fro like a metronome. O’Riordan bent down to rub its head but it ran off. When O’Riordan straightened up he saw the two men standing in the doorway, big men wearing green anoraks and black ski-masks. One of the men was holding a sawn-off shotgun, levelled at O’Riordan’s chest. The other man was holding a cardboard box about the size of a television set. O’Riordan slowly raised his hands. He heard a noise behind him. There was another man there holding an assault rifle. He must have been hiding at the back of the barn. The cat was rubbing itself along the man’s legs.
Another man, this one carrying a length of rope, entered the barn. The man with the shotgun gestured with the weapon. ‘Don’t go making this difficult for us, Pat.’ The accent was Belfast, hard and nasal.
‘What’s going on, lads?’ asked O’Riordan. The man with the box put it on the ground and opened it. He took out a large white quilt. O’Riordan frowned. ‘What’s the game?’ O’Riordan took a step back but the barrel of the assault rifle brought him up short.
The man with the shotgun had pale blue eyes and they stared back at O’Riordan, unblinking. O’Riordan knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble. The man with the shotgun gestured again. ‘You can put your hands down now. And don’t try anything stupid.’ O’Riordan did as he was told. The man with the quilt walked towards him, holding it up.
‘What is it you’re after?’ asked O’Riordan. He was genuinely confused. If they were SAS they wouldn’t be using a shotgun, if they were UFF or UDV or any of the Protestant paramilitaries they’d have just blown him away and left him dead on the ground. The quilt and the rope just didn’t make any sense at all. Unless they were planning to kidnap him. Maybe that was it. But why would anyone want to kidnap him? He stood stock still as they wrapped the quilt around him, leaving his head clear. He expected them to tie him up with the rope, but to his surprise two of the men grabbed him, one around the chest, the other around his legs. It was almost comical, and if it wasn’t for the sawn-off shotgun and the weapons he’d have thought it was some sort of April Fool’s joke.
The man with the rope threw one end up in the air and it looped over a girder up in the roof. It was only then that O’Riordan saw the noose. He began to struggle, but the noose was deftly placed over his head and pulled tight, stifling his cries. The man holding the end of the rope jumped in the air and pulled down on his end with all his strength. O’Riordan was jerked off his feet but the two men holding him kept the soft quilt pressed around him so that he couldn’t struggle. He died with only one mark on him, the rope burn around his neck.
Cramer walked through the dining hall and pushed open the double doors which led to the kitchen, expecting to find Mrs Elliott fussing around the stove. He was surprised to see Su-ming, chopping vegetables with a large knife. She used the knife quickly and confidently, the steel flashing only millimetres from her fingers as she sliced green peppers, scallions, mushrooms and other vegetables which Cramer didn’t recognise. She had taken off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. In the T-shirt and jeans she looked about eighteen years old.
She didn’t look up as Cramer went over to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Cramer drank from the carton and watched her as she poured a splash of oil into a large steel wok.
‘Mrs Elliott will cook for you if you ask her,’ said Cramer, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
‘I sent her away. I didn’t want her near my food.’ She put the wok on the stove and turned on the gas. ‘You realise she’s poisoning you with all that animal fat?’
Cramer looked at the milk carton and shrugged. He peered at the vegetables on the wooden chopping board. ‘What are they?’ he asked.
‘Ginger root, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts,’ she replied. She threw the vegetables into the smoking oil and stirred them vigorously with a wooden spatula.
Steam billowed around the wok and Cramer sniffed appreciatively. ‘Do you cook for your boss?’
‘I do many things for Mr Vander Mayer,’ she said, dropping a handful of snow peas and bean sprouts into the mixture. ‘And yes, I advise him on his nutrition.’
‘And you read people for him, too?’
She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I advise him on many subjects.’ Cramer drank from the carton again. ‘You’re not eating, are you?’ she asked.
Cramer shrugged. ‘Milk does me just fine.’
‘You’re not well.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘You read that in my palm?’
Su-ming took the wok off the burner and poured the stir-fry mixture into a bowl. She used the spatula to spoon boiled rice from a pan into another bowl and put them both on the kitchen table. She stood looking at Cramer for a few seconds then nodded as if she’d reached a decision. ‘There’s a bowl and chopsticks on the draining board,’ she said and sat down.
Cramer joined her at the table and she spooned rice and vegetables into his bowl. He had trouble using the chopsticks and she smiled at his clumsy attempts. ‘Would you prefer a fork?’ she asked.
Cramer shook his head and persevered. Su-ming used neat, economic movements to carry the food from her bowl to her mouth.
‘It’s good,’ said Cramer. The vegetables were crisp and tasty, and while he still had little appetite, at least he didn’t find the food hard to swallow.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And it’s better for you than the animal fats and starch which that woman is feeding you.’
Cramer adjusted the chopsticks. His fingers felt large and clumsy. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Vander Mayer?’ he asked.
Su-ming’s chopsticks stopped in mid-air, suspended over her bowl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said.
‘Fifteen?’ repeated Cramer. Su-ming nodded and continued to eat. Cramer frowned. He couldn’t believe that
