‘Who are you anyway?’ the man wanted to know.
‘Sean Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit.’
The man looked him up and down.
‘Where’s the boss?’ Doyle wanted to know.
The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s busy.’
‘So am I now’, Doyle said, and walked off in search of the man he sought.
Chief Inspector Peter Robinson was a powerfully built man with heavy jowls and sad eyes. He looked older than fifty. An illusion further fostered when he removed his cap to reveal a perfectly bald head.
Doyle wasn’t really surprised that the years had taken their toll on the policeman’s features. What had been happening in Northern Ireland over the past three decades was enough to give any bastard extra wrinkles. Especially those with the kind of responsibilities that Robinson held.
Doyle saw him standing with two plain clothes men close to the obliterated remains of the bus. The Cl was gesturing this way and that, occasionally pausing to take a call on his mobile phone.
Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette, lit another and ambled towards the little gathering. One of the plain clothes men stepped towards him but Doyle flashed his ID and the man backed off again.
Robinson finished his call and pushed the Nokia back into his overcoat pocket.
‘Doyle,’ he said. ‘When did you get here?’
‘About four hours too late looking at this lot,’ said the counter terrorist nodding towards the bus.‘What’s the SP?’
‘Five dead, twenty-six injured. Two on the critical list,’ Robinson told him.
‘Any ideas?’
‘It was a bomb,’ said one of the plain clothes men. ‘I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Doyle said sardonically. He blew a stream of smoke in the man’s direction. ‘I meant about who planted it, dickhead.’
The man took a step towards Doyle who remained where he was, his grey eyes holding the man’s gaze.
‘The bomb squad aren’t one hundred per cent sure yet,’ Robinson interjected, waving his subordinate back. ‘But it looks like the same kind of device that was used in Victoria Street a month ago.’
‘But that was defused,’ Doyle reminded him, digging his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
Robinson nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Any prints?’ the counter terrorist continued.
‘Not yet,’ Robinson told him. ‘Even if there are I doubt they’re in the files.’
‘Fresh skins?’ Doyle mused.
Again Robinson nodded.
‘The Provisionals have nothing to gain by this kind of action,’ said the Cl.
‘It has to be some kind of splinter group. Continuity IRA. The Real IRA.’
‘INLA?’ Doyle murmured. ‘UVF? You’re spoilt for choice, aren’t you?’
There’d be no reason for a Protestant organisation to start planting bombs in the middle of the city,’ offered one of the plain clothes men.
There’s been no reason behind most of what’s happened here for the last thirty fucking years,’ Doyle said dismissively.
‘It looks like Continuity IRA,’ Robinson said. That would make the most sense.’
Doyle wandered towards the wreckage of the bus and Robinson joined him.
‘How close are you, Doyle?’ the policeman asked.
To finding who did this? Ask me in a couple of days.’
‘I’m asking you now! Robinson stepped in front of Doyle and stood motionless.
The counter terrorist regarded the policeman evenly for a second then shrugged. Two names keep cropping up,’ he said. ‘Matthew Finan and Declan Leary. They’re not in your files. I checked with the guarda and with my lot.
No trace of them there either. If they’re active, they’re new to this game.
Never been arrested. Never done time.’
‘Fresh skins, like you said.’
Doyle nodded. ‘It’s difficult getting descriptions,’ he continued.‘People aren’t exactly falling over themselves to talk about the Continuity IRA. You know that. But I’ll get them. Finan’s got family in Turf Lodge. Word gets around. It’s just a matter of time.’
That’s something we’re a little short of, Doyle.’
The counter terrorist looked around at the remains of the bomb-blasted bus and drew hard on his cigarette.
Tell me about it,’ he murmured.
A BLESSING
Sometimes it just happened. He didn’t know why but sometimes Ward regained his concentration and his drive and he wrote.
The words and ideas flowed with ease. The way they used to.
He glanced at the plastic carriage clock. 12.16 p.m.
He could go inside the house now and make a sandwich. Lose his train of thought. Lose what he had. What it had taken him so long to find.
He re-read the last two pages he’d written, gazing at them on the screen.
The words began to flow once more.
COUNTY DONEGALJHE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:
Gravel crunched beneath the Renault’s tyres as it turned into the small car park.
The driver glanced around as he brought the vehicle to a halt. His companion also scanned the area behind the Tinker’s Dog, squinting into the gloom in an effort to pick out shapes.
There were only half a dozen cars so the pub was obviously quiet.
Declan Leary switched off the engine and sat back in his seat. ‘It looks like we’re early,’ he said, running a hand through his short, brown hair.
‘Maybe they’re inside,’ Matthew Finan speculated.
Both men were in their mid-twenties. Both dressed in jeans. Finan had a thick, black fleece on. Leary sported a denim jacket and sweatshirt.
Leary looked in the direction of the pub. ‘Maybe,’ he murmured.
Finan checked the dashboard clock then pushed open the passenger door and clambered out. He paused for a moment and looked around him.
The pub was surrounded on three sides by trees that grew thickly from gently sloping ground.The darkness made them appear impenetrable.
Finan moved quickly to the boot of the Renault and opened it. There was a long, slender, black leather bag inside. He took it out, tucked it under his arm and wandered past Leary, nodding as he did.
‘Only if you have to, Matty,’ said Leary quietly.
Finan nodded again and disappeared towards the trees.
Leary remained behind the wheel, closing his eyes for a moment. The drive had taken longer than he’d thought. He dug in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of aspirin. He swallowed one dry, wincing at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. He pulled open the glove compartment and found a half-empty bottle of Lucozade. He gulped it down gratefully then stuffed the empty bottle back where he’d found it.
Again he scrutinised the pub. He could go in. See if they were there.
Fuck it Let them come to him.
He peered at the wooded area surrounding the car park but Finan had been swallowed by the darkness.
Leary stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette. As he moved he felt the Glock 9mm automatic in the shoulder holster beneath his left arm.
He could hear the sound of running water nearby and realised that it was the river. The pub in Lifford was built very close to where the dark water of the Foyle divided in two, the fork of the Finn turning away into the Republic while the Mourne cut a-path into the valleys below the Sperrin mountains. The river divided just like the
