before they could taste her fury. That was what truly enraged her.
She sat up, splashing her face with water, catching a glimpse of herself in the steam-clouded mirror. Her reflection looked distorted. She hauled herself out of the bath, pulled on a bath-robe and wandered through into the sitting-room. She picked up the phone and reached reception, asking them for the phone number of the Dublin National Gallery.
Perhaps if she could speak to Mahoney again, tell him what happened out by Mountpelier that morning, he would tell her more.
She got the number, thanked the receptionist then jabbed the digits, reading them carefully from her pad.
A voice told her she’d reached her chosen number.
‘Can I speak to Gordon Mahoney, please?’ she said.
She was asked to hang on for a moment.
Donna shifted the receiver to her other ear and began doodling on the pad.
The other voice returned.
Gordon Mahoney had gone home about an hour ago.
‘Could you give me his home number, please?’ she asked.
The voice at the other end of the line obliged and Donna pressed down on the cradle to sever the connection before ringing the new number.
She waited for the phone to ring at the other end.
Waited.
It was finally picked up.
‘Gordon Mahoney, please,’ she said.
Silence at the other end.
‘Hello.’
Nothing.
‘Gordon, it’s Donna Ward.’
She heard the click as the phone was replaced.
‘Shit,’ she murmured and punched the same digits.
Dead line.
She heard nothing but the endless whine over the wire. After a moment or two she replaced the receiver.
It was dusk by the time she checked out of the Shelbourne; night was approaching rapidly. The sun left a red stain behind as it retreated below the horizon.
The taxi took her to the airport. By the time the plane rose into the air it was dark.
Donna closed her eyes as it climbed through turbulence.
The flight to Edinburgh should take less than an hour.
The pistol was pressed against his cheek so hard that it almost broke the skin.
The sudden cold chill against his warm flesh woke him but, as Martin Connelly tried to sit up, shocked into consciousness by the sensation, the muzzle of the .45 was jammed against his face with incredible force.
In the darkness, and still half-asleep, he was unable to focus immediately on the figures standing around his bed.
All he was aware of was the deathly cold of the gun barrel. For a fleeting second he wondered if he might be dreaming, but this time he had woken
Connelly blinked myopically, trying to clear his gaze, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He felt his bowels loosen, felt the hairs on his neck and forearms prickle as he saw the face of the first intruder, the one who held the gun.
‘Get up,’ hissed Peter Farrell, stepping back. He kept the gun pointed at Connelly’s head the entire time, the barrel never more than inches from his face. The muzzle seemed to expand, to grow into a vast black tunnel before his eyes.
‘Move,’ Farrell continued, grabbing Connelly by one arm and jerking him towards the door of the bedroom.
The other man picked up the dressing gown lying on the end of the bed and threw it at Connelly. He looked at Farrell as if asking permission to put it on, to cover his nakedness; although, at the moment, decency was the last of his worries. Nevertheless he pulled it on and padded out onto the landing. Farrell kept close by, the gun still held at his head.
‘I told you before I don’t know anything,’ Connelly said quietly, his voice cracking. His mouth felt dry, as if someone had filled it with sand.
Farrell grabbed the back of his hair and yanked his head back, forcing the gun hard against his temple.
‘I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now. I want some fucking answers,’ he hissed.
‘For Christ’s sake ...’
He was cut short by a shove in the back that nearly made him overbalance and fall down the stairs.
He shot out a hand and caught the banister, steadying himself. On shaking legs he began to descend.
Farrell and the other man followed him.
‘Have you been in contact with the woman?’ Farrell wanted to know.
‘Which woman?’
‘Ward’s widow, who do you think?’
‘Why should I have been?’
Farrell drove a foot hard into the base of Connelly’s spine, the impact knocking him off balance. He toppled forward, pitching off the steps. He crashed against the wall then fell, rolled the last few stairs to the hallway.
Farrell was on him in an instant, dragging him upright, the gun held beneath his chin.
‘Have you been in contact with her?’ he repeated.
‘No,’ Connelly said, hurt by the fall. ‘Look, I swear to you, I don’t know anything.’
Farrell pushed the agent’s head back sharply, banging it against the wall with a sickening thud. For a second Connelly thought he was going to pass out, but a hard smack across the face kept him conscious. Farrell grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him towards a closed door leading off the hallway.
‘What are you doing?’ said Connelly, realizing which room he was being shoved towards.
‘Move,’ snapped Farrell.
Connelly was about to push the door when it was opened from the inside and he found a third man there.
Farrell pushed the agent inside and was joined by the other intruder.
All four men stood in the room and Farrell raised the pistol once more so that it was aimed at the agent’s head.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Connelly babbled timorously.
‘We’re not playing, Connelly,’ Farrell told him and pulled him across the hot and clammy room.
The kitchen was large but the air was warm and dry.
Connelly didn’t know how long the rings of the electric cooker had been on but one of them was almost white-hot.
