The Angel Tapes (22 page)

“Four pieces, Captain? One for us, one for the army, one for the Americans and one for the science lab at Trinity.”

He nodded.

The operation was completed in less than thirty minutes. Four thick slices of a yellow substance resembling rock candy lay side by side on the table.

Jelly.

Some minutes later, Fitzpatrick and his subordinate left the way they'd come, the army captain carrying a less heavy, but no less lethal, burden.

Twenty-six

Another Sunday morning, another missed weekend for Blade's team. Yet not one of the assembled men and women was complaining. They scented the kill.

Redfern had summoned his full complement; more than twenty of his dark-suited colleagues had joined him; he himself was now seated close to Macken. There was an air of expectation in the incident room. Blade hadn't seen Duffy looking so good-humored in days. It was true: The assistant commissioner's moods made a tangible difference to the atmosphere of the bureau.

“Pluto,” Blade began, “has showed her hand at last.”

There were loud murmurs from some of the detectives on hearing this, the first reference to the bomber as a woman.

“Up until this morning,” he went on, “we'd been unable to locate a murder weapon—at least enough of a weapon for us to follow up on. Now we have it.”

He picked up two sheets of fax paper.

“We now have confirmation from two independent bodies that the gelignite found in Drumcondra is definitely industrial grade. Both reports match almost exactly. Both place the date of manufacture at a little over nine years ago; both indicate that the source of the gelignite is Irish Industrial Explosives in Enfield, County Meath.”

The rear door opened and a middle-aged, uniformed garda came in. She excused herself and handed Blade another fax. He read it quickly.

“There's timing for you!” he told the room. “Confirmation from a third laboratory that IIE is the place of manufacture. Detective Sergeant Sweetman and myself will be making inquiries there later on today. In the meantime, I want every other member of the team working on the suspect.”

“What have we got to go on now, sir?” somebody asked. “Apart from the fact we know it's a woman.”

“I think Dr. Earley can answer that better than I can. Doctor?”

None knew better than Macken that Early's confidence in her abilities had been shattered by his revelations of the day before. Yet he knew, too, that the psychologist was made of stern stuff. She herself had always been the first to admit that hers was not an exact science. But, Blade argued to himself, what do we mean by “exact”? Is scientific advancement not a process of trial and error? How many patients had died of toxic transfusions before medical science became aware of the existence of different blood types? How many thousands of laboratory animals are sacrificed each day on the altar of faulty science? Nonetheless, Blade missed some of Earley's self-assurance as she addressed the gathering.

“Despite my obvious mistake with regard to the suspect's gender, certain key elements of my profile still stand. One: She is beyond doubt familiar with these headquarters, how a police investigation is conducted, and with certain members of the force, Superintendent Macken in particular.”

She paused to consult her papers.

“Two: She remains an expert in explosives, as well as in sophisticated electronic apparatus. Three: She is a native of Phibsborough and may still be living there. I believe we should narrow that part of the investigation down to a radius of, say, half a mile from Dalymount Park.”

Notes were made by Blade's team and Redfern's men.

“Four: She may have served time in prison, and consequently bears a deep resentment toward the authorities. Five: She is a young woman. My present estimation places her age between twenty-five and thirty.”

“We're sure of that, are we, Doctor?” Duffy said.

“Quite sure, Commissioner.”

But Blade detected a slight waver in Earley's voice. Sometimes Duffy could be a right pain in the arse.

“And last,” she said, “the suspect is quite clearly a highly disturbed individual. Although at this time my hypothesis is open to dispute, I am nonetheless convinced that the suspect is suffering from schizophrenia, a mental disorder that makes her highly dangerous, given the present circumstances. I have already warned Superintendent Macken about this aspect of her personality and he will support me when I say that the suspect, if sighted, must be approached with extreme caution.”

A hand went up.

“Do we do a house-to-house in Phibsborough or what?”

“Don't be ridiculous, O'Connor,” Duffy said. “You know better than that.”

“We have all the information right here in the Square,” Blade said. “If you've been through it before, then go over it again. I've arranged with Mr. Redfern that you'll be receiving every assistance from him and his colleagues. Commissioner Duffy has also arranged for a direct link with Lyons. Anything we haven't got here, they'll have over there. But you're looking for a
woman
this time, probably with a home address in Phibsborough—though we don't know if she's still living there. She more than likely has a record, has done time. Start again in 1989—no, make that '86.”

“But sir, if she's as young as twenty-five, like Dr. Earley says, then she was only a kid in '86.”

“So bloody what? Are you trying to tell me that kids can't commit crime? Check the records of the juvenile courts, the magistrates' courts, the reformatories.” He looked at his watch. “Off you go now.”

Detective Sergeant Paddy Flynn stuck up a hand.

“Before we get going, sir…”

“Yes, Paddy?”

“You're asking us to go over the files again. I was wondering if it was you who gave the authorization to lock the files on the Chief Superintendent Merrigan murder.”

“What!”

“They're locked. You need a password to get in, so you do.”

Blade looked blankly at Duffy. The assistant commissioner shook his head.

“I know nothing about it,” Macken told Flynn. He addressed the room. “Who's authorized to lock files?”

No one it seemed.

Blade pointed at a junior detective. “Get someone from the Park over here right away—whoever's in charge of the IBM mainframe.”

“Right away, sir.”

The Merrigan murder. The ghost that haunted Blade Macken. He stared absently at the faxes on the table. It made no sense. Why now? Why nine years on? Why
exactly
nine years on? No, it was impossible: What was then and what was now could in no way be related.

Yet an inner voice was telling him that it
was
possible, that there was indeed a tide in the affairs of men, that the flood was rising again. He'd been asked if Angel could have an accomplice in Harcourt Square. He'd dismissed the idea.

Now Blade wasn't so certain.

Twenty-seven

Sweetman drove. They followed the Grand Canal past Old Kilmainham Jail and merged presently with the traffic flowing westward on the dual carriageway.

Lucan was a blur as Sweetman hit the gas pedal. But Blade didn't comment; they were running out of time. Some minutes later they raced past the village of Leixlip; then Kilcock—and Macken thought suddenly of Jim Roche. He doubted if the fucker would dare show his face again at the Square. Good riddance.

The speedometer was at ninety miles per hour and climbing. Grazing black-and-white Frisian cows turned to dirty gray streaks.

The freeway ended and the road narrowed. They were passing through rolling, green countryside, tree-rich and pleasant. The road grew winding but that didn't deter Sweetman; Macken gritted his teeth as she overtook two cars on a particularly dangerous bend.

Enfield, like most midland Irish villages, consists mainly of a single street lined with stores and bars. They had to stop and ask directions to the explosives plant. It was in the township of Clonagh, some six miles to the south. Sweetman found the turning and slowed to thirty in deference to the sharp corner. Blade smelled burning rubber.

As the terrain grew progressively more rustic, Blade mused on the facility and its isolated location. It made sense, of course: it wouldn't be smart to build an explosives plant close to civilization. Somebody at the Square had told him that, at any given time, there was enough gelignite, dynamite, and TNT stored at Irish Industrial Explosives to blow a sizeable hole in County Meath.

No wonder Angel had been drawn there.

*   *   *

The facility was enclosed by an eight-foot-high chain-link steel fence. A gate, topped with razor wire, opened onto a long inspection bay and a second tall gate. There was no one manning the blue, prefab security hut to one side. There didn't need to be: They suddenly heard the barking of many dogs. Lithe, black shapes bounded along a footpath toward the outer gate.

“Jesus, Dobermans,” Blade breathed. “I knew we should've brought along a sack of dog biscuits.”

He instinctively wound up his window as ten slavering beasts pummeled the steel of the fence. Their bared fangs looked as though they could gnaw through the thick metal, given time. Blade liked dogs, but there were limits.

Then, as if by some magic, the animals fell silent and, as one, dropped to a crouch. Their brown eyes grew soft and gentle. Blade found himself almost wanting to pet them.

A man approached from the direction of the main building. He wore a dark blue uniform with a cap perched jauntily on a head of snow-white hair. He took his time, stretching in the heat of the afternoon, as if just roused from sleep. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth, a dog whistle from the other. Blade heard nothing, but the cigarette flared at regular intervals as the man expelled air between his lips.

“Dr. Doolittle, I presume,” Macken murmured half to himself. Sweetman grinned.

The gates opened and Sweetman drove on through. Blade kept his window tightly shut.

“Mr. McCarthy's in his office,” said the old man, pointing to a neat, one-story building surrounded by lawns, trees, and flowering shrubs. “Round the side, first door on the left. You can't miss it.” He leaned down and patted a panting head. “Good girl, Queenie.” To Macken and Sweetman he said: “Did they give yiz a fright? Ah, sure they're only playing, so they are. They're bored stiff, God help them, with shag all to do all day.”

Blade rolled his eyes heavenward.

McCarthy met them at the entrance. He was unshaven and dressed in a jogging suit.

“Sorry to get you out on a Sunday,” Blade said.

“No problem at all. I had to do some paperwork anyway. Come on in.”

“Should the old guy be smoking?” Blade asked.

McCarthy laughed. “What did you expect, Superintendent? Kegs of gunpowder lying all over the shop? No, we're a bit more advanced than that here. Besides, old Tom never comes near the works; he has his own little place beside the kennels.”

He showed them into an office that was immaculately tidy and modern. One wall was hung with a large map of Ireland, speckled with brightly colored pins. There was a quarrymen's calendar; July's pin-up was a gigantic primary crusher, located in Colorado.

“I can't offer you anything, I'm afraid,” McCarthy said. “My secretary has the key to the tea cupboard.”

“That's all right,” Blade said.

He took a sheet of fax paper from his pocket, laid it on the desk, and smoothed it flat. “This'll probably mean more to you than it does to me.”

McCarthy produced a pair of reading glasses and studied the document. He frowned.

“This is from the dark ages,” he said. “We haven't manufactured anything like this since … since…”

“Nineteen ninety?” Sweetman said.

He threw her a sidelong look. “Since thereabouts, yes.”

“Could you trace it?” Blade asked.

McCarthy turned in his seat and activated a PC.

“Our records are perfect,” he said. “My secretary keeps track of every paper clip—in a manner of speaking.” He called up a file and scrolled down it.

“Oh, dear.”

Blade's heart sank. He glanced at Sweetman. “Something wrong?”

“No, no. Not really. It's just that…” McCarthy went to another list. “We had that spot of bother with Slattery then. Had to let him go. He'd made a right pig's mickey of things. Sorry, miss.”

“That's okay,” Sweetman assured him. She had notebook and pencil in hand. “What do you mean by a ‘spot of bother,' sir?”

McCarthy turned to face them. He removed his glasses.

“He was incompetent. Cost us a lot of money, as well as good will with a big client of ours. Ballsed up five different orders, if I remember rightly. One customer got too much, another got too little; that kind of thing.”

Blade was thoughtful. “Did anything go missing?”

“If it did, we'd have reported it, Superintendent. At least we would have, if we'd known for certain. But that's just it: We didn't. Slattery had jiggled things around so much that we had to go over everything by hand. It's a big warehouse out there, y'know. But we got it sorted out in the end.” He looked sharply at Macken. “Or so we thought. Are you saying that something did go missing after all?”

“This Slattery,” Blade said. “Where can we find him?”

“He lives with his mother in Johnstown Bridge. Or he used to anyway, when he was working for us. I'm sure I have the address somewhere.” He returned to the terminal. “Yes, here it is.”

Sweetman made a note.

*   *   *

“Colm Slattery?”

“Yes.…”

“Special Branch,” Macken said. “We'd like a word.”

The man, who looked to be a few years Blade's senior, held the door half-open.

“Uh, me mother's sick upstairs.”

Blade commiserated, then pushed the door fully open, practically knocking Slattery off his feet.