FIREBOMB

Carl Hawkins replaced the phone.  His hand was trembling.  The voice had been sinister.  Someone knew about his work in Northern Ireland, his time in 14 Det, his part in the seducing of the Irish girl into betraying her paramilitary brothers.  They had waited for them to finish collecting the protection money, then gunned them down mercilessly and taken the cash.  They had been surprised at how much there was.  That had been the start of his life after leaving the army.  Now he was a pillar of society, respected businessman, JP, councillor, church elder, member of the Round Table.  He had a beautiful wife and great kids.

            T

he voice had demanded £5,000 or she would pass the information to the media.  He knew that if he paid she would want more until she had sucked him dry and if he didn’t, he would lose everything and probably face a prison term.  What should he do?

Next morning he drew the money from the bank and wrapped it in a parcel.  He placed it in the designated litter bin.  There was a culvert from which he would be able to observe everything.  A rain-coated figure walked past, looked around and returned to pick up the package.  There was something familiar about the walk.  He focussed the night-glasses.

Christ!  It was Morag, Morag Savage.  She was the only loose end, the only person who knew about the raid.  She would bleed him dry and still go to the press about this to avenge her brothers.  He followed her to her car and she drove off.

Once home, he hacked into the DVLC computer and traced her address.  He kept her under surveillance for five weeks.  Her routine never varied.  He now made his plans. 

Half-forgotten training now took over.  He printed leaflets and started to push them into letterboxes down her street.  He dropped a bundle near her car and knelt to pick them up. The cigarette lighter was already wrapped in adhesive tape.  He quickly attached it to the exhaust near the petrol tank.  Returning to his own car, he parked at the top of the street.

She came out of her house and drove away.  The car stopped at the lights.  They changed to green and she started to pull away.  The exhaust heat should be baking the lighter by this time.  Any minute now.  Her car exploded into a firebomb.  The tank must have been just about empty.  She opened the door and staggered out, her clothes already blazing.  She collapsed in the middle of the road and lay still.  Knowing that she would be dead, he drove home.

No loose ends now, his secret was safe.  He poured himself a whisky.  The phone rang.

“My cousin, Morag Savage, asked me to give you a call if anything happened to her.  She left me some papers and her price was going to be half a million.  I’ve looked at them and it appears that you are now responsible for the deaths of four of my cousins.  I photocopied them and sent copies to both the police and the media.  You’re finished.”

The phone went dead.