The Torture Parlour by Anthony Vincent Bruno

Author:Anthony Vincent Bruno [Bruno, Anthony Vincent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-16T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jason Doyle’s reaction to the rapid and total destruction of the ferry had aroused suspicion from a pair of cautious sightseers. Two off duty Irish police officers had been strolling past Doyle as he viewed the explosion through his Rangefinder binoculars. Garda Sergeant Michael O’Toole and Garda Siobhan Cassidy had missed their ferry and were booked on the next sailing home so they had decided to take a drive over to the Stack Lighthouse for a bite to eat. O’Toole had become wary of the Stena uniformed man due to his use of military grade binoculars but as the nervousness turned to joy coupled with his covert interaction with a Middle Eastern youth, his suspicion turned to alarm. When he saw the man dumping a Stena jacket for a leather one, it prompted him to call the Port Police and relate his observations. Siobhan Cassidy was a younger member of the force and was still in shock at what might have been if they had not slept too late. O’Toole however was older and wiser, having dealt with former Provisional IRA volunteers in his native Kerry. The Sergeant had an inkling that the man who rode off on the bike was connected in some way to the incident; a gut feeling that would pay dividends.

***

‘Get me Scotland Yard on the phone, Andrew. Go through the switchboard.’ DCI Peters asked as our unit’s wheelchair access Mercedes Viana sped along the M4 motorway. Talk about a luxury office on wheels! Blanch, Peters, Foley, Robinson and Welling were happy enough for me to drive and were even more pleased when a police escort joined our three-car convoy as we passed signs for Bristol. We had left Newport accompanied by two other cars with four of our protection unit in each. A 150 mile journey that would take up to two hours at our present speed. I waited to hear Peters’ latest gem as he sat beside me up front. He pressed his cell loudspeaker when he was connected to New Scotland Yard. After a few pauses he was put through to someone known to him in the incident room.

‘Who put North Wales police onto the bike suspect?’

‘Two visiting Irish coppers just strolling around the seafront, Sir.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Eh, let me check that for you, Sir.’ The officer said as we heard him dial a number.

‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’ I asked as our convoy sped past a sluggish stream of motorists.

‘Not sure yet, seems odd to me. Might get lucky though.’

We heard the Scotland Yard contact speak clearly to North Wales Police at the Holyhead Port.

‘Did you hear that, DCI Peters?’

‘I did. Now I need you to patch me straight through to that Irish Sergeant.’ Peters demanded with authority.

‘Eh . . . yes. Yes Sir. Just give me one moment.’

There was a brief silence before we heard an Irish accent on the loudspeaker.

‘Michael O’Toole speaking?’

‘Thank you for taking my call, Sergeant O’Toole. I am DCI Maurice Peters of the Metropolitan Police. Call me Maurice, please.

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