“For the moment,” said Gabriel, “I’d like you to sit down.”

She glared at him, more contempt than fear. She was from the Ardoyne, thought Gabriel. She didn’t frighten easily.

“Sit,” he said again, and finally she sat.

“How did you get in here?” she asked.

“You left the front door unlocked.”

“Bullshit.”

Gabriel laid a photograph on the tabletop and turned it so she could see the image clearly. It showed her daughter standing on a street in Lisbon at the side of Eamon Quinn.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

Gabriel lifted his gaze to the ceiling.

“From my daughter’s room?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What were you doing in there?”

“I was trying to prevent your husband from carrying out yet another act of mass murder.”

“I don’t have a husband.” She paused, then added, “Not anymore.”

“This is your husband,” said Gabriel, tapping the photograph with the barrel of the Glock. “His name is Eamon Quinn. He bombed Bishopsgate and Canary Wharf. He bombed Omagh, and he bombed Brompton Road. I found his clothing in your closet. I found his money, too. Which means you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cage unless you tell me what I want to know.”

She stared at the photograph for a moment in silence. There was something else on her face now, thought Gabriel. It wasn’t contempt. It was shame.

“He’s not my husband,” she said finally. “My husband has been dead for more than ten years.”

“Then why is your daughter standing on a street in Lisbon with Eamon Quinn?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll kill me if I do.”

“Quinn?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Billy Conway.”

72

CROSSMAGLEN, COUNTY ARMAGH