“Another killing,” Pilkington said.
Hargreaves stepped off the treadmill. “Who?”
“A priest. Father Eammon Coulter. His housekeeper found him ninety minutes ago when she arrived to make his breakfast. Details are sketchy, but he appears to have been stabbed.”
“And why are we concerned about a priest?” Hargreaves asked. A reasonable question, he thought.
“A few reasons,” Pilkington said. “He’s the priest who buried McKenna and Caffola. He was Bull O’Kane’s cousin, and not the finest example of the clergy from what I’ve heard. There was some sort of scandal in Sligo in the late Seventies, all swept under the carpet, and he was moved out of the parish in a hurry. Rumor has it O’Kane himself fixed it for him to be installed in Belfast. He wanted a priest he could control in the area.”
“So Fegan did it?”
“We must assume so.”
“I see,” Hargreaves said. “And why hasn’t he been taken care of yet?”
“Our man tried to take care of him yesterday, but he botched it. Our other insider, the one who got our man back in, says McGinty’s not best pleased. The leadership are ready to cut him off completely, feud or not. And now Fegan’s missing. My men were called to Calcutta Street after gunfire was heard, but there was no sign of him.” Pilkington cleared his throat. “And there’s another complication.”
“Dear God, what now?” Hargreaves’s shoulders sagged.
“There’s a woman, Marie McKenna, niece of the recently departed Michael McKenna. She fell foul of McGinty years ago, but he left her alone because of her uncle. Now the uncle’s gone, he’s been trying to intimidate her into leaving the country. Our insider gave her plane tickets for her and her daughter, followed her to the airport, and watched her check in. She never arrived on the other side. Now she’s missing, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Hargreaves said. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Well, she and Fegan were apparently getting close; he was at her flat when he was arrested the night before last. We believe they’re together, wherever they are. It means if he’s found it’ll be harder to do anything about it.”
Hargreaves felt a warm hand stroke the back of his neck. He turned to see the girl, her tanned skin bare and glistening. She spoke very little English, not that it mattered. “So, what happens now?” he asked.
“We wait,” Pilkington said. “Fegan will turn up somewhere. We’ll just have to be ready to deal with him. There is one good thing to come out of this, though.”
Hargreaves gave a dry laugh. “Really? Do tell.”
“McGinty was due to hold a press conference this morning. He was going to trot out one of his thugs who got a beating off Fegan and claim my men did it. Then he was going to repeat his claims about my men having been responsible for Caffola’s demise. He’ll most likely cancel it now. Our friend in the party says the priest’s murder has stolen McGinty’s thunder.”
“Lucky for you,” Hargreaves said. “Certain sacrifices might not have to be made after all.”
“My concern is the rule of law, sir, not politics.” Pilkington’s voice was hard against Hargreaves’s ear. “I’d have resigned before I let any of my men take the fall for Fegan’s actions.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Hargreaves said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The girl smiled sweetly as she toyed with the silver hairs on his chest.
33
In less than a minute, Paul McGinty transformed Patsy Toner’s office from a drab, efficient workspace into something resembling a landfill. Campbell watched the eruption from a chair in the corner. He had to fight the urge to laugh when McGinty upended Toner’s desk, leaving the solicitor sitting in the middle of the room with books, folders and sheets of paper scattered all around him. Campbell was relieved when the urge passed, sparing him the unbearable pain it would have ignited in his side.
When McGinty’s rage subsided he stood panting among the destruction. “Jesus,” he said. “Look what you made me do.”
“I’m sorry,” Toner said.
“Sorry?” McGinty slapped Toner hard across the ear. “Sorry? All you had to do was make sure she got on the plane, for fuck’s sake.”
Toner brought his hands up to shield himself. “She’d checked in and everything. I couldn’t go through the security gates to see what she did. Honest to God, I thought she was away.”
McGinty paced the room, his hands on his hips. “Well, now you know different, eh?” He pointed at Campbell. “And you, you’re no better. I had to phone the Bull to tell him his cousin was dead. You’re bloody lucky he didn’t tell me to do you.”
Campbell went to speak, but his damaged rib protested as he inhaled.
McGinty continued to pace. “I should’ve been talking to the press right now, showing off Eddie Coyle’s face. All that’s fucked. Father Coulter, a priest for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with Fegan?”
Campbell took a shallow breath. “I told you, he’s crazy.”
“Not so crazy that he couldn’t get the better of you.”
“Or maybe that’s
why
he got the better of me,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s stare. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up soon enough. He’s still got you to come after.”
McGinty stopped pacing and glared at Campbell. “Get out, Patsy.”
Toner raised his eyes from his lap. “What? This is my office. You can’t—”
McGinty spun and kicked Toner squarely on the shin. “Get the fuck out or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”
Toner limped to the door, scowling.
When McGinty was alone with Campbell, he said, “Watch your mouth, Davy. I don’t want any talk of that. Not when there’s other people around.”
“All right,” Campbell said. “But you better be watching your back. Fegan could come at you any time, anywhere.”
McGinty sat down on Toner’s chair. “Maybe, if he’s got the balls.”
“Balls? Balls has nothing to do with it. How many times do I have to spell it out for you? He’s insane. He was a vicious bastard before; now he’s a
crazy
vicious bastard. All I’m telling you is watch out.”
“All right,” McGinty said, standing. “Now let me tell you something. If he shows up and you haven’t sorted him within thirty seconds, you’re the one who’d better watch out.”
Campbell held the politician’s gaze for as long as he dared before letting his eyes slip away. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The news.”
Campbell looked back to McGinty. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear it. It’s mostly about Father Coulter, of course, how shocked the community is and all that. I did a couple of soundbites first thing this morning. But we got another wee story sneaked into the newsrooms, something about Marie McKenna and her daughter going missing. If some concerned citizen spots them they’re to call Lisburn Road Police Station where our friend will be waiting to answer the phone.”
“It’s risky,” Campbell said. “The cops might get to them first.”
“I promised our friend a nice bonus if he gets the call and passes it on to me. He loves his money. Mark my word, he won’t leave that phone all day. Besides, I don’t see what else we can do.” McGinty leaned forward and pointed at Campbell. “But listen hard, Davy. Don’t fuck it up again. If this flushes Fegan out, I want him done. You sort him or I sort you. Understood?”
Campbell got to his feet, his thigh complaining and his side shrieking. “Understood. If he surfaces, I’ll get him.”
34
“You’re very kind,” Marie said.
Mrs. Taylor smiled and set a plate of toast on the table.
The warm smell of fried breakfast filled the cottage and Fegan’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, despite the rippling aches still lurking in his midsection. Steam leaked from a big pot of tea at the center of the table. There was milk, sugar, butter and jam.
The lady of the house had a round, glowing face, and clear blue eyes. Like her husband, she was well-spoken but had a good line in swear words. Fegan, Marie and Ellen had been in the house less than thirty minutes, and Mrs. Taylor had already apologised three times for cursing within earshot of the child.
“Get the fu—I mean, get away, Stella,” she said to the dog who sat staring expectantly at the table. Fegan knew she was a Boxer - his grandfather had owned one - and Stella had the same kind of face. One that looked permanently guilty, as if some form of mischief was in the recent past, the near future, or both. Stella ignored Mrs. Taylor’s instruction, instead licking her chops as Mr. Taylor brought in a plate loaded with bacon and sausages.
Fegan’s dry-eyed gaze wandered the room. Paintings covered the walls - oils and watercolors - and small sculptures sat on every level surface.
Another wave of nausea came with the cold prickling of sweat on his forehead and back. He swallowed and wiped his brow before lacing his fingers together on the table, each hand keeping the other still. A headache threatened to blot out the sunshine from outside, where Fegan could see across the mouth of the river, over to where the long beach stretched into the distance. The sky was a hard blue and two boats dotted the horizon. A mass of land was just visible in the haze where the sea met the sky.
Mr. Taylor sat down. “The Mull of Kintyre,” he said. He leaned over to Ellen. “See out there? That’s Scotland.”
Ellen gaped out of the window. “Look, Mummy, that’s Scotland!”
Marie smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. “We’ll take a walk on the beach later so you can see it better, okay? Now, eat up your nice breakfast.”
While Ellen carefully constructed a toast and bacon sandwich, Fegan thought about the Mull of Kintyre. It was 1994, and he was in the Maze when news came of a Chinook helicopter crash on the Mull. Twenty-five MI5, British Army and RUC intelligence personnel, plus four crew members, died when the aircraft ploughed into the hillside in heavy fog. There were celebrations in Republican and Loyalist blocks alike that night. While the other prisoners laughed and cheered outside his cell, Fegan lay on his bed and studied the cracks in the ceiling.
Mrs. Taylor came back with a pot and a wooden spoon. “Who’s for scrambled eggs?” she asked. Ellen and Fegan refused. The little girl smiled at him when he wrinkled his nose.
“So, how’s old Hopkirk treating you?” Mr. Taylor asked.
“Fine,” Marie said. “We’re used to roughing it, anyway.” She looked at Fegan with a sly smile. “Aren’t we, George?”
It took Fegan a moment to remember the lie. “Yeah, we’ve stayed in worse.”
Ellen looked back and forth between them, a crease in her brow. Marie winked at him, and Fegan smiled back.
Mrs. Taylor finally settled at the table, her fussing done, and joined them in eating. The silence was only interrupted by the hostess slapping her husband’s arm when he fed the dog a piece of sausage.
“So, what brings you to Portcarrick?” she asked.
“We just wanted a bit of a break,” Marie said. “It was all very last-minute.”
“Well, yes, landing in Hopkirk’s in the middle of the night does seem a bit impulsive.”
“We meant to get away earlier, but George got held up at work.”
Mrs. Taylor turned to Fegan. “And what kind of work do you do, George?”
Fegan chewed and swallowed his food before answering. “I’m a Community Development Officer,” he said.
“In Belfast?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Whereabouts? We’re both from Belfast, originally.”
Fegan scrambled for a lie, but came up empty. “Different places,” he said.
Mrs. Taylor seemed satisfied. “Did you hear the news this morning?”
“No, not yet,” Marie said.
“Oh, it’s terrible. A priest was killed in Belfast last night. Somebody broke into his house and stabbed him to death. Isn’t that awful?”
Marie set her knife and fork on her plate. “Dreadful,” she said, looking hard at Mrs. Taylor.
“And the funny thing is,” Mrs. Taylor continued, ‘he was the same priest who conducted the funerals for those two men who were killed this week. Isn’t that strange?”
“Did they say what time it happened?” Marie asked.
“Sometime last night is all they said. His housekeeper found him this morning. What’s the matter, love, aren’t you hungry?”
Marie stared across the table at Fegan. “I’ve had enough, thank you. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course you can, love. Just through the kitchen, first on your left.”
Marie stood and left the room, keeping her eyes on Fegan until she was out of view.
Fegan lost the will to eat.
“What did you do?” Marie asked.
