The dog settled down and its barks faded away. Quiet now, just the whisper of water on sand. Fegan hammered on the door to break the stillness. He stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor.
Nothing. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder. A bead of worry settled in his chest. Why had Marie let Hopkirk lock the place up? Why wasn’t she waiting for him?
His palm stung as he slapped the wooden panels again. He stood back and craned his neck. “Come on,” he whispered.
A dim light appeared at the center window, followed by a passing shadow. Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists. The sound of doors opening and closing came from inside. A light in the glass above the entrance. Metal moved against metal, locks snapping open, bolts sliding. The door inched open and a bespectacled eye peeked out.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I want in,” Fegan said. “I want Marie.”
“Who?”
“I mean Mary. My wife.”
Hopkirk’s brow knotted. “I thought she was with you.”
“What?”
“She and the little girl went out for a walk this evening. They didn’t come back. I thought they’d left with you.”
“Our bags. Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I assumed—”
Fegan put his hand against the door. “Let me in.”
“They might still be in the room. I’ll go and look.”
He pressed harder. “Let me in.”
Hopkirk pushed back. “I won’t be a moment.”
Fegan shoved with his shoulder and the door gave way. Hopkirk staggered back against one of the dust-covered tables.
“Go on,” he said, his eyes narrow behind his thick glasses. “Go and look. If your bags are there you can take them and get out of here. I don’t want your money.”
Fegan crossed the room. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know. She took the little girl out for something to eat at about seven. She never came back.”
“Was there anyone else around?”
Hopkirk’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
The hotelier breathed hard for a few seconds. “There was a man. He said he was a policeman, but I didn’t believe him.”
Fegan gripped his arm. “What’d he look like?”
Hopkirk tried to pry Fegan’s fingers loose. “He was tall and thin, like you, but younger. He had reddish-brown hair and a scraggy beard. He looked like he’d been in a fight, and he had a limp.”
“Campbell,” Fegan said. “Campbell was here.”
Hopkirk got free of Fegan’s grip and sidled away. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“What’d he say?”
“He just asked where you were.” Hopkirk rounded the table, keeping it between him and Fegan.
“What’d you tell him?”
“The truth. I didn’t know.”
“Christ,” Fegan said. He brought his palms to his temples to hold the fear in. “Christ.”
Hopkirk continued to back away. “Look, why don’t you get your things and go. I can’t do any more for you.”
Fegan walked to the stairway in the darkened corner, his stride slowing as he passed the door to the bar. He wiped his mouth and kept his head down, even as his throat tightened. The twisting steps brought him up to the first floor. The room was at the end of the corridor. When he got to the door he realised he had no key. It didn’t matter. He kicked the door hard just beneath the handle.
“I’ve got the key!” Hopkirk cried from the stairwell. “Don’t!”
Fegan ignored him and kicked again. The door burst inward with the sound of splintering wood. He pushed his way into the room and turned on the light. The bags were where they’d been that afternoon. His own was still at the foot of the bed, zipped closed. He went to check it anyway, but Hopkirk appeared at the door.
“Get out,” Fegan said.
Hopkirk faded back into the shadows of the corridor. Fegan hoisted the bag onto the bed and opened it. The familiar greasy smell of money met his nose. He pushed rolls of banknotes and the few clothes aside to make sure what he needed was still there. Yes, the loose nine-millimeter rounds still rolled across the bottom. Campbell’s Glock still clanked against them. Fegan took a quick glance over his shoulder before taking the Walther from his right pocket and dropping it into the bag.
The bag almost slipped from his fingers when his phone vibrated against his chest. Fegan took it from his breast pocket and looked at the display.
His heart leaped in his chest. He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Marie?”
There was nothing but a soft static hiss, the sound of weight shifting on floorboards, and grating sobs.
“Marie?”
A man’s voice, hard and thin, whispering words Fegan couldn’t make out. Something lodged in Fegan’s throat, thicker than his aching thirst.
“Marie?”
“Gerry?”
Fegan closed his eyes.
“Gerry, they’ve got me and Ellen . . .”
45
“He’s coming,” Campbell said. He stood in the shelter of the barn, dark now, trying not to gag at the stench rising up from the pit.
“And?” the handler asked.
“And what? Fegan’s a dead man. They’ll take care of him as soon as he gets here.”
“Don’t they know what’s happened?”
“The cop in Toner’s car. Yeah, they know.”
The handler was silent for a moment. “But surely that’s changed the plan. If they don’t offer up Fegan to the authorities, the Unionists will hold them responsible for the cop. They’ll have McGinty by the balls. They could bring down Stormont with this.”
“I told McGinty that,” Campbell lied. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“But McGinty’s smarter than that. He never took a stupid breath in his life.”
“They want Fegan dead. That’s all.”
“Christ,” the handler said. Campbell listened to him breathe. “Christ. There’s no way to stop it?”
“None,” Campbell said.
“You’ve got to try. This could set the political process back years. See if you can—”
Campbell saw a shaft of light break on the concrete beyond the barn door. “Got to go,” he said, and hung up.
He heard footsteps, two people, one walking steadily, the other shuffling and faltering. Campbell eased back into the shadows of the barn.
“You should’ve gone when you had the chance,” McGinty said. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d just gone.”
“Let me go back inside,” Marie said. “Please, let me go to Ellen.”
“She’s all right with Eddie. Why didn’t you go? I couldn’t have made it easier for you.”
“Because I didn’t want to go. I shouldn’t have to go. Things are supposed to have changed. Jesus, Paul, it was so long ago.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. It still hurts me to think about it.”
Marie laughed, the sound dry and hateful in the darkness. “Hurts you? Nothing hurts you.”
“You’re wrong. People think I’m a hard man, but I’ve got feelings. Seeing you with Lennon - a cop, for Christ’s sake - what do you think that did to me?”
“I couldn’t live like that any more. Can’t you see that? Pretending to myself you weren’t married. Pretending all that . . . that . . . other stuff didn’t matter. The things you did.”
“I never did anything to—”
“You pulled the strings. Stop passing the blame, Paul.”
McGinty’s voice hardened. “There were people wanted you dead back then.”
“You think I didn’t know that? Have you any idea how scared I was?”
Campbell edged to the barn door until he could just make out their shapes in the poor light from the farmhouse.
“Maybe I should have let them kill you and that cop,” McGinty said.
Campbell flinched as Marie lashed out, and the sound of her palm on McGinty’s cheek reverberated around the yard. He flinched again when McGinty returned the blow, sending her sprawling on the wet concrete. She stared back up at him.
“And what are you doing with Fegan?” McGinty asked.
“Go to hell.”
“Answer me.”
Marie spat at him.
McGinty crouched down. “For Christ’s sake, Marie, he’s insane. He’s sick in the head.”
“Sick? Is he any more sick than you, or that thug O’Kane?” She pointed to the farmhouse.
“Don’t you know what he’s done? He killed a cop in Belfast just a couple of hours ago. He killed Vincie Caffola and Father Coulter.” He rested his hand on her shoulder as she shook her head. “He killed your uncle Michael.”
“No,” she said. “You’re lying. You said the police killed Vincie Caffola. You’re twisting things the way you always do.”
McGinty brushed hair away from her forehead. “It’s the truth, Marie. You can put your act on for everyone else, but I know you. You’re more like your uncle than you let on. You’ve got that same cold streak in you, like stone. And now you’ve latched onto Gerry Fegan. What are you using him for? It’s the same as the cop, isn’t it? Just a way to get back at me.” He sighed. “You always went for the wrong type, didn’t you?”
Her gaze dropped. “Let me go back inside.”
“All right,” McGinty said. He stood upright and helped her to her feet. “Away you go.”
Marie wiped her eyes as she went back to the farmhouse. She was silhouetted in the doorway for just a second. A second was long enough for the light to find Campbell. He ducked his head back inside the barn.
“Davy?” McGinty called. “Davy, is that you?”
Campbell screwed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. He stepped out into the yard. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. McGinty.”
McGinty took a slow step closer. “What are you doing there?”
“It stinks in that house. I was just out getting some air.”
“In the barn?”
“I heard talking. I thought you’d want some privacy.”
A step closer. “What’d you hear?”
“Nothing,” Campbell said. “Just voices. Nothing I could make out.”
Light cut across the yard once more, only to be blocked by the hulking form of Bull O’Kane. He came trudging across the concrete, his heavy feet slapping on the ground.
“Come on back inside now, lads.”
McGinty stood still for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod. “We’re coming. I think you wanted a word with Davy, here, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.” A smile split O’Kane’s ruddy farmer’s face.
Campbell took a sideways step. “What about?”
O’Kane, impossibly quick for his size, had Campbell’s upper arm in his grip before he could move. “Just a word, son.”
McGinty came to his other side. “Just come inside, Davy.”
Campbell made one desperate grab for the gun tucked into the small of his back, but McGinty got his wrist first.
“Don’t, Davy.” McGinty’s voice was as soft and warm as the rain. “You’ll only make it worse.”
46
Bull O’Kane walked a slow and steady circle around the room, eyeing each of the other occupants in turn. He drew on his cigarette and hot fingers of smoke probed his throat. Pádraig took up almost half of the old couch while that idiot Coyle sat at the other end, grinning a lopsided grin. McGinty stood opposite, resting against the windowsill, smoking a cigarette. His driver had taken over from Coyle, keeping an eye on the woman and her child. O’Kane couldn’t read the politician’s face. He was a slippery bastard, that one. Always thinking, always finding the angles. O’Kane wouldn’t trust him for a second, but he was smart, there was no getting away from it. Lately, he’d been getting too smart. The balls of him, arguing with the Bull in front of the others.
Downey and Malloy were down the lane, waiting for Fegan. The regular boys had been sent home. This was secret business, only for those who needed to know.
And there was Davy Campbell, standing alone at the center of the room, the Black Watch turncoat, the Scotsman fighting for Ireland. O’Kane wondered how he’d gotten away with it for so long. He stank of tout. You could smell it on his sweat. Any fucker could see it.
“You want to tell us something, Davy?” O’Kane ground the cigarette into the floorboards with his heel.
Campbell’s voice was steady, but his eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”
O’Kane continued to circle, keeping Campbell fixed in his gaze. “Just what I said. Do you have something to tell us? Anything on your mind?”
