Fegan shook his hand. “George Ferris,” he said. His left hand went to the abrasion on his temple and smoothed his hair over it. “I had a fall.”
Marie stared at Fegan for a beat, then said, “Mary Ferris.” She indicated her daughter. “Ellen,” she said. That lie would be too hard to maintain.
Taylor shook Marie’s hand. “Just knock the window in the morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fed even if Hopkirk’s not up to it.” He leaned forward on his stool, winked, and whispered, “Besides, I’m a better cook.”
Beyond the shuttered window the sea whispered and moaned. In the near-blackness, Fegan could hardly see the six shadows. But he could hear them. When his eyes fell shut, his head nodding forward, the screaming began. And the baby crying. Somewhere across the room, Marie and Ellen lay together, clinging to each other in this new place. Now and then, Fegan heard the little girl whimper. Sleep seemed to come no easier to her than to him. The chair he rested on was well upholstered, and with his feet propped on Marie’s suitcase he was comfortable enough, even with the rippling pains in his gut.
Sweat chilled his forehead and his hand trembled as he wiped it away. The dry want at the back of his throat deepened as he thought of the bar downstairs, the bottles lined up like whores in a brothel. He imagined the warmth of whiskey on his tongue and the coolness of stout on his lips.
Marie’s steady breathing formed a counterpoint to the waves rolling on the beach outside. Fegan’s own breath fell into step with hers as his mind wandered. His thoughts drifted from memory to memory - places and people, some bright and summery, others grey and haggard. He thought of the days before the bad times, before he knew not all fathers acted like that. About his mother and the warmth of her arms. About a goal drawn in chalk on a gable wall, and five boys kicking a ball at it, laughing, running, pushing, bare-backed on an August evening. About a girl called Julie who lived not far away but might as well have been from a different country. She shared a bag of toffees with Fegan, and her father beat her senseless for running with the likes of him. As his head rolled forward, he remembered her words and the purple swelling on her lip.
You’re the other sort
, she said.
Daddy says I can’t be friends with you.
He was falling head first into the dark when the cop started screaming, pulling him back. The others emerged from the black and joined in, dragging Fegan into wakefulness. Ellen stirred on the old bed, tiny cries escaping her. Fegan’s head felt so heavy, like sodden clay. He’d given them the priest. Couldn’t they leave him be?
No. The RUC man wanted his price paid. Fegan saw him, closest of the six, walking the floor.
“All right,” Fegan whispered to the dark. “Tomorrow night. Please, I’ll do it tomorrow night. Just give me a little quiet. Just a couple of hours.”
The RUC man hovered for a moment, then lost himself in the shadows. Ellen gave a cry so small Fegan might only have imagined it.
“But I don’t want to dream,” he said. “Don’t let me dream.”
He searched the blackness for them, for some assurance they would protect him from the horrors that waited in his mind. The woman stepped out of the dark and brought her forefinger to her lips.
“Thank you,” Fegan whispered.
He closed his eyes.
32
Edward Hargreaves was breathless when he answered his phone. The treadmill whirred under his feet. Two miles in less than twenty minutes - not bad. His good mood evaporated when the woman’s voice told him it was the Chief Constable on the line.
“Go ahead,” she chirped.
“Good morning, Minister,” Pilkington said.
“Christ, what now?” Hargreaves asked. He felt no inclination to feign conviviality. It was too perfect a morning to be spoiled by this oik. His top-floor Belgravia apartment afforded him a delightful view of the small private park surrounded by Cadogan Place. The single perk of this job was a top-notch London pad. So far he’d been able to prevent his wife seeing the inside of it. The desiccated old shrew would never cross its threshold if he had anything to say about it. Steam drifted in from the en-suite bathroom, where his new acquaintance was washing the sweat from her sculpted back. No, his wife would never visit this apartment and ruin the only good thing about his rotten job.
“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.”