“Some. Our colleagues have sent a man in to see what’s going on.”

“And?” Hargreaves asked, impatient. The car advanced another five feet closer to Downing Street. “I’m meeting the Secretary and the PM shortly, and I need something to tell them. Was it this Fegan character?”

“We simply don’t know, Minister. Circumstances point to him, but McGinty says otherwise. He says the Lithuanians got McKenna, and my men got Caffola.”

Did

your men get him?” Hargreaves asked. He knew the answer, but found amusement in irking the Chief Constable.

“Certainly not, Minister. He’s using it for propaganda, trying to better his position in the party by grabbing headlines. He gave a speech a couple of hours ago saying he’ll recommend the party withdraws its support for the PSNI if some of my men don’t swing for it. The brass neck, as if it was up to him.”

Hargreaves couldn’t help but smile at Pilkington’s predicament. “Yes, I’ve got a transcript in front of me now. He’s a clever bastard, that McGinty. And the Unionists are already making noises about walking away from Stormont. This needs to be nipped in the bud, Chief Constable. If our man can’t get to the bottom of it, you’ll have to be prepared for sacrifices.”

A second or two of silence passed before Pilkington said, “Are you suggesting I allow my men to be charged with Caffola’s killing when I know they’re innocent? Minister, let me make it clear: I will not throw good police officers to the wolves for the sake of political expediency. If you think—”

“How noble of you,” Hargreaves interrupted. “Political expediency is our stock in trade, Geoff; you should know that better than anyone. How many little transgressions have you let slide to keep the wheels turning, hmm? How many robberies have gone unsolved on your watch for want of a little effort? How many punishment beatings have been ignored for the sake of a quiet life?”

“Minister, I really don’t—”

“Don’t lecture me about expediency, Geoff.” Hargreaves felt his smile stretch his dry lips. “How many of your men would be standing trial if not for expediency?”

Pilkington sniffed. “I won’t dignify that with an answer, Minister.”

“Sacrifices,” Hargreaves said. “Everyone must make sacrifices for the greater good. Keep me informed.”

He hung up without waiting for a response.

18

Davy Campbell stood at the bar, alone, conscious of being the only man here not wearing a black suit. The sideways glances had started as soon as he entered McKenna’s, murmurs passing from person to person, heads nodding in his direction. They recognised him; they knew he was the one who had drifted to the dissidents in Dundalk. He waited for a challenge, some demand to know what he was doing back in Belfast. None came, perhaps out of respect for the departed. Had he been a stranger, he would have been tackled within seconds of entering. This wasn’t the sort of pub you just dropped into for a quick drink as you passed by. Peace only went so far.

The late Michael McKenna’s bar might have been a dive, a place for lowlifes to swill, but there was no denying they served a decent pint. Campbell raised the pint of dark Smithwick’s ale to his mouth, and its cool smoothness slicked the back of his throat.

“You’ve some fucking nerve, boy.”

Campbell didn’t turn his head. Eddie Coyle’s reflection stared back at him from the grubby mirror behind the bar. He stood a full six inches shorter than Campbell, his thinning blond hair standing in tufts above his round face. Campbell wiped foam from his beard.

“What are you doing here?” Coyle asked. “You get fed up playing toy soldiers with them cunts in Dundalk?”

“Something like that,” Campbell said.

Coyle stepped closer. “What, you think now Michael’s gone you can just waltz back in?”

“I’m just having a pint, Eddie, all right?” Campbell turned to face Coyle. “You want to have one with me, dead on. If not, then fuck off out of my face.”

Coyle’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”

“You heard me.” Campbell placed his glass on the bar.

A smile crept along Coyle’s lips, wrinkling his blotchy cheeks. “Did you just tell me to fuck off?”

“I think that was the gist of it, Eddie, yes.” Campbell smiled. “If you don’t want to take a drink with me, then fuck off. Clear enough?”

He was aware of the punch coming even before the man who threw it. Campbell had learned many years ago that to best a man in a physical struggle, all one need do is keep one’s balance while throwing the other’s. Coyle made the simple error of sacrificing balance for power, and all Campbell had to do was raise his left forearm, guiding that power past him, and Coyle’s weight would follow. Like so.

Coyle sprawled into a line of bar stools and landed on his back, cursing. He found his feet and came again. Once more, Campbell diverted the blow, sending Coyle to mash his chest against the bar. Coyle turned, ready to swing again, but Campbell was quicker. He got hold of Coyle’s blond hair with his left hand and formed a fist with his right. He slammed it into Coyle’s upturned face until his knuckles were slick with red. Campbell released his grip on Coyle’s hair to let his chin bounce off the bar with a satisfying thump.

The rest came at him then. Campbell didn’t know how many, but a wall of black-suited men collapsed on him. He felt one hand grab his hair, another his ear, while a pair gripped the lapels of his denim jacket. The fists raining down on him blocked one another, rendering them all but harmless, as he brought his forearms up to cover himself.

“Hey, hey, hey!” A small body squeezed itself between Campbell and the angry mob. “Leave him! He’s with me.”

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