“And what do you think McGinty will do about it? Will he take Fegan out?” The handler sounded hopeful.
“I doubt it,” Campbell said. “Not yet, anyway. He’s still playing the angle that the cops got Caffola. He won’t want to do anything to distract the media from that.”
“What, then?”
“He’ll probably send one of his heavies to put the woman out.”
“Not her, I don’t care about her. What’ll he do about Fegan?”
“I’m not sure,” Campbell said. “He might let it go for now, but it’s only a matter of time. McGinty doesn’t let anyone cross him and get away with it. He’ll make Fegan pay sooner or later.”
“See if you can make it sooner, there’s a good lad,” the handler said. “We’ve got the Northern Ireland Office, the Chief Constable and the Minister of State breathing down our necks. They want it over before any more damage is done. If we can prove it was Fegan who did Caffola, not the police, so much the better.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Campbell said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa. He pulled the other phone from his pocket and dialled McGinty’s private number. The politician answered, and Campbell told him what he’d seen.
“Gerry will have to be dealt with,” McGinty said, “But not just yet. We’ll leave it until after Vincie’s funeral.”
“What about the woman?” Campbell asked.
“Let me worry about that,” McGinty said.
21
Fegan sat alone in McKenna’s, nursing a pint of Guinness while he watched Father Coulter down brandy at the bar. He knew the priest would be here. It was well known that Father Eammon Coulter only drank after weddings, christenings, first communions and funerals, but once he got started he would drink until he fell.
When he’d left Botanic Gardens, Fegan had gone straight to the derelict house on the next street to his, climbed into its back yard, and retrieved his Walther. Now it nestled at the small of his back. He kept it against the wall so no one could see.
The followers circled the room. They hadn’t left him all evening. Fegan’s temples buzzed with their presence, and a chill sat lodged at his center. The three Brits paid close attention to Father Coulter while the two UFF boys paced, opening and closing their fists.
A cheer rang through the bar as Eddie Coyle entered, escorted by Patsy Toner. The lawyer still wore his black suit from McKenna’s funeral. Coyle’s left eye was swollen shut and a gauze pad covered a wound on his brow. “Fuck off,” he shouted at the drinkers.
“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink,” Toner said.
Coyle did as he was told, taking a seat two tables away from Fegan. He cursed quietly to himself for a full minute before he raised his head.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“You,” Fegan said.
“Well, you can fuck off, too.” Coyle couldn’t hold Fegan’s gaze. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.
“Jesus, calm down, Eddie,” Toner said as he carried two pints back to the table. He rolled his eyes at Fegan and shook his head.
“Calm down?” Coyle pointed to his face. “Look at the cut of me, for Christ’s sake. That cunt’s going to get it, Patsy. I don’t care what McGinty says.”
Toner pointed at the door. “Go on, then. Go and get him. Then you can go and tell McGinty what you did and see what he says.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Coyle said, reaching for his beer.
“Get who?” Fegan asked.
Coyle set his pint back on the table, letting it spill over his fingers. “What’s it to you?”
“Jesus, Eddie, settle yourself,” Toner said. He turned to answer Fegan. “Davy Campbell’s back in town. Him and Eddie had a run-in this afternoon.”
The two UFF boys drifted to Toner’s table, suddenly showing interest in the little man’s words. The hairs on Fegan’s forearms bristled beneath his sleeves. “I thought he was with McSorley’s lot these days.”
“Looks like he had a change of heart,” Toner said. “He phoned me up last night, said he wanted to come back to Belfast. He’s a good lad, so I squared it with McGinty this morning.”
“He’s a cunt,” Coyle said.
“Aw, give over,” Toner said. “You shouldn’t pick fights with boys you can’t take. Now, quit mouthing about it, will you?”
Coyle muttered something under his breath and got back to drinking his beer. Over at the bar, Father Coulter got ready to go.
“Och, come on, Father, you’ll have another wee one,” one of the young men who drank with the priest said.
“No, no, no,” Father Coulter said, waving away the offered glass. “I’ve had quite enough. It’s way past my bedtime, so God bless you all the same, but I must go.”
He shuffled away from the bar, turning in circles as he struggled to find the sleeve of his overcoat. The young man helped him on with it and guided him to the door. Shadows followed.
