Campbell crossed to an alleyway between two houses. It opened to another alleyway that ran parallel to Calcutta Street, acting as a border between it and the rear of Mumbai Street. He crept along the wall, hugging the brickwork, counting gates as he passed enclosed yards. The paint on Fegan’s gate was flaked and blistered, and the wood shifted in its frame when Campbell pressed it with his fingertips. A firm kick would set it free, but he was wary of undue noise. He wasn’t keen on scaling the wall here, either. Fegan would only have to look out of a window to see him coming.
Instead, Campbell moved back along the alleyway until he was beyond sight of Fegan’s rear windows, two houses down, and hoisted himself over the yard wall. His soft-soled trainers made no noise as he lowered himself on the other side. He went to the house’s back wall and used a bin to climb over to the adjoining yard. A small dog yapped at him as he landed on a collection of pot plants. He cursed under his breath and kicked the little mutt away. Christ, he might as well have ridden up on an elephant.
Campbell moved fast in case the dog’s owner came to investigate. Sticking close to the wall, he peeked into Fegan’s yard. It was a simple weed-strewn concrete patch. Campbell threw his leg over the wall and let his body follow, dropping to a crouch on the other side. His back against the brickwork, he looked up at the kitchen window. The small upper pane was open. He would be able to reach in and down to open the lower latch and slip inside.
Like most old terraced homes in Belfast, the house was a two-up-two-down with an extended kitchen at the back and a bathroom built on top. Amid the dog’s frantic barks, Campbell heard a cough and splutter from the open bathroom window above. He pictured Fegan folded over the toilet bowl, retching up gobbets of congealed blood. He pushed up with his legs to peer through the kitchen window.
Empty.
Another cough, then a sniff, from above. Campbell grabbed the window frame and lifted himself up onto the sill. He reached under the small open pane and down to the lower latch. With a little fumbling, he was in.
Carefully, he maneuvered over the few dishes in the sink and gently lowered himself to the kitchen floor. His shoes barely made a sound as he moved across the linoleum, breathing through his mouth. The room was sparsely furnished and clean, apart from some hand tools arranged on a cloth. It opened onto a living room with a staircase to the left. A few pieces of shaped and polished wood sat shoulder to shoulder with a cheap radio and an empty whiskey bottle on the sideboard. More crude sculptures stood along the fireplace, and an old-looking guitar was propped in the corner.
Now he was inside, Campbell didn’t hesitate. He went to the foot of the stairs, treading lightly. Although his pistol nestled at the small of his back, he reached for the small Gerber knife in his inside pocket. Quiet would be better. He pressed the thumb stud and the blade, razor sharp and gleaming, snapped open. Fegan would die with barely a sound.
Campbell tried not to think of ripping flesh, the soft tearing sound of a blade parting meat and gristle. He ignored the racing of his heart and began his climb.
He placed his left foot at the outer edge of the bottom step and pushed upward, bringing his right foot to the far edge of the next so the boards wouldn’t flex under his weight. Not a single creak announced his ascent. He made his way upwards, his feet to the outside of each step, silent as a ghost.
The bathroom door was closed over, a shaft of light emerging from the crack, and Campbell heard miserable coughs and moans from the other side. Now, at the top of the stairs, he was at the mercy of hundred-year-old floorboards. He had to move quickly and decisively. He waited for another spasm of retching and spitting.
When it came he hit the door hard, his knife ready to open the first vein it found. Instead, it found air as it swung in a useless arc over an empty toilet bowl.
A cold hardness pressed against the skin beneath Campbell’s ear.
“Don’t move,” Gerry Fegan said.
28
Fegan listened to Campbell’s deep, steady breathing. The Scot stood primed, ready to move, the knife held before him.
“Don’t do it,” Fegan said. “I know you want to, but don’t. You’ll be dead before you move a finger.”
Campbell’s body rippled with coiled energy. Slowly, his shoulders slumped and the energy evaporated.
Fegan reached out and took the knife with his free hand. He folded the blade back into its grip with his thumb. It fitted neatly into his jacket pocket. He patted Campbell’s sides and back until he found a Glock 23 tucked into his waistband, underneath his denim jacket. Fegan heard the other man exhale as he removed it.
“Turn around slowly and sit on your hands,” Fegan said.
“Can I put the lid down?” Campbell asked.
Fegan increased the Walther’s pressure against Campbell’s ear. “Just do it,” he said.
Campbell reached forward and lowered the toilet lid. He turned and sat down, slipping his hands beneath his thighs.
“Under your arse,” Fegan said. “Palms down, thumbs to the back.” He watched Campbell shift from side to side until his hands were in position.
Campbell looked up at him. “What now?” he asked.
“We have a talk,” Fegan said, dropping the Glock into his pocket to clank against the knife. He kept his Walther trained on Campbell. As chilled as it was, his heart hit his sternum like a battering ram, and his temples pulsed. He blotted out everything else, every shadow at the corner of his vision, and focused on Campbell.
He’d known that someone would follow him from the police station, and he’d had a good idea it would be Campbell. During the taxi ride he saw the same Ford Focus too many times. When he got home, he went straight to his bedroom and retrieved the pistol before going to the bathroom. Fegan hadn’t faked the first retches. The water in the bowl was stained deep red, and strange aches turned in his belly. He hadn’t really expected Campbell to come into the house after him, but then he’d heard the little dog’s panicked barking from the back.
“What do you want to talk about?” Campbell’s reddish-brown mop spilled into his eyes and he flicked his head to clear it away.
