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.”
“Lucky for you,” Hargreaves said. “Certain sacrifices might not have to be made after all.”
“My concern is the rule of law, sir, not politics.” Pilkington’s voice was hard against Hargreaves’s ear. “I’d have resigned before I let any of my men take the fall for Fegan’s actions.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Hargreaves said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The girl smiled sweetly as she toyed with the silver hairs on his chest.
33
In less than a minute, Paul McGinty transformed Patsy Toner’s office from a drab, efficient workspace into something resembling a landfill. Campbell watched the eruption from a chair in the corner. He had to fight the urge to laugh when McGinty upended Toner’s desk, leaving the solicitor sitting in the middle of the room with books, folders and sheets of paper scattered all around him. Campbell was relieved when the urge passed, sparing him the unbearable pain it would have ignited in his side.
When McGinty’s rage subsided he stood panting among the destruction. “Jesus,” he said. “Look what you made me do.”
“I’m sorry,” Toner said.
“Sorry?” McGinty slapped Toner hard across the ear. “Sorry? All you had to do was make sure she got on the plane, for fuck’s sake.”
Toner brought his hands up to shield himself. “She’d checked in and everything. I couldn’t go through the security gates to see what she did. Honest to God, I thought she was away.”
McGinty paced the room, his hands on his hips. “Well, now you know different, eh?” He pointed at Campbell. “And you, you’re no better. I had to phone the Bull to tell him his cousin was dead. You’re bloody lucky he didn’t tell me to do you.”
Campbell went to speak, but his damaged rib protested as he inhaled.
McGinty continued to pace. “I should’ve been talking to the press right now, showing off Eddie Coyle’s face. All that’s fucked. Father Coulter, a priest for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with Fegan?”
Campbell took a shallow breath. “I told you, he’s crazy.”
“Not so crazy that he couldn’t get the better of you.”
“Or maybe that’s
he got the better of me,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s stare. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up soon enough. He’s still got you to come after.”
