All four walked back to the van in silence. When the woman and her child were safely in the vehicle’s cabin, Coyle closed the passenger door and turned to Campbell.
“Would you have done it?” he asked.
Campbell started limping towards the driver’s side.
Coyle came after him and tugged his sleeve. “Would you have done it?”
Campbell returned his stare. “We need to get moving,” he said.
40
A sweep of headlights illuminated the inside of the Jaguar. Toner lifted his head from the misted glass, cradling his swollen hand. “That’s him,” he said.
Fegan could just make out a Volkswagen Passat through the condensation. A tall, broad man emerged from it and limped towards the Jaguar. Anderson. Fegan lowered himself in the seat behind Toner and listened to the solicitor’s shallow breathing. The passenger door opened and a wash of cool air swept though the car, chilling Fegan’s damp brow. The Jaguar rocked lazily on its suspension as the cop’s weight settled in.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Anderson asked.
Toner didn’t answer, instead whining with terror.
“You look like shit. What happened to your hand? Have you pissed yourself ?”
“I . . . I . . . I ...”
“Listen, Patsy, what the fuck’s going on? I left the wife at the restaurant. She’s going to go through me for a short cut, so whatever’s going on, you better—”
Fegan sat upright and raised the Walther.
“Fuck me!” Anderson grabbed for his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. Fegan was ready for it; all cops carried Personal Protection Weapons. The cop swung his arm around the passenger seat and Fegan grabbed his wrist, forcing Anderson’s aim to the rear window.
“Oh, Jesus!” Toner curled into a ball, burying his head in his arms.
Beads of sweat broke on Anderson’s brow as he struggled with Fegan, fighting to regain control of the pistol. The little gun boomed in the confined space and Fegan felt the bullet zip past his ear.
The noise set Toner moving and he opened his door, spilling out onto the ground. Fegan heard a scream as he landed, then the scrabbling of feet. He let his stare leave the cop’s face for a moment to see Toner disappear between the derelict buildings.
Fegan raised the Walther to Anderson’s forehead, but still the cop fought him. The revolver fired again and Fegan felt glass shower his back. He threw his weight against Anderson’s arm, keeping the cop’s wrist in his grip, and pushed with his feet against the Jaguar’s door. The passenger seat made a fulcrum for leverage, and Fegan pushed with everything he had. He gritted his teeth, blood rushing to his head with the effort, until he felt the sudden jolt of Anderson’s shoulder dislocating. The gun disappeared into the footwell behind the passenger seat and Anderson howled until his voice cracked.
“Sit still,” Fegan said, a sudden clarity swelling in him.
Anderson squirmed, kicking at the Jaguar’s dashboard.
“I said sit still.”
The cop gave another hoarse cry before turning to face Fegan from the passenger seat. “Oh, Christ, what do you want?”
“You,” Fegan said.
He screamed again when Fegan released his arm to flop uselessly between the seats. His legs writhed and his face turned from red to purple. At last, his screaming died and his breathing levelled. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry about the beating. Patsy told me to. McGinty’s . . . McGinty’s orders.”
Fegan looked to the RUC man who leaned against the windscreen, peering in. His eyes blazed with savage joy. The car’s interior lighting glared, picking out the sweat on Anderson’s contorted face, glinting on his gritted teeth. The RUC man would see everything, just like his son had.
“You remember the RUC man you sold out?”
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Do you remember?”
Anderson shook his head. “I . . . I . . . Which one?”
“That’s right.” Fegan smiled. “You sold lots of them, didn’t you? How much did you get for them?”
Anderson opened and closed his mouth, shaking his head. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Fegan kicked the arm still hanging between the seats. When Anderson’s screaming faded, Fegan asked, “How much?”
“It depended . . . who they were.”
“How much for a constable? Just an ordinary peeler. How much for one of them?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know . . . a few thousand . . . please, don’t . . .”
“Think back. Do you remember one from 1982? It would have been the start of February. It had been snowing. I killed him in front of his kid.”
Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, his breath was ragged. “At the school? I remember. Yeah, I remember. What was his name? Oh, Jesus, what was his name?”
