Shot once in the head, once in the heart.”
“Fegan?”
“Most likely, Minister. But that’s not the worst of it.”
Hargreaves walked out of the bedroom to the large split-level lounge, rubbing the center of his forehead with his knuckles. The ornamental silver tea service was gone. “Christ.”
“The car he was found in belongs to Patrick Columbus Toner,” the Chief Constable said.
And the silver candlesticks from the fireplace. He’d only been in the bathtub for ten minutes. She’d said she’d join him in five, and he gave her another five to show he wasn’t entirely desperate for her. But the wallet. Oh God, the wallet. “Who’s Patrick . . . er . . . what was his name?”
“Patsy Toner to his friends. He’s Paul McGinty’s solicitor, and a prominent activist. Calls himself a human- rights lawyer. There’s a team searching the area for him now.”
Hargreaves couldn’t bring his mind from one calamity to the other. The girl had his wallet. It wasn’t just the cash, only a few hundred pounds after all, but the cards, his identification, his pass for the Commons, for Christ’s sake. The tabloids would pay a fortune for them and he’d be demolished.
And now this. A bloody lawyer, a McGinty lackey, and something about his car. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Pilkington cleared his throat. “Well, Minister, I should have thought the ramifications were clear. I wanted to do you the courtesy of letting you know straight away so that you and the Secretary could prepare your strategy.”
Hargreaves went to the powder-dusted coffee table where half a Monte Cristo No. 2 had rested in an antique crystal ashtray. Of course, the ashtray was gone, but the cigar remained. “Strategy?”
“Do I have to spell it out, Minister?”
“Please do.” Hargreaves clenched the cigar between his teeth and scanned the room for his gold Cartier lighter.
, he thought as he closed his eyes. She had good taste, there was no denying it.
Pilkington sounded perplexed. “Minister, the situation is very serious. I’m no politician, but even I can guess what’s going to happen when the news breaks.”
“Enlighten me.” Hargreaves flopped onto the leather couch. At least she couldn’t carry that.
“A police officer found executed in a car belonging to an associate of Paul McGinty? A party activist’s nearly- new Jaguar with a cop’s brains all over it? Things are delicate enough as they are, what with the trouble over the last few days. It doesn’t matter if Fegan did it, or Patsy Toner, or bloody Santa Claus. The Unionists will have a field day. Even the moderates on the other side will be screaming for blood. Frankly, it’ll be a miracle if you can hold Stormont together after this.”
“A miracle,” Hargreaves said. “Geoff, I am a government minister. I sign papers, I argue with civil servants, I bully backbenchers. I don’t perform miracles.”
“Perhaps it’s time you started, Minister. You inherited a house of cards, and you’ll need to move heaven and earth to stop it collapsing in the next few days.”
Hargreaves pictured the cards scattering in the wind. He wondered if he cared enough to chase after them.
Pilkington continued. “It may not be my place to advise you on such matters, but I think you should start pulling your staff together to see what you can salvage before, if you’ll pardon the expression, the shit hits the fan.”
“No, it’s not your place, Geoff.” Hargreaves lay down flat on the couch. The leather was cool against his cheek. “The Secretary and I have a department full of overeducated, overpaid clock-watchers and pencil-pushers to advise us.” He sighed. “I never wanted this job, you know.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s—”
“I wanted a Cabinet spot. Foreign Secretary would have been nice. Lots of travel. Or Trade and Investment.”
“We must do our—”
“Hard work, Trade and Investment, but the perks are good. Education, even. That’s a fucking thankless task, but it’s better than bloody Northern Ireland. And you volunteered to work there.”
Several seconds of barely audible hiss at Hargreaves’s ear passed before the Chief Constable gave a long, officious sniff.
“Some of us are cut out to meet a challenge, Minister, to face the demands of a difficult job. Some of us aren’t.”
Hargreaves raised his head from the leather cushion. “Pilkington?”
“Yes, Minister?”
“I don’t like you.”
“Likewise, Minister. Now, I’ll leave you in peace. I think you have a long night ahead of you.”
“Bastard.”
The phone died. Hargreaves wondered first what time it was, then where he’d left his watch. Oh yes, he’d left it on the mantelpiece. He stood, crossed the room, and looked at the empty spot beneath the mirror.
“Bitch,” he said.
43
