McGinty crouched down. “For Christ’s sake, Marie, he’s insane. He’s sick in the head.”
“Sick? Is he any more sick than you, or that thug O’Kane?” She pointed to the farmhouse.
“Don’t you know what he’s done? He killed a cop in Belfast just a couple of hours ago. He killed Vincie Caffola and Father Coulter.” He rested his hand on her shoulder as she shook her head. “He killed your uncle Michael.”
“No,” she said. “You’re lying. You said the police killed Vincie Caffola. You’re twisting things the way you always do.”
McGinty brushed hair away from her forehead. “It’s the truth, Marie. You can put your act on for everyone else, but I know you. You’re more like your uncle than you let on. You’ve got that same cold streak in you, like stone. And now you’ve latched onto Gerry Fegan. What are you using him for? It’s the same as the cop, isn’t it? Just a way to get back at me.” He sighed. “You always went for the wrong type, didn’t you?”
Her gaze dropped. “Let me go back inside.”
“All right,” McGinty said. He stood upright and helped her to her feet. “Away you go.”
Marie wiped her eyes as she went back to the farmhouse. She was silhouetted in the doorway for just a second. A second was long enough for the light to find Campbell. He ducked his head back inside the barn.
“Davy?” McGinty called. “Davy, is that you?”
Campbell screwed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. He stepped out into the yard. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. McGinty.”
McGinty took a slow step closer. “What are you doing there?”
“It stinks in that house. I was just out getting some air.”
“In the barn?”
“I heard talking. I thought you’d want some privacy.”
A step closer. “What’d you hear?”
“Nothing,” Campbell said. “Just voices. Nothing I could make out.”
Light cut across the yard once more, only to be blocked by the hulking form of Bull O’Kane. He came trudging across the concrete, his heavy feet slapping on the ground.
“Come on back inside now, lads.”
McGinty stood still for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod. “We’re coming. I think you wanted a word with Davy, here, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.” A smile split O’Kane’s ruddy farmer’s face.
Campbell took a sideways step. “What about?”
O’Kane, impossibly quick for his size, had Campbell’s upper arm in his grip before he could move. “Just a word, son.”
McGinty came to his other side. “Just come inside, Davy.”
Campbell made one desperate grab for the gun tucked into the small of his back, but McGinty got his wrist first.
“Don’t, Davy.” McGinty’s voice was as soft and warm as the rain. “You’ll only make it worse.”
46
Bull O’Kane walked a slow and steady circle around the room, eyeing each of the other occupants in turn. He drew on his cigarette and hot fingers of smoke probed his throat. Padraig took up almost half of the old couch while that idiot Coyle sat at the other end, grinning a lopsided grin. McGinty stood opposite, resting against the windowsill, smoking a cigarette. His driver had taken over from Coyle, keeping an eye on the woman and her child. O’Kane couldn’t read the politician’s face. He was a slippery bastard, that one. Always thinking, always finding the angles. O’Kane wouldn’t trust him for a second, but he was smart, there was no getting away from it. Lately, he’d been getting too smart. The balls of him, arguing with the Bull in front of the others.
Downey and Malloy were down the lane, waiting for Fegan. The regular boys had been sent home. This was secret business, only for those who needed to know.
And there was Davy Campbell, standing alone at the center of the room, the Black Watch turncoat, the Scotsman fighting for Ireland. O’Kane wondered how he’d gotten away with it for so long. He stank of tout. You could smell it on his sweat. Any fucker could see it.
“You want to tell us something, Davy?” O’Kane ground the cigarette into the floorboards with his heel.
Campbell’s voice was steady, but his eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”
O’Kane continued to circle, keeping Campbell fixed in his gaze. “Just what I said. Do you have something to tell us? Anything on your mind?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
O’Kane kicked the back of his knee. Campbell went down hard, his kneecap cracking off the wooden floor. He cried out, then grabbed for his side, his face reddening.
“We’re not fucking about here, Davy. No games.”
O’Kane could have told him he’d live if he spoke the truth, but Campbell wasn’t stupid. The Scot would know he was dead if he let the lie slip. He would string it out, hoping they’d eventually believe him. But O’Kane was certain of his facts. That stuck-up English ponce from the Northern Ireland Office was getting a holiday home in the Algarve for this information, along with a significant contribution to his retirement fund. Anyone in the NIO knew Bull O’Kane was not to be lied to, not for any price. The information was solid. Now he wanted more.
“You tell me the truth,” the Bull said. “Stop your shite-talking and you’ll go easy. Tell me who else is touting
