‘Why?’ Lennon asked, hunkering down. ‘Is there someone inside that’s going to help you if I bring you in?’
Murphy smiled, his face a grotesque caricature of sweetness. ‘As me ma used to say, that’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Is it Dan Hewitt?’
‘Who?’
‘Dan Hewitt. Special Branch. He told me Marie was flying in today, told me to meet her at the airport. He knew I’d probably bring her here. Did he tell you to be here waiting for us?’
‘Don’t know any Dan Hewitt.’
‘What about Gordon? DCI Roger Gordon.’
Murphy shrugged. ‘I don’t know any cops up here in the Black North.’
Lennon moved closer, levelled the Glock at Murphy’s forehead. He ignored the gasps from above. ‘Then who sent you here?’
Murphy smiled up at him. ‘Arrest me.’
‘Who sent you to kill Declan Quigley and Patsy Toner?’
Murphy’s smile broadened. ‘Arrest me, you Prod fucker.’ The shift on Lennon’s face gave him away. ‘You’re not a Prod? Jesus, a Catholic cop. Not even one of the new recruits. How long you been on the job?’
‘None of your business,’ Lennon said.
‘C’mon, how long? Ten years? Fifteen?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Before it was okay for Fenians to join up, anyway. Jesus, you must’ve been popular all over. I’m surprised you didn’t get your fucking brains blown out years ago by one side or the other. What’d your family make of it?’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Lennon said.
‘Touch a nerve there, did I?’
Lennon swallowed and pressed the pistol against Murphy’s temple. ‘Enough.’
Murphy grinned and another blood-streaked tear ran down his cheek. ‘What, you going to shoot me? Eh? You going to pull that trigger and spray my brains all over the steps with this crowd watching?’
‘Don’t push me.’
‘Like fuck you will,’ Murphy said. ‘Now fucking arrest me, you stupid cunt.’
Lennon sighed. ‘Give me your hands,’ he said.
Murphy held up his hands again, wrists together. Lennon grabbed the swollen one and twisted. Murphy screamed. Then he laughed. Lennon applied more pressure. Murphy screamed again.
‘Tell me who sent you here,’ Lennon said.
‘Fuck you,’ Murphy said between gasps. ‘Arrest me.’
Lennon twisted again. Murphy screamed and kicked at the concrete.
‘Who sent you here?’
Murphy spat in Lennon’s face. It tasted of blood. Lennon slammed the Glock’s butt into Murphy’s temple.
Quiet, then, all around.
Lennon found them in the Quiet Room with the chaplain. Marie held Ellen on her lap. Her mobile phone beeped as she thumbed it off.
‘Who were you calling?’ he asked.
‘No one,’ she said. ‘What happened? Are you okay? Who was that?’
The chaplain excused herself and left them alone
‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘He’s in custody. You’re safe now.’
‘Safe?’ Anger flashed in her eyes and she bared her teeth. ‘From who, for Christ’s sake? From what? From you?’
Lennon sat down beside her. ‘Marie, I—’
‘You were supposed to keep our daughter safe. How could you let that … bastard …’
The words trailed into sobs.
Lennon went to put a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it. He stood and said, ‘They’ll want a statement.’
57
The motel had a small coffee shop attached. Fegan had wanted to stay out of sight, but hunger got the better of him. He sat at a table in the back corner where he could watch the door.
‘What’ll it be?’ a waitress asked.
He studied the menu. Sandwiches mostly, all with cheese. He didn’t like cheese. Why did Americans put cheese on everything?
He pointed at the menu. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Turkey. But no cheese.’
‘Cook only works to lunchtime,’ the waitress said. ‘Sandwiches are all made up. Cheese is already on ’em.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘And water.’
From here he could see the afternoon traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike and the airport beyond, the control tower reaching towards the fading sun. Cutlery rattled as jets passed overhead, either ascending from or descending to Newark’s three runways.
While Fegan waited for his sandwich, he took the phone out of his pocket. He set it on the table and stared at the screen as if that would make it spring to life. It hadn’t hit the ground that hard, surely it couldn’t be completely destroyed. He turned it over, examined the casing, tried the power button again.
A boy at the next table watched. ‘Is it broke?’ the kid asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Fegan said. ‘I think it might be.’
The boy’s mother looked up from her limp salad. She gave Fegan a suspicious stare. He dropped his gaze back to the phone.
‘Did you drop it?’ the boy asked.
‘Yeah,’ Fegan lied.
‘Let me see,’ the kid said. ‘I can fix stuff.’
Fegan looked back to the mother. ‘Can he?’
She hesitated before nodding. ‘Aaron likes to fix things. Anything you can take apart, he can put it back together.’
The waitress brought his sandwich on a plate with a glass of water. Fegan handed the phone to Aaron. While the boy held the phone to the light, Fegan set about removing the cheese from his sandwich.
‘The casing’s loose,’ Aaron said.
Fegan took a bite. The bread was stale.
The boy popped the phone’s back off and a rectangular block dropped to the table. ‘See? The battery wasn’t in right. It must’ve got knocked out when you dropped it.’
Aaron picked up the block and slotted it in. He aligned the rear casing and popped it home, then grinned and handed it back. ‘Bet it works now,’ he said.
Fegan thumbed the power button, and the screen lit up. ‘You fixed it,’ he said.
‘Told you I could,’ Aaron said.
‘He told you,’ the mother said with a proud smile. She had freckles on her cheeks.
‘So he did,’ Fegan said. He returned her smile.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Paddy Feeney,’ Fegan said.
The phone vibrated in his hand. Fegan’s stomach clenched like a fist. The screen showed a text message. It said, ‘You have one new voicemail.’
‘Are you okay?’ the woman asked.
Fegan went to answer her, but realised he hadn’t been breathing. He coughed.
‘Drink some water,’ she said.
‘I need to go,’ Fegan said.
