The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1

by Stuart Neville

  “What’s going on?” Caffola stepped away from the wall.

  Fegan found what he needed and stood upright. “I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t be sure if he was apologising to the UDR men or to Caffola. Maybe both. He walked towards the other man.

  Caffola backed away, his hands up. “What are you doing, Gerry?”

  “What someone should have done years ago.”

  Backed into the deepest corner of the alley, Caffola could go no further. “It

  was

  you, wasn’t it? You did McKenna.”

  “That’s right,” Fegan said as he raised the brick over his head. In what remained of the evening light, he saw the other man’s eyes flash in realisation. Before he could bring the brick down, Caffola launched himself forward, his shoulder ramming into Fegan’s chest.

  They hit the ground hard, and Caffola’s weight crushed the air out of Fegan’s lungs. The brick rattled against the wall. Their legs tangled as Caffola scrambled to his feet and he fell again, this time at Fegan’s side. Fegan pulled at the other’s jacket, trying to get a firm grip, and he heard the tearing of cloth. Caffola swung his elbow back, catching Fegan’s cheek. For a moment he was free and managed to find his feet before Fegan grabbed his ankles, bringing him down again.

  There was a loud, sickly crunch as Caffola tried to break his fall, instead breaking his wrist. His scream echoed through the alley. Fegan straddled his back, reached for the brick, and raised it above his head once more. Caffola craned his neck around and gave one last cry before Fegan drove the brick into his temple.

  Fegan felt Caffola go limp beneath him, and he threw the brick towards the followers. They stepped aside as it bounced into the darkness. The two UDR men approached and hunkered down so they were at eye level with Fegan. They aimed at Caffola’s broken head. Blood coursed from the wound on the bald man’s temple, and his glassy eyes fluttered as he moaned.

  “All right,” Fegan said. He leaned down and pinched Caffola’s nose between his gloved fingers, covering his mouth with his palm. He let his weight settle on the other man’s back and, as the body began to jerk, Fegan squeezed tighter. A slick wet heat covered his gloved hand as Caffola began to vomit again, and Fegan applied yet more pressure. At last, he felt Caffola’s life slip away beneath him.

  Fegan closed his eyes and searched his heart, looking for some sense of what he’d just done. He found nothing but the cold hollowness of his wishes.

  He took his hand away from Caffola’s face, letting the vomit spill onto the ground. The rank odor and the warmth on his palm reached down to his stomach.

  Turn away and be quiet

  , he thought. He looked up at the followers. The woman stepped forward, carrying her baby, her floral dress pretty in the gloaming. She nodded and gave Fegan her small, sad smile.

  The two UDR men were gone. Nine followers remained.

  “Who’s next?” Fegan asked.

  NINE

  12

  Campbell stared at the ceiling, his heart thundering, wondering what had woken him. He was a light sleeper - he needed to be - and the slightest stirring could rouse him. His mobile rang again, and he knew what had pulled him to waking. He reached over to the bedside locker and grabbed the phone. He squinted at its little display. Number withheld, it said. His heart rammed against his breastbone.

  He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Come in,” an English-accented voice said.

  “Now?” he asked, keeping the hope from his voice. “I’ve just got my way in here.”

  “Change of plan,” the voice said. “This is urgent. Number one priority. That’s from the top.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Armagh. There’s a car park by a chapel, opposite the council buildings. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it.” Campbell swung his legs out of bed. He rubbed his face, his beard prickling his palm. “There’s cameras all over that place.”

  “They’ll be looking the other way.”

  “Fucking better be. When?”

  “An hour.”

  “I’m in Dundalk. I’ve got to get packed up, get out of here, get my car, and there’s roadworks—”

  “An hour.” The phone died.

  “Fuck,” Campbell said.

  His clothes lay on the floor where he’d thrown them the night before. He dressed quickly and quietly. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, its doors hanging at odd angles. He took a holdall from inside and stuffed it with the few garments he owned. His mobile and a set of keys were the only personal items remaining. Pocketing them, he stepped out onto the landing.

  Gurgling snores came from the adjoining room. He pushed the door open and looked inside. Eugene McSorley lay sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, a beer can still in his hand.

  Campbell wondered if he’d ever come back and finish what he’d started here. It had taken months to bring this about, to work his way into the gang. So far it had come to nothing. But still, McSorley might make a nuisance of himself if someone didn’t keep tabs on him.

  An idea flashed in Campbell’s mind. He could cross the room and silently dispose of McSorley. It would be so easy just to kneel on his chest and put the correct pressure on his throat. He gave it a few seconds’ thought.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and moved away from the door. He descended the stairs and let himself out. The sun was only beginning to creep above the houses opposite as he climbed into the old Ford Fiesta. Its tired, wheezy engine coughed into life and he pulled away, heading for the port where his own car, his real car, was safely locked away.

  Fifty-two minutes after his phone woke him, Campbell steered his BMW Z4 Coupé into the car park by the chapel. Its engine burbled as he pulled alongside the anonymous Ford Mondeo. Like his own car, the Mondeo’s windows were tinted, obscuring its occupants from casual glances. He could just make out the shapes of two men in the front seats. His shadow stretched long in the early sunlight as he climbed out of the BMW. Armagh’s cathedrals loomed over the small town, reminding him it was actually a city. The man in the Mondeo’s driver’s seat reached across and opened its rear door.

  Campbell lowered himself in and said, “Let me guess. McKenna, right?”

  The two men exchanged glances. The one in the driver’s seat, the handler, passed Campbell a palmtop computer displaying a photograph of two men. It was poorly lit, but he could make them out, standing on a street corner.

  “You know them?” the handler asked.

  “Yeah,” Campbell said. He swallowed his confusion and focused. “Gerry Fegan and Vincie Caffola.”

  “Tell us about them.”

  Campbell thought about it for a moment. “Gerry Fegan’s from before my time, but he’s a legend. Everybody talked about him in Belfast. A vicious bastard. He did twelve years. Last I heard, he was hitting the bottle pretty hard. Sits and talks to himself while he gets pissed, apparently.”

  The handler looked back over his shoulder. “And Caffola?”

  “He’s an animal. Thick as pig shit, but dangerous.”

  “Not any more, he’s not. He’s dead,” the handler said. “His body was found in an alley last night. He had a broken wrist and a gash on his temple, but not enough to kill him. Early reports say he most likely passed out, then choked on his own vomit. There’ll be a post-mortem this morning.”

  “Fuck me,” Campbell said. He felt his calm mask slip. He caught it and wetted his upper lip.

  “You’ve heard about Michael McKenna’s demise, obviously.”

  Campbell smiled. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fella.”

  The man in the passenger seat spoke for the first time. “It’s no laughing matter,” he said. “This is going to cause some major problems for us.”

  Public school

  , Campbell thought. The handler was Army, maybe even ex-SAS, going by his haircut and the scars on his face. He’d seen action. But this other was government. Northern Ireland Office, prob
ably, one of the bureaucrats who’d run this place when it was too busy fighting to run itself. Chinless office clerks at the helm of a country drowning in its own blood.

  Not for much longer

  , Campbell thought.

  “I don’t need to tell you how delicate the situation is,” Public School continued. “The political process is on the right track, at last, but it’s as fragile as ever. We can’t afford any upsets, not with the money and time that’s been invested. Relations between McGinty’s faction and the party leadership have been strained enough as it is. We can’t have it turning into a feud. Have you seen any news this morning?”

  “No,” Campbell said. He hadn’t even turned on the car radio for the journey across the border.

  “Well, it’s not pretty. As soon as word got out Caffola was dead, what should have been a minor skirmish turned into a major riot. It only settled down in the last few hours. The leadership want to play it down, but our friend inside tells us McGinty is going to say the police did it, even if it’s proven to be an accident. He’ll make a song and dance about it at McKenna’s funeral today. He’ll make out Caffola was beaten by the police, then left to choke to death in an alley. We’re told he’ll threaten to withdraw support for the PSNI, even though the party hasn’t approved it. He wants to stir up some headlines for himself, show the party leadership he’s not going to be sidelined. Problem is, talk like that will rattle the Unionists. If they think the party wants to back out of policing, they might walk away from Stormont, and the Assembly will collapse. Again.”

  “And you’re sure the cops didn’t do it?” Campbell thought it was a reasonable question.

  “We’re not sure of anything,” Public School said.

  “So, where does Gerry Fegan fit into this?” Campbell asked, thinking of the tall, thin man he’d met only once. It was on an industrial estate north-west of Belfast, and it had been bloody. He thought about it as seldom as possible.

  “That’s what we need you to find out,” the handler said. “Fegan was the last person to see McKenna alive. It seems he was also the last to see Caffola. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Why don’t you nab him, then?”

  “He was questioned last night,” the handler said. “Said he and Caffola got split up when they were running from the police.”

  Campbell snorted. “And you think he’s above telling lies?”

  “Our friend inside says McGinty believes him. Fegan’s been keeping his head down for years. There’s no reason he would turn on his friends now. Besides, there’s nothing to actually tie him to McKenna’s killing. All evidence says he was at home at the time, piss-drunk.”

  “Then who did kill McKenna?” Campbell leaned forward, following the blood-scent.

  “McKenna was dealing with a Lithuanian, Petras Adamkus, on some people trafficking. A very shady character. The leadership had got wind of it and were putting pressure on McGinty to nix it. The last contact anyone had with McKenna was when he phoned a barman and told him he was meeting someone on business at the docks. Next thing we know, McKenna’s brains are all over his windscreen, and Mr. Adamkus is nowhere to be found.”

  “But you’re not satisfied with that,” Campbell said.

  “No, we’re not,” the handler said. “On the surface it looks like the party cleaned up their own mess over McKenna and Adamkus, and it suits them to blame the police for Caffola’s death. We know Caffola wasn’t happy with the political end of things, particularly the party supporting law and order. The party won’t tolerate dissent in the ranks. They’ve done it in the past, taking out one of their own and blaming the security forces or the Loyalists, so it would be par for the course. Still, something doesn’t add up.”

  “And you want me to find the missing pieces.” Campbell sat back, burying a peal of excitement deep inside himself.

  Public School shot the handler a condescending smile. “You said he was bright,” he said, his voice oily. He peered around the headrest at Campbell. “We need you to go back to Belfast, tell them you’re not happy with the dissidents, that you want to come back into the fold. See what you can find out about Fegan. If he’s behind it, deal with him. Or tip the party off and let them do the honors.”

  “They’ll tell me to fuck off,” Campbell said. “They know I was running with McSorley’s lot in Dundalk. McGinty won’t like it. Have you no other mug to do it?”

  He knew the answer.

  “We’ve never had an agent as close to McGinty as you,” Public School said. “Our friend inside will smooth things over for you. Besides, if I’m correctly informed, Mr. McGinty owes you a pretty big favor. You’ll be welcomed with open arms. Trust me.”

  “Not for a second,” Campbell said.

  Public School gave him a hard look. “There’ll be a generous bonus, of course. Fifteen thousand for going in. Another fifteen if you’re able to resolve matters to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  Campbell looked from Public School to the handler and back again. “Twenty-five first, twenty-five after. And I want what I’m owed for Dundalk. It wasn’t my decision to leave.”

  “You’re a mercenary bastard, aren’t you?” Public School said, smiling. “All right. I’m sure you’ll give us our money’s worth.”

  “Every penny,” Campbell said. He tried not to picture Gerry Fegan’s blood-spattered face or the bodies at his feet.

  13

  Fegan stood among the gravestones, sweat drawing cool lines down his back. It had been the warmest spring he could remember. Black Mountain loomed over the graveyard, its craggy slopes bright and hard in the May sunlight. Father Coulter droned on by the graveside amid polite coughs and gentle weeping.

  Fegan looked around the cemetery. It was a decent turnout, a few hundred, but not as many as he’d expected. Some had chosen to stay away. Fegan had heard grumblings, loud whispers, as the mourners gathered. Some called it an insult, a slap in the face. Certain men, certain politicians, should have been here to bear the coffin, to stand solemn-faced by the graveside. Their absence glared like a sore.

  As Fegan scanned the crowds he watched for a flash of ash-blonde hair, a long and slender frame. She was here somewhere, but she was keeping her distance. And why did he care?

  “God knows,” he whispered to himself.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck. His eyes were dry and heavy, and his skull was full of sand. The cops had kept him until nine this morning and he’d had barely two hours’ sleep before he’d had to get up for the funeral. He savored the peace, but it didn’t last long enough.

  A haze of pain hovered around his temples, and shadows moved at the edge of his vision. He pushed them away. In this place, among these people, the shadows were sure to gather and pick out the living. Fegan was certain of it, and wondered how long he could hold them back.

  Luck had been with him so far. But then, he’d always been lucky when it came to killing. He had a knack for it. Last night’s riot had provided the perfect cover. If his luck held, it would even look like an accident. He had stashed the brick deep inside a bin five streets away, and then found the makeshift petrol-bomb factory. He took one of the bottles and used the fuel it contained to burn the gloves.

  He had returned to the Springfield Road, wanting to be seen there, away from Caffola’s body. McGinty was already negotiating with a senior police officer in view of the cameras, the man of peace restoring order to the troubled streets once more. Not for long, though. As soon as cops searching for petrol bombs discovered Caffola’s body, all hell broke loose.

  Fegan spent the rest of the night in the company of the police. Their questioning had been half-hearted and perfunctory. They did not grieve over the loss of Vincie Caffola, and Fegan doubted they would expend much effort on the investigation. He left the station unafraid of being charged with Caffola’s killing.

  Now, in the windswept graveyard, he covered his mouth to yawn. The pressure increased in his hea
d and he shuffled his feet for balance. Chills washed through him, and he wrapped his arms tight around his midsection.

  Father Coulter’s service over, it was time for politics. A platform stood by the grave, and two men took up position holding a banner that read

  Building for Peace, Building for the Future

  . Another man joined them, holding a portable amplifier with a microphone. Fegan’s stomach churned, knowing who would follow.

  Paul McGinty, fifty-five years old, tall and handsome, stepped up to the podium. Low whispers crept through the crowd; it should have been one of the party leaders up there, eulogising the departed. Instead, McGinty faced the mourners, his countenance grim. The breeze tousled his hair as he waved for the applause to stop. The assistant raised the microphone to McGinty’s mouth.

  He greeted the assembly in forced Irish, as was the custom. Some embraced Ireland’s native tongue, others did not. Fegan didn’t care for words, English or Irish, so it meant little to him.