Languid rain drops slithered down the farmhouse windows. A soft light burned inside. O’Kane pushed open a door into what had once been a kitchen.
“Wait out here,” he said to his son, and stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame.
There were three other men in the room. Tommy Downey from Crossmaglen, thin and wiry with slicked-back hair, leaned against one wall. Kevin Malloy from Monaghan, thickset like O’Kane but a full twelve inches shorter, leaned against the other.
Downey pointed to the third man, who was seated in the middle of the room. “Here he is, boss.”
“Aye, so he is.”
O’Kane walked over to the man. The pillowcase over his head puffed out and in again as he breathed. His well-cut suit had red blotches on it.
“What’s this? Did he not come quietly?”
“Not really,” Malloy said.
O’Kane tutted. “That’s a shame.”
He reached out and plucked the pillowcase from the man’s head. The young man stared up at him. Blood congealed around his nose and mouth.
“Jesus, Martin, you’re sweating like a pig.”
Martin blinked.
“It’s an awful pity you wouldn’t listen to me, Martin. Now it’s come to this, and there was no call for it.”
Martin’s eyes brimmed. “What do you want?”
“I want to give you money. But you won’t take it from me. It’s mad, isn’t it? I want to give you two hundred grand and you’re slapping my hand away.”
“I told you to talk to my solicitor.”
O’Kane waved the idea away. “Jesus, solicitors? Fucking crooks, the lot of them. Why pay one of them fuckers when you can just deal with me?”
Martin’s voice shook with foolish defiance. “That land’s worth half a million and you know it.”
O’Kane leaned down, his hands on his knees. “Is it, now?”
“The estate agent told me.”
O’Kane snorted and stood upright. “Estate agent? Sure, they’re even bigger crooks than solicitors. You don’t need an estate agent to deal with the Bull. No, no, no. Spit and a handshake, that’s how I do it.”
The young man held O’Kane’s eyes steady. “All right, I’ll sell you the land, but I need a fair price.”
O’Kane smiled and patted his shoulder. “You’re a brave lad, son. Not many men will stand up to me. But listen to me, now. You’re pushing your luck. The only reason I haven’t fed you to the dogs is ’cause your auld fella was a good friend of mine. That’s why I let him keep that farm for so long. You pissed off to England to get your nice degree and your fancy job. Now he’s gone and you come running back looking to cash in.”
“He left the farm to me; I can do what I want with it. I can sell it to—”
“You can sell it to me, and that’s all. No one buys or sells land in South Armagh without my say-so. The sooner you get that into your head the sooner we can get this done.”
Martin stared straight ahead. “You can talk to my solicitor.”
O’Kane sighed and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Please, Martin. Your father was a friend of mine. Don’t do this.”
“These aren’t the old days. It doesn’t work like that any more. I can go to the police.” Martin looked up at him. He looked just like his father.
O’Kane closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment. He turned towards the door. When he reached it he looked back and said, “All right, lads.”
He stepped out into the night and raised the collar of his coat to keep the rain from the back of his neck. Pádraig passed him a cigarette, then cupped his hands around it. The match stayed lit just long enough to catch the tobacco. O’Kane pulled deep, feeling the gritty heat fill his chest. Sixty years he’d been smoking and all he had to show for it was a drop of phlegm in the mornings.
Fucking doctors know nothing
, he thought.
“You all right, Da?” Pádraig asked, his gormless face shiny and wet in the glow from the barn.
“Ah, grand, son. Just tired, that’s all.”
The walkie-talkie crackled in Pádraig’s pocket. He pulled it out and thumbed the button on its side. “Yeah?”
A stream of static and hiss mixed with the sound of cheering and snarling from the barn. Dull thuds came from the house behind them, followed by small cries.
“Aye, we’re expecting him. Let him through.”
Pádraig returned the radio to his pocket. “It’s McGinty.”
O’Kane looked beyond the barn and saw headlights approaching from the lane. “Go and keep an eye on the fight. Make sure Sean isn’t slipping his hand.”
“Right, Da.” Pádraig waddled across the yard, waving at the rusting Peugeot as it passed. Its wheels hissed on the wet concrete as it drew to a halt. The passenger door opened and Paul McGinty climbed out. He extended his hand.
“How’re ya, Paul?” O’Kane squeezed the politician’s fingers between his. Hard.
“I’ve been better,” McGinty said.
“Where’s your fancy limo tonight?”
“I was trying to be low-key.” McGinty flashed his white teeth.
“Just right.” O’Kane released his hand. “It’s all arranged?”
McGinty’s eyes darted to the farmhouse at the sound of a scream. “What’s that?”
“Local problem. Nothing to worry about.”
McGinty smoothed his jacket. “Yeah, it’s taken care of. They should be here soon. Marie has a number for Fegan. We’ll phone him then.”
“The woman.” O’Kane pointed a thick finger at McGinty’s groin. “Don’t let your cock get in the way. You do what needs doing, never mind the past.”
McGinty tilted his head.
“Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” O’Kane’s belly shook as he laughed. “You boys in Belfast think I’m too deep in cow shit down here to know what’s going on. I know everything.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“Good, good. But, here. There’s another wee thing I know about. Something you don’t.”
A crease appeared on McGinty’s brow. “What’s that?”
A long, loud shriek came from the house. O’Kane glanced over his shoulder, and then back to McGinty. “Your wee pal, Davy Campbell. He’s got a surprise up his sleeve.”
“What sort of surprise?”
“Well, we’ll have to have a word with him when he gets this length.”
The door to the farmhouse kitchen opened and Tommy Downey stepped out. O’Kane turned to face him.
“Martin accepts the offer,” Downey said.
42
“For the love of Christ, what now?”
Edward Hargreaves saw the vein on his forehead pulse in the dressing-table mirror.
“It’s urgent, Minister,” the Chief Constable said. “I wouldn’t have called you so late otherwise.”
“Just a moment.” Hargreaves pressed the phone’s mouthpiece to his robed shoulder, covered his eyes, and breathed deep. The bedroom was strewn with the contents of the drawers, as well as the bedding - anything a wallet could hide under. That bitch. That sneaky, conniving whore. He brought the phone back to his ear.
“Go on.”
“It’s bad, sir.”
“Oh, God.” He steeled himself. “Tell me.”
“One of my officers was found dead on an industrial estate just outside the city about thirty minutes ago. 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.
Bitch
, 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
Branches clanged and scraped along the side of the van as Campbell mounted the verge to let the oncoming cars pass. Old four-by-fours, muddied and dented. Farmers’ cars, some towing trailers just the size for a large dog. Some of the men swigged from bottles as they drove. Some of them raised their forefingers from their steering wheels as they passed. The old country greeting, the one that said:
I belong here, I know this place. Do you?
Campbell returned the gesture and drove on. The barn rose up at the top of the slope, light pouring from its innards. The child stirred in her mother’s arms.
“How do you live with yourself?” Marie McKenna asked.
“Shut up,” Eddie Coyle said.
“How can you bring us here? How can you do this to women and children and call yourselves men?”
“Be quiet,” Campbell said. “There’s worse people than us. You’re about to meet one of them.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You tell yourself that. Make yourself feel like a big man. I won’t—”
Campbell stood on the brake, pitching Marie forward. She jarred her forearm against the dashboard as she shielded her child. The girl squealed. Campbell reached out and grabbed a handful of Marie’s hair.
“Listen, I’ve had enough, right? I’ve had enough of this shit. I want it over. It’ll be over quick enough for you and your kid if you don’t be quiet. Now, keep your mouth shut.”
Coyle reached across and gripped Campbell’s wrist. “Go easy, Davy.”
Campbell looked hard at Coyle. Coyle dropped his eyes and released Campbell’s wrist. Tears ran down Marie’s cheeks as the little girl buried her face in her mother’s bosom.
“Just be quiet,” Campbell said. He let Marie’s hair slip through his fingers. “You can get through this if you’re quiet and do what you’re told.”
Her eyes reflected the headlights of one last oncoming car. She speared him with them and he hated her. His own eyes grew hot as he stared back. No, he didn’t hate her, he didn’t even know her. But hate was in his heart. Who for?
When the answer came, as hard and sure as any single thing he’d ever known, he could hold her gaze no longer. He looked straight ahead, put the van in gear, and began climbing the hill again.
The ground levelled onto a farmyard. The barn and house faced each other across potholed concrete, and a row of stables joined the two. Empty wire cages completed the square. Layered odors drifted on the night air; the low smell of dog feces coupled with the higher, acrid sting of chemicals. The copper stink of blood and fear mingled with both at the back of Campbell’s throat.
Six men gathered in the shelter of the empty barn’s doorway. McGinty was there, and his driver, Declan Quigley. Two more Campbell didn’t know, but the two tall, stout ones - they could be no one else but Bull O’Kane and his son. Campbell’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of O’Kane’s bulk. Marie had become still and quiet. He wondered if she knew who stood in front of the van, shielding his eyes from the headlights. The engine rattled and shook as it died. Campbell opened the door and climbed down.
The group of men stepped out into the stuttering rain, O’Kane at the fore. “You’re Davy Campbell?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
O’Kane stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’ve heard about you.”
The fingers were coarse and thick. Campbell fought to keep from wincing at the old man’s grip.
“Aye,” O’Kane said, with a slanted smile. “I know all about you.”
The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1 Page 26
