Edward Hargreaves was breathless when he answered his phone. The treadmill whirred under his feet. Two miles in less than twenty minutes—not bad. His good mood evaporated when the woman’s voice told him it was the Chief Constable on the line.
“Go ahead,” she chirped.
“Good morning, Minister,” Pilkington said.
“Christ, what now?” Hargreaves asked. He felt no inclination to feign conviviality. It was too perfect a morning to be spoiled by this oik. His top-floor Belgravia apartment afforded him a delightful view of the small private park surrounded by Cadogan Place. The single perk of this job was a top-notch London pad. So far he’d been able to prevent his wife seeing the inside of it. The desiccated old shrew would never cross its threshold if he had anything to say about it. Steam drifted in from the en-suite bathroom, where his new acquaintance was washing the sweat from her sculpted back. No, his wife would never visit this apartment and ruin the only good thing about his rotten job.
“Another killing,” Pilkington said.
Hargreaves stepped off the treadmill. “Who?”
“A priest. Father Eammon Coulter. His housekeeper found him ninety minutes ago when she arrived to make his breakfast. Details are sketchy, but he appears to have been stabbed.”
“And why are we concerned about a priest?” Hargreaves asked. A reasonable question, he thought.
“A few reasons,” Pilkington said. “He’s the priest who buried McKenna and Caffola. He was Bull O’Kane’s cousin, and not the finest example of the clergy from what I’ve heard. There was some sort of scandal in Sligo in the late Seventies, all swept under the carpet, and he was moved out of the parish in a hurry. Rumor has it O’Kane himself fixed it for him to be installed in Belfast. He wanted a priest he could control in the area.”
“So Fegan did it?”
“We must assume so.”
“I see,” Hargreaves said. “And why hasn’t he been taken care of yet?”
“Our man tried to take care of him yesterday, but he botched it. Our other insider, the one who got our man back in, says McGinty’s not best pleased. The leadership are ready to cut him off completely, feud or not. And now Fegan’s missing. My men were called to Calcutta Street after gunfire was heard, but there was no sign of him.” Pilkington cleared his throat. “And there’s another complication.”
“Dear God, what now?” Hargreaves’s shoulders sagged.
“There’s a woman, Marie McKenna, niece of the recently departed Michael McKenna. She fell foul of McGinty years ago, but he left her alone because of her uncle. Now the uncle’s gone, he’s been trying to intimidate her into leaving the country. Our insider gave her plane tickets for her and her daughter, followed her to the airport, and watched her check in. She never arrived on the other side. Now she’s missing, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Hargreaves said. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Well, she and Fegan were apparently getting close; he was at her flat when he was arrested the night before last. We believe they’re together, wherever they are. It means if he’s found it’ll be harder to do anything about it.”
Hargreaves felt a warm hand stroke the back of his neck. He turned to see the girl, her tanned skin bare and glistening. She spoke very little English, not that it mattered. “So, what happens now?” he asked.
“We wait,” Pilkington said. “Fegan will turn up somewhere. We’ll just have to be ready to deal with him. There is one good thing to come out of this, though.”
Hargreaves gave a dry laugh. “Really? Do tell.”
“McGinty was due to hold a press conference this morning. He was going to trot out one of his thugs who got a beating off Fegan and claim my men did it. Then he was going to repeat his claims about my men having been responsible for Caffola’s demise. He’ll most likely cancel it now. Our friend in the party says the priest’s murder has stolen McGinty’s thunder.”
“Lucky for you,” Hargreaves said. “Certain sacrifices might not have to be made after all.”
“My concern is the rule of law, sir, not politics.” Pilkington’s voice was hard against Hargreaves’s ear. “I’d have resigned before I let any of my men take the fall for Fegan’s actions.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Hargreaves said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The girl smiled sweetly as she toyed with the silver hairs on his chest.