Campbell moved through Fegan’s house, his steps light, even though there was no one to hear. The back window was still open after yesterday’s encounter, and despite the pain it caused him he had been able to climb through. The kitchen was clean and neat. The cooker was gleaming white, the linoleum flooring spotless. The only hint of untidiness was the row of hand tools still lying on a cloth. Campbell inspected them. The cloth was actually leather, soft to the touch, and the tools were held in place by loops. They lay on the flat portion of a foldaway table. He ran his fingers over them. There were small saws of different types, chisels and files. All well used, not the playthings of a casual hobbyist.
He stepped through to the living room. A sofa and two armchairs, not new but not threadbare either. A coffee table sat at the center of the room. It looked handmade, competently but not artfully put together, coated with thick varnish. Another home-made piece supported a small television. A mirror hung over the fireplace. Campbell went to it and studied the deepening lines of his face. His beard needed trimming, as did his hair.
A guitar case stood propped in the corner. Campbell opened the clasps and looked inside. He took the unstrung guitar out and peered inside the fist-sized hole in its belly. He turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. After inspecting a small compartment inside the case, he put the guitar back in its coffin and sealed it.
He went to the table under the window. A felt sheet covered its surface, and a few small files and a ball of steel wool were scattered around it. There was good light here. Campbell imagined Fegan working under the window, his killer’s hands creating, not destroying.
The only other piece in the room was a sideboard. It was made of the same wood as the coffee table—pine, Campbell thought—with simple drawers and hinges. A framed photograph stood on top of it. Campbell lifted it. It looked like it had been taken in the late Fifties, early Sixties. A woman smiled at the camera, her hand held over her eyes like a salute, casting them in shadow. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair. Pretty in a clean, simple, girlish way. She stood on a street just like this one, one foot resting on a doorstep.
Campbell caught a warm smile spreading on his lips and coughed. He winced as his ribcage flared, and he put the photograph back.
A stack of unopened mail sat next to an empty Jameson’s bottle. He leafed through the envelopes, hoping for some clue as to where Fegan might have gone. If Campbell could find him first, take care of him, all would be well. If McGinty got him—well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
But what if Fegan found McGinty? That was an entirely different problem, and one that could not come to pass. If McGinty was killed, his old crew would scatter, perhaps turn on the leadership. A drift back to violence could destroy the movement, whether it was directed inward or outward. It had been McGinty’s feat to form a bridge between the street thugs and the more politically minded. Now McGinty had served his purpose, the leadership were starting to freeze him out, pull away from him and others like Bull O’Kane. But they were doing it slowly, carefully. The old ways were dead and gone, but still their ghosts might come to haunt the political process. The politicos might be smarter, but smart never stopped a bullet.
Nothing but bills. Campbell set them back on the sideboard. He hunkered down, mindful of his wounds, and opened the doors. Empty. One drawer contained a phone book and a Yellow Pages, both still wrapped in the plastic they were delivered in, but that was all. He stood and looked around the room and over to the stairs. No phone. Who the fuck didn’t have a phone?
Campbell crossed the room. There were deep reddish-brown spots on the carpet between the foot of the stairs and the front door. His own blood. He followed the trail up the staircase and paused at the top. The bathroom and two bedrooms. He knew he’d find nothing, but he entered the bathroom anyway. Mirror pieces crunched under his feet. There was a small hole in the wall at eye level, and another in the ceiling. The cops had probably missed them when they’d searched yesterday. Campbell pictured tired and jaded officers giving the home of a convicted terrorist a cursory sweep. No spray of blood com-memorated Campbell’s injured ribcage.
He looked to the windowsill. A glass stood empty, the kind of glass a toothbrush and toothpaste might stand in. All the other accouterments of male grooming remained, apart from a razor. Fegan had left in a hurry, but not so quickly that he hadn’t taken the essentials.
The back bedroom contained nothing, not even a bed. It was clean, but completely bare save for cheap, neatly fitted carpeting. Campbell considered tearing the carpet up for just a moment, but it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed since it was laid. His aching side would never forgive him.
Back on the landing, an airing cupboard revealed only sheets and towels, all neatly folded and stacked. Campbell dug through them, already certain it was a pointless task.
Just the master bedroom left now. He pushed the door open and it gave a hard creak. Just like Campbell, Fegan didn’t oil his hinges. The bed was stiffly made, apart from the slightest impression at its foot where someone had sat some time ago. He knelt down and peered underneath the bedstead. A shoebox was just within reach. Campbell pulled it out and opened it. It was empty, but had the greasy smell of gun oil and money. A single nine-millimeter round rolled from corner to corner.
“Fuck,” he said, and tossed the box to the floor. There would be nothing under the mattress or tucked into the pillowcases, so there was little point in pulling the bedding apart. He did it anyway.
“Where the fuck are you?” Campbell asked the pile of sheets and stripped pillows. The mattress leaned against the wall, revealing the bare slats of the bedstead. There was only one place left to look. He opened the wardrobe door and, as he expected, found only a few shirts and a worn pair of jeans. He quickly proved there was nothing in the pockets.
Campbell went to close the wardrobe door, but something caught his eye. Something small and oblong, pushed into the farthest corner. He reached down and lifted it out. It was a long flat wooden box coated in black vinyl. The sort of box loose jewellery might be stored in. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.
Letters, all unopened, all postmarked HM PRISON MAZE, all emblazoned with Return to sender. Campbell flipped through them, twelve in total. The most recent was at the top. He hesitated for just a second, then tore it open.
It was one page of small, neat handwriting. The words and letters were impossibly uniform in size and spacing, as if the writer were afraid of revealing anything of himself. It was dated the fourteenth of December 1997. A little over nine and a half years ago. Campbell held his breath as he read.
Dear Mother,
Father Coulter was here today doing his visits. He told me you are very sick. He said you have cancer. I asked my new psychologist Dr. Brady and he said they would probably let me out to see you if I ask them.
Please let me see you. I am sorry for what I did. I am sorry I let you down. I know you are ashamed of me. I don’t blame you. I am ashamed of myself.
Please let me come and visit you. If I could take back what I did I would. I know you have mercy in your heart. I had no mercy in my heart when I did those things but I have now.
Please have mercy. Please let me see you before you get any sicker.
Your son,
Gerald.
Campbell closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the paper’s texture between his fingers, listening to his own heartbeat. He opened them again and folded the letter before slipping it back into its envelope. Using his fingertip, he smoothed the tear over as best he could and returned the letter to the box. It fitted neatly into the back corner of the wardrobe, in the dark where he couldn’t see it.
“Fuck!” he said, startled at the vibration of his phone. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Number withheld. It could be anybody. He thumbed the answer button and brought it to his ear. “What?”
“We’ve found them,” Patsy Toner said.