"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."

Campbell's stomach twitched. "It's good to meet you, Mr. O'Kane."

"Call me Bull. Now, how's our guests?" He released Campbell's hand and walked to the van's passenger side where Coyle waited. O'Kane ignored him and reached into the cabin. "C'mon out, love. You're all right."

Marie slid along the seat, the girl in her arms, and stepped down to the ground. She didn't pull away when O'Kane took her elbow. McGinty stepped forward and Campbell saw his and Marie's gazes meet, something cold passing between them.

O'Kane slipped his hands under the child's arms. "And who are you?"

Marie didn't let go of her daughter. "Don't."

"What's your name?"

The girl held on to her mother's sweater, but O'Kane pulled her free.

"Her name's Ellen." Marie's voice cracked as she spoke.

"You're a pretty wee girl, aren't you?" O'Kane took Ellen in his arms and pinched her cheek. She reached for her mother, but O'Kane stepped away.

"Do you like doggies?"

Ellen rubbed her eyes and pouted.

O'Kane walked towards the stables, holding her close. "Do you? Do you like doggies?"

Ellen nodded. Scraping and whining came from the stables. Campbell's mouth dried.

"Wait till you see this nice doggie." O'Kane unbolted the upper half of a stable door and let it swing open. A low whine came from inside.

Campbell looked to Marie. Her shaking hands covered her mouth. She was fighting hard to hold on to herself, hiding her fear from the child. Something that might have been respect rose in Campbell, and he had an inexplicable and desperate urge to touch her. He shook it away.

The other six men - Coyle, McGinty, the driver, O'Kane's son, the two Campbell didn't know - all watched the stable door.

McGinty took a step towards the old man. "Bull," he said.

O'Kane turned to face them. "It's all right. Sure, these boys are gentle as lambs with people. I train them right."

A murky scent drifted out of the stable. Heavy paws appeared above the lower door, followed by a square block of a head, dirt-caked and scarred. The dog's tongue lolled from its jaw, a viscous line of drool disappearing into the dark. O'Kane reached out with his free hand and scratched the back of the pit bull's thick neck. It squinted at the sensation of his callused fingers.

"There, see? He's a nice doggie. Do you want to pet him?"

Ellen shook her head and wiped her damp cheeks.

"Aw, go on. He's a nice doggie."

She looked down at the animal, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. She sniffed.

"He's a good doggie," O'Kane said. "He won't bite."

He lowered Ellen so she could reach its head with her small outstretched hand. Her fingers created ripples on its brow. Marie squeezed her eyes shut when its tongue lapped at the girl's fingertips. Coyle placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"There, now. I told you he was a nice doggie, didn't I?" O'Kane hoisted the child up in his arms as she continued to reach out to scratch the dog's head. He looked at Marie, a fatherly smile on his lips. "You'll behave yourself, won't you, love?"

Marie stared back.

"Of course you will." O'Kane pushed the dog's head back down with his free hand and swung the upper stable door closed. He bounced Ellen in his arms as he walked back towards Marie. "You and your mummy will be good, won't you?"

Christ, let it be over, Campbell thought. The sudden trill of a mobile phone made his heart knock against the inside of his chest.

McGinty reached into his jacket pocket. "Hello?"

Campbell watched his face go slack. The politician walked away from the group, the phone against one ear, a finger in the other.