86

Orla O’Kane led Fegan through the entrance hall and into the drawing room. She indicated the man who followed them and said, ‘This is Charlie Ronan, and he’ll shoot you dead if you move one single inch. You understand?’

Fegan nodded as Ronan pulled the small pistol from his jacket pocket.

Orla regarded the great Gerry Fegan. Tall and thin, but strong, a face cut from flint.

‘You look tired,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ Fegan said.

‘How did you find this place?’

‘A cop,’ Fegan said. ‘He told me everything.’

‘A cop?’ Orla asked. ‘Which cop?’

‘I don’t remember his name,’ Fegan said. ‘Big house off the Lisburn Road.’

‘Dan Hewitt,’ Orla said.

‘Maybe,’ Fegan said.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Drove,’ Fegan said.

‘Where’s your car?’

‘I left it out the road a bit,’ Fegan said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘An Audi. I stole it in Lisburn. You can send your boys to look for it if you want.’

Orla looked him up and down, the whole of him, trying to find what it was about this sad thin man that haunted her father’s dreams. Then her eyes locked with his, and something cold shifted inside her. She looked away.

‘I won’t be long,’ she said, and left the room.