Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  Jon tapped in the words, Galway Advertiser and hit search.

  Rick placed a hand on the edge of the desk and leaned forward.

  The paper’s homepage was dominated by a report about the murdered British soldier. Conjecture was now flying around over who’d carried out the killing. Unionist politicians were poking the finger at Sinn Féin, claiming the party was inextricably linked to the IRA. A video clip of Martin McGuinness started up and they listened to the deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland rebutting the accusation. Since the Good Friday Agreement, he asserted, the IRA had surrendered its weapons and was no longer active. A journalist recounted the known breakaway groups from the resistance movement – including the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, Irish National Liberation Army, Og Laigh na hEireann and Irish Republican Liberation Army.

  Jon moved the cursor to the newspaper’s own search box and keyed in ‘Clifden Christmas lights sponsor’. A single result came up.

  Darragh de Avila sparks Clifden’s Christmas Season

  There he was, standing proudly next to the town’s plane-wing memorial.

  Jon pressed his fingertip so hard against the plasma screen, the man’s face dissolved into a splodge of black. ‘Darragh de Avila? I fucking got you.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘De Avila. What sort of an Irish name is that?’ Jon asked.

  Rick frowned. ‘There was an Eamon de Valera, that famous guy from Irish history.’

  Jon kept staring at the screen. ‘Eamon de who?’

  ‘You’re the one with Irish ancestry,’ Rick replied incredulously. ‘Your grandpa never tell you all about old Eamon?’

  Jon reached for the mouse. ‘Never met my grandpa, mate. Not so as I remember, anyway. Or my grandma before she died. More weird shit in the Spicer family, I’m afraid. My mum refuses to go into it.’

  Rick’s voice was more serious. ‘Well, de Valera was, I’m pretty sure, the Irish republic’s first ever Prime Minister and President in the forties and fifties. Helped kick us Brits out.’

  ‘Bet there’s a few statues to him, over there.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Jon reflected on his knowledge of the political set-up in Ireland. Could fit on a bloody postage stamp, he thought, recalling the audio clip of McGuinness. He glanced at his colleague. ‘Do you know how it all works over there? DUP, Sinn Féin, Good Friday Agreement? All that stuff?’

  ‘The Good Friday Agreement is basically a power-sharing deal between the biggest political parties in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Right. So how come Sinn Féin is a political party in Northern Ireland and also in Ireland itself? It confuses the hell out of me.’

  His colleague smiled. ‘That’s the crux of it, mate. Sinn Féin wants an Ireland as it was – one nation, free of British rule. The unionists in Northern Ireland, like the DUP, want to remain part of the United Kingdom. The Good Friday Agreement was an accord – brought about by years of wrangling – where the unionist parties and Sinn Féin agreed to share power in Northern Ireland’s assembly.’

  ‘Stormont.’

  ‘Correct. The unionists only agreed to it when they were assured by Sinn Féin that the IRA had handed in its weapons and disbanded.’

  ‘Sinn Féin being part of the IRA?’

  ‘Sinn Féin being the political wing of the IRA.’

  ‘And have they really disbanded?’

  Rick let his hands rise and then fall. ‘Who knows? Not many believe the IRA would have handed in its entire arsenal. And now you’ve also got all these IRA offshoots who never wanted to go along with the Good Friday Agreement. A lot of people also believe the main players in the IRA are just maintaining the ceasefire while they gauge if Sinn Féin’s policy of engaging with the political process will really bring them power. If not, the guns come back out: the big nasty ones they never handed in.’

  Jon turned back to the screen. ‘De Valera, de Avila – they don’t sound Irish.’

  ‘Isn’t there a legend that those types of name in Ireland date back to when the Armada was wrecked off Ireland’s coast? Spanish sailors getting frisky with the lovely local maidens?’

  Jon glanced to his side. ‘Did you ever read normal books when you were young – or was it just encyclopedias?’

  Rick grinned. ‘The newspaper article describes de Avila as proprietor. Doesn’t mean he’s the actual owner.’

  ‘That’s what everyone seemed to describe him as,’ Jon answered, thinking about Siobhain’s call and his conversation with the uniform in Clifden’s police station. Could it have been an officer in the Irish police who’d passed his identity on?

  ‘OK,’ Rick replied. ‘Let’s assume he is the owner and let’s assume he’s behind what happened in the park.’

  ‘Then I’m in the shit,’ Jon stated, joggling the mouse so the cursor arrow stabbed at de Avila’s head. ‘He’s got good enough connections to get the attack arranged in hours. That van either crossed from Belfast in the last few days or it was here already.’

  Rick retreated a couple of steps to sit on the arm of the sofa. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I blagged it with the ferry companies operating the Dublin–Holyhead route. Neither had any vehicle with the van’s registration on their manifests. I also had an ANPR search carried out.’

  Rick looked even more uneasy. ‘And?’

  ‘After the attack, the van didn’t head for the motorway. Which means the driver is savvy enough to keep off them – or he’s based locally and didn’t need to go on it.’

  ‘Or,’ Rick held up a finger. ‘There’s option two. The whole incident has no connection whatsoever to you smacking those guys over in Clifden. That would explain why the van wasn’t on the ferry and why it doesn’t appear to have fled Manchester. Just local shitheads.’

  Jon weighed up the likelihood. The voice he’d heard in the back of the van had sounded like Darragh’s. But that was mainly because of the Irish accent. He thought back to the look of panic on the driver’s face when he’d caught them up at the roundabout. The man at the wheel didn’t even contemplate jumping out to fight – it was as if the plan was accomplished and all he wanted to do was get away. ‘I don’t know.’

  Rick leaned forward. ‘You’ve got to go to Parks with this. Just to find out what’s going on.’

  Jon grimaced. ‘I really don’t want to be her syndicate’s resident pain-in-the-arse. You know how it ended up with Buchanon. And before that, McCloughlin. If she hadn’t stepped forward to take me in…’

  ‘You’ve got no other choice.’ Rick stood. ‘And she’ll definitely prefer you being straight with her. Especially with the ANPR check and any other unauthorised stuff you’ve been up to.’

  Jon crossed his arms and said nothing.

  Chapter 13

  They woke early. It had tried to snow in the night; a sprinkling of tiny white balls that covered his rear yard. Pausing on the back step, empty plastic milk carton in one hand, Jon searched for the trace of any footprints in the delicate layer. Nothing.

  He dropped the crushed carton into the recycling bin, reflecting on the night that had just passed. Neither he or Alice had slept well. Time and again he’d woken as she’d restlessly moved around in the bed. The scene from the park seemed to be stuck on a loop in his head. The moment the beast had brought its huge muzzle level with Holly’s face…

  At some point, the slam of a car door ripped him from his troubled slumber. The engine had continued to chug. Jon was almost certain it was a taxi, but he had to see. After all, the van’s engine had been a diesel. He slipped out from under the duvet.

  ‘What is it?’ Alice immediately whispered.

  ‘It’s OK,’ He lifted back a corner of the curtain. The black cab was clearly visible under the streetlight, engine idling as the driver spoke into his handset. ‘Just a taxi.’

  Alice lay rigid, staring at the ceiling. ‘We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When you said to Holly the van would never return,
I so wanted to believe you.’

  He sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on the huge swell of her belly. ‘First thing tomorrow, I’ll tell my boss what’s been going on.’

  He walked slowly across the yard and opened the kitchen door, painfully aware there was no Punch following him in. Normally his dog would be barging past, heading straight for the food bowl in the corner. Jon looked wistfully at the empty dish. The vet’s would be open at any minute.

  Alice and Holly were sitting at the table. His wife was contemplating the cup of coffee before her. A large bag packed with toys, books and activities for Holly was on the floor. The skin below Alice’s eyes was a purplish colour and her shoulders were hunched. He moved behind her and placed a hand across the back of her neck. ‘You’ll be able to relax once you’re at your mum’s. When you’ve set off, I’ll swing by the vet’s to check on Punch.’

  She leaned her head back as he stroked his thumb up and down. ‘Give him a big kiss from me.’

  ‘Will he come home today?’ Holly asked tentatively.

  ‘We hope so,’ Alice replied.

  ‘Would you like that?’ Jon asked. They’d told their daughter that Amanda, Alice’s mum, was still feeling poorly and needed to be looked after for the day. ‘Then you can be looking after your granny and your dog.’

  Holly nodded vigorously, attention back on her bowl of Honey Hoops.

  Jon glanced into the waiting room at the veterinary practice. He was first of the day. ‘Morning. Is it OK to look in on Punch?’

  The nurse he’d seen through the window the previous evening stood up. ‘Come through. I was expecting you last night.’

  ‘I got here just after you’d closed.’

  A pained expression crossed her face. ‘You should have knocked; I’d have let you in.’

  ‘Well, I figured nothing serious could have happened.’

  ‘No. I’ve just looked in on him myself.’

  Jon hesitated. ‘How does he seem?’

  She see-sawed a hand. ‘No change, really. Pulse and breathing have steadied. He’s sleeping.’

  ‘That’s good?’

  ‘To be expected. Given the level of trauma.’

  He followed her down to the surgery and she stepped sideways to allow him access to the bank of cages. His dog didn’t appear to have moved from the afternoon before. Leaning closer, Jon could see his breathing was more normal. The flesh around his gums was a shade darker, too.

  ‘He’s still very poorly, as you can see,’ the nurse said. ‘When Valerie comes in, she’ll assess him properly. Perhaps X-ray his neck to see if there’s any damage to the vertebrae there.’

  Jon gazed at his dog. Please don’t let there be anything wrong, he thought. ‘And the foreleg? Where it was crushed?’

  ‘She’ll look at that.’

  ‘OK – when would be a good time to phone?’

  ‘Half-twelve?’

  ‘No problem. Half-twelve it is.’ He turned back to the cage. ‘Can I stroke him?’

  ‘Of course.’ She reached out, popped the clips and swung the door open, taking care not to snag the drip-line running through the bars.

  Jon placed his hand on Punch’s head. ‘Hang in there, boy,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll take you for a nice holiday, soon. Steak for every meal, OK?’

  Chapter 14

  Jon walked between desks, eyes shifting to the glass partitions of his DCI’s office. She was in there.

  Exchanging greetings with various colleagues, Jon got to his desk on the far side. No sign of Rick yet. A spoon clattered in a bowl and, at the next table, DI Elmhurst placed a box of Shreddies in her lower drawer while looking across at Jon.

  ‘Aren’t you on holiday, soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Jon replied, turning his computer on. ‘I need to clear a few things first.’ He picked up the message slip which had been placed at the top of his in-tray. Call Clive Knott at Intelligence. The guy’s after a FWIN, Jon thought, as he put it back. ‘Where’s Ryan?’

  She glanced at the empty desk facing hers. ‘Running late. Traffic on the M62. Coffee?’

  ‘Oh bollocks, I meant to get some more. We’re out.’

  She lifted out a large jar from a shopping bag at her feet. ‘Ta da!’

  ‘You’re a star,’ he replied, wondering how much their syndicate’s coffee kitty must now owe her. He took his jacket off, eyes straying to Parks’s office once again. Let’s get this over with, he thought. Her door was ajar and he knocked on the glass before poking his head through the gap. ‘Morning, boss.’

  ‘Jon,’ she nodded, sitting back. ‘Need a word?’

  ‘Please.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  She gestured to the chair on the other side of her desk. ‘What’s up?’

  He closed the door behind him and turned round, registering the row of photos lined up on a lower shelf. ‘I’ve got a bit of a situation.’

  ‘Something to do with you charging out of here yesterday?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I nearly called you to make sure everything was OK.’

  He rubbed his palms together. ‘Yes. I’m hoping it will all be a false alarm. Really, there’s every chance that’s the case. But, I need to be – ’

  ‘Jon. Start at the beginning. And sit down.’

  He perched on the edge of the seat and breathed in. ‘Sorry. I really didn’t want to bother you with this…’

  ‘It’s not a problem, I’m sure.’

  ‘Right.’ He turned his hands over and examined the myriad scars etched into his skin. Here we go. ‘I went over to Ireland recently. It was as a result of a call I received from a female who identified herself as Siobhain. She informed me that Zoë, the partner of my younger brother, Dave…’ he glanced up, to check she was aware of his brother’s murder. She gave a small nod.

  ‘Following Dave’s death,’ he continued, ‘Zoë was unable to cope. She left their son, Jake, and disappeared. The boy now lives with my mum and dad. In some four years, the only time we heard from her was via two postcards. In the first, she stated that she was proceeding to Connemara in Ireland in order to try and ascertain the whereabouts of an old friend living in that part of the country. The name of that friend was Siobhain.’

  ‘The same Siobhain who called you?’

  ‘I can only assume so. Her second postcard was from the city of Galway itself. She was staying there for a bit before proceeding to Clifden – the town on Connemara’s coast where she had reason to believe Siobhain resided.’

  ‘OK. And Jon? You can drop the formal language. You’re not in court.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’ He flexed the fingers of his right hand, realised he’d formed them into a fist and quickly straightened them. ‘Siobhain informed me – said – that Zoë was mixed up with some dodgy characters and needed someone to get her out of there. She was working in a nightclub called Darragh’s.’

  ‘Who, Siobhain?’

  ‘No, Zoë. I don’t know anything about Siobhain, not even her phone number. She called me from a payphone.’

  ‘OK. Who are these people Zoë’s mixed up with?’

  ‘That’s the problem. I’m not sure. Siobhain made out the nightclub owner is strictly small-time, smuggling pirate DVDs, perhaps other stuff.’

  Parks’s voice was now more wary. ‘Pirate DVDs have been identified as a major source of revenue for paramilitary groups over there.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Well, anyway – I drove across, but there was no sign of Zoë in the nightclub. None of the staff would admit to knowing her. I then got into an altercation with some of those staff – ’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He looked up at her. ‘The doorman of the club swung at me. More than once. I retaliated and he ended up on the floor. A baseball bat was then produced by the owner. I disarmed him and…you know…had words.’

  ‘Did you strike him?’

  ‘No. And there was a nightclub full of witnesses who can verify that. But I realised then that I was…the situation I’d got m
yself in was bad. I went into the back office, removed the security tapes – I don’t know why – and left.’

  ‘Where are these tapes now?’

  ‘I chucked them in a bin.’

  Parks stared at Jon, one manicured nail tapping. ‘Jesus Christ, Jon. There’s more, isn’t there?’

  He nodded. ‘This was on Saturday night, four days ago. Yesterday, my dog was attacked – ’

  ‘What breed?’

  Jon blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Breed?’

  ‘Boxer. He’s a Boxer.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘He was attacked by some type of fighting dog. Kind of mastiff Rottweiler cross. Huge thing – it was approaching my daughter. Had got to within a few feet of her before Punch – my dog – ran at it.’

  ‘You think it was going to attack your daughter?’

  ‘Yes. But the thing heard Punch coming and rounded on him instead. It took my pet apart.’

  Now she looked outraged. ‘Where was its bloody owner?’

  ‘I was just getting to that – ’

  ‘Is your dog OK?’

  ‘No, he was very badly mauled. They’re doing more tests this morning. He went into shock, lost a lot of blood.’ Jon frowned. Parks was now upright in her seat, finger tapping faster. Shit, he thought. She’s absolutely furious. I’m fucked. ‘The…er…the animal that carried out the attack was then called back to a van. I gave chase and was able to note the registration down. It was from County Galway in Ireland.’

  Her finger stopped moving. ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When exactly were you over there?’

  ‘I arrived Saturday evening.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you were handing out cards with your address on.’

  ‘No – I mentioned my surname to a uniform in the town’s police station, along with the fact I was a copper from Manchester.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  He shook his head. ‘I know the drinkers in a bar saw that my car was British. The only other people in that town who know my identity would be Siobhain and Zoë. I didn’t see either of them.’