Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  They dropped deeper, light now provided by wall-mounted bulbs covered by metal grilles. Oxygen levels seemed to be diminishing with every step. Seven flights of steps later, they reached the bottom.

  ‘And this is it,’ Denis shouted above the din of machinery. Leaving the steps, he crossed to the middle of the pit and extended both arms. ‘The arsehole of Connemara.’

  Jon stepped off the final stair and looked up at the underside of the giant dryer. Drips fell steadily from the huge girders that supported it. He realised the concrete floor was awash with a brownish sludge. The walls were glistening and, peering at where they met the floor, he could see dozens of tiny lumps dotted about.

  ‘When it’s on,’ Denis said, ‘someone needs to scrape this floor clean every hour.’ He pointed at the drain by his feet then raised his hand and rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. ‘You want good money? Lots of cash? This is your job.’

  ‘These are dead mice?’ Someone asked, nodding down at the little lumps in the corners.

  ‘Baby ones,’ Denis replied, moving back to the steps. ‘They build their nests in the crevices and cracks, but the little ones often fall out.’

  Arsehole of Connemara, thought Jon. Spot on.

  As they filed towards the office, Jon brushed a palm across his head to dislodge the last few powdery flakes from his hair. Once inside, he thankfully breathed in air that wasn’t heavy with the smell of putrid flesh. They were directed to a row of plastic chairs lining the wall to the left of the door.

  ‘Emily? Have you the forms for me?’

  The woman behind the desk placed a batch of clipboards on the counter. ‘Make sure they give back all the pens.’

  ‘You’ve seen our advertisements, so you know we pay more than any other place round here,’ Denis announced, handing clipboards out. Jon saw a pen was attached to the top of each one. ‘Fill in your details,’ Denis said slowly. ‘If you have a phone…’ He held up a thumb and forefinger to the side of his head. ‘Phone? Yes?’ He pointed to the bottom of the form. ‘Write the number down. We have overtime shifts. More money for you if we can call and get you in.’ He worked his way down the line to Jon.

  ‘No thanks.’ Jon shook his head.

  The man’s eyes reduced to slits. ‘You don’t want the work?’

  ‘I already have a job,’ Jon replied. He stood. Confusion now filled Denis’s face.

  Jon stepped to the side so he could address the woman behind the desk directly. ‘Tell Darragh de Avila that Jon Spicer was here having a good look round. He knows who I am.’ His eyes went back to the man. ‘Cheers for the tour, mate. It was very interesting.’

  As he walked back up the drive he realised his clothes were coated in a film of the orange powder. No wonder the smell’s staying with me, he thought irritably, checking his mobile once more. Ten minutes, I reckon. Ten minutes before Darragh rings me wanting to speak. He swung his car round. A lorry was heading towards him. It indicated right and turned into the farm’s driveway. Milky liquid was seeping from its rear doors and Jon wondered how long it would be before the pony carcasses from Darragh’s abattoir arrived for processing.

  Back in Clifden, he slowed down at the junction with the high street. Twenty minutes, he thought. De Avila’s now had twenty minutes to ring me. In fact, he’s had all of yesterday and this morning, too. He thought about how time was ticking by. The chances of getting Zoë out and being on a flight home tomorrow were shrinking. Agitation needled him. What the hell was going on here? It seemed the man’s business interests extended throughout the town and beyond. Like some kind of octopus, Jon thought. Maybe, he decided, it’s time to give him a stronger poke.

  He drove back to the business park where the auction had been held. Almost every vehicle was gone. He steered his car through the entrance and continued to the far end. Jon could see a man bent over the bonnet of a car parked inside the unit for Paul Acton and Sons Motors.

  On his left, the pens were empty except for two young men. One was scraping up manure with a shovel, the other was hosing down the gutters. Jon came to a stop beside the small Nissan in front of DA Services and climbed out. The shutters were lowered on the business unit, but he could hear music playing inside.

  He rapped his knuckles on the metal door set into the corner of the screen. No reaction. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the two youths clearing up were now watching. He waited for a pause in the music then kicked his foot against the metal. The entire thing rippled with the impact and, a moment later, the music dropped in volume.

  A voice called from inside. ‘Who’s there?’

  Jon booted the screen again.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  Footsteps on the concrete floor and the screen’s inner door opened a fraction. Jon placed his foot in the gap so it couldn’t be closed again then hooked his fingers round its edge and yanked. The door swung fully open, half pulling out a young guy. He struggled to regain his footing, neck arching to look up at Jon.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Jon pushed the guy backwards. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ Inside, overhead strip lighting shone down on a row of computer monitors. Each one was sitting on a humming piece of computer equipment. On the shelves lining the back wall were boxes of blank DVDs and empty cases. Well, well, well, Jon thought. The pirate video operation Siobhain mentioned.

  ‘What do you want?’ the young man asked uneasily, fingers twitching at his sides.

  Jon stepped over to the nearest piece of equipment and picked up the DVD case next to it. The image on the cover was high quality. Snuggledown. Disney’s next big release. I was thinking of taking Holly to see this, Jon thought. ‘This isn’t even out in the cinemas.’

  The man’s eyes cut to the open door and he said nothing.

  Dropping the case back on the table, Jon glanced at the man. ‘Who makes the deliveries for you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When a batch of DVDs are ready, who delivers them to wherever they’re sold?’

  ‘I only mind the gear.’

  ‘You never help load up a van?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Never deal with anyone, is that right? Never even seen who you work for. What do you do, just pass the discs through the letterbox when someone knocks? Sounds a slow way of loading a van.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Ever see a girl called Zoë driving? English girl?’ The young man kept quiet as Jon began to survey the room. ‘I don’t know how long burning a copy takes, but I’m guessing you manage hundreds each day?’

  Licking his lips, the guy shrugged. ‘I only mind the gear. I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jon replied. ‘Then why don’t you run along to your boss and tell him today’s output has been interrupted.’ He stepped over to the first plug on the wall and flicked the switch. The whir of the nearest two machines died and the monitors went blank. He continued round, cutting the rest of the power. ‘You can tell him it was Jon Spicer. Tell him I’m here for Zoë. He knows how to get hold of me.’

  The other man picked his denim jacket off the back of a chair and slipped through the door.

  ‘Room 17, please.’

  The girl handed Jon his key with a smile. ‘You have a message.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She reached below the counter and produced a white envelope. ‘It was dropped off earlier.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jon examined the wording on the front. Mr Spicer. Urgent. ‘Who by?’

  ‘A gentleman – I’d say in his fifties,’ she replied. ‘He didn’t want to leave a name.’

  ‘Red nose?’ He wriggled the fingers of one hand at the side of his head to indicate an untidy frizz. ‘And wiry grey hair?’ She tried to suppress a smile. ‘Had his coat seen better days?’

  ‘Actually, he was wearing a suit. But that sounds like him.’

  Once in his room, he looked around with a puzzled expression. Has someone, he thought, been in here? The bed had been straightened, as usual, but a
pair of his jeans were lying crumpled in the corner. He checked the wardrobe, thinking he’d stacked his tops further back on the shelf. Shrugging, he placed both mobiles on the little table then sat in the chair overlooking the street. He studied the handwriting on the envelope. Cramped and on a downward slant. The pen stroke underlining the word ‘urgent’ had been finished with such haste the ink petered out like the tail of a speeding comet.

  He peeled open the flap and extracted a single sheet of paper.

  I believe this will be of pertinence in your investigation of the de Avila family.

  My investigation? So he knows I’m a policeman, Jon thought. Someone is passing information to him.

  A dog fight has been arranged for tomorrow at the de Avila property, Golden Fields Farm.

  Jesus, thought Jon. I’ve just been there. Can this be for real? He read on.

  It will be attended by several notable figures from both Belfast and Dublin. The farm is reputed to be a location de Avila has used in the past to settle business issues – vis-à-vis Tommy Hammell, for example.

  I believe the fighting is due to commence early afternoon. I know in the past the nightclub has been used by de Avila for the purposes of hospitality the evening before such events.

  I wish you every success with your project and remain your loyal assistant in the matter.

  Project? Jon thought. Odd choice of word. But then again, who uses ‘vis-à-vis’, either? He reached for his mobile and selected Nick Hutcher’s number. ‘Hi mate, I hoped you might be out of that meeting.’

  ‘Yup – just grabbing a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ve been given some more information about de Avila. No idea how solid it is, but the rest of the stuff has turned out useful. It’s about a dog fight.’

  ‘Yeah? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Here, in Clifden. I’ve got a location and a date, but no exact time. Early afternoon is all.’

  ‘OK – that’s no major problem. Where exactly is it taking place?’

  ‘A facility used for making pet food, believe it or not.’

  ‘I’ve heard of stranger.’

  ‘But probably not smellier.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I posed as a job applicant and was shown round this place earlier today. I thought Manchester had a monopoly on dark satanic mills.’

  ‘Grim was it?’

  ‘Disgusting. I’ll never be able to look at a dog biscuit again.’

  ‘Ironic place to have a fight – though I suppose the dead dogs can just be recycled there and then.’

  Not just dead dogs, he thought, eyes shifting to the name on the piece of paper. Tommy Hammell. He remembered the slurry of meat from the Dolav flopping against the sides of the giant vat. The sound from inside as the blades had started to spin. Another thought hit him. Zoë. He closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, Jesus, there’d be no trace of her left. No, he said to himself. Don’t be ridiculous. Darragh might enjoy knocking women about, but he isn’t a killer. No way.

  ‘You still there, Jon?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Miles away. Is it enough for you to act on? I would love to disrupt this guy’s big day.’

  ‘I can certainly put a call in to the ISPCA.’

  ‘Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?’

  ‘You’re picking up on this animal protection business, aren’t you? This could be an event featuring that other Alano, you realise?’

  ‘I wondered as much.’

  ‘Leave it with me – I’ll call you back.’

  Jon cut the call and brought up Rick’s number. ‘Am I still in the clear with Parks?’

  ‘Yup,’ his partner replied. ‘Anything on Zoë?’

  He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Nope.’

  He brought Rick up to speed on the theft of AH23 and AV8 from Contera’s farm in Spain then lifted the sheet of paper. ‘Anything from your mate in the NCA on that information I gave you?’

  ‘He hasn’t had a chance to start checking yet. One thing he mentioned though – his main point of contact in Ireland is within the Criminal Assets Bureau – the equivalent of the NCA’s Proceeds of Crime Department.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘A part of the Criminal Assets Bureau is a system called CARIN. This is the good news; it’s an informal enquiry system for tracking suspicious activity – dodgy financial transactions and the like. When he gets a chance, his contact in the Bureau is going to dig around in the weeds and see if anything on de Avila shows up.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Oh – and Sophie got a hit from a ferry company.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘There was a de Avila on a crossing on the second of February. Dublin–Holyhead.’

  ‘From Dublin? That doesn’t fit with what Hutcher told me. He said when dogs are brought across, it’s from Northern Ireland to avoid customs checks.’

  ‘He was a foot passenger. No vehicle involved.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You don’t reckon it could have been someone else on that ferry?’ Rick asked. ‘Another family member or something?’

  Jon tapped his forefinger on the gearstick. ‘I suppose it’s possible. But Siobhain said to me he’s…’ His finger stopped moving. ‘Christ, I assumed when she said he was back, she was talking about the de Avila I saw in Manchester. Maybe she wasn’t.’ The prospect of there being another family member he didn’t know about loomed in his head. ‘What were the details of this foot passenger?’

  ‘I don’t know. She just said it was a D. de Avila.’

  ‘Has to be Darragh,’ Jon said. ‘I mean, there can’t be that many people with the exact-same name. Not travelling on ferries within the time frame we’re interested in. I reckon the van came over separately – probably driven by that other guy from the Clock-on kennels or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to not tip off Sophie until you get back.’

  ‘Cheers. After that, the Bureau can raid every premises of his they can find, for all I care.’

  ‘OK – I’ll sit on it until Monday. You will be back by then, won’t you?’

  ‘I bloody hope so. Thanks Rick. Last thing – while that contact in the Bureau is poking around, see if he can keep an eye out for anything on a DA Services. It appears to be an abattoir just outside Galway, based on an industrial park called Menlo. There’s also a little business unit with the same name here in Clifden. That one is being used to produce pirate DVDs.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just walked in and saw all the equipment.’

  ‘What – the door was open?’

  ‘No, some kid let me in. I sent him off to tell Darragh that production was being suspended.’

  ‘Jon, you’ll be seriously pissing this guy off.’

  ‘No choice, mate – nothing else has worked so far. Listen, I’d better go. Talk later.’

  He checked the time. Just after half-four. I wonder what sort of a day Alice and Holly have had? He brought up her number and pressed green. Her answerphone message kicked in. ‘Hi babe, it’s just me. You’re probably still out and about. The pony sale was interesting, some real characters milling around. Anyway, still no contact with Zoë. If I haven’t heard from Darragh by tonight…’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be really pissed off. Anyway, I’m popping back to Grandad’s now, might be the last chance I get to see him. Speak to you later.’

  As he lowered his phone, the smell from the pet-food factory caught in his nostrils. He sniffed at his fingers, hand and then his sleeve. I bloody reek of death, he realised, walking towards the shower.

  He made a short detour via the Aldi and picked out a bunch of purple flowers. No idea what these are, he thought. But I’m sure Eileen will like them. The only single malt in the alcohol section was a Scotch. Can’t see Malachy going for that, he thought. He selected a bottle of red and white wine instead then headed for the tills.

  The turning for the bog road was a short distance beyond Clifden. Jon slowed his car, remembering how e
asy it would be to miss it. About a mile out of town a small sign caught his eye. Connemara Gaelic Football Club. The place de Avila’s company was due to re-roof. Good old Darragh. Always ready to help the community out, he thought as his mobile phone started to ring.

  Chapter 30

  He stamped on the brakes and reached into his jacket. Hutcher’s name was on the screen.

  ‘Hey, Jon, your tip-off is a good one! The ISPCA already had word there was a major event taking place, they just weren’t sure of any details.’

  ‘So it is going to be in that pet-food factory?’

  ‘They’re confident enough of it to be arranging a raid in conjunction with the Garda. Remember the name of the visiting kennels touring England?’

  ‘Yeah – Clock-on, or whatever.’

  ‘My contact recognised it straight away as Gaelic. Clochán. It’s the old name for Clifden.’

  ‘De Avila,’ Jon stated, thinking the guy wasn’t turning out to be the small-time criminal Siobhain said he was.

  ‘I think you’re right. Seems now – with this trip to England – the bloke’s indulging in a bit of international dog-fighting activity. That’s a worrying development.’

  ‘He certainly seems ambitious.’

  ‘This one at the pet-food factory? He must be planning to fight the male Alano, AV8.’

  Jon tapped away on the top of his gear stick once again. If Darragh is arrested, there’s nothing stopping Zoë from leaving Clifden whenever she wants. He smiled. This could be just what I need. ‘When’s the raid taking place?’

  ‘They’re going to wait until they reckon everyone who’s been invited is there. Rumour has it there are dogs en route from a well-known kennels in Belfast.’

  ‘Excellent. Can you see if they’ll do me a favour?’