by Chris Simms
‘Jon? If your intelligence turns out to be correct, no favour you ask will be too big. They’ve been trying to bring down Clochán kennels for years.’
‘I only want to go along on the raid. A background observer. It would be so nice to see de Avila being led out in cuffs.’
‘I only wish I could be there, too. This sounds like it could be a big one.’
‘I’ll give you a full report, don’t worry.’
Hutcher laughed. ‘I’ll pass your number on. Someone will give you a buzz.’
‘Gerrard, how can I be of help?’
‘How are you, Brendan?’ Even though the person on the other end of the phone couldn’t see his face, Gerrard forced himself to smile. The obsequiousness of doing so made him feel ill.
‘Busy. There’s plenty going on here, as you can imagine.’
He fanned his thick fingers and ran them across the smooth wood of the table in his hotel suite. Behind him, notes trickled from a pair of shoulder-high speakers barely an inch thick. The sound was so clear, the pianist could have been in the room. ‘I don’t doubt that. Margaret well?’
‘She’s fine, Gerrard. What can I do for you?’
Gerrard thought about Patrick – the young Garda working out of the station back in Clifden. The man had called earlier in tears, sobbing down the phone like a woman, saying he was out of his depth, that he didn’t know what to do, pleading for permission to not get involved. The young officer was weak and ineffectual, Gerrard had thought contemptuously. And – at some point in the future – he would pay for that. ‘I’ve never asked for favours, you know that Brendan.’
‘That’s true. But you’re asking for one now?’
‘A quiet word is all I want you to have.’
‘About?’
‘I’ve a situation and I’m reluctant to take it up with…the proper channels.’
‘Those being?’
‘The police.’
‘And what is this situation?’
‘There’s a British policeman showing his face in Clifden. He’s got it into his head a girl he knows has been working in one of my businesses there.’
‘Which one would that be?’
‘The nightclub. The one my son, Darragh, runs. This policeman is acting on his own, I’m certain. A few nights ago he marched into Darragh’s office demanding the return of this girl. He refuses to believe she isn’t there.’
‘Is she there?’
‘No! But the prick won’t accept that. Things are starting to escalate, Brendan. He’s making a nuisance of himself – thumped the doorman, threatened my son. Now, I don’t want to ruin the man’s career over a moment of madness on his part – ’
‘Doesn’t sound like you, Gerrard. Getting soft in your old age?’
Gerrard forced another smile, toes curling in his shoes. ‘It’s not like that, Brendan. Far from it – ’
‘What is it you want me to do?’
‘Have him removed back to England. Oh,’ he gave a little shrug, ‘and ask that he return some property of ours that he took. Then we can forget about the whole thing.’
‘What property?’
‘Two security tapes from the nightclub. The things are of no value – it’s a point of principle. He stole them and I would like them back.’
‘And how do you propose that I arrange all this?’
‘Come on, Brendan. You have an office in Stormont these days. The parliament in Dublin is riddled with your people. You’ve got clout. A quiet word, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘Am I missing something here? Why don’t you speak to this person? If the girl he’s looking for isn’t there, make that clear to him, demand your bloody cassettes back and tell him to be on his way.’
‘The man won’t listen to reason, Brendan. That’s the problem.’
‘And on what grounds do you think we could have him removed?’
Gerrard felt the blood rising in the back of his neck. ‘On the grounds the bloke is looking for trouble – and, before long, he’s going to fucking find it.’ His outburst was met with silence. Gerrard took a deep breath in. ‘Brendan? Sorry, that sounded worse than intended. What I meant is that – ’ He paused. ‘Brendan, there’s an event taking place at the farm tomorrow – ’
‘I don’t get involved in that kind of activity any more.’
‘I know. But there are people travelling in from all over. Campbell’s coming down from Belfast. Brendan, if these people get wind that there’s a British policeman throwing his weight around here, I can’t guarantee his safety.’
When the other man spoke, his voice was quivering with anger. ‘Do you realise the shit flying round this place? A British soldier has been tortured, executed and dumped. The unionists are on our backs. Those cunts are threatening to walk out of this place. Their Tory mates in Westminster are beginning to nod their heads in agreement. Now Downing Street is demanding answers and we have no idea – not a clue – who did it.’
‘Surely everyone knows it wasn’t the IRA?’
‘Does that matter to the unionists? Continuity IRA, Real IRA, Provisional IRA – it’s still the IRA to them because that gives them the exact excuse they need: no power-sharing with Sinn Féin because we’re just a mouthpiece for terrorists.’
Which is absolutely true, Gerrard thought. ‘So there’s not even a whisper who was behind it?’
‘There’s no longer any communication between us and those mad bastards who only want to carry on fighting. For them, we sold out when the party signed up to the Good Friday Agreement. To them we’re worse than the bloody unionists. We’re traitors, Gerrard. We’ve entered the political process. As you’ve just said, we’ve got offices in Stormont.’
And don’t forget, Gerrard thought, your big salaries and cars, fat expense accounts and civil servants to do your bidding. Meanwhile, out in the real world, the rest of us are seeing our businesses going tits up. ‘That’s a bad state of affairs.’
‘So you can see how your little problem compares?’
My little problem, Gerrard thought. You weren’t so dismissive when you used to come down here, sit in our nightclub, enjoy drinks on the house then go on to a prime spot to watch the fight. Bastard.
‘Why can’t you use the Guards to sort this, anyway?’
‘You know that isn’t my way.’
‘But trying to get a senior Sinn Féin official to pull a few strings is?’
‘Jesus, Brendan – it’s just a call to someone in London. A word on to whoever this guy’s boss is in Manchester, that’s all.’
‘Sorry, Gerrard. You need to sort this out yourself, I haven’t the time.’
The line went dead and Gerrard carefully placed his phone on the table. He interlinked his fingers before his face. ‘Haven’t the time?’ he murmured, sitting perfectly still. The waves of fury refused to fade.
Chapter 31
By the time he found the turning for the bog road, the sun was low in the sky. The land became spiked with reeds and soon Jon could see fingers of water reaching out for the narrow strip of asphalt. He tried to imagine driving along it in the dead of night. One thing was for sure, he thought, you’d take it bloody slow. The twisting road had no markings and he realised how easy it would be to come off it and plough into the marsh itself.
Far ahead, he caught the wink of approaching headlights. As the road carved its way between the expanses of water, the lights would disappear from view, only to appear again slightly closer. Eventually, he was able to see the vehicle itself. A battered old Land Rover. Finally they met and, as the last metres closed between them, both vehicles slowed to a crawl. Jon moved the outer tyres of his car on to the grass verge, the Land Rover doing the same. As they inched past each other, the driver solemnly held up a hand. The gesture, thought Jon, was part-greeting but part-something more: a signal to go carefully. He nodded back and the other vehicle was soon just twin dots of red in the gloaming.
‘Hey brother, it’s me.’
‘Devlan! Why’ve
you not been returning my calls?’
‘Been busy.’
‘Sorry to hear about Queenie.’
‘That fucking British peeler – it’s his fault. I’ll be there tomorrow, Darragh. And I’ll break his fucking face, so I will.’
‘Dad’s getting it sorted, Devlan.’
‘Is he now? How come Conor left me a message saying this peeler’s been visiting other places of ours?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t try to bullshit me. He’s been to Golden Fields, pretending that he was after work. Conor told me about the message he gave to Emily. “Tell Darragh, Jon Spicer has had a look around.”’
‘Well…he did, yes.’
‘The fucker. And Conor mentioned something about the unit in Clifden.’
‘Um...yeah.’
‘What did he do? Tell me!’
‘Shoved Roy out of the way and marched in.’
‘Who’s Roy?’
‘Denis’s youngest. We pay him to keep an eye on the machines. Spicer pulled all the plugs out, told Roy production has been suspended.’
‘Jesus, I do not believe this. And you never told me about the fucking security tapes he took, did you?’
‘I didn’t know he had them – not when I left you that message. I only found out after.’
‘Conor said you’ve had his car and room at the hotel searched.’
‘Yeah, no sign of them.’
‘Where’s he getting his information?’
‘Wish I knew.’
‘The Guards?’
‘No. Dad checked with our man at the station.’
‘Who, Patrick?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He didn’t even know Spicer was back in town until Dad told him. A big clue would have been all the posters that have been plastered round the place.’
‘There a phone number on these posters?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got it right here. He’d stuck a poster to the front doors of the club.’
‘Give it me.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Call the fucker, of course.’
‘What will you say?’
‘Not sure. I just want to hear the guy’s voice.’
‘Dad said you’re to sit tight. Do nothing until your flight in the morning.’
‘Just give me the fucking number, Darragh.’
As Jon pulled up outside Malachy’s bungalow, the last of the sun was catching on the distant peaks. In the purpling sky above, stars were beginning to emerge.
Eileen’s car was already there and he could see lights on behind the closed curtains. He walked up the driveway, glancing over his shoulder at the building site opposite. The letters on the side of the dumper truck were just visible.
His hand was on the handle of the porch door when a succession of high notes pierced the air. Someone’s mobile, he thought, before his eyes widened. The pay-as-you-go! Putting the bouquet of flowers on the ground, he scrabbled to get the phone out of his pocket. ‘Hello?’
Silence.
Jon frowned. ‘Hello?’
No reply.
He held his breath. Was someone there? It sounded like the call was connected. He strained to make out any noise. Was that someone breathing? ‘Hello? Can you hear me? If you have information about Zoë, there’s no need to worry, your identity will be safe.’
A chuckle, menacing and low.
Jon held the handset away from his face for a moment. Was it a kid, mucking about? He pressed it back against his ear and continued to listen, the presence of the person at the other end of the line becoming more sinister with every second. ‘Hello?’
A sudden howl caused him to flinch. The line went dead. Jon lowered his shoulders and stared at the handset, the noise still resonating in his brain. That wasn’t a kid. It sounded like an adult. He wanted to wipe his ear, as if the deranged shriek had dirtied it. He brought up the last call received function. There it was: anonymous. ‘Wanker,’ he muttered, retrieving the flowers and opening the door.
‘The tax man, was it?’
Jon’s heart missed a beat. Christ, it was Malachy, sitting there in the shadows. The old man was slumped in his chair, staring out across the still bay. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
The old man raised a small glass and took a sip. ‘Kieron found a dead ewe. Out at the tamhnóg by where Mattie cuts his turf.’
Jon frowned. ‘Is that somewhere along the bog road?’
Malachy sat forward. ‘Eh?’
Sensing their wires were crossed, Jon held up the flowers and bottles of wine. ‘It’s Mary’s son, Jon. I ate with you yesterday. I’ve brought some wine with me.’
Malachy sat back. ‘Jon! A thousand welcomes to you. There I was thinking you were Joseph, the pair of you are so similar.’
Joseph, Jon thought. The grandson of Orla’s brother. The one who drowned out at sea. A bit freaky he keeps mixing us up. He turned slightly and regarded the ocean. ‘What’s that mountain range on the horizon called?’
Malachy gazed fondly at its faint silhouette. ‘The Twelve Bens. And further north, across the bog, you have the Maumturks.’
Great names, Jon thought, looking back at his grandfather. ‘I went to the pony sale earlier. It was really interesting.’
‘Oh, the sale, yes. You get some funny fellows along there. Did you speak to anyone?’
‘No. I just watched.’
‘Well, tell them your mother is an O’Coinne if anyone asks. People like to know your family in these parts.’
The front door opened and light spilled into the porch as Eileen looked out. ‘I thought it was you I heard talking.’ She tutted at Malachy. ‘Don’t be making him stand out in the cold while you drink your whiskey. Jon – come in, come in.’
‘Malachy?’ He looked down at the old man. The sheep dog was lying across his frayed slippers ‘Are you staying outside?’
The old man gave a nod. ‘For a few minutes yet. You go in. Eileen, pour the man a drink now.’
She rolled her eyes and they walked down the corridor.
‘I wasn’t sure if you prefer red or white, so I got both,’ Jon announced. ‘And these are for you.’
She looked over her shoulder at the flowers he was holding up. ‘Irises! That’s so kind, Jon. You didn’t need to.’
‘Yes I did.’
Kieron stood as they entered the kitchen. ‘Jon, hello.’
‘Hello,’ he replied, placing the bottles on the worktop and shaking hands. ‘How was your day?’
‘Not bad, thanks. Lambing season is not far off – then things get busy.’
‘I bet.’ Jon’s mind went to a previous investigation. One that took him to a hill farm on the lower slopes of Saddleworth Moor. ‘Do you gather all the animals in for it?’
‘Now we do,’ Kieron replied, examining the bottles with a look of curiosity. ‘Wine.’ He glanced back at Jon. ‘A bit of a treat.’
Have I, Jon thought, made some kind of faux-pas? ‘I thought…you know…a glass would be nice.’
‘It will be,’ Eileen cut in. ‘Usually we only have it on special occasions. But this is special enough. You were telling Jon about the lambing season.’
The younger man nodded. ‘It used to be that the women would live out in booleys – the nearest to here is Scailp.’
‘Scailp is at the foot of the mountain,’ Eileen explained, stirring a large saucepan on the old stove. ‘It’s a pasture for sheep and cattle.’
Jon took a seat. ‘And what’s a booley?’
‘A hut,’ Kieron replied, rummaging around in the drawer for a corkscrew. ‘Walls of rocks, roof of branches and reed straws. The women would stay there and wean the lambs, the men would go out in the evening, collect the milk and bring it back to the village for churning. When it had become butter, it would go in wooden kegs to Galway.’
‘How recently were things done like that?’ Jon asked.
Eileen thought a moment. ‘Orla, used to help when she was young. That would have be
en up until the Second World War.’
Jon shook his head in wonder.
Kieron pointed. ‘Which colour will you have Jon?’
‘Red, thanks.’
‘And how was your day?’ Kieron asked, passing him a glass.
Jon lowered his eyes and examined the ruby liquid, unsure of how much to say. ‘The person I’m looking for in Clifden is a relative, of sorts.’
Eileen turned her head. ‘Who?’
Jon raised his eyes. ‘You know I had a brother?’ He watched Eileen’s expression as she registered the fact he’d used the past tense. She doesn’t know, he concluded sadly.
‘David?’
‘Dave – or our kid, as we called him.’ He took in a breath. ‘Well, he died a few years back.’
Eileen held a hand over her open mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jon said. ‘With this issue Mum has, I wasn’t sure if you’d know or not…’
‘We didn’t know.’ She reached out and rested a palm on his shoulder. ‘What happened?’
Jon kept his eyes on his glass. ‘I’d prefer to tell you another time. But he left behind a young boy, Jake. He’s now six and lives with Mary and Alan.’
‘With Mary and Alan?’ Eileen whispered.
‘Jake’s mother had her fair share of problems. With Dave gone, she couldn’t cope and – well – pretty much fled, leaving Jake behind. All I’ve heard of her since then is a couple of postcards. She was coming over to Galway to look for a friend she used to know back in Manchester.’
‘What’s her name?’ Eileen asked.
‘Jake’s mum? Zoë Butler. Then, literally a week ago, this friend Zoë came looking for rang. She said Zoë had found her, but had got herself into some trouble and needed someone to get her out of Clifden. She said Zoë was working in the town’s nightclub.’
‘Darragh’s?’ Kieron said, rolling his wine round in the glass.
Jon looked across at him. ‘You know it?’
‘Yes. Some of the younger ones drive over there at the weekends for the dancing.’
‘How long’s it been open?’
‘Ten or so years? I take it you didn’t find Zoë there?’
Jon leaned back. ‘No. The owner, Darragh de Avila, claimed to know nothing about her.’
