by Chris Simms
‘Don’t worry about us,’ Alice stated. ‘We’re fine. We’re with Rick, we’re safe. Find him, Jon. Do you hear me? Find that piece of – ’
The line went silent. As Jon sat down, the doors of the arrivals hall slid apart. At the front of the queue was a man who could only have been Darragh de Avila’s brother. The basic face-shape was the same, but sunken cheeks and a harsh jaw eradicated any hint of the childish appearance Darragh possessed. In its place was the whisper of cruelty. Hair was shorn, eyes narrow as they fixed on the official checking passports. Jon guessed he was a good three inches taller than the nightclub owner and more heavily built, too. But it was the unbalanced bulk from lifting weights: too much time spent on his upper body.
Jon hardly dared breathe. It was like observing a wild animal he didn’t want to spook. This is the fucker who tried to kill my family.
The official handed back his passport and Devlan stepped into the main terminal and turned his back.
Jon watched as another man emerged. The driver of the van. Jesus Christ, it’s the driver of the van! He started patting the pockets of his jacket, searching for his warrant card. Rucksack. He leaned down, grabbed it and started struggling with the front zip. What am I doing? I have no power here. Warrant card’s useless. Sliding it into his jacket, he raised his head. Relaxed and confident, the two men were now strolling for the exit doors.
Jon got to his feet and set off at an angle. Their paths would cross at the main entrance. A family with a couple of luggage trolleys cut across him. Jon banged into one, toppling their stacked bags to the floor. Not taking his eyes off the two men, he tried to step over a holdall, his foot getting caught up in one of the looped handles.
‘Would you mind where you’re stepping?’ the woman demanded angrily, looking to her husband for support.
By the time he’d extricated his foot, the pair were almost out of the terminal. Jon skirted round the mess, oblivious to the family’s incredulous stares. He was now ten metres from the doors. The two men were climbing into a waiting vehicle.
Starting to jog, he reached the Land Rover just as the rear passenger door slammed shut. Denis was driving: the man from the pet-food factory. They were exchanging greetings as Jon bent forward and rapped his knuckles against the window.
All three heads turned. He watched as the smile fell from Devlan’s face. Then the man’s upper lip peeled back to expose crooked teeth, bases stained brown with nicotine. A hand shot to the side as he made a grab for the door. Jon smiled. Come on then. He shook his arms at his sides. Out you get.
The other man on the rear passenger seat reached over and clamped a hand across Devlan’s forearm. Something was said and Devlan tried to shake his arm free. Refusing to let go, the other man spoke at Denis. The Land Rover’s engine revved. Jon leaped forward, fingers narrowly missing the handle of the door as the vehicle set off, tyres yelping. Through the Perspex flaps making up its rear windows, Jon saw Devlan turn. The man raised a hand, two fingers outstretched as his thumb mimed pulling a trigger.
Jon sprinted after the vehicle but it was accelerating away too fast. Nostrils flaring in and out, he watched it race away. Gradually, his pulse slowed. Alice’s words came back to him. Do what you have to do. This, he realised, is my chance. Both brothers are now here.
He turned on his heel, strode back into the terminal and examined the departures board. There it was - the later flight to Manchester. Departing at 7.50 tonight. That gives me twelve hours.
The woman behind the information desk was speaking into her microphone. ‘Would all passengers on the seven-thirty flight to Manchester please proceed through to the departure lounge with your boarding cards ready.’
Another half hour, he thought, and I could have been on my way home. He hitched his rucksack over his shoulder. ‘I need to catch the evening flight.’
She looked mildly irritated. ‘You’re booked on the Manchester flight?’
‘Yes. Can I transfer to the later one?’
Her lips thinned as she began tapping on her keyboard. ‘I’m afraid your carrier makes a surcharge for that. Twenty euro.’
‘No problem.’
‘Then if I could have your boarding pass and ticket.’
He handed them over along with a twenty-euro note. ‘Oh, and I’ll need the holdall that I checked in earlier.’
She studied her screen. ‘It’s already been loaded, Mr Spicer.’
‘Surely it won’t take two minutes for someone to rummage around for it? How many bags are there?’
‘The flight is almost full. Plus there’s the commercial freight.’
Jon glanced at the last people heading through the gate into the departures lounge. An elderly couple. A young woman carrying a baby, husband with a change bag hanging from his shoulder. ‘You’re saying it will cause a delay?’
‘You checked in first thing didn’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Then your bag will have been among the first items on board. They’ll have to empty the entire hold to get to it…’
Jon weighed things up. The Asp, he thought, is inside. Along with the body armour and pepper spray. Everything I need for that head-case Devlan.
‘It will be no problem to have it put aside at the arrivals desk in Manchester.’
People were congregating near the gate out onto the runway. He imagined all their travel plans. Relatives waiting, connecting flights and onward train journeys already booked.
‘Sir, I need to announce the flight is ready for boarding. Will you collect your bag at Manchester?’
‘Fine, I’ll pick it up tonight.’
She leaned to her side. ‘Flight AE731 to Manchester is now ready to board. Will all passengers proceed immediately to gate number one, thank you.’ She took her finger off the microphone button. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled.
Part III
Chapter 37
As Jon steered his new hire car through the series of roundabouts leading towards the River Corrib, he thought about what the ISPCA officer had said when he’d rung him back.
‘We’re setting off any minute,’ the man had replied. ‘Going via Clifden station where another eight Guards are waiting to join us.’
‘OK, I’m about to set off from the airport.’
‘You’ll have to catch us up at the de Avila’s farm, we can’t wait.’
Jon raced along the N59. As the stretches of water bordering the road closed in, he wondered about Devlan’s accomplice – the one who’d been driving the van in Manchester. There’s something about him.
The junction with the R336 appeared and Jon realised he’d reached Maam Cross. His mobile rang: DCI Parks’s name on the screen. That’s it, he thought. She’s on to me. I can kiss goodbye to my job in the MIT. Probably my whole bloody career. He let the call go through to his answerphone, thinking about his old colleague, Maccer. The one who’d ended up working as a debt collector.
The bass thudding had died down at dawn. Now a more relaxed beat permeated through the nightclub into the back office.
Wearing a black cashmere jumper, black pleated trousers and black brogues, Gerrard de Avila stood in the centre of the room, staring at Devlan with a stony face. In the corner of the room Sean Doyle sat next to Conor Barry and the driver of the Land Rover. All three men were keeping their eyes firmly on the floor.
Darragh de Avila was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, eyes moving uneasily between his brother and father. In the far corner, the barmaid with the dyed blonde hair was preparing drinks.
Devlan dragged on his cigarette, pushed a foot out and brushed ash from the leg of his combat trousers. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? Back to fucking England, like.’
Gerrard raised a meaty finger and when he spoke, the rumble coming from deep in his chest. ‘I did not give those orders.’
Raising both palms, Devlan said, ‘I know, Da. I should have asked – ’
‘You don’t ask, you do,’ the old man roared. ‘That’s the way it works. Turning the
fucking gas on. How do you know they’re not dead?’
‘We opened a window, didn’t we, Dev?’ Sean interjected.
Devlan started searching for more ash on his trousers as Gerrard turned on Sean. ‘And you? What did I tell you to do?’
‘Not let him do anything stupid,’ Sean mumbled.
Devlan’s eyes flashed at the comment. Behind his desk, Darragh shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Not let him do anything stupid,’ Gerrard repeated. ‘Jesus, if you can’t do what you’re asked, is there any point paying you a wage? Is there any point to you at all?’
Sean Doyle studied his palms. ‘Sorry. We were both, you know – he was trying to provoke – ’
‘At least he’s gone,’ Darragh said quietly.
Gerrard’s head swung in the direction of his other son.
‘We’ve got a club full of punters,’ Darragh continued. ‘Your men from whatever Stan it is are in the corner enjoying free champagne. Everything’s set at the farm. And the English peeler is out of our hair.’ He briefly lifted his shoulders. ‘Dad, it could be worse.’
‘Could it now?’ Gerrard asked sarcastically. ‘Could it be worse?’
Darragh looked unsure. ‘Well…’
‘The fucking security tape,’ Gerrard bellowed. ‘What about that? Didn’t think of that, did you?’ He shot a furious glance at Devlan. ‘Either of you.’
‘He hasn’t used it yet, Dad,’ Darragh eventually replied. ‘Maybe he slung it and we needn’t worry.’
‘Maybe,’ Gerrard muttered. ‘But I don’t like the idea of it being out there.’
‘Let’s get this fight over,’ Darragh replied. ‘We can catch up on this peeler later.’
The old man remained motionless. No one spoke. Finally, he grunted. ‘Anything else like that.’ He jabbed a finger at Devlan. ‘Understand?’
Devlan nodded eagerly. ‘Sure, Dad. I’m sorry.’
The old man turned to the corner where the driver of the Land Rover sat. ‘Denis, everything’s ready?’
Behind him, Darragh raised his eyebrows at Devlan. His twin winked back and then looked away.
‘It is,’ the ginger-haired man replied.
‘How’s Cuchullain?’ Sean asked, sitting up.
The ginger-haired man grinned. ‘Peak condition. A Tasmanian Devil on a lead is what he is. The bite on the thing – the crushing power.’
‘Has he seen any action this last week?’
‘Aye, one of the old pit bulls.’
‘Which one?’
‘Nipper.’
Sean flicked a hand, indicating the animal was surplus to needs ‘Was he game, like?’
‘Aye, he was game all right. But Cuchullain wrecked him, so he did. Got in underneath and fucking wrecked him.’
Devlan slapped a fist into his palm.
‘Hold your horses!’ Gerrard said, a smile playing at his lips as he patted the air with both palms. ‘Save it for the farm.’ He noticed the tray of drinks being held out to him. ‘That’s grand, Hazel.’
Gerrard was about to propose a toast when the phone on the desk rang. He gave Darragh a nod.
‘Hello,’ the nightclub owner said.
Sean began to ask Denis another question, but Darragh chopped at the air with his free hand. ‘When? Right now? How many? OK.’ He replaced the phone and looked at his father. ‘They’re raiding the farm.’
The old man lowered his glass. ‘When?’
‘As soon as the ISPCA arrive. That was Patrick at the station. Eight of them are waiting to join a group who are due from Maam Cross any minute.’
The old man placed his glass on the desk. ‘Clear everything.’ He clicked a finger at Denis. ‘Call to the farm. Have Liam take the pit down. How many dogs have we there?’
‘Six.’
‘And the Bone Yard’s animals?’
‘Them too.’
‘Tell those boys to get their dogs away.’
Darragh placed his elbows on the desk and cupped a hand to each side of his head. ‘We’ve got people from all over. Four flew in from Liverpool yesterday. Campbell is down from Belfast – ’
‘I know,’ Gerrard snarled. ‘We’ll have to tell them another time.’
Darragh lifted his face. ‘The Turkmen or whatever they’re called.’
Gerrard’s neck was puce.
‘Where’s Cuchullain?’ Sean asked.
‘At the farm, too,’ Denis replied. ‘In a pen at the back.’
‘They’re not finding Cuchullain,’ Devlan announced. ‘I’m taking him.’
‘Where to?’ Gerrard asked.
Devlan thought for a second. ‘Mum’s place at Lough Nakilla? The stables, Da. Or the sheds by the boathouse.’
‘Think, son. Information is getting out somehow.’ He surveyed the room, eyes blazing. ‘Tuck him further away than that. Somewhere well out of the road.’ He gave his son a meaningful look.
Devlan raised the corner of his mouth. ‘Got you, Da. I know a good spot.’ Then he, too, examined everyone else’s faces, suspicion making his eyes beady.
‘Ach, come on,’ Denis protested. ‘There’s no need to be acting like that.’
‘Why?’ Devlan sneered. ‘Someone who knows our business is whispering.’
Darragh coughed. ‘Patrick said word about the fight came from the British police officer.’
‘Spicer?’ Devlan demanded.
‘Patrick says it was.’
Devlan spat on the floor. ‘I am going to kill that fucking man.’
Chapter 38
Jon dropped his speed as the Garda station came into view. The car park was virtually empty. The raid’s started, he thought, lifting his foot off the brake. He followed the road towards Letterfrack. The turn off for Golden Fields soon appeared on his right.
He turned into the narrow lane and saw it was congested with parked vehicles – including two Garda vans. Both were empty, no sign of anything – dogs or people – locked up inside. Parking behind a squad car, he climbed out of the Peugeot, warrant card held out to the group of watching police officers. He recognised the one who’d been on the desk at Clifden’s station. ‘Patrick, isn’t it?’
The young police officer seemed momentarily lost for words. ‘It is. Detective Inspector…’
‘Spicer,’ Jon nodded, returning his warrant card to the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Have you got Devlan?’
The officer’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Devlan? No.’
Jon cursed. ‘Is Martin O’Donagh about?’
‘That’s me.’
The voice came from near one of the vans. Jon turned to see a man of about thirty with curly blonde hair approaching. ‘From your accent and height, I thought it might be you.’
Jon held his hand out. ‘Any luck? Did you arrest any of the de Avilas?’
As they shook, the ISPCA inspector nodded at the open doors of the vans. ‘They knew we were coming – everything’s been cleared, though only just.’
Right, Jon thought. That means the shit’s really hit the fan. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Fresh dog faeces in a shed area at the back. Plus recent scratches in the wood partitions.’ He shook his head, walking along the grass verge until they were out of the police officers’ earshot. ‘They’ve got someone in their pocket, no doubt about it.’
‘Seems so,’ Jon replied.
‘And I’d say from how close we came, he’s based here in Clifden. Apart from a couple of senior ranking officers, no one in this town knew the raid was taking place until an hour or so ago.’
A muddy four-wheel drive pulled in off the main road, the rear compartment taken up by a large wire cage.
Martin O’Donagh made sure the ISPCA tag hanging round his neck was visible as he approached the driver’s window. ‘Looking for the fight? Did no one tell you it’s cancelled?’
The man was thickset, a sparse covering of hair on his bullet-like head. ‘What fight?’ he asked.
O’Donagh stepped round to the rear of the veh
icle where a white pit bull with brown patches round its eyes stared back. ‘Lost your way?’ he called out.
The driver addressed O’Donagh’s reflection in his side-view mirror as he backed the vehicle onto the verge. ‘Just looking for a nice spot to walk my dog.’
‘That so?’ O’Donagh smiled, taking out a pad and pen. He noted the van’s registration. ‘And you’ve driven all the way up from County Clare just for that?’
The man didn’t reply as he put the four-wheel drive into first.
O’Donagh gestured with his chin to the main road. ‘On your way. There’s nothing happening here.’
The man glanced to his side. ‘Yeah? Fuck you.’
The jeep roared back towards the junction. ‘Latecomer to the party,’ Jon stated.
‘Shows how close we were,’ O’Donagh replied wearily.
Jon glanced towards the farm entrance. ‘Any sign of the de Avila family? The son you mentioned, Devlan?’
‘None. Never bloody is. They’ll be racing all round the county, hiding dogs as they go.’
‘You reckon?’
‘That or they’re perched on their arses in Clifden getting pissed.’
That option suits me fine, Jon thought, turning to the hire car. ‘Listen, I’m heading back to Clifden. I have to speak to the de Avila brothers.’
The ISPCA officer looked startled. ‘They won’t be in the mood for chatting.’
Jon nodded. Neither am I.
Back on the N59, he contemplated where to go first. Would Darragh’s still be open? He remembered Siobhain’s last call to him at the airport. Zoë was, she’d claimed, on her way back from Dublin, having made a delivery of DVDs. The lock-up by the pony auction place, he decided. Let’s see if there’s any sign of them there.
Gerrard de Avila flicked a finger. Darragh vacated his chair behind the desk and his father sank into it. ‘Another drink here, Hazel.’
She immediately went to the cabinet in the corner.
The old man laced his fingers across his stomach as his bottom lip pushed out. Silently, he contemplated the backs of his hands. ‘This tan. The English policeman. He knew about the unit making DVDs. He knew about the farm and he knew about the fight.’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘I wonder what else he knows?’
