by Chris Simms
He glanced across at Alice, who was huddled on the sofa with her legs drawn up under her, handbag at her side. Holly was perched on the edge of an armchair, eyes glued to the telly.
Rick spoke softly. ‘This is bizarre. Are you sure nothing’s on your answerphone?’
Alice was biting at her lower lip as she reached into her handbag. ‘I’d have heard it ringing. Besides, we told him not to call me, didn’t we?’
‘I know, but just check, will you?’
She rummaged around and brought her mobile out. After pressing a few buttons her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God!’ Her eyes went to Holly, but the little girl didn’t seem to have heard.
‘What?’ Rick asked quietly, moving closer.
‘He sent a text, a couple of hours ago.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Devlan arrived in Galway. Am going back to Clifden. Will get the 7.50 flight this evening.’ She looked up at Rick with apprehensive eyes.
‘Clifden?’ Rick said in a faint voice. ‘Devlan is there?’ Shit, he thought. This really is not good.
‘Rick?’ Alice asked. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
He blinked. ‘No…no. It was a surprise. Let me think.’ He turned and slowly approached the plate-glass windows. Jon will take this guy apart. He recalled the tower block when his partner had lost all control with Salvio, the pimp who’d tried to force Zoë back onto the game. Jon had knocked his teeth out and snapped his arm, would probably have thrown him from a sixty-metre-high balcony if I hadn’t dragged him off. His mobile started to play Saturday Night Fever and he pressed green. ‘Jon?’
‘No – Andy.’
Andy Burnett, his contact in the NCA. The man was sounding excited. ‘Sorry, Andy, I was expecting someone else.’
‘Can you talk now? Only I’m having to make this call from the car park.’
‘Of course – go ahead.’
‘Right. You know how the company names from Ireland and other details you gave me were drawing a blank.’
Rick stopped before the windows, keeping his back to the room. ‘Yeah – subsidiaries, overseas stuff…’
‘Well, we have a way in.’
‘What?’
‘That name your colleague came up with – Blackman and May? That was the jackpot. Blackman and May is a Dublin-based law firm with an office in Galway. Their name featured on a suspicious property deal we looked at in Manchester. Hanover Quay, to be precise. Next to where they’re building that big media-city thing.’
‘Possible IRA investment?’
‘That’s what we reckoned at first. But the deal had no paramilitary connection that we could find. However, by using the Blackman and May connection, I could start ferreting round under the aegis of the current investigation.’
‘And?’
‘They do all the de Avila family’s legal work. The thread linking all the bits of the empire together.’
‘Empire?’ Dread tickled at the back of Rick’s mind.
‘Oh yes. There’s a lot of money in this, spread out in all sorts of directions.’
‘For a bunch of dog-fighters, you’re making these people sound very organised,’ Rick said quietly.
‘Oh, don’t make the mistake of thinking these guys are a bunch of culchies – ’
‘Culchies?’
‘Irish slang. The Bureau officers I’ve been liaising with used it. Culchie is a bumpkin, a backward country person. The de Avilas might appear to be culchies – probably happy to create that impression. But don’t be fooled. In fact, if your mate is still out there poking at the nest, I’d tell him to get the hell out.’
‘No, it’s on the house, compliments of Gerrard.’ Hazel placed the full bottles of beer on their table and started collecting in the empties.
‘Sound,’ one of the men replied, eyes bleary from the booze. He leaned back in his chair to look her up and down. ‘What’s your name, doll?’
‘Hazel.’ She smiled briefly.
‘Hazel.’ He thought about that for a moment. ‘You deserve a break, Hazel.’ He patted his knee. ‘Why don’t you sit down a minute?’
She found his Liverpool accent hard to understand, but the look in his eyes was obvious enough. ‘More people to serve.’ She glanced to the corner where Darragh was talking to the three Turkmen Gerrard had been so keen to impress. A hand slid round the back of her knee, a forefinger trailing upward.
‘Come on. Five minutes.’ He started to pull her closer.
‘And leave all our other customers thirsty, now?’ She tried to step away.
‘Stevo.’ The voice came from across the table. Same type of accent. The man placed his elbows on his knees, dense tattoos more like a shadow across both forearms. ‘That’s Devlan’s girl.’
The hand immediately dropped and the man looked up at her. ‘No offence, yeah? I was just having fun, like.’
‘’Course.’ She returned to the bar, slipped behind it then through to the back office. As she started placing the empties into the stacked crates on the floor, Gerrard continued speaking behind the desk.
‘Devlan, where are you? OK. Things are grand – they found nothing at the farm. We got all the dogs away – including the ones from the Bone Yard Kennels. Yeah, they’re still here. And the Dublin lot. It’s drinks on the house. No, we’re putting it down to bad luck, but word will get out it was the Englishman behind the raid. The damage to us is done. The Turkmen? No, I’m not going out there.’ He glanced awkwardly at the security monitors. ‘I can’t face it. Besides, Darragh has a tongue on him for that kind of stuff. Why are things grand? I’ll tell you, son – he came back. The peeler. Here to Clifden.’
She risked a glance across. The old man was looking up at the ceiling, an ugly smile on his face.
‘I sent Sean to get him. Just waiting for his call, now. Aye – don’t worry, we’ll keep him hidden away until you’re back. Cuchullain? Why bring – ’ A quiet chuckle sidled from the corner of his mouth. ‘You and that Francisco story. I suppose it would be kind of fitting. Don’t come with the dog yet – the Guards are still sniffing around. Right, see you soon.’
He replaced the receiver, raised himself to his feet and blew his cheeks out. ‘I’m hitting the hay for a few hours. Tell Darragh I’ll be at the house overlooking the bay.’
‘OK, Mr de Avila.’ She watched him walk wearily to the back corridor. As soon as the rear door banged shut, she made for the toilet, reaching for the tiny mobile phone hidden in her pocket. Door locked, she keyed in Jon’s number. The answer phone clicked in. ‘Shit,’ she cursed under her breath. ‘Why aren’t you answering?’
She jiggled her knees up and down, fingers pinching at her lower lip before she lifted the phone and keyed in a new number. ‘Uncle Bernard, it’s me, Siobhain,’ she whispered. ‘I’m in the club. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I didn’t mean for this to happen. That man, the Brit? The one you met at the pony fair to pass on all the information I’d got for you? He’s not really a freelance journalist.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Bernard, I lied to you. I’ve got him – us – into real trouble. Oh God. They’re after him now to find out how he knows all the things he does…’ She squeezed her eyes shut and tears rolled down both cheeks. ‘I don’t know what to do. He’s not answering his phone, I can’t warn him to get away – ’
The music grew louder as the door from the bar banged open. ‘Hazel!’ Darragh’s voice. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘I’ll try to come and see you,’ she hissed. ‘Not sure how soon.’ Hiding the phone in her pocket, she spoke at the back of the door. ‘Changing my tampon, if that’s OK with you.’
‘Well, are you done?’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She flushed the toilet, yanked paper towel from the dispenser and opened the door. ‘That fast enough for you?’
Darragh looked her up and down, eyes pinched with suspicion. ‘Not with this lot in here. Get some more champagne from the back.’
Rick rolled his eyes
at Alice. ‘Work call,’ he said, trying to sound exasperated. ‘Just need to sort something out.’ He wandered into his bedroom, closed the door and sat down heavily on the end of the double bed. ‘What…how big an empire does it appear to be?’
‘Right,’ his contact in the NCA continued. ‘I’ll start with the most recent investments. All legit. The names you gave me – Phoenix Court, Emmet Street, Anderson Court – are all Irish. Offices and residential developments in Galway and Dublin. Only the last one, Hanover Quay, is Manchester. As I said, part of that massive regeneration you’ve got going on out in Salford. Collectively, these things would have had a value touching the millions, if the whole property market hadn’t crashed. Now the banks aren’t lending. Building work on most of the Irish ones has ground to a halt and their values are plummeting.’
‘Where’ve they got the money to be getting into this sort of stuff in the first place?’ Rick asked.
‘I’m getting to that. Then there’s the construction company, Convila. That is actually registered to Darragh de Avila. Along with the nightclub, it’s about the only things they own with the de Avila name featuring.’
‘And both types of business are good ways to launder cash,’ Rick cut in.
‘Correct. We taught you a bit during your time here, didn’t we? Beneath that is what underpins the entire operation. By the way, the boys I know in the Bureau? They’re very keen to open a file on the de Avila family. They were able to tell me that, originally, the de Avilas owned a knacker’s yard. Over time, it evolved into an abattoir. It appears to have been in the family for donkey’s years, pardon the pun. In the wake of foot and mouth, EU laws were passed changing the rules on where animals could be slaughtered. Suddenly the de Avilas were quids in: there was only one other place in the Connemara region authorised to do it And the owner of that, out of the blue, apparently decided to commit suicide.’
Rick raised his eyebrows. ‘He did what?’
‘You heard. Just when business got really lucrative, he tops himself.’
‘How?’
‘A pile of neatly folded clothes and an empty bottle of whiskey were found on a secluded beach near Galway, his car parked nearby. No body was ever found.’
‘That…’ Rick struggled for words, ‘that…’
‘Stinks. I know. So, our mysterious family now have a monopoly on all the processing of meat in the area – which is big on sheep and cattle. Plus they’re the place you take those Connemara ponies when they need the chop. The outfit is registered as DA Services, the de Avila name vanishes off the books, but Blackman and May remain as the company lawyers. Then comes another very fortunate development.’
Rick’s eyes turned back to the Manchester skyline and he watched as a distant plane began its approach to the airport. Bloody hell, Jon, what have we got you into?
‘There was a smallish factory up in Mayo, the county above Galway. It produced dry pet food – biscuits and the like. Turning a small profit, but nothing major. The de Avila family bought it for a song and relocated the entire thing to just outside Clifden. Invested in brand new machinery, named the place Golden Fields Farm.’
‘Fuck,’ Rick whispered. ‘Vertical integration.’
‘Very good, mate. So now, rather than sell all the shit that isn’t fit for human consumption to pet-food places, they have one of their own. Turnover gradually increases as they win contracts to supply the major pet-food labels and supermarkets’ own brands. And that’s what is on the books. My guess is a heck of a lot more cash is being generated by that place – and they’ve used it to buy the properties we were talking about.’
‘Which are all legit,’ Rick added.
‘Exactly. Classic stuff, isn’t it? Use your ill-gotten gains to move into above-board stuff. They’ll be standing for public office next.’
Rick got up and walked slowly over to the bedroom window. The plane was now descending and he tracked its outline as it got closer and closer to the horizon. Eventually the chequered expanse of the Cheshire Plain swallowed it. ‘Cheers, Andy, I owe you for this.’
‘There’s more.’
Rick dragged a hand over his face.
‘That’s the dodgy business stuff – oh, and loads of holiday properties they rent out around Clifden. As I mentioned, this isn’t information I’ve dug up all on my own. The lads in the Bureau have discovered no paramilitary links to the de Avilas, which is why they’ve stayed off the radar so long. All that’s on them are some charges of cruelty to animals. None have stuck, but they’re known to be well involved in the illegal dog-fighting scene.’
‘We’ve worked that much out.’
‘OK. You also gave me some names – Francis Collins, Geordan and Fionna Reilly and a Tommy Hammell.’
‘I found a bit on Tommy Hammell – a con-artist who was been missing a while.’
‘The Bureau don’t expect him to ever turn up. He had a long record for financial scams, most in Dublin.
Rick felt queasy. ‘And somehow his name links in with the de Avilas.’
‘Not as worrying as Francis Collins. Did you look him up on the internet?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘Was, not is. Collins was on the IRA council. You need me to explain what that is?’
‘Please.’
‘OK – the IRA is headed by a seven-man army council. It is, shall we say, alleged that Martin McGuinness and Gerry Adams of Sinn Féin were part of the council for years. Maybe still are. Of course, nowadays Sinn Féin – as the political wing of the IRA – has representatives in all levels of government. London and Ireland, north and south of the border. MPs, TDs, Assembly members at Stormont, dozens of councillors. They’ve embraced the political process and the tactic’s working. A united Ireland, free from British rule, could actually happen.’
‘Though not helped by breakaway groups killing British soldiers.’
‘True. In fact, events like that are about the only thing that could ruin Sinn Féin’s strategy.’
‘So, this guy Collins. What happened?’
‘Shot to death while driving his car down Castlebar High Street in County Mayo back in 1993. Geordan and Fionna Reilly were innocent bystanders, killed when Collins’s car mounted the pavement. Collins’s death was blamed on the loyalist movement. So a load of fresh fighting broke out, even though no loyalist group ever took credit for his scalp. Many came to believe it was really the work of British security forces.’
‘You’re not saying it was the de Avilas? I thought they’ve always kept well out of this shit?’
‘I’d agree, but you need to know something. The pet-food factory they bought in County Mayo? It belonged to the late Francis Collins.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘That’s what I’m saying, Rick. This colleague of yours? He really should not be over there provoking these people.’
By the time he reached Roundstone, the vision in Jon’s good eye was going again. Concussion, he realised. Hope it doesn’t make me puke. His right leg had gone beyond numb: now it was frozen stiff. Prodding it with his fingers, he felt nothing. The limb of a dead person, he thought. Grafted to my thigh.
Bracing himself for the rip of pain he knew the effort would bring, he turned the wheel to take the sharp left up past O’Dowd’s bar. Reaching the top of the little incline, he breathed out with relief. There was Malachy’s bungalow. He pulled into the drive, came to a stop, opened the car door and vomited on the drive.
The realisation he’d actually made it caused something in him to buckle and collapse. Fatigue flooded him and new spots of pain began to register all over his body. Summoning the very last of his strength, he looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. Trickles of dried blood had formed a latticework of red across his face. The handkerchief was stuck to the side of his head, welded in place by the thick, red clot that had soaked through the fabric. His right eye was almost completely shut, the skin tight and discoloured.
White dots drifted and floated before his eyes, and as sleep f
olded itself around him, he couldn’t tell if the snowflakes were beyond the windscreen or only in his head.
Chapter 41
Rick paced up and down the pristine white interview room. In the main office, he could see Border Agency officials going about their business. A voice announced the arrival of a flight from Cape Town. Airports, Rick thought. A never-ending hive of activity.
As he waited for the official to return, he ran over the last part of the phone conversation he’d had with his contact in the NCA. Burnett had warned Rick that, given the extent of the de Avila family’s activities, a major investigation was being opened by the Bureau.
Rick had composed himself before walking back into the living area. He’d talked Alice through the security system for admitting people up the final flight of stairs leading to the penthouse apartment then raced over to Manchester airport.
The door swung fully open and the Border Agency official stepped back in, a canvas holdall hanging from one hand. He placed it on the table and regarded Rick with a glum expression. ‘Here it is.’
Rick lifted the luggage tag. Flight AE731.
The man placed his hands on his hips. ‘On your head be it –’
‘I’ve said,’ Rick cut in impatiently, examining the bag, ‘he’s my partner, he’s not going to lodge a complaint.’ He looked at the other man. ‘Two minutes?’
The official backed away. ‘I’ll be outside.’
Rick opened the zip. On top of the badly folded clothes was a knitted woollen scarf and a teddy bear. It was wearing a green jumper with a clover-leaf emblem on the front. Carefully, Rick lifted them out and placed them on the table.
Below the scarf was a folder. Rick opened it up and saw the financial records Jon had described over the phone. He flicked through to the final sheet. On it were four names. Tommy Hammell, Geordan and Fionna Reilly, Francis Collins. Rick placed it to one side.
