Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘What?’ His brother coughed out a lump of chewed bacon. ‘You dirty wee fuck.’

  Darragh sat forward. ‘Before we closed the club, she was up to something. She’d locked herself in the toilets, I thought she was pocketing tips. Said to me she was in there changing her tampon.’

  Devlan picked at his teeth with a thumbnail. ‘Did she? Well, she wasn’t on the curse when I was doing her just now.’

  ‘Alice, it’s Rick.’

  ‘Have you found him?’

  He winced at the question. ‘Not yet. But there are a lot of officers looking.’ His thoughts turned to the previous evening. Parks had taken him up to the office of Chief Superintendent Gower, where he’d had to go through everything he knew about Jon’s movements. Gower had listened in silence.

  A call had gone into Nick Hutcher in the RSPCA, who’d provided them with a number for Martin O’Donagh, the inspector in the ISPCA who’d led the raid on the de Avila’s pet-food factory.

  O’Donagh had confirmed Jon had showed up there, but on realising the dog fight had been called off, had driven back to Clifden saying he needed to speak with the de Avilas face-to-face.

  That was at eleven in the morning and after that, nothing. The hospital had been checked, as had the town’s hotels. No one had anything of use to report.

  Rick considered the list his contact in the NCA had been sent by his Irish colleagues. Topping it was the commercial properties they already knew the de Avila family owned. After that, there were dozens of residential properties spread throughout the Connemara region. Most were holiday homes, standing empty in readiness for the tourist season. The possible locations where Jon could be being held was frightening.

  ‘Rick.’ Alice’s voice was wobbling. ‘I rang his mum and dad earlier. They haven’t heard from him either. What’s happened?’

  ‘It’ll be fine, Alice.’ Rick made sure he sounded confident. ‘Bloody hell,’ he tried to laugh. ‘For all we know, he stayed over to watch a rugby match in Dublin or something. Got drinking with a load of Irish and is sleeping it off in a hotel room.’

  ‘No. He’d have rung me.’ She started to cry. ‘God, it’s my fault – I pressurised him. Told him to do whatever he had to do. He was about to fly home.’

  ‘Alice, it’s not your fault. We don’t even know if he found the brothers.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Alice, we don’t know that, do we?’

  ‘No,’ she sniffed.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m so scared, Rick.’

  ‘Don’t be. This will work out fine. Last thing, Alice.’ He checked his voice, aware too much urgency was creeping in. ‘We’re following up leads and, chances are, we’ll locate him very soon. But did he mention any specific place to you? Doesn’t he have relatives in the area?’ He waited with his eyes closed. Please, Alice, he thought. Give us something we can use.

  ‘Roundstone,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘Didn’t he mention that to you?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘The little fishing village where his mum’s side of the family are originally from. It’s about an hour’s drive from Clifden. He’s been popping over to visit his grandad – he lives in a little bungalow there.’

  Rick scribbled the word down. The rest of his syndicate were in a silent ring round the table. DCI Parks read the word and shot a quizzical look at Rick.

  He spoke directly at his senior officer. ‘OK, Alice, it’s a little fishing village one hour from Clifden. His grandfather lives in a bungalow there.’

  DCI Parks flapped a hand at the officer who was sitting before a computer terminal. He started to tap the name in.

  Rick felt his eyes sting and wiped at the sweat now trickling off his forehead. ‘Don’t suppose you know his name, Alice?’

  ‘O’Coinne. The family’s called O’Coinne.’

  ‘Is she?’ Devlan’s lips twisted into a caricature of a grin. ‘Stay put, I’m on my way.’ He cut the connection and looked at Gerrard with cold delight. ‘The fucking whore isn’t at the supermarket. She’s driven up to Moyard.’

  The old man sucked air in through his nose. ‘And?’

  ‘Denis is sitting outside the office of a Bernard Reilly. That’s where she is.’

  Darragh turned from the plate-glass windows. ‘The solicitor.’ He looked to his father. ‘She’s speaking to Bernard Reilly.’

  Devlan still looked bewildered. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The drunken bastard who’s been irritating us all these years,’ Gerrard rumbled. ‘So she’s our tout – feeding that washed-up fucker’s obsession.’

  Scratching at an armpit, Devlan still looked lost. ‘What obsession?’

  Gerrard sighed with frustration. ‘Castlebar, 1993? When Collins’s car went off the road, it ploughed into that couple?’

  Devlan’s hand flopped down. ‘Them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerrard snapped. ‘The man who died was called Geordan Reilly. This solicitor is his brother. Ever since he’s been trying to convince anyone that’ll listen that we were behind what happened. The fact he’s so cracked in the head has meant no one’s taken him seriously.’

  Darragh took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘So, who’s this Hazel? She turned up in town, what, three years ago?’

  Devlan nodded. ‘Came from Manchester, she did. She’d lived there, for sure. Knows all about the place.’

  ‘Where the English policeman is from, too,’ Gerrard whispered. ‘Where’d she been before that? Any fucking idea?’

  ‘County Mayo,’ Devlan said uneasily. ‘I think.’

  ‘Mayo. Where the Reilly family lived. You think she’s part of that family?’

  Devlan was off the bar stool, fingers curling then straightening. ‘We’ll find out. I’ll drag her here by the fucking hair.’

  Darragh put his glasses back on. ‘We need to know how much she’s been telling this solicitor.’

  Gerrard’s phone started to ring. He glanced at it before looking back at Devlan. ‘Get up to Moyard.’ He took the call, face expressionless. ‘Good lads, you’ll be receiving payment for this.’ He closed his phone and called out to Devlan who was now at the front door. ‘Where’s Sean?’

  ‘I don’t know. In his flat?’

  ‘I want him here.’

  ‘What you trust him again?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me!’ Gerrard roared. ‘When it was you who let a tout into our family!’

  Glowering, Devlan lowered his eyes.

  Breathing heavily, Gerrard continued. ‘Get me Sean. There’s been word from Roundstone. A black Peugeot just set off from the bungalow opposite the site we have out there. Big guy with a swollen eye was driving.’

  ‘It’s him. Let me go.’ Devlan was as taut as a wire. ‘Please, Da.’

  Gerrard snorted. ‘And have you fuck it up? This needs someone with a cool head.’

  Darragh spoke. ‘Are we still going to do things the way I suggested?’

  Both men nodded back.

  ‘If we are,’ Darragh responded, ‘we need him to believe he’s calling the shots. And that doesn’t mean clubbing him over the head and dragging him into the back of a van.’

  They waited for him to say more.

  He looked from one to the other. ‘Think about it. There’s an easier way to get hold of him.’ He held out a hand. ‘What brought this fucker to our door in the first place?’

  Gerrard grunted. ‘That girl, Zoë.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Darragh replied. ‘So we say we’ve had enough and offer to give her to him if he hands the security tapes back and goes away.’

  Gerrard considered the suggestion. ‘The girl for the tapes? Why do you think he’ll go for that?’

  ‘Why?’ Darragh replied. ‘Because he’s English. Ever since getting here, the arrogant twat’s been expecting us to roll over and do what he wants.’

  Chapter 44

  Siobhain hurried up the bare wooden stairs. Black lettering on the door at the top spelled the wor
ds, Bernard Reilly, solicitor.

  She rapped once and turned the handle. Locked. ‘Jesus, Bernard!’ Turning on the spot, she pulled a cigarette from the pack in her pocket and flicked a lighter. By the time a shadow appeared at the doorway to the street, she’d smoked another three.

  Peering down the stairs, she watched the man step into the hallway. Wiry grey hair created a haze on his head. He looked up at her with sorrowful eyes. ‘Sorry, Siobhain – the car wouldn’t start.’ Laboriously, he made his way up to her, removing a set of keys from the pocket of a faded suit. ‘You OK, my love?’

  She nodded, getting to her feet. ‘I can’t stay long. I only said I was going to the shop.’

  ‘Right.’ He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Musty air hit her as she stepped into an office littered with newspapers, magazines and files. Dead spider plants lined the windowsill, the glass above it clouded with a layer of grime. He reached behind her and flicked a switch. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling came to life, its glow filling the room with a harsh light.

  She turned her eyes to the desk in the corner. Towers of paperwork covered it. Wearily, the man slumped down in the chair behind it. His eyes were bleary and she thought how fast he was beginning to age.

  ‘Siobhain,’ he stated. ‘What have you done?’

  She closed the door, hand lingering in the air before she turned round. ‘Something terrible, Uncle Bernard. Jesus, something really terrible.’

  He stood and removed a pile of newspapers from the chair to the side of his desk. After casting a despairing glance about, he balanced them across the top of a bin half-full with discarded post. ‘Sit yourself down. It can’t be too late to sort things out, surely.’

  ‘I think it is. I think I’ll be the cause of a good man dying.’ She fought to control her words as he put an arm round her shoulders and directed her to the chair.

  ‘Hush now. Come on, tell me what’s going on.’

  She sat with her hands clutching her knees, shoulders hunched. He waited in silence as she composed herself. ‘I didn’t tell you the truth,’ she announced quietly, eyes momentarily lifting to meet his. ‘I lied.’

  ‘Why?’ he whispered.

  ‘Because I knew you wouldn’t agree. And you’d have been right. Oh, God, what have I done? It’s all gone wrong…it’s all…I don’t know how to stop it.’

  ‘Siobhain, hush.’ He looked at the bottom drawer of his desk, a fidget in his fingers. ‘First, who is this man if he isn’t a journalist?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He’s a policeman. From Manchester.’

  ‘You know him from your time there?’

  She shook her head. ‘I knew about him. What he’s like.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied, eyes cutting to the drawer once again.

  ‘When I ran away from that care home in Galway and went to Manchester, I didn’t know anyone. So I ended up on the streets, sleeping rough.’

  He hung his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Siobhain. My own niece, I should never have allowed – ’

  ‘Don’t. You had enough concerns of your own, it doesn’t matter.’ Reaching into her coat, she removed her cigarettes and offered one to him.

  He took it and, once she’d lit both, reached for a large glass ashtray already scattered with butts.

  ‘When I was there,’ she continued, blowing smoke off to the side, ‘I got to know this man called Salvio. I didn’t realise at first, but…but he was a pimp.’ She lifted the cigarette again and it trembled with the force of her drag. ‘He took me into his house then he started giving me stuff…’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ He reached down, opened the drawer and lunged at a bottle of whiskey. She watched with a resigned expression as he sloshed liquid into a glass and took a gulp. Unable to look at her, he waved a hand. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she answered. ‘I met this other girl called Zoë. We got on, used to talk when we got the chance. Later, after I got out and came back here, she found me.’ Siobhain smiled. ‘Crazy thing just arrived in the town and started asking after me. Of course, I wasn’t using the name Hazel by then, so she wasn’t doing very well at finding me. We bumped into each other eventually, though.’ She took a couple of swift drags. ‘She didn’t even have enough clothes. I gave her a top – one I blagged from the nightclub. I even gave the photo of her wearing it to Spicer, so he’d think that she worked here…’ She shut her eyes again.

  Bernard placed a hand on her forearm. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘In Manchester, she was with this guy called Dave. Sweet, he was. Kind to her. He got her away from Salvio. Then Dave was killed and Salvio tried to move in on Zoë again. That’s when Dave’s brother – this policeman – stepped in. Zoë told me how he dealt with Salvio – and that’s what gave me the idea.’ She slid the glass from Bernard’s fingers and took a generous sip.

  ‘The idea to get him onto the de Avilas?’

  She nodded, handing the glass back.

  ‘Why?’ His voice contained a plaintive note.

  ‘Bernard.’ She looked round. ‘This thing has ruined your life. Our lives. Ever since they killed my mum and dad – your brother - you’ve been trying to get justice.’ Her face soured. ‘It’s fucking futile.’

  ‘It’s not! Look at the information you’ve been getting me.’

  ‘What? Sheets of paper with numbers on? Records of how much money they’re making?’

  ‘It’s all helping.’

  Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. ‘And look at what I’ve had to do to get it.’

  He recoiled slightly. ‘I know working for them can’t be – ’

  ‘Bernard.’ Her voice turned hard. ‘I’m Devlan’s girl. He fucks me whenever he feels like it. I’m just a whore, all over again.’

  ‘Don’t.’ He screwed his eyes shut. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she spat. ‘I’m that family’s slave. And it’s all useless, fucking useless!’

  They sat in silence, smoke from their cigarettes twisting up like two lengths of pale twine.

  He licked his lips. ‘There are developments. Look at Omagh – the relatives of those who died there have pursued the bombers through the civil courts. They won, Siobhain. They won!’

  She groaned. ‘They won with the help of proper law firms, entire legal teams working for free, newspaper appeals, sure – even bloody documentaries. And they had GCHQ’s records of the bombers’ mobile phones. What have we got? You’re the only eyewitness to say Devlan fired the shots from that car. And one of the victims was your brother. You have a history of depression, the Guards think you’re a joke – the one’s not in the de Avilas’ pocket. Bernard, it’s futile.’

  He drained his glass, hand wobbling as it lowered back to his lap. ‘I won’t give up. I won’t.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’ Tears were in her eyes as she looked at the bottle. ‘And I love you for that. But it’s a battle that’s slowly killing you.’ She took a final drag of her cigarette and ground it out. ‘I knew this policeman’s surname, so I searched out his number and called him. I told him Zoë was in trouble – the de Avilas were forcing her to do deliveries for them. She was in danger.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand. What did you hope to achieve?’

  She bit at a thumbnail. ‘I don’t know. Seeing them getting away with it and no one interested in stopping them. I just wanted to wipe the smiles off their faces. See them humiliated, hurt.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘I knew he’d come. What Zoë told me about him, I knew it. And I knew the de Avilas wouldn’t scare him. He’s like one of those huge dogs they’re after breeding – when the guy starts on something, he won’t back down. Zoë’s family, so he’d come to help her.’ She nodded to herself. ‘And he did. God love him, he did.’

  Bernard stared into his empty glass. ‘And is this Zoë in danger?’

  She shook her head.

  The solicitor’s body sagged. ‘Jesus and Mary forgive you. You played on his loyalty. You lured
him here with a lie.’

  She bowed her head, shoulders beginning to shake.

  ‘And now the de Avilas mean to get rid of him? Can you not tell him the truth, warn him away?’

  She met his eyes, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t find him! He won’t answer his phone!’ She started to sob. ‘They’re planning such horrible things for him.’

  ‘They’ve said this in front of you?’

  She reached into her pocket and took out her mobile. ‘This is them talking. They sent us all outside, but I recorded it.’ She accessed the file on her phone, pressed play and held it towards her uncle. ‘It’s filmed from the inside of a drawer, but you can hear them talking.’

  He stared at the little device as the de Avilas’ voices filled the smoke-filled office.

  Jon turned into the car park of Gorteen Bay and pulled up in the same spot as before. Below the jostling clouds, a patchwork of shadows shifted on the sea. He focused on the purplish island on the horizon. The view seemed false, like a recording playing out on an immense screen. He examined his hands, the individual hairs, the wrinkles scoring the skin of his knuckles. The slight movement below the skin of his inner wrist. My blood isn’t Alan’s blood. It’s someone else’s.

  He opened the car door and eased himself out. The mineral-scented breeze dropped and solid sunlight broke through directly above. He felt its warmth on his scalp. Turning to the beach, he hobbled past the litter bin and down the steps on to sand so pale, the patches of snow covering it were all but invisible. He set off for the water’s edge, searching for any other footprints in the pristine expanse. All he saw were faint impressions left by the feet of scavenging seabirds.

  The long beach curved away in a shallow arc. A couple of hundred metres on was a glistening brown lump the size of a deflated football. As he got nearer, he could make out thick, intestine-like tubes trailing out from its main part. A jellyfish, he realised. But more like an afterbirth, left by some creature that had hauled itself from the ocean under the cover of night.