They took a black Mercedes E-Class saloon from the station’s car pool – and not only because it suited Conor’s alias as a disreputable dog breeder more than Katie’s Focus. If Guzz McManus got a hacker to search through the RSA computer records, they would find that the Mercedes had belonged for the past three years to Redmond O’Dea of North Tipperary, whose address was Firmount Kennels, Carrigahorig.
The rain eased off as they drove northwards on the M8 past Watergrasshill, although the clouds were still oppressively low, as if God were trying to suffocate them under a thick grey duvet. Katie tuned the car’s radio to 96FM for some quiet background music. She couldn’t stop staring at Conor as he drove, and from time to time he glanced back at her and smiled. She found him fascinating to watch, and if anything she thought that he was even more good-looking than when he had first walked into the station. She laid her hand on his left thigh, and he briefly laid his hand on top of hers.
‘Don’t forget that your name’s “Redmond”, will you?’ she reminded him. ‘I hope to heaven that I don’t. And my name’s Sinéad.’
‘I’ll remember that all right,’ he told her. ‘I once went out with a girl called Sinéad, and she had the same hair colour as you. She wasn’t so pretty, though.’
‘Flatterer. Go on, though, I like it.’
Conor said, ‘First of all we have to find out who has these dogs. We’ll try Bartley Doran first, and then this Paddy Barrett. It wouldn’t surprise me at all, though, if it’s Doran. He’s like the Billy Walsh of fighting-dog trainers, and if these are real high-quality dogs, I’m pretty sure that McManus will have passed them on to him.’
After an hour and a half, Conor left the M8 at Garranmore and then drove down through Ballymackane to Palmer’s Hill, a narrow hedge-lined road which crossed back over the motorway. On the far side of the motorway, on top of a hill, and almost completely hidden by trees and fencing, was the Ballyknock Halting Site.
He turned into the site, and parked the Mercedes behind a battered blue horsebox. Seven or eight children were playing nearby, and they all stopped running and skipping and slowly came up to the car to stare at Katie and Conor as if they were aliens. The youngest boy was frowning at them with undisguised hostility and elaborately picking his nose at the same time.
‘Well, well – a welcoming committee,’ said Katie. ‘Except they don’t look too welcoming, do they?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Conor. He had obviously been expecting this. As he climbed out of the car he reached into the pocket of his windcheater and took out a paper bag. Then he called out, ‘All-a-bah!’ and tossed a handful of Caffrey’s rhubarb-and-custards into the air. The children instantly scattered, shouting and pushing each other as they snatched up the sweets from the muddy pathway.
‘That’s not too hygienic,’ said Katie, as she came round the car to join him.
‘Don’t fret about it. These kids were brought up on a diet of mud. Mud and manriklo.’
‘Oh, that’s not true. The Pavee have the cleanest kitchens I’ve ever seen. And they won’t eat any animal that licks its own behind.’
Conor took hold of her arm and laughed. ‘Only joking, girlfriend.’
All along the opposite side of the pathway there was a row of white-painted mobile homes, with plant pots outside them. Further along, a group of women were standing around in front of one of the homes, smoking, and they too turned to stare at Katie and Conor.
Conor waved and shouted at them in a strong north Tipperary accent. ‘Well! How are ye?’
None of them answered, and they all turned their backs. Conor shrugged and led Katie across to the second mobile home in the line. A spotty teenage boy in a grey hoodie was standing on the step outside the door, playing a game on his mobile phone.
‘How are ye?’ said Conor. ‘Is The Guzz in?’
The boy reached behind him and knocked on the door with his knuckles. ‘Guzz! There’s some feen out here axing after ye!’
After a few moments the door was opened and a sallow young woman with braided hair and huge gold earrings came out, smoking. She stared at Katie and Conor suspiciously.
‘Well,’ said Conor. ‘It’s Taunisha, isn’t it? How’s your granny for turf? You remember me, don’t you? Redmond. I was here in the spring, looking for breeding dogs to buy.’
‘Oh yeah, so you was. This your wife, is it?’
‘Girlfriend. Sinéad.’
‘Girlfriend?’ Taunisha raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. She must regard me as far too ancient to be single, thought Katie. If a Pavee girl wasn’t married by the time she was twenty she was considered to be on the shelf.
‘I’d like a chat with The Guzz, if that’s okay,’ said Conor.
‘All right. You’d best come in.’
Katie and Conor climbed the steps and entered the mobile home. Taunisha turned left and ushered them into the living-room, which was foggy with cigar and cigarette smoke. It was furnished with overstuffed crimson velvet chairs and gilt-fringed cushions, and the windows were framed by crimson velvet curtains, drawn back in swags. Against the wall stood a dresser that was cluttered with silver-framed photographs of mastiffs and bull terriers, as well as shining silver cups and shields, and stacks of cigar boxes. Katie felt as if she had stepped into a miniature palace, and in a way she had, because the king himself, Guzz Eye McManus, was sitting on a chair that looked more like a throne.
He was short and squat, The Guzz, with a huge belly. He was totally bald, and he had no eyebrows, which probably meant that had suffered from alopecia. He looked to Katie like a statue of Buddha, except that he was a grumpy Buddha, and his left eye was turned at forty-five degrees to the left, while his right eye was looking straight at her. He was wearing a tight red T-shirt with a fancy red-and-black waistcoat over it, and black tracksuit pants, although his thighs were so swollen that they looked like two giant-sized black puddings. In contrast, his feet were tiny, a child’s feet, in white Nike runners that couldn’t have been larger than size 4.
He had a half-smoked cigar between his thick rubbery lips, and when Katie and Conor came in, he sucked at it so that the tip glowed orange, and then took it out, and blew a steady stream of blue smoke at them.
Sitting beside him was a thin, dark-skinned man with his jet-black hair pulled back into a man-bun. His forearms were covered in curly tattoos and he was wearing four or five gold bracelets on both of his wrists. A deck of cards was splayed out on the coffee table between them, so it looked as if they were halfway through a game of ten-card rummy.
‘Guzz,’ said Conor. ‘Yoordjeele’s soonee-in munya... good to see you. And you’re well, I hope?’
‘Redmond,’ said The Guzz. ‘What’s the craic, boy? I thought I might have seen you at Clonlong this summer. There was some deadly fights that day, feen, I can tell you.’
‘I heard, but I was in the UK – Rotherham, for my sins – selling off half-a-dozen bull terriers.’
‘Who’s this you’ve fetched with you? Not the same beour as last time. Or is it just some sly lack?’
‘No, this is Sinéad. Say hello to The Guzz, Sinéad. The lord of the dog-fighting rings.’
Katie said, ‘Good to meet you, Guzz,’ but The Guzz completely ignored her. Instead he said to Conor, ‘What are you after, then, Redmond? Or do you have some dogs for sale?’
Katie knew that this was going to be a critical moment, and she inwardly prayed that Conor could pull this off without arousing The Guzz’s suspicions.
‘Just something a little bird told me,’ said Conor. ‘I heard that somebody fetched some first-rate animals up here to Ballyknock within the past few days, for training up to gameness.’
‘Did you now?’ said The Guzz, puffing at his cigar again.
‘I was told there was seven or eight of them, all pedigree. Two bulldogs and a mastiff among them, and a Great Dane, too. I’m fierce interested in the Great Dane for breeding, because I have a Great Dane bitch up at Carrigahorig, and she’s just gone into proestrus.�
�
The Guzz said nothing for a while, but looked Katie up and down with his one good eye, and smoked. Taunisha came back into the living-room and said, ‘Guzz, I’ve put on the kettle. Do you fancy a cup of weed?’
The Guzz didn’t answer her, either. Without turning to Conor, he said, ‘Who’s your “little bird”, then, Redmond?’
‘Ah, Guzz, you know what the dog business is like as well as I do. You can’t take a chihuahua for a shit in the middle of the Gortavoher Forest without somebody grassing on you.’
The Guzz seemed to be content that Conor wasn’t going to give away the name of his informant, because all he said next was, ‘All right. Fair fucks to you. What’s in it for me, then?’
‘I’ll make it worth your while, Guzz. Put me in touch with whoever has the dog for training – then, if they allow me to lend a borrow of it so that I can breed it, I’ll pay you five hundred euros commission – and say, five per cent of whatever I make from the pups when they grow up.’
‘A thousand commission, and ten per cent for each pup,’ said The Guzz, picking a shred of tobacco-leaf from his lower lip and holding it up in front of his left eye, so that he could examine it more closely.
Conor lifted his chin and thoughtfully stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Whoo... that’s more than twice what I’ve ever paid before. How about seven hundred and fifty, and seven-and-a-half per cent?’
‘A thousand, and ten. Take it or leave it. It don’t make a scrap of difference to me, boy.’
Katie thought: Take it, Conor, for the love of God. I can charge the thousand-euro commission to operational expenses, and you’re not really going to be breeding that Great Dane, anyway, so there won’t be any pups.
‘All right, you’re on,’ said Conor. He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out, and The Guzz shook it.
‘You’ll be in fierce trouble if you don’t pay up, though,’ said The Guzz. ‘My lads will be up to Carrigahorig before you know it, and your kennels will be accidentally burning down to the ground, with you in them, if you’re not wide.’
‘You’ll get your grade, don’t you worry,’ said Conor. ‘They don’t call me Redmond the Reliable for nothing.’
Normally, Katie would have laughed at that, but her nerves were as tense as a tightly wound clock. ‘Redmond the Reliable’. She would have to tease him about that later. More like ‘Conor the Conman’.
‘Doran has them, Bartley Doran,’ said The Guzz. ‘You know where his place is, don’t you? Down the road here, about a kilometre short of Cashel, and off to the left. He’s training them up for the next big fight we’ll be holding here.’
‘When’s that, Guzz?’ asked Conor. ‘Bartley’s going to want him back well before then, isn’t he, so that he can get him up to gameness.’
‘It won’t be for a couple of months or so. I’ll let you know nearer the day. I don’t want anybody tipping off the shades.’
‘Thanks, Guzz. I’ll go and talk to Bartley and then I’ll go into Cashel and get your grade for you. I’ll drop it in after.’
The Guzz was giving all his attention to crushing out his cigar. There was so much smoke curling around him that he looked like a magician performing a disappearing act. As Katie and Conor turned to leave, though, he said, ‘I’ll give you one thing, Redmond. You’ve great taste in women. Fetch her here when you’ve finished with her.’
They left the mobile home and walked back to their car. The children ran up to Conor and said, ‘Any more sweeties, mister?’
‘Not at the moment, kids. But I’m going into town and I’ll fetch you some back with me. What’s your favourite?’
‘Peggy’s Legs!’ piped up one of the girls, jumping up and down. ‘Fetch us some Peggy’s Legs!’
They climbed into the car, turned around, and drove out of the halting site and back on to Palmer’s Hill. As they drove they could see for twenty or thirty kilometres all around them – green fields and farms and distant mauve mountains.
‘“Redmond the Reliable”,’ said Katie, slapping Conor playfully on the shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t made it up, I would have said that you couldn’t make it up.’
‘You can’t complain, girlfriend! I got what we came for, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did. But I’ll tell you this. That man scares me, that Guzz Eye McManus. There’s not many men who scare me, but he does. When he said he would burn your kennels down, with you in them, I believed him. Thank God you don’t really own a kennels.’
*
Bartley Doran’s farm was at the end of a long lane with overgrown bushes on either side. The further they drove down, the narrower it became, until the brambles were scraping and squeaking against the wings of their Mercedes on both sides.
‘Sergeant Browne’s not going to be pleased,’ said Katie. ‘These cars are like his children.’
They reached a rusty five-bar metal gate with a padlock and chain on it, and Conor stopped. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to leave in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I don’t relish driving all the way back to the main road in reverse.’
On the other side of the gate there was a muddy concrete yard, and a large green-painted house that looked as if it had been extended again and again, with each extension uglier and more out of proportion than the last. Behind the house there was a large steel barn, also painted green, although the paint was flaking; and a row of three wooden sheds.
Katie was about to climb out of the car when her iPhone pinged. She had a message from Detective Dooley. She had asked him to keep her up to date on Keeno’s condition in the Mercy. KEENO NO CHANGE he had texted. Katie closed her eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer to St John of God the patron saint of heart sufferers to keep Keeno alive. She despised the man, but if he died it would cause her more grief than he was worth.
As they left the car and approached the gate, a cheerful-looking man in a tweed cap and a khaki anorak came limping briskly across the yard towards them, lifting a blackthorn stick in greeting. He called out, ‘Hold on there folks and I’ll unlock it for ye!’
As he came nearer, Katie saw that he had tangled sandy eyebrows and pale green eyes, almost colourless. His nose was squashed and puglike, so that Katie could see up his nostrils, and his cheeks were scarlet and laced with broken veins, as if he spent most of his life standing in a field in a cold north-westerly wind – either that, or drinking a bottle of whiskey every night.
Katie noticed that his anorak was bulked out on the left-hand side, and its collar gaped to the left, and she guessed that he could be wearing a shoulder-holster underneath it.
‘It’s Redmond, isn’t it?’ he said, as he reached the gate, although he didn’t hold out his hand. ‘The Guzz rang me and told me that ye was heading down here. Ye was after that Akita, weren’t you, the last time ye was here. When was that?’
‘April,’ said Conor.
‘April, was it? Jesus, the way time flies. Well, I’m fierce sorry that I couldn’t let ye borrow him for breeding, but it was far too close to the fights, like. It’s the Great Dane you’re after this time, isn’t it, that’s what The Guzz told me. I think we might be able to come to some mutually profitable arrangement with that feller. Look – bring your motor into the yard and then I’ll take ye to see him.’
He unlocked the gate, dragging off the chain, while Conor went back to the car.
‘And what’s your name, darling?’ he asked Katie.
‘Sinéad,’ said Katie, and gave him a silly simpering smile, trying to look as if she didn’t have a brain in her head.
‘I’m Bartley,’ said Bartley. ‘Bartley Doran. I’ll expect Redmond’s told ye all about me.’
‘Only that you’re the best dogfight trainer in the whole of Ireland.’
‘Ireland? The whole fecking world, darling. The whole entire planet.’
Conor brought the Mercedes into the yard and swung it around so that it was facing back towards the gate. Katie was glad he had done that. When you were dealing with men like B
artley Doran, you never knew when you might have to leave at very short notice.
Bartley led them around the side of the house to the row of wooden sheds. He opened the door of the first shed and beckoned them inside. Instantly, they were met with a barrage of ferocious barking, and the clanging of dogs throwing themselves up against the sides of their cages.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ said Katie, but Bartley continued to beckon them in.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, girl. They can’t get at ye.’
The shed was divided into six wire cages, much like the cages where Gerry Mulvaney had kept his dogs, except that the dogs in these cages had no bowls of food or water. The smell of urine and faeces was overwhelming, and when Katie stepped inside it brought tears to her eyes and made her retch.
‘Sorry about the hong,’ said Bartley.
Only three of the dogs were jumping up against the sides of their cages. Two bull mastiffs had heavy steel chains wrapped around their necks instead of collars, and they were too weighed down to jump, although they were barking so hysterically that they sounded as if they were screaming.
The Great Dane was down at the end of the shed, and he was barking, too, but it sounded to Katie as if he were frightened and hungry rather than aggressive. He was full-grown, at least 85 centimetres in height, with a glossy black coat.
Conor went right up to his cage and said, ‘Here, boy, here boy. I’m not going to hurt you,’ but the Great Dane backed away as far as he could and continued to bark.
‘How long would ye be wanting him for?’ asked Bartley.
‘About a week I’d say. The Great Dane bitch I have at the kennels has just gone into heat. When would you need him back?’
‘Ye can take him for two weeks if you like. It depends what we’re talking about moneywise.’
Katie couldn’t stop herself from retching again, behind her hand. She was so glad that she had said no to Moirin’s club sandwich this morning.
‘Two grand,’ said Conor.
‘Three,’ said Bartley.
‘How about two-and-a-half?’
Living Death Page 27