Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You’re talking about Sidney Park in Montenotte?’

  ‘I don’t know. I go there only once. Sidney Park, that’s all.’

  ‘But up the hill there, on the northside?’

  ‘That’s right. Yes, up there. Past St Luke.’

  The barman sucked nervously at his cigarette. As he breathed out a stream of smoke from under his hoodie, Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick laid a hand on his shoulder as if he were congratulating him after winning a cycle race.

  ‘Thanks a million for that information, Vasile. All I can say is, you’d better not be codding us. If you are, boy, we’ll be back, and whatever you think Lupul will do to you if he finds out that you’ve been ratting on him, we can do it a hundred times worse.’

  ‘I tell you the truth. That was the house where I see Lupul. Sidney Park, third house.’

  Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick clapped him on the back and said. ‘Off you go, then. And not a word to no one.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m crazy?’

  As he disappeared around the corner, headed back to The Parting Glass, Detective O’Donovan said, ‘No, not crazy. Just feening for a dose of China white.’

  26

  It took less than half an hour for their convoy of four vehicles to drive north into the countryside to Foggy Fields puppy farm. A Garda squad car led the way, followed by Katie and Kyna and Detective Cairbre O’Crean in a dark blue unmarked Mitsubishi Outlander, and then a Technical Bureau van and another squad car bringing up the rear.

  As they passed The Blackman pub at Kilbarry Cottages, three men who were out smoking on the pavement raised their glasses to them.

  ‘Jesus – I wouldn’t have thought that we were so popular around here,’ said Detective O’Crean. ‘The last time I arrested a fellow in Dublin Hill for disorderly conduct I had a whole bowl of tripe and drisheen thrown over me. And it was piping hot, too.’

  They drove down the long hedge-lined boreen and then turned into the steeply sloping front forecourt. Around the side of the farmhouse they could see a silver Mercedes coupé, so the second squad car parked diagonally across the gate to block it.

  As they were climbing out of their vehicles, the front door opened and Blánaid herself appeared, dressed all in black – black roll-neck sweater and tight black jeans and stiletto-heeled boots. Caoilfhoinn came out close behind her, in a pink cardigan that made her look like Peppa Pig.

  ‘So what’s this all about, then?’ she asked, as Katie approached her, spreading her hands wide and looking bewildered.

  ‘Blánaid McQuaide?’ said Katie.

  ‘That’s me all right. What’s the story?’

  ‘My name’s Detective Superintendent Kathleen Maguire from Anglesea Street Garda Station. I’ve a warrant from the District Court to search these premises in connection with a serious assault that was alleged to have taken place here three days ago.’

  ‘What? You said what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What serious assault?’

  ‘A prospective customer came to visit you looking to buy a pug puppy for his daughter. He claims that while he was here he was attacked by a male member of your staff who caused him life-changing injuries.’

  Blánaid slowly shook her head. ‘You have me totally bamboozled there, Detective Superintendent. We’ve had no customers calling in here for weeks, and we’ve no members of staff at the moment apart from my sister Caoilfhoinn here. The thing of it is, Caoilfhoinn hasn’t been at all well, have you, Caoilfhoinn? Usually she takes care of everything here but she’s been suffering terribly from the asthma ever since before Christmas so we haven’t really been properly open for business for a while, except online. But listen, why don’t you come on inside? It’s cutting cold out here.’

  Katie said, ‘I’d like to take a look around first. Are your outbuildings open?’

  ‘Well, sure, let me fetch my coat and I’ll give you the guided tour. I’m afraid the place isn’t really up to standard at the moment so you’ll have to forgive us for that. But I’m planning to have it all cleaned up and renovated as soon as the weather starts to improve. Caoilfhoinn, will you get yourself back by the fire, for the love of God? You’ll catch your mortal death standing out here.’

  Katie and Kyna and Detective O’Crean gave each other meaningful looks as they waited for Blánaid to put on her coat. The uniformed officers and the two forensic technicans circled around, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands to keep warm. A large hooded crow landed on the farmhouse gable and croaked harshly at them, as if it were warning them not to cause any trouble.

  ‘She might be acting surprised, but I definitely have the feeling that she’s been expecting us,’ said Kyna. ‘It’s all a little too glib, don’t you think, “the place isn’t really up to standard at the moment”? And her sister doesn’t look shook at all.’

  Katie put her fingertip to her lips and said, ‘Ssh! She’s talking on the phone to somebody. Listen!’

  The front door was only half open, so that Katie couldn’t make out exactly what Blánaid was saying, but her tone of voice was urgent and firm, as if she were telling somebody what to do, and whatever it was, to do it now. After a few moments she came out, buttoning up a short chocolate-coloured duffel coat.

  ‘How many breeding bitches do you have altogether?’ Katie asked her, as they walked around the house towards the five yellow-painted sheds. The ground around the sheds was covered in shingle, so their footsteps crunched.

  ‘We have forty-five, of different breeds. Pugs, rough collies, labradoodles, shih-tzus, Kerry blue terriers.’

  ‘I suppose you’re aware that the Irish Kennel Club recommends that no puppy farm should have more than ten.’

  ‘I am, yes, but the Irish Kennel Club doesn’t have to make a living out of breeding puppies, and if we had only ten here at Foggy Fields we wouldn’t even be able to break even. It’s only a recommendation, anyway. I’ve visited a puppy farm above in Cavan where they have more than a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘But you are registered?’ asked Kyna. ‘I didn’t see your certificate of registration up on display outside, like it’s supposed to be.’

  Bláinaid climbed up the wooden steps of the first hut. ‘Oh, the certificate! We did have it hanging up by the front door there, but the painters took it down last month and to be honest with you I clean forgot to put it back up again. Thanks for reminding me.’

  She opened the door of the shed, switched on the lights and led them inside. The sweetish stench of dog faeces and urine and rotten meat was overwhelming. Katie took out the scent-soaked handkerchief that she kept in her coat pocket for visits to the morgue and held it against her nose. Kyna flapped her hand in front of her face, and Detective O’Crean said, ‘Jesus. The smell in here, like. If a farmer smelled like this, I’m telling you, all his fecking cows would fall over sideways.’

  ‘I know,’ said Blánaid. ‘I’m truly sorry about it, but Caoilfhoinn hasn’t been well enough to clean it out for a week or two. I’ve tried to hire somebody to do it for her, but you try finding any casual labour, out here in the middle of nowhere at all, in the middle of winter. I’d have more luck finding a snowman.’

  ‘Could you not have done it yourself?’ asked Katie.

  ‘Not really. I’ve all my time taken up with administration, do you know, and I’ve the chronic asthma, too.’

  In this shed the wire cages were almost all empty, unlike the cages in the shed that Conor had looked into, except for two scruffy brown cockapoo puppies who were lying listlessly together, one on top of the other for warmth, and did nothing more than roll their eyes to see who had entered their dingy prison.

  Along the right-hand side of the shed there were ten wooden whelping boxes, all of them covered with plywood lids.

  Katie said, ‘Would you let me see inside those, please?’

  Blánaid lifted one of the lids and Katie and Kyna looked inside. A young labradoodle bitch was lying asleep on her bed of torn-up newspaper, her stomach swollen
with impending puppies. Her water bowl was empty and her food bowl contained only a few broken dog treats.

  ‘And the others, please,’ said Katie, and one by one Blánaid lifted the rest of the lids. Every one of the whelping boxes had a sleeping or miserable-looking breeding bitch inside it, and six out of the ten were also swarming with new puppies, blindly crawling over their mothers and each other.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Kyna, turning to Blánaid. ‘Why would you breed these poor creatures just to be so cruel to them?’

  Blánaid turned to her quite calmly.

  ‘I admit we’re not looking our best just now,’ she told her, replacing the last of the lids so that a rough collie bitch and her three puppies were returned to darkness. ‘But as soon as Caoilfhoinn’s fully recovered we’ll be cleaning and clearing out all of these whelping boxes and you simply won’t recognize us. At the minute, though, there’s not too much I can do to put things right. Where else can these poor animals go? Who else is going to house them and feed them?’

  ‘Can we go and look at the next shed, please?’ said Katie. She was finding it difficult to contain her anger.

  ‘Well, of course.’

  They went from shed to shed, and each shed was gloomy and dirty and packed with sad, unwashed bitches and their puppies. Katie didn’t speak again until they had come down the steps from the last of the five sheds. Then she said, ‘Right. Cairbre – would you go and tell the technicians that they can start examining all of these outbuildings. They know what they’re looking for.’

  ‘May I ask what it is that they’ll be looking for?’ said Blánaid.

  ‘Evidence,’ Katie told her, without looking at her.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ A pause. Then, ‘Evidence of what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, Ms McQuaide, we’ll know that if and when we find it.’

  Dressed in their white Tyvek suits, the forensic technicians waddled noisily up the steps of the first of the sheds. Blánaid stood and watched them for a few moments, with an expression on her face that Katie found hard to interpret. It was a curious mixture of resignation and contempt, but something else, too. Amusement? But what could she possibly find to amuse her?

  ‘Come on inside and get yourselves warm,’ said Blánaid. She led Katie and Kyna and Detective O’Crean back to the farmhouse and into her lime-green living room. Caoilfhoinn was sitting by the smouldering peat fire with a plate in her lap, eating a large hand pie, with a mint-coloured milkshake standing on the table beside her.

  They all sat down. Kyna took out her digital voice recorder, switched it on, and laid it on the coffee table in front of her. Katie said, ‘Ms McQuaide – I’m going to ask you again if you’ve any male employees, full-time or casual, or if you know of any male who might have been around the farm here three days ago.’

  ‘The answer to that is no,’ said Blánaid. ‘How about you, Caoilfhoinn? You’re always outside more than I am. Did you see any strange men lurking around at all?’

  Caoilfhoinn, with her mouth full, vigorously shook her head.

  ‘The victim of this assault says that he came here to ask if he could buy a pug puppy for his daughter. But you’re saying that you had no customers whatsoever, let alone him.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve had two online enquiries this week – one about a cockapoo and the other about a pit bull terrier, but the person who was asking about the cockapoo never got back to us. I think the price might have put them off. And we don’t breed pit bulls, out of principle.’

  ‘So you’re absolutely denying that he came here?’

  ‘I’m sorry. You can’t ask me to invent a customer we never had.’

  ‘Let’s get on to another matter then, shall we?’ said Katie. ‘And that’s the appalling state of this farm.’

  ‘I totally admit that it’s not in the tip-top condition that we want it to be, ideally,’ said Blánaid. ‘I put my hands up to that. But as I’ve told you, all that is very soon going to be dealt with.’

  ‘You know that if you keep more than six female dogs more than six months old and they’re capable of breeding, you have to comply with the Dog Breeding Establishments Act 2010,’ put in Kyna.

  ‘I do of course.’

  ‘And you say that you’re registered?’

  ‘We are, yes.’

  ‘Can we have sight of your certificate?’

  ‘I have no idea where it is, just at the moment. It was the painters took it down and I have to admit that I haven’t a baldy where they might have put it. I can dig it out, though, and fetch it down to the Garda station for you, next time I’m down in the city. Or scan it and send you a picture of it, by email.’

  ‘In any event, we’ll be notifying the ISPCA of the poor condition of this farm,’ said Katie. ‘We’ll also be recommending to the council that they give Foggy Fields an urgent inspection. It’s not up to us to decide what action they take. They might give you an improvement notice, or even a closure notice. Personally, as a dog owner myself, I’d like to see you shut down here and now.’

  Blánaid half-smiled and bit the tip of her tongue, as if she wanted to say something but decided it would be wiser not to.

  *

  Katie and Kyna and Detective O’Crean stayed at Foggy Fields for another forty-five minutes, watching the forensic technicians as they shuffled around the sheds on their hands and knees, shining their infrared torches on the linoleum flooring.

  As it began to grow dark they still had two more sheds to examine, so Katie decided to leave them to it and return to Anglesea Street. She still had work to do on the murders of the three rough sleepers, as well as the disappearances of Máire O’Connor and Ana-Maria’s mother, and the near-drowning of Saoirse Duffy. Chief Superintendent O’Kane had also been pressing her for an update on her budget, and she had a speech to prepare for a meeting next week with the Joint Policing Committee.

  She felt disappointed and frustrated that she hadn’t been able to find out more this afternoon about Conor’s assault, but she had seen for herself how squalid the conditions were at Foggy Fields, and she was confident that she could eventually get it closed down, which was what he had been trying to do when he was attacked.

  As they drove back, Kyna said, ‘Did you believe one single word that Blánaid McQuaide was coming out with?’

  ‘Not one,’ said Katie. ‘I’m only hoping that those technicians can find some trace that Conor got beaten up there. Or even some trace that he was there at all.’

  ‘And what if they can’t?’

  ‘Well – like Blánaid said herself, Ballynahina is the middle of nowhere. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody’s business. There must be somebody who can tell us the name of whatever sham-feen the McQuaides had around their farm that day. Don’t tell me that Caoilfhoinn really feeds and waters and exercises and cleans all those dogs by herself. Under the Breeding Establishments Act, they’re supposed to have adequate staff to keep the place in good order, and their animals healthy.’

  ‘Yes, but I think she was lying about being registered, so she’s never been afraid of a council inspection. I’ll check with the council when we get back.’

  Katie was silent for a while. As they reached Dublin Hill, and the lights of the city began to spread out winking in front of them, she said, ‘I can’t help thinking about all those poor bitches, lying there now in total darkness. They’re hungry, and thirsty, and they must be exhausted with all those puppies to take care of. Do you think dogs ever feel hopeless?’

  Her iPhone played ‘Mo Ghille Mear’. It was Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick. He was as terse as usual. ‘We’ve found a possible address for Lupul, ma’am. Sidney Park, Montenotte.’

  27

  ‘I’m starved,’ said Detective Markey, stretching back in his seat. ‘I could eat a nun’s arse through the bars of a convent gate.’

  It was dark now, and they had been sitting in their car on Shandon Street since taking over from Detectives Walsh and Cullen at two o’clock. T
hey had found themselves a space in a parking bay less than fifty metres uphill from Eamon Buckley’s butcher’s shop, on the opposite side of the road, so that they had a clear view of the shop’s front door. Occasionally they had seen Eamon Buckley himself, when he had appeared in the window to take down a leg of pork that was hanging on a hook, or a chicken, or a string of sausages; and twice he had come out to stand on the pavement and smoke a cigarette.

  At half-past five, they saw his acne-spotted young assistant leave the shop, wheeling his bicycle, and cycle off up the street. Ten minutes later, all the lights in the shop went out, and Eamon Buckley appeared, wearing a short brown overcoat with the collar turned up and a chequered tweed cap.

  Detective Markey started the engine. ‘All he’s going to do is drive back home,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to think that this is a total waste of time.’

  ‘Just remember what Denis MacCostagáin used to say,’ Detective Scanlan reminded him. ‘“If nothing’s going on, that shows that we’re winning.”’

  ‘Yes, and look what happened to him. He should have told himself that when he looked in the mirror every morning.’

  They waited until Eamon Buckley had walked downhill as far as Dominick Street, a narrow lane that led sharply off to the left, where he had parked his car that morning. Once he had disappeared around the corner, Detective Markey pulled out of the bay and followed him.

  Eamon Buckley’s red Mondeo was parked next to a high concrete wall. Painted on the wall was a mural that Detective Scanlan had always found disturbing. It depicted an open stable door with an elderly woman smiling out into the street, as well as a living-room window with two children’s faces peeping out from behind a pair of red curtains. A black dog was sitting by the door, painted as if it were chained up to the parking sign.

  ‘Gives me the heebie-jeebies, that mural,’ said Detective Scanlan, as they drove slowly past it. ‘It’s like they’re living in another dimension, like, do you know what I mean, and looking out at us, and thinking, “One day you’ll all be lying dead in the cemetery but we’ll still be here on this wall, still smiling our heads off.”’