by Chris Simms
Breaking eye contact, Jon continued walking. Sweat broke out in both armpits. Is it him? He had a beard in the old photo at Mum’s, but not that long. It must be him. Seashells in the front garden, that’s what the shopkeeper had said. He came to a halt, turning his back on the bungalow, sensing the old man’s stare on him. Studying the footings of the building on the other side of the narrow road, he didn’t know what to do. Should I say good morning? Ask if his name is Malachy O’Coinne?
A voice rang out behind him, hostility pitching the tone high. ‘Will you not be getting on with it, you wee fucker?’
The Irish accent was so strong, Jon wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. Slowly, he turned his head to look back at the bungalow. The old man was now standing, head leaning out the porch doorway, one hand waving at shoulder level.
‘Go on with you, let’s see if you can lift a fucking spade. It will not build itself.’ With that, he opened the inner door and slammed it shut behind him.
Jon turned back to the building site. He thought I was the surveyor or something. Looking down at his clothes, he nodded. Fair assumption. What did he call me? A wee fucker. I’m six feet four. He grinned. I reckon that was my grandad.
He pondered the row of spectacular peaks on the horizon. The end one had been enveloped by low white cloud. He watched its soft edge sliding slowly across the neighbouring peak. A curtain, bringing an end to the show.
He’ll lose this view, Jon realised. Once this house goes up, he won’t be able to see a thing. How did a developer ever get permission to build a monstrosity like this? It was more like the ridiculous places Manchester’s footballers built for themselves in the leafy villages that fringed the city.
He glanced again at the little bungalow. Do I try and introduce myself? The old man had vanished. He couldn’t imagine walking up to the front door and knocking. You don’t just appear like this, he thought. Not when, for some reason, your mum has avoided all contact with the person inside for over forty years. He turned back towards the high street.
Darragh de Avila pulled up at the ornately styled wrought-iron gates and pointed his remote. The motors in the carved stone posts begin to whir and the gates slowly parted. He drove his Audi along a drive that swept down towards a large lake. A little further along the shore was a sprawling neo-Gothic mansion with battlements, spires and a huge stained-glass window overlooking the main entrance.
He approached the garages and pulled up next to a Maserati Quattroporte. Dad’s in, he thought to himself. No sign of Mum’s Range Rover. With what I’m about to tell the old man, that’s probably a good thing.
He climbed out of his vehicle and held a hand up to the pair of men pruning the bushes that bordered the enormous lawns. They’ll already have radioed through to Dad that I’m here, he thought.
Gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way round to the studded timber door at the side of the residence. It led into a pantry area then through to the kitchen.
Gerrard de Avila was sitting at the breakfast bar, lining up documents in a smart leather briefcase. ‘Son.’ He nodded his bullet-like head. ‘What brings you out here on a Sunday afternoon?’
Darragh took in the sheer bulk of his father with apprehension. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Health spa, as usual,’ Gerrard replied, attention back on his paperwork.
‘Getting ready for a meeting, are you?’
‘Something over in Dublin. Showing a few people round our property developments there. I’ll let you know if the talks have any potential.’
Darragh leaned back against the granite work surface, gaze directed up at the ceiling’s heavy beams. A spot light was shining down on his head and he shuffled sideways to escape its glare.
‘Spit it out, son. You know I can’t stand pansying around.’
His eyes dropped to the old man, who still seemed more interested in his documents. ‘Er…there was an incident at the club last night.’
Gerrard was peering down his nose at a print out. ‘Can I understand your bloody graphs? What sort of an incident?’
‘A visitor.’
‘Go on.’
‘This fellow appeared in the office. Got in through the back doors as we were bringing in stock.’
The old man put the sheet down and turned his eyes to the younger man. ‘He robbed our club? On his own? Who was this fucker?’
‘It wasn’t a...he didn’t take any money.’
‘What was he doing then?’
‘Looking for a girl. Someone he thought worked at the club.’ He cleared his throat.
‘Try to be a man, for fuck’s sake. Tell me what’s going on.’
Darragh glanced back. He was now the focus of his father’s piercing stare. ‘This guy was big, Dad. A handful. I called Conor to get him out. They clash and Conor ends up on his back. He then starts banging around, shouting for this girl, throws me over the bar. By the time I got back into the office, he’s gone.’
‘But he took nothing?’
‘Not nothing.’
‘This a guessing game, son? What did he fucking take?’
‘The security tapes for the nightclub.’
‘What did he want with them?’
Darragh coughed again. ‘When it was all kicking off, someone in the club must have called the Guards. Patrick was on duty, so he swings by. The guy who took the tapes? Turns out he’s a peeler, Dad. From Manchester. Works for the Major Investigation Team there.’
Gerrard’s barrel chest swelled as he drew in air. ‘This was some kind of police operation? Why didn’t Patrick give us warning?’
‘The guy wasn’t acting as a policeman, Dad. It was a personal matter. Nothing official about it – that’s why he took the tapes, I reckon. Didn’t want to leave any evidence of his visit.’
Gerrard placed both hands on his bulging thighs. ‘Let me understand this. He takes it upon himself to force his way in looking for a girl. He doesn’t find her?’
Darragh shook his head. ‘Aside from Hazel, there’s been no girl working behind the bar for months.’
The skin round Gerrard’s eyes wrinkled. ‘You’re sure? Not someone Devlan might have…done anything to? Some lass passing through; no friends or family to speak of?’
‘No. Besides, Devlan’s been banging Hazel for ages.’
‘And that stops him from going after other lasses? OK. So he knocks you and Conor about like you’re kids and makes off with the tapes to cover his tracks. So why do you look fit to puke all over my floor?’
Darragh took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Dad, it was the second Saturday of the month yesterday.’ He looked nervously at his father. ‘When I open the back of the club early and our people make their drop-offs? You said to always have the camera in the office recording.’
Gerrard kept looking at his son.
‘The cash, Dad? Everything from the last few weeks. It was all on film being delivered. So is Patrick calling for his envelope. The guy from the council who sorts out our planning applications? Even Julian from Blackman and May’s Galway office. He came by for his bloody slice. That tape is a snap-shot, Dad. Of our entire operation.’
When Gerrard spoke, his voice was quiet. ‘This tan. What’s his name?’
‘Spicer. Jon Spicer.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. Manchester, I suppose.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing about the tapes yet?’
‘No.’
The old man’s gazed across the lake. ‘That’s something. If he took them to cover his tracks, maybe they’ve been slung already. We need to move carefully here, very carefully.’
‘I phoned Devlan.’
Gerrard’s head slowly turned. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘When did you call him?’
‘Last night. Before I realised the tapes had gone.’
‘You rang your brother?’
‘None of us could believe what h
ad just happened. I panicked; rang to say we’d been attacked. That I needed him and Sean back here.’
‘Went through the roof, did he?’
‘His phone was switched off.’
‘It’s always bloody switched off.’
‘I left a message, mentioning it was a peeler from Manchester.’
Gerrard’s voice dropped to a throaty growl. ‘This is your brother who’s currently somewhere over in England? Tell me you didn’t give Devlan a name.’
‘I can’t quite remember.’ Darragh screwed his eyes shut. ‘I think I may have…yes. Yes, I did.’
‘You cunt!’ The old man roared. He slammed a fist down, causing his briefcase to jump. ‘Stick to your fucking business plans and counting the fucking beans, do you hear? That’s your involvement in this family’s affairs!’
Darragh gave a miserable nod.
‘Gave Devlan the peeler’s name? Jesus, what were you thinking?’ Gerrard climbed off his stool and started pacing the room. He whirled on Darragh and jabbed a meaty finger into his cowering son’s face. ‘Start praying. Start praying that mad fucker does nothing to make this any worse.’
Chapter 7
As the dirty white van roared away down Burnage Lane, scrap of material now flapping like a pennant behind it, Jon got to his knees. The single letter among the numbers of the vehicle’s registration was a G. County Galway, he thought. That’s where it’s from. The vehicle’s speed was still increasing and he knew it would be on the Kingsway in just a few second’s time. Minutes after that, the flow of traffic on Manchester’s ring road would have absorbed it.
He pummelled the grass with his fists, wincing as pain flared in the hand he’d used to punch the van’s window. Traffic was tentatively beginning to move forward again.
A man in a builder’s lorry poked his head from the cab. ‘You OK, mate?’
Jon glanced up, nodding as he stood. ‘Got a pen?’ he asked, wiping a blade of grass from his lips as he started toward the driver.
‘Course.’ He reached for his dashboard and held a biro through the open window. ‘Your van they nicked?’
Jotting down the vehicle’s registration on the back of his hand, Jon shook his head wearily. ‘I’m police.’
‘Oh, right.’
The vehicle’s heavy tyres began to roll. Jon turned in the direction of the golf course and dread swamped his stomach. Punch could be dead. He stepped between the slow-moving cars and started to jog. What the hell was that thing? He could picture its powerful shoulders and neck, barrel chest and long tapered tail. The bristly coat was a mix of mustard and black, the lighter coloured bands brindled with darker streaks. A devil-creature. A fighting machine, pure and simple.
He thought about Holly. Would she realise, he wondered, how close she’d come to being attacked? She’d closed her eyes, I’m sure. And maybe, with her hands over her ears, she wouldn’t have heard just how near it was.
The image of Punch being shaken about like a toy came back. Oh Punch. The sound of his Boxer’s strangled yelps echoed in his head and he felt his pace increase.
He reached a sharp bend in the driveway and cut across the grass to approach the same line of laurel bushes he’d burst through fifteen minutes earlier.
This time, he slowed to a walk and stepped carefully round them. Alice was crouching down, arm around Holly whose shoulders were rocking with the strength of her sobs. The two golfers were at the edge of the car-park, arms moving as they described to several other people what had happened.
‘It came from the nowhere.’
‘Bounding down the slope, heading straight towards the little girl.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I am – wasn’t it, Aidan?’
‘I don’t know, I thought it was interested in the other dog.’
‘Well, the Boxer dog charged at it. As far as I’m concerned, it saved that little girl.’
Jon felt a lump rise in his throat. Punch was no longer there. All he could see was his jacket lying next to a large patch of blood.
Alice looked up. ‘Jon! Where did you go?’
He waved in the vague direction of the roundabout. ‘Over there. Tried to catch the van.’ He glanced at the patch of blood again.
Alice looked close to tears. ‘He’s at the vet’s.’
His eyes went to Holly, who was staring at him, face all pasty. Her bottom lip buckled as another huge sob gripped her. Jon went down on one knee, pressing a palm against the side of her face. ‘Holly, don’t cry. The vet will fix Punch, you’ll see. Let’s go home, hey? We’ll make hot chocolate and get warm.’
Alice straightened her daughter’s collar. ‘Holly? Would you like that?’
Jon watched as his daughter turned to the patch of blood. He glanced at it, too. There was a triangular flap of flesh in the grass. Punch’s ear. He tried to block his daughter’s view. This, he realised, will traumatise you for years. ‘Come on darling, let’s go.’
He retrieved his jacket, discreetly picking up the remains of the ear as he did so. To his dismay, he could see bloody little tufts littering the short grass. Clumps of Punch’s fur. He dropped the piece of flesh into his pocket, moved back to Holly and took her free hand. Slowly, the three of them climbed the incline to the car park’s perimeter.
As they got closer, the murmuring group of men fell silent.
‘Any sign of the van?’ someone asked.
Jon shook his head. ‘Lost it at the roundabout.’
‘Would you like to go into the club house?’ another golfer asked. ‘You can sit there. Call a taxi, perhaps.’
‘Thanks, but no,’ Jon replied. ‘We only live a few minutes’ walk away.’
The man who’d rung for the vet stepped forward. ‘I’ve got a business card, here.’ He held it up. ‘For my wife’s practice, where your dog is.’
‘Thank you,’ Jon answered, letting go of Holly’s hand. ‘I’ll catch you up in a second,’ he whispered to Alice.
Once the two of them were out of earshot, he turned to the man. ‘Did you think that animal was about to attack my daughter?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied uncertainly. ‘It was definitely interested – like it was stalking her - ’
The other golfer butted in. ‘It was going to attack something. Your dog defended the little girl.’
Jon took a quick breath in and forced the question from his lips. ‘Was my dog still alive?’
The golfer looked uneasy. ‘I think so. But…you know…it wasn’t conscious.’ He pointed at the card. ‘If you call Valerie…’
‘I will. How did she get Punch to her practice?’
‘The boot of her car.’
‘Really? I can pay for any cleaning - ’
He raised a hand. ‘She always has a blanket in the back. I wouldn’t worry.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Jon looked around. ‘Have you ever seen that white van parked here before?’
‘Never. It looked like it was here to carry out some kind of maintenance.’
Jon surveyed the watching group. ‘Did anyone notice when it arrived? See the two men inside?’
Everyone shook their heads. A sprightly-looking man in a pale turquoise jumper and navy tie was striding over from the direction of the club house. ‘Right, they’re on their way.’ He looked momentarily at the bloody grass then at Jon. ‘Are you the animal’s owner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Edwin Hughes. Club president.’ He extended a hand and Jon wiped his own on his trousers before they shook. ‘I’ve rung the police. They said a patrol car should be here presently.’
Right, Jon thought. Estimated arrival time, tomorrow. ‘I’m an officer myself.’
‘Ah.’ Hughes’ demeanour changed. ‘Good show.’ He gestured at the scene of the attack, ‘That’ll be of help, I imagine, with documenting the incident.’
Jon turned to the car park once again. ‘I’m assuming that van wasn’t authorised to be here?’
Hughes gave a shake of his head. ‘We�
��ve no contractors booked in.’
Jon pondered the man’s answer, his sense of alarm growing. Not only does it look like those bastards knew where I live, they had my routines, as well. Where I walk Punch everyday.
‘What type of dog did you think it was?’ The husband of the vet asked. ‘Some kind of mastiff?’
‘No,’ his playing partner replied. ‘Its face was Rottweiler, I’m sure. Plus, it was too squat to be a mastiff.’
‘Rottweilers have black coats,’ the first man retorted. ‘That thing was covered in beige markings, plus its tail was long.’
‘That just means it hadn’t been docked. Anyway, part Rottweiler, I said. Crossed with one of those pit bulls, probably.’
No, thought Jon. Too long in the leg for that. Besides, it leapt into the back of that van from bloody miles off. No type of fighting dog I’ve ever seen is that agile.
He had the urge to have Alice and Holly in his sight. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.’
The club president shook his head. ‘But aren’t you going to wait for the patrol car?’
Jon started across the car park. ‘No. I wouldn’t bother waiting out here, either. They’ll be ages yet. I’ll ring in and speak to the officers later.’
‘Well,’ the president blustered. ‘Can I give them your name?’
Jon thought about what had occurred in Clifden. If it’s linked, I don’t know what the hell I’m mixed up in. ‘I can’t give that information. Not at this stage of the investigation.’
The men looked nonplussed as he hurried off. Alice and Holly were making their way through a side gate on to Sevenoaks Avenue, heads bowed, steps wooden. Keeping his distance, Jon pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and keyed in the number for the vet.
‘Heaton Moor Veterinary Practice,’ a young female announced.
Hello – can I speak to…’ he glanced at the card, ‘Valerie Ackford, please? It’s the owner of the Boxer dog that’s just been attacked on Heaton Moor golf course.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s in surgery with your dog at the moment – ’