Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  She dropped it back into her handbag. ‘I’ll keep it in its little holster thing. Don’t want to confuse it with my breath freshener.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t do that,’ Rick coughed. He looked at the car parked on the drive and then at the house. ‘Timer switches for the lights all on?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Directions printed off?’

  ‘Check. And all emails from Center Parcs and recent internet searches deleted off the computer, as ordered.’

  ‘OK. Call me later, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After they’d hugged, Rick tapped on the BMW’s rear window. ‘Have a great time, Holly. See you soon!’

  He watched the car right up until it reached the end of the road and started indicating. Then he turned to the house, failing to see a black Golf as it pulled out and followed his BMW round the corner.

  Chapter 22

  By the time the pilot announced that the plane was about to start its descent, the layer of cloud below the aircraft had begun to fracture. Through the gaps, Jon glimpsed dull landscape and the glint of a distant lake. Visibility hazed out. They emerged in the cold shadow of cloud, faded fields rising to meet them. Jon compared the density of housing around Manchester to the sparse clusters of dwellings below. Far off, the horizon was pimpled by distant peaks.

  Walking across the tarmac, he eyed the pale green corrugated metal of the terminal. This place, he thought, isn’t much more than a large shed in a field. Inside, he was surprised to see two Garda officers with a sniffer dog. Tail swishing from side to side, the Labrador nosed at everyone’s hand luggage as they filed into the baggage reclaim room. Jon couldn’t resist bending down to quickly ruffle the animal’s ears.

  He stood apart from the other passengers, most of whom were now talking into mobile phones as the conveyor belt clanked into life. The dog’s handler got it to jump up on to the belt and it worked its way eagerly along the procession of luggage.

  Once beyond the solitary person at passport control, he searched for the Car Hire desk in the main part of the terminal. An Avis sign was by the exit doors. Once two Germans in suits had collected their vehicle’s keys, Jon stepped up to the counter. ‘Hi. Is there a Car Hire 3000 around here?’

  ‘That’s us,’ the woman smiled. ‘We all share the one office. What’s your name?’

  ‘Spicer.’

  She looked at several sheets pinned to the wall. ‘Ah, yes. A Ford Focus, three days’ hire, with the option of extending that, if needed.’

  Out in the small car park, he searched for anything that was pale blue. There you are, he thought. And a car with Irish, not British number plates. That’s good news: it won’t stand out this time round. The key didn’t seem to work in the door and Jon was about to set off back to the terminal when he tried the handle. The vehicle had been unlocked all along. Remember, he told himself, you’re not in Manchester now. Things are different here.

  On the passenger seat, a photocopied sheet of Galway’s road system showed him how to get on to the N59. Twenty minutes after crossing over the River Corrib, he again passed the roadside sign welcoming him to Connemara. The landscape immediately grew more rugged.

  When he reached Clifden, he drove straight past the police station, eyes cutting momentarily to the entrance. The place could have been closed. In the town square he continued round until the metallic airplane-wing monument came into view. Its smooth, shiny surface contrasted with the somewhat dated brick buildings all around. A foreign object, thrust into the centre of somewhere it didn’t belong. Know the feeling, Jon thought, as he slotted the car into one of the many spaces available. In front of him were two buildings: Darragh’s to the right, Joyce’s Hotel to the left.

  Once again he had the feeling he was the focus of unseen eyes. He glanced up at the rows of blank windows staring down. What time is it? he wondered, glancing at his watch. Half-eleven in the morning. Except for a family speaking French or Spanish, the pavements were deserted. He watched the woman pause outside a souvenir shop. The young girl holding her hand began to swing her leg to and fro and Jon found himself thinking about Alice and Holly. They’d be on their way to Center Parcs by now.

  He slid his holdall off the rear seat and slipped through the doors of Joyce’s. Thick reddish carpets and dark, wooden walls interspersed with head-high lamps. Their cloth shades were too thick, shrouding little bulbs which struggled to properly light the foyer.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ The young man behind the reception desk wore a dark green waistcoat over a white shirt.

  ‘Hello,’ Jon nodded. ‘I haven’t got a reservation. Is there any chance…’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Thought it would be, Jon thought, glancing at the rows of hooks behind the desk. From almost every one there hung a key. ‘Do you have any rooms overlooking the street?’

  ‘Not at the back? It tends to be quieter there.’

  ‘The front is great, cheers.’

  ‘How many nights, sir?’

  Jon pondered the question. They’d agreed a maximum of three. But, that suddenly seemed a bit generous. A desire to be back in time to join Alice and Holly at Center Parcs bit. ‘Two, please,’ he replied, thinking he could extend it by another night if necessary.

  Room 17 was towards the end of the second-floor corridor. He examined the enormous brass key-fob. Not much smaller than the plaque outside Valerie Ackford’s veterinary practice.

  The door opened to reveal a room with the same chintzy feel as the foyer – floral pattern on the eiderdown and frills on the pillows of the double bed. The armchairs either side of a coffee table by the window had lacy coverings over the headrests.

  Dumping his holdall on the bed, he checked his phone had reception before tossing it beside the bag and crossing to the window. The view of the high street was a good one. Directly opposite was a small black-fronted pub called Lowry’s. He noticed the empty bottles arranged on the other side of its narrow, dim windows. Looks like a nice quiet place for a beer, he concluded.

  By opening the window a crack, he was able to see down to the entrance of Darragh’s some thirty metres along the pavement. Perfect.

  Pulling the window closed, Jon examined the holdall. OK, he said to himself. Time to get started.

  The zip opened with a low burring noise and he removed the layer of clothes at the top. Below it was the body armour from Longsight station. A stab-proof vest embossed with the Gear-Tech logo. The item was thin enough to sit beneath a shirt without being obvious. He removed kneepads and forearm and lower-leg protectors, knocking a knuckle against the hard plastic panels. Strong enough to absorb the impact of a baseball bat. A pair of lycra shorts, the groin area reinforced with hard casing. Beside them was a little leather holster with the can of pepper spray inside.

  Wrapped up in a T-shirt was the Asp – a telescopic truncheon that, when extended, measured twenty-one inches. He held the black rubberised handle in the palm of his right hand and brought the handle down in a short chopping movement. The rod of high carbon steel inside extended itself with a cold snicker. The business, he thought, twisting the handle and collapsing it back.

  Next, he removed an A4 plastic file. In a Perspex sleeve inside were a hundred sheets of paper. He slid them out and examined the uppermost one. A colour photo of Zoë was at its centre. Jon guessed the hills in the background were those of the Lake District; he knew his brother had spent a summer up there, squatting in an empty holiday home. Above the image of her smiling face was a single word: MISSING.

  He looked into her eyes. True, they were a bit sunken and the lines running from their corners were too deeply etched for a woman in her twenties. But Jesus, he thought, considering what she’d gone through, it was amazing she was able to smile at all. And it was a genuine smile, too. A tiny wedge of sunlight catching in each eye, the lock of dark purple hair hanging between them shimmering.

  You found happiness once, he thought. You and my brother. Perhaps it was just for tha
t single summer. A dozen or so weeks spent walking the hills, maybe earning cash on local farms. Lazy evenings watching the sun set. Another image abruptly appeared. Zoë, in a house somewhere close by, lying in bed with two black eyes, clutching her ribs every time she coughed.

  He thought about the last time he’d actually seen her. The half-derelict tower block in Manchester, specks of Salvio’s blood dotting his clothes. Tears had been coursing down her face as her arm had scrabbled beneath her bed. Still on her knees, she’d held up the file.

  ‘It’s got all Jake’s records from the hospital and that. Dr Griffiths’s number, everything. Here.’ He remembered her thrusting it towards him, a look of desolation on her face. ‘You’ll look after him, right? I can’t. Not now, not on my own.’

  Jon read the text below her photo once more. Zoë recently came to Ireland. Last known place: Clifden. If you have seen her or know where she is, please call the number below.

  He removed the pay-as-you-go mobile from his coat pocket. Cheapest model he could find, now with thirty pounds’ credit. He placed the handset next to his usual phone and then ferreted about in the holdall’s side pocket for the little box of drawing pins. That’s it, he thought. Everything I need to get the wheels turning. He stepped over to the window and looked down on the empty street. A trilling noise rang out from the direction of the bed.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Everything OK?’ Rick asked.

  ‘So far, so good. I’m sitting in my hotel room which overlooks the high street. The entrance to the nightclub is just a bit along.’

  ‘Perfect, then.’

  ‘Any trouble at t’mill?’

  ‘Not a thing. Parks isn’t even in today. Off on some conference. It’s uncannily quiet, actually. Elmhurst and May are due to start tracking Darragh’s movements in and out of the UK. But they won’t even be close to liaising with the Irish police until after the weekend.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What are you going to do first?’

  He sat down in the chair by the window. An elderly man was making his way along the pavement on the other side of the road, legs bowed as if he’d suffered from rickets as a child. He opened the door of Lowry’s and the dark interior swallowed him.

  ‘Plaster this town with posters. If that doesn’t lead to anything, I’ll start handing out flyers in his club. Basically, I’ll make it so Darragh’s life is far easier if he deals with me.’

  ‘Deals with you.’ Rick snorted. ‘Let’s hope that’s not what he tries.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. It’s not like the security he employs is a problem. One guy with a useful feint. And now I know that’s all he’s got.’

  Rick was silent for a couple of seconds. ‘Keep in touch, yeah? And I’ll see you on Monday.’

  ‘That’s the plan. Speak to you soon.’ He cut the connection, brought up Alice’s number and pressed green. She picked up on the third ring. ‘Hi. Have you got there?’

  ‘Yup. Safe and sound.’

  Jon felt a little knot of tension suddenly go slack. ‘And you’ve switched to a different lodge?’

  ‘Yes – like you said. And checked the booking’s in my maiden name. How’s it looking there?’

  ‘Quiet – like last time. Except the shops are open. Where’s your lodge?’

  ‘By the village bit, next to the lake. Holly’s feeding the ducks.’

  Jon smiled. ‘Good. Enjoy yourselves and I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Are you driving back to Roundstone?’

  ‘Maybe this afternoon. I’ll see how things go here.’

  ‘Be careful, OK?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  He flipped his phone shut. Right, he thought, getting to his feet. Let’s start pinning posters up.

  The glass front of the noticeboard to the side of the plane-wing monument was secured by two little clasps. Inside was the same collection of notices. He studied the newspaper clipping about the roof appeal for Clifden’s Gaelic Football Club. When he’d read the piece online, he’d missed a small mention towards the end of the article. Actual building work was being generously carried out at a reduced rate by Darragh de Avila’s construction company, Convila.

  Interesting, Jon thought. The guy has fingers in more than one pie. After pinning a poster over the article, he made his way to the post office, where the lady inside allowed him to put one up. The duty manager of the Supervalu supermarket directed him over to the Community News section of the noticeboard in the foyer, where he pinned up another.

  Jon found himself glancing at the faces of the few customers queuing at the tills, half-expecting to catch them nodding and whispering in his direction.

  When he got to Mannion’s Bar, his eyes went to the A-board on the pavement outside. Soup and a roll was on offer again. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The same girl was behind the bar and he saw a slight flutter of her eyes before she resumed her chat with a solitary man at its far end.

  ‘Hi there,’ Jon announced. ‘I was wondering which soup is on today.’ She looked at him blankly and he touched a finger against his chest. ‘I was in here last Saturday.’

  She removed a pen from the pouch of her apron. ‘Last Saturday?’

  Yeah, Jon thought, like you didn’t recognise me just now. ‘Yes, you had cream of mushroom on that time.’

  ‘Ah, well, Thursdays it’s chicken.’

  ‘Lovely, I’ll have a bowl and one of your rolls, too.’ He held up the sheaf of posters. ‘And would it be OK to pin one of these up?’

  Her eyes flitted to the pub’s large noticeboard just inside the door. ‘A poster?’‘Yes.’ Jon slid out the top one and laid it on the bar. Off to the side, he saw the old man crane his neck. ‘It’s my brother’s partner. We don’t know where she is.’

  She made an O with her mouth and held up a forefinger. ‘You said you were looking for holiday properties.’

  That’s right, thought Jon. And you’re shit at pretending to only just remember that piece of information. ‘I was – but the other reason I was over was to try and track down Zoë here.’ He glanced at her image. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  He saw her swallow before her eyes dropped to the poster. Her brow wrinkled slightly. ‘I’ve never seen her in here.’

  In here, Jon thought. Did I ask you to be that specific? ‘What about the town in general? In the supermarket, perhaps.’ He made sure they had eye contact. ‘Or in Darragh’s?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t recognise her.’

  ‘OK,’ Jon drew out the two syllables, keeping his eyes on her all the time. ‘But can I put a poster up?’

  She seemed relieved at the prospect of him moving away from the bar. ‘Sure you can. Anything to drink?’

  ‘A pint of fresh orange juice and lemonade, cheers.’

  He ate his soup in silence, aware of the pay-as-you-go phone in the pocket of his jacket. Relax, he told himself. No one’s going to ring straight away. The barmaid remained behind the pumps, talking with the old man in hushed tones. Jon gave up trying to listen when he realised they were speaking in Irish.

  Pushing his empty bowl aside, he downed the last of his drink and examined the black-and-white photos on the walls once again. The captions described a 1919 flight by Alcock and Brown which had made it across the Atlantic before crash-landing in Derrygimlagh Bog, on the edge of Clifden. Hence the plane-wing monument, Jon concluded, getting to his feet. ‘Where are the toilets, please?’

  The barmaid gestured to the swing door at the other end of the bar.

  ‘Cheers.’

  The toilets were old-style, a bare concrete floor and individual urinals stretching from the floor up to chest height. Each must consist of about half-a-ton of porcelain, he thought, positioning himself before the middle one.

  He was halfway through relieving himself when he heard a tapping sound to his left. There was a window at the urinal’s far end, the upper pane held partly open by
a metal strut. A blurred arm was beyond the frosted glass. A couple more taps before the hand reached up. Fingers with lilac-coloured nails dropped a scrap of paper through the small gap. Footsteps quickly receded.

  Jon stared. That was more than strange. Zipping up his fly, he approached the tightly folded piece of paper on the windowsill. He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one had entered the toilets behind him then plucked it from the tiles. The scrap opened out to reveal a single line hastily scrawled in red biro.

  Pony sale tomorow morning de Avila at the back

  Did the note mean Darragh would be sitting at the rear of the event? Is that where he wanted to meet; somewhere public? But why the subterfuge about delivering the message?

  No, whoever dropped that note through the window was tipping me off about something while not wanting to give their identity away. Siobhain, maybe? Or even Zoë? Someone’s following me, that’s for sure.

  Back out in the pub, he glanced across at the barmaid who was midway through pouring the old boy another beer. Her nails weren’t painted. ‘See you again.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘See you.’

  Once outside, he stepped over to the kerb and turned round. The table he’d been sitting at was in full view from the street. He walked to the narrow alley running down the side of the pub. Twenty metres along was the frosted window of the toilet, upper pane slightly ajar. Whoever wrote that note is very familiar with this place, he thought.

  Continuing on up the high street, he spotted a few notices in the window of a small bookshop.

  The elderly lady inside said he was welcome to pin up a poster in the window before she wandered into the back office mumbling about Blu-Tack.

  Jon surveyed the little shop. On the circular table in the centre of the room, several hardback books had been stood on their ends. A small notice before them had the handwritten words, ‘Local Interest’.

  The title of the smallest book caught his eye. Ireland’s Western Shore – Graveyard of the Armada. He picked the book up and scanned the preface. It described how, in the winter of 1588, the Spanish fleet had fled Drake’s forces and attempted a return to Spain by sailing round the tip of Scotland and down Ireland’s west coast. But a huge storm had blown in from the Atlantic and smashed two dozen ships on the unforgiving coastline. Thousands of Spaniards had perished.