Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘Really?’ Jon grinned. ‘He manages that steep road?’

  ‘Nick, the barman drives him back. Whenever that might be.’ She rolled her eyes again.

  ‘And you live in Roundstone, too?’

  ‘Yes – down near the church. It’s only a two-minute walk.’

  Kieron pulled the plug in the sink and turned round. ‘You know the mountain? Out there to the left?’

  Jon frowned. Did he mean the craggy great hill overlooking the village? Or the range of distant peaks across the bay?

  ‘Errisbeg Hill,’ Eileen cut in. ‘We in the village call it the mountain.’

  The one overlooking the village then, Jon thought. A good hour or so’s climb, I should think.

  Kieron continued with a note of pride in his voice. ‘Malachy would be up and down that twice a day checking his animals. Once in the morning and again after lunch. Sometimes carrying an animal down on his back if it needed attention.’

  ‘He was a sheep farmer, then?’ Jon asked.

  ‘He was. Knew the name of every lamb, the ewe that had given birth to it. Every ewe’s mother. Would be up there all the hours God sent making sure they were OK. Didn’t matter how heavy the rain, how skinning the wind. After that he ran the village butcher’s shop. Until the rules about only using government-approved abattoirs.’

  The younger man stepped over and picked up a cup of tea. One minute he’s not saying a word, Jon thought. Now there’s no stopping him.

  ‘He used to just slaughter a sheep round the back of the shop, butcher it and sell the meat. Now? Animals have to be shipped over to Galway for the chop before being driven all the way back here. Makes no sense. Then they said you could only have stainless-steel work surfaces. Refitting the shop would have cost thousands. It was cheaper just to close.’

  ‘I thought it was only Britain that had ridiculous regulations like that,’ Jon replied, spotting the collie’s ears going up. The animal’s tail started to wag as a door opened. Jon heard a shuffling in the corridor, punctuated by an occasional click.

  ‘That’ll be him,’ Eileen said. ‘Get ready.’

  Kieron adjusted the thin cushion on the wicker chair by the stove. A couple of seconds later, the man Jon had seen in the porch entered the room, a walking stick in one hand. His eyes darted to Jon, but showed no recognition.

  ‘Dad,’ Eileen said in a voice that was slightly raised. ‘This is your grandson, Jon. Mary and Alan’s oldest boy. The one who’s a policeman in Manchester.’

  His eyes, bright and beady, went back to Jon.

  Placing his hands on his knees, Jon stood.

  A burst of Irish came from Malachy.

  Eileen shook her head. ‘No.’

  With one hand held out, Jon had to watch as the old man asked something else. Eileen shook her head again then answered briefly in the same language. Another question from Malachy. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘And don’t be speaking the Irish in front of him. It’s not polite.’

  Malachy seemed to think a moment before he turned to Jon. ‘You are most heartily welcome in my house.’

  Bloody hell, Jon thought, as he felt his hand being pumped up and down. I forgot his accent’s so strong.

  ‘Will you stay for your tea?’ he asked. ‘Eileen, get another plate out. What is it that we’re eating?’

  Eileen rolled her eyes yet again. ‘Would you listen to him? Offering food to everyone who steps through the door when he doesn’t know if there’s a bite to eat in the house.’

  ‘Ach, I do. I can smell it, sure enough.’

  He made his way over to the corner chair, the collie dog muzzling at his free hand. ‘Hello there, dog, hello.’ Turning round, he lowered himself into the chair. Hands dotted with liver spots cupped the end of his stick. He looked at Jon with a glint of mischief in his eye.

  Kieron had removed a bottle from a cupboard. He filled a tiny glass and put it on the corner of the stove. Malachy nodded. ‘Thank you lad. Will you be having some of the whiskey, Jon? Are you a drinking man?’

  Jon sat back down. ‘Well, I’m driving. But a little one sounds good.’

  Malachy winked. ‘To go with your cup of tea there. Kieron? Pour him a drink. So are you staying in Roundstone?’

  ‘No – Clifden. I’m only over for a few days.’

  ‘Ah, Clifden, yes. The big town. You should be staying here. There’s a bed waiting for you in Roundstone. God knows there are enough O’Coinnes living in the place.’ He gave another wink.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jon smiled, taking the glass Kieron was holding out. ‘Cheers.’

  He took a sip as Malachy did the same. The old man’s eyes closed and he smacked his lips. Jon felt fiery tendrils curling down his throat and seeping into his stomach.

  ‘Will you have something to eat?’ Eileen asked, wrapping her hand in the tea towel and opening the main compartment of the oven. The window misted at Jon’s side.

  ‘No – thanks, I couldn’t. You weren’t expecting me.’

  She took out a baking tray which held an impressive lump of gammon. Ceramic pots containing mashed potato and roughly chopped carrot followed. ‘Nonsense, there’s plenty here.’

  Jon eyed the meat. It looked delicious. ‘Are you sure?’

  Nick Hutcher glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes past six. He decided to check his emails a final time before turning the machine off.

  In the hour since he’d last looked, another eleven messages had arrived. Most were just reports more junior inspectors had copied him in on. Something from Lucy in the legal department outlining her concerns over certain legislative changes. Below that message was one from someone whose name he didn’t immediately recognise. Carlos Contera. The guy in Spain who’d been restoring the Alano breed.

  Hutcher clicked on the email and started to read.

  Dear Mr Hutcher,

  Thank you for your message, I found it very interesting. And thank you for your kind comments. I believe it is the most impressive breed of dog there is on earth.

  Yes, there have been a few enquiries from individuals with a desire to purchase an Alano.

  Because of my worries about what the dog would be used for, I decline these requests. The only exception is if a local farmer wishes for a dog to do work they are suited to – and that is cattle herding.

  The photo you sent me of the carcass in your possession is without doubt an Alano. I believe it is one of a pair stolen from my farm almost one year ago. This can be proved by sweeping the dog for a microchip. All my dogs are microchipped. The two missing dogs are –

  Female – AH23

  Male – AV8

  Please can you confirm if it is AH23 in your possession. I will be prepared to pay all necessary costs to have the remains returned to me. You said the dog was found in Manchester, in the north of England, but I have had no enquiries from your country about purchasing an Alano.

  I keenly await your response,

  Sincerely yours,

  Carlos Contera

  Nick looked at his watch again. Simon, the vet at the Manchester rescue centre holding the dead Alano, would have already left for the day.

  He clicked on reply and began to type.

  Dear Carlos,

  Thanks for your reply – your English is far better than my Spanish! I will find out as quickly as I can if it is AH23 and ensure the remains are kept safe. I hope to have an answer for you tomorrow morning.

  In my original email to you, I think I caused some confusion. I was not asking if you had received any enquiries specifically from Britain about purchasing an Alano. I was more interested if you’d received an enquiry from anyone non-Spanish. If you have any records on this it could greatly assist in the police investigation being conducted.

  Best wishes,

  Nick Hutcher

  He pressed send then brushed a forefinger across his lips. The one found in Manchester had to be AH23, no doubt about it. But that meant the male – AV8 – was still out there somewhere. And it would be bigger, stronger and more
ferocious than its dead mate.

  Chapter 25

  Kieron took the chair next to Jon as Elaine went to work on the joint of gammon. She passed over a plate piled high with food. Malachy immediately piped up from his corner chair. ‘Now is that enough for you? Has she given you enough?’

  Jon regarded the four thick slices of meat with relish. ‘Loads, thanks.’

  As a plate was put in front of Kieron, Jon realised there wasn’t a chair at the table for Eileen or Malachy. He started to get up. ‘Here, I’m in someone’s seat.’

  Eileen batted a hand. ‘Nonsense. Dad likes to eat in the corner and I never sit.’

  Certain they were just being polite, Jon sank back. Kieron was now tucking into his food as Eileen cut up some meat into smaller squares and put a half-full plate next to Malachy’s shoulder. She retreated to the corner opposite Malachy, put her plate on the worktop and, still standing, began to scoop up mashed potato.

  Jon sensed this really was the usual routine. For a few minutes the only sound was the scraping of cutlery.

  Malachy finished first. Sitting back with a sigh, he said, ‘Ach, that was a lovely bit of meat, thank you, Eileen.’

  She nodded in reply, still busily eating.

  ‘Does the fire need more turf?’ Malachy asked, leaning forward and using the end of his stick to turn the handle of the stove door. ‘It does.’

  Jon peered into what appeared to be a mini-furnace. Malachy reached down to the basket beneath his chair and tossed in a couple of lumps of dried peat.

  ‘You’ll be baking us in our clothes,’ Eileen complained.

  ‘What?’ Malachy asked as the door clanged shut.

  She glanced at Jon with a pained expression. ‘He doesn’t feel it.’

  Beside him, Kieron murmured, ‘Shall I open a window, Jon?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jon answered, hoping his forehead wasn’t shining with sweat.

  ‘What was said?’ Malachy asked, chin jutting forward.

  Jon looked over. ‘Eileen was asking if I’m warm enough.’

  The old man nodded sceptically, the impish look back in his eye. ‘Did she now? Don’t believe a word my daughter says. She’s mad, you know.’

  ‘Dad!’ Eileen protested with a smile.

  Malachy poked the tip of his tongue out from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m the only one around here who still has his wits.’ His face grew a little more serious. ‘Doesn’t he look like Orla’s brother’s grandson, Joseph?’ he asked Eileen, nodding at Jon.

  Eileen tutted. ‘He does not, Dad.’

  ‘He does – the one who went to live in Yankee land.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Jeanne’s youngest, Martyn. The one who lives in Boston.’

  Malachy looked confused. ‘Did not Joseph move there?’

  ‘No,’ Eileen replied, taking his plate. ‘Joseph drowned, remember? In that storm off Croaghnakeela Island?’ She glanced at Jon. ‘Joseph was a fisherman.’

  ‘Oh, so he did,’ Malachy said, voice now subdued. ‘Well, he looks like him.’

  Jon gave a cough to break the silence. ‘Kieron says you used to go up and down Errisbeg Hill four times a day when you farmed sheep.’

  Malachy’s head came back up. ‘You mind your step on the mountain. The mists can close in. There’s many a path that leads only to a drop. Have you been up?’

  ‘No. It looks a good climb.’

  ‘It is, so. The views from the top are finely. The sea on one side and all the bog spread out below you on the other.’

  That word again, Jon thought. ‘What is this bog?’

  Kieron sat back. ‘The bog. It’s the only thing between us and Clifden. Did you not take the bog road here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I came along the one that hugs the coast.’

  ‘Well, there’s a short cut. Takes a third of the time. Follow the high street as if going back towards Galway. The road takes you inland. A mile out of Roundstone is the turning for the bog road. Little thing, it is. On your left. It gets you to Clifden in about twenty minutes.’ He smirked. ‘If Mum gets called out to a patient, she won’t drive it at night. Too scared. She prefers the coast road which takes three times as long.’

  Eileen waved a hand. ‘I’m not the only one who won’t use that road after dark.’

  Jon looked from Kieron to Eileen. ‘Is it haunted or something?’

  ‘It’s a lonely place, the bog,’ Eileen replied, gathering their plates and avoiding eye contact. ‘Mile after mile of marsh, dotted with hundreds of little lakes. You wouldn’t want to break down on it. Not alone anyway.’

  ‘They say phantoms haunt it,’ Kieron added melodramatically, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘White shapes in the mist that rises there. Of course, they might be grazing sheep.’

  ‘Do you like a story, Joseph?’ Malachy asked, signalling with his glass to Kieron.

  ‘It’s Jon,’ Eileen cut in.

  ‘Do you like a story, Jon?’

  ‘Yes,’ he grinned. ‘I hear enough working as a copper.’

  Eileen gave a hoot and a clap. ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘Well,’ Malachy announced, as Kieron refilled his little glass then gestured with the whiskey bottle to Jon.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Jon whispered.

  As Kieron retook his seat, Malachy continued. ‘There used to be a house on the bog road. A kind of inn, run by two sisters, Anna and Kathsha Connelly. It was known as the halfway house. Folk travelling to and from the market in Ballinaboy – pedlars, packmen and the like – would sometimes call there if a storm blew in.’ He took a sip of whiskey. ‘This was in the days when Ballinaboy was bigger than Clifden. Before they built that road across.’

  ‘The N59?’ Jon asked.

  Next to him, Kieron gave a nod.

  ‘These two sisters were wicked,’ Malachy continued. ‘If a fellow arrived and he was the only one staying, they’d murder him in the night, rob him of his takings and throw the body in the lakes. One hot summer, the level of the lakes dropped right down and some little girls and boys, out herding ponies, saw something in the water. Taking it for a dead swan, they went closer. But it was a naked body. And then, in the water below, they saw the skeletons of many more. The yeomen were sent out and the two sisters were taken to Galway gaol and hung.’

  Jon smiled. ‘Is that true?’

  Eileen sighed. ‘There might be a scrap of truth in it, somewhere. The remains of the house can still be seen, though. Kieron and some of the others who graze sheep out there use it for a pen, nowadays.’

  Jon looked at the younger man. ‘So you farm sheep too?’

  He nodded. ‘Look for where the road rises up slightly and the big lake with an island of dead trees in its middle. Cormorants nest there. What’s left of the halfway house is on your right.’

  ‘You mentioned ponies,’ Jon replied, thinking about the sale the next day. ‘Would that be the Connemara ponies I’ve heard mention of?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kieron replied. ‘You’ve bred them in your time, haven’t you Malachy?’

  He flicked a finger as if warding off a fly. ‘Only for a bit of fun. Nothing serious.’

  ‘Connemara ponies,’ Kieron said, turning to Jon. ‘Tough little animals but very gentle. Ideal for learning to ride on. People come from far and wide to buy them. It’s something to see, the auction.’

  Eileen was filling the kettle again. She nodded at the plate of biscuits. ‘Have another, Jon.’

  He glanced at the mound of custard creams. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ he said, patting his stomach and glancing at his watch. ‘In fact, I should get back. Thanks so much for the food.’

  ‘That’s a pleasure,’ Eileen replied. ‘Will you not stay for a cup of tea?’

  He contemplated for a moment whether to mention why he needed to be back in Clifden. No, he decided. It’s too soon to start going on about a possible junkie relative who was partner to my dead brother. ‘No, thanks, I’d better be going.’

  ‘Will you com
e back to us? What is it that you’re doing in Clifden?’

  Jon reached round for his coat. ‘Trying to find someone, actually. The last place we think she lived was Clifden.’

  ‘Police work?’ asked Kieron.

  ‘Kind of,’ Jon replied, standing up. He stepped over to Malachy. ‘It’s great to meet you. Is it OK if I call again?’

  He reached out and gripped Jon’s hand with both of his. ‘You’re always welcome here. Come for your tea, tomorrow, why don’t you? It’s not a nice thought, you in that town eating alone.’

  Jon smiled uncertainly, eyes moving to Eileen. She nodded back. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ Malachy added. ‘If I’ve hit the hay – ’

  ‘He means if he’s in bed,’ Eileen interjected.

  ‘Just let yourself in,’ Malachy continued. ‘The door’s never locked and you know where the kettle is.’

  Jon closed his other hand over Malachy’s, feeling the bones beneath his papery skin. ‘Thank you.’ After shaking hands with Kieron, he turned to Eileen.

  She gripped him by the shoulders and went up on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘Lovely to see you, Jon. Let me show you out.’ Once they were in the corridor, she lowered her voice. ‘Will you mention me to Mary? Tell her I sent my love.’

  Jon paused at the front door. ‘Of course. I’m not quite sure how to go about telling her I’ve been.’

  She placed a hand on his arm. ‘You’ll find a way.’

  ‘She’s never told us, you know. Why she cut off all contact with Malachy and Orla. With all of you, in fact.’

  Eileen’s gaze shifted uncomfortably to the road outside. ‘That’s something you’ll have to discuss with her.’

  Except she refuses to talk about it, Jon thought. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  She smiled in reply and he set off down the drive. The day had started to fade and he looked towards the sea. On the horizon, a glowing band of yellow seemed to be fighting for survival between the dark sea and slate sky. As he passed the construction site for the huge house opposite, the black lettering on the digger caught his eye. Convila. He came to a stop. Darragh’s construction company; the same one doing the repairs to Clifden’s Gaelic Football Club. He pictured the nightclub owner. Get yourself everywhere, don’t you?