by Chris Simms
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘You think I couldn’t, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘We’ve got this big fight here on Saturday. I’m bringing some extremely important associates over from Dublin and you’re still pissing about in Manchester – ’
‘We got into a spot of bother. Queen Meabh…she’s dead.’
‘What was that?’
‘Queenie – she’s dead. Sean put her to sleep, Da. He had to.’
‘You sound like you’re almost crying, son.’
‘Da, she’s dead. We had no other choice – ’
‘Stop your fucking snivelling. Now!’ There was a pause. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘That peeler? The one who threw Darragh around? We let Queenie on to his dog as payback. He caught up with our van, somehow.’
‘You used Queenie on his dog? What, in a fight?’
‘No, in a park.’
‘You let Queenie out in a park?’
‘To show him, Da. When Darragh told me what had happened – ’
‘You ever do something like that again, I will break your fucking knees, as God is my witness. Something that crude. Is that what I taught you?’
‘No.’
‘How did I teach you?’
‘To be subtle.’
‘Subtle, sure. Can you even spell the fucking word?’
‘Eh, Da?’
‘Doesn’t matter. When we need to deal with…an issue, we move carefully and we move quietly. Understand?’
‘You mean like that time with – ’
‘No names, Devlan. Not over the phone. But you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Sure Da.’
‘We’ve survived here, in our little corner of Ireland, because we’re clever. Is releasing a dog like Queenie into a park anything other than pig-shit fucking thick?’
‘Da, he threw my brother over the bar. In front of everyone.’
‘And you know why he was in the club?’
‘Why?’
‘He was looking for a girl. Now Devlan, you wouldn’t know anything about that? A girl who’s gone missing?’
There was a pause. ‘No…no, I don’t.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘OK, we’ll speak no more of the matter. You said Queenie is dead?’
‘I whistled her back and we drove off. I don’t know how, but the peeler caught us up. He saw Queenie, the van’s number plates, Sean’s face – ’
‘Where is he?’
‘Sean? Here, with me. I didn’t know what to do. Darragh said the peeler is in some murder team – ’
‘Major Incident Team.’
‘So we knew they’d be after us. We had nowhere safe to put Queenie, the van’s plates had been switched – ’
‘Just put Sean on, will you?’
A moment of muffled noise.
‘Gerrard, it’s Sean.’
‘What have you let that gobshite get up to?’
‘Well…’ A slight cough of embarrassment. ‘After the peeler had seen us...I don’t know Manchester, neither does Devlan. We couldn’t keep the van, didn’t know what to do with Queenie – the kennels we’d fought wanted the dog for themselves – ’
‘So you fucking killed her?’
‘There was no other option. We couldn’t let anyone else get hold of her.’
‘How much did getting that pair of animals over from Spain cost me?’
‘I don’t know. A lot.’
‘A lot? More than the monthly wage bill at Golden Fields. Jesus, I can’t believe this. Where are you now?’
‘Lying low. Some cheap hotel near Manchester airport.’
‘What’s left to do?’
‘Nothing. We’re just waiting on new passports – with what’s happened, we can’t use our own.’
‘Where are you getting them?’
‘Grennan – he’s sorting two.’
‘He’s a good man. Will you have them for Saturday? I want the pair of you back here.’
‘Yes.’
‘This fight? Bone Yard kennels are coming down from Belfast with four dogs, a couple of tozas are being brought up from Limerick, there’s money flying in from Dublin, Liverpool, all over. Plus I’ve got these three from overseas – property investors, they are.’
‘You’re not cancelling?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well – with losing Queenie.’
‘Cuchullain’s stomach is fine again.’
‘Is he shitting OK?’
‘Sure he is – Denis has been running him hard these last two weeks.’
‘And he’s back to his old self?’
‘He is. Sean, you’re the one with a brain between your ears. Keep Devlan from doing anything else stupid. Have you got that?’
‘I have.’
‘Good. Now, put him back on.’
Another pause. ‘Hi Dad.’
‘He’s back in Clifden.’
‘Who?’
‘The British policeman, Spicer.’
‘Fuck!’
‘He was in the club again last night.’
‘In the club? Did he touch my brother?’
‘No. Darragh kept in his office. Conor showed as the policeman was leaving. He’s got a pair of bollocks on him, I’ll give him that.’
‘Da – I know where his wife and daughter are.’
‘What?’
‘He tried hiding them away. But I got Grennan to put a watch on their house.’
‘You know where they are?’
‘Yeah. At a holiday-camp place called Center Parcs, not far north from here. We could – ’
‘You’ll do nothing, son, do you hear me? I’ll get this thing sorted. You and Sean just make sure you’re back here first thing tomorrow morning.’
Both sides of the road leading out of Clifden towards Galway were solid with parked vehicles – mostly four-by-fours with empty horseboxes attached to their towbars. Fragments of straw scattered the road. A tannoy system sent the sound of a man’s voice drifting towards Jon on the light breeze.
Shortly after the police station, a wide entrance led into a large courtyard bordered by small industrial units. At its centre was a hangar-type building with a sign on its front. Connemara Pony Sales. Now Jon could hear the whinny of animals between the stream of words blaring from the speakers. The sharp smell of sawdust caught in his nostrils.
He looked at the units lining the outer edge of the park, most of which had their shutters down. Clifden Plant and Tool Hire. Paul Acton and Sons Motors. Frank Ryan Kitchens. DA Services. A clatter of hooves, and Jon was forced to step quickly aside as a man led a pony round the corner. The animal’s head was held high, whites of its eyes showing.
The side of the building consisted of a row of narrow pens, each of which held a pony, some grey with white mottles, others varying shades of brown. They stamped nervously on the sawdust-covered floor, emitting shrill sounds or leaning across the uppermost railing to brush muzzles with their neighbours.
Quietly assessing them was a motley collection of people. Ruddy-faced men wearing green body-warmers or grubby fleeces, dirt and fragments of hay clinging to their elbows. Jon took in the assortment of hats – including flat caps, similar to those worn by older folk around Manchester but enlivened with colourful strands of thread. He saw a black trilby, woollen caps pulled low over heavy brows and, towering above its neighbours, a fur Cossack hat. At the far end of the building, he could see bodies pressed into a section from where the auctioneer’s amplified voice rang out.
The space itself was too crowded for him to get in; steep wooden tiers rising up, people perched on every available inch, many with mobile phones pressed to their ears. Spotlights shone down into the ring.
Jon thought about the handwritten note. De Avila will be at the back. By standing on tiptoe, he was able to scan the uppermost rows. No sign of him there. Jon turned back to the ring itself.
A pony with a number painted
on its flank was being led round. In a little balcony above it there sat a stern-faced man. Behind him a sign in red block letters read, All buyers please to call to sales office.
‘Two thousand six hundred we have, two thousand six hundred, I have no advance on two thousand six hundred? It’s two thousand six hundred, any advance on two thousand six hundred? I have an advance? Thank you sir. Two thousand six hundred and fifty, I have two thousand six hundred and fifty on my left, last time, all finished? Two thousand seven hundred, I have. Any more than two thousand seven hundred? She’s in the market at two thousand seven hundred. All done now? Last time, two thousand seven hundred. Sold there at two thousand seven hundred.’
The man on the balcony brought the hammer down with a loud crack, cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his headset and spoke into the small microphone on the counter in front of him.
Jon felt someone brushing past. Turning round, he saw a few empty spaces on the uppermost row. He climbed the steep steps, nodding thanks to a woman in riding trousers who’d shifted sideways on the rough wooden bench. Leaning the back of his head against the bare plaster wall, Jon surveyed the audience more carefully.
The people standing closest to the ring were exclusively men; expressions serious, none speaking. They studied the dappled grey pony now being led into the ring by a man wearing a long green coat. He soon retreated to the gate and, left alone, the pony lowered its nose and blew twin craters in the fresh sawdust. Its coat was thick and shaggy, similar, Jon thought, to that of Highland cattle. Mud had turned the long strands on the underside of its belly into a mass of spikes and its tail hung almost to the ground. Earlier this morning, Jon thought, you were probably standing ankle-deep in a boggy field. It raised its head, ears swivelling independently of each other as the auctioneer began to speak.
‘OK, you’ll have seen the notes for this magnificent filly. Starting at three thousand five hundred euro, three thousand two hundred and fifty, three thousand, two thousand seven hundred and fifty, two thousand five hundred, two thousand two hundred and fifty…’
Jon’s eyes drifted across the crowd again. The note said de Avila would be at the back. He leaned forward, stealing a glance along to the corner of his row. Apart from the lads, there only appeared to be couples or women with younger females, probably their daughters.
He felt someone sitting down next to him and turned. An oldish man, late fifties or thereabouts. The end of his nose was bulbous, the skin blotched an unhealthy red. His grey, wiry hair looked dry and Jon saw the collar of his threadbare coat was flecked with dandruff. Keeping his eyes on the ring, the man inclined his head slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Jon Spicer?’
Jon immediately got a whiff of his breath. Bit early in the day to have been drinking. He frowned. ‘Yes?’
The man laid a manila folder on the bench between them, tapped it twice with a forefinger and spoke again. ‘Some commercial details and other information for you. It’ll be worth you taking a look at the back, behind this building.’
With that, he got to his feet, made his way to the end of the row and walked down the steep steps. His place was immediately taken by a couple of teenage girls.
Jon placed the folder on his lap and half-lifted the cover. Some kind of printout. Columns of figures, each one preceded by a euro sign. The top of the sheet was marked with the word, Convila. The name of Darragh’s construction company. He glanced to his side but the other man had already disappeared from view.
Jon squeezed past the girls. An exit sign led out to a side area clogged with more four-wheel drives and horseboxes. At the rear of the building was another row of pens, these holding a collection of older-looking ponies, many with ribs and hip bones visible beneath their flanks.
In the far corner, a large lorry for transporting horses was parked up. Two men were discussing something at the ramp leading into the vehicle’s rear. Extracting his phone, Jon pretended to take a call, absentmindedly looking over as he talked quietly into the mouthpiece.
Lettering on the side of the lorry read, Golden Fields Farm, Clifden. Directly above him, a tannoy speaker relayed the auctioneer’s voice. Feigning difficulty at hearing his imaginary caller’s words, Jon moved to the side.
The younger of the two men gave a shrug and walked down the ramp. He stopped at a grimy Volvo estate, opened the door and began to climb in.
‘OK, OK,’ the older man said, voice heavy with defeat. ‘I accept.’
The man straightened up. From a pocket, he produced a thick wedge of notes, peeled a few off and handed them to the other man who, with a look of disgust, shoved them in his trouser pocket. They walked over to a horsebox and lowered its rear door. The older man got in. Seconds later, he emerged with a thin pony that had a pronounced hobble.
‘No, not the lorry. Put it in number four.’ The younger man nodded in the direction of the pens.
Jon circled round the back of the building until he reached the other corner. Another man was leading a decrepit-looking pony to the rear stalls. This side of the courtyard was also packed with vehicles and horseboxes. Wherever that lorry was heading with its cargo of knackered animals, Jon thought, it’s not setting off until after this auction is over. He quickly checked his other handset. Still no messages. Damn it. A notice was on the door of the sales office; the auction finished at midday.
Jon walked back to the centre of Clifden and drove his hire car to the Aldi on the opposite side of the road to the auction. Perfect, he thought, parking in the corner and reaching for the folder.
First were the financial records for Convila. Subsequent sheets listed a variety of projects. He scanned each one’s title. Phoenix Gardens. Emmet Street. Anderson Court. Abbey Row. Hanover Quay.
Judging from the columns of figures, all the projects were running at a major loss. He looked for a business address for Convila, but it didn’t feature.
The next sheet was a printout of a website’s home page. Golden Fields Farm. Jon glanced across the road. The name on the side of the horse transporter behind the auction. He read the introductory paragraph.
Offering a total solution to your pet food manufacturing needs, Golden Fields Farm is one of Europe’s leading producers of premium dry foods.
Creating your own label product is easy with us – from product development right through to manufacturing, packaging and despatch.
In partnership with us, you will also have access to our state-of-the-art facilities, the expertise of our in-house nutritionists and the finest ingredients available.
No matter what size, shape or colour of product you have in mind, we can create it for you. And with three extruders now fully operational, we are able to meet the tightest of deadlines too.
The sheet stapled to it was a printout of the company’s ‘contact us’ screen, including a phone number, email and postal address. Below that were directions for arriving by road.
Follow the N59 out of Clifden, heading north towards Letterfrack. Three miles outside of Clifden, take the first right after Lough Breenbannia. Golden Fields Farm is the first property on your left.
Next sheet was another financial report, this time for Darragh’s Nightclub. Who was the old boy that stank of booze? Jon wondered. And how did he get hold of all this stuff? Overheads included council tax, heating, lighting, staff pay and wholesale drinks costs. Profits were negligible over the winter months, picking up in spring and peaking during the summer. Nowhere near enough, Jon thought, to justify the piles of cash Darragh had been counting in the back office.
He selected Rick’s number on his mobile. ‘Hi mate, everything OK back at the ranch?’
‘Fine,’ Rick replied. ‘You?’
‘Yup. Some interesting developments.’
‘Parks hasn’t cottoned on you’re there. Yet,’ Rick whispered. ‘At least, she’s said nothing to me.’
‘Good news.’
‘So, what are these developments?’
‘I’ve been slipped a load of information o
n de Avila. Company accounts, business addresses, that kind of thing.’
‘The nightclub?’
‘That, but other stuff, too.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘I don’t know. An old guy. Looked like a bit of a tramp, to be honest. He just asked if I was Jon Spicer, dumped it on the seat next to me and buggered off. First is a building company called Convila. It’s got an involvement with the following projects: Phoenix Gardens, Emmet Street, Anderson Court, Abbey Row and Hanover Quay. But there’s no business address, VAT number or anything listed.’
‘Financial figures?’
‘Yeah – and they aren’t small. Anderson Court alone has cost Convila nearly three hundred thousand euro in the last half of the previous financial year. Can you run the names past your contact in the NCA?’
‘With pleasure,’ Rick replied.
‘Cheers. There are a few other things too. Golden Fields Farm, a pet food manufacturer.’ He read out the address and turned to the final sheet. ‘And I’ve got four names listed – no idea what they’re to do with. First is Tommy Hammel. Then there’s a Geordan and Fionna Reilly – I’ll spell them. Last is a Francis Collins. Then it just says Castlebar, 1993.’
‘OK, I’ve noted them down. What about the nightclub?’
‘It’s making peanuts, mate. Hardly covering its costs. My guess is that it’s a front for other things.’
‘Should you still be doing this?’
‘What?’
‘Digging around out there. Hundreds of thousand euro property developments are not the kind of operation small-time criminals are involved in.’
‘We don’t know what connection de Avila has to them – could just be the on-site security. Anyway, I’m being careful. But if your contact can get on the system and run any of his tangential things, it would be useful.’
‘I’ll give him a buzz. Have you spoken to Alice?’
‘Yeah – they’re fine, cheers. How’re Sophie and Ryan’s enquiries going into how de Avila got in and out of the country?’
‘They’ve only got a bit of time on it today. Then they’re not back in work until Monday.’