by Chris Simms
Jon realised almost half of Friday had gone already. Time was flying. ‘I want to be back Sunday morning at the latest. Preferably Saturday so I can make it up to Center Parcs for our last night there.’
‘Flying back with or without Zoë?’
‘Give me a chance, mate. I haven’t even set eyes on her yet.’
Chapter 28
By half-past twelve, the procession of ponies being led out to horseboxes had dwindled. Twenty minutes later, Jon heard the sound of a large engine revving. The horse transporter appeared at the retail park’s entrance and Jon immediately started his car.
The transporter turned right, heading away from Clifden and along the N59 towards Galway. It reached the outskirts of the city almost an hour and a half later, signalled left and turned into a large industrial park. Jon noted the name: Menlo Estate. The transporter passed by numerous premises before halting at an anonymous-looking building at the far end. The metal gates were swung open by an overweight man with a bald head.
Jon came to a stop and began to fiddle with his phone, eyes on the lorry as it swung round and started to reverse towards a head-high sheet-metal gate topped with barbed wire. Jon noted the small sign just below the roof: DA Services. The same, he thought, as that little unit on the industrial park in Clifden.
The bald-headed man was now opening the side gate and, as he pulled it back, Jon glimpsed the metal screens forming corridors into a covered area. Numerous dents – none much more than knee-high – had disfigured their surfaces. Hooves and horns, Jon thought, realising he was looking at a lairage: the area where animals were held before being prodded forward into the slaughterhouse itself.
The driver of the transporter had climbed out of his vehicle and was undoing the catches at its rear. I don’t need to see this, Jon thought, putting his car in gear and swinging it round. The main road had just come into view when his phone started to ring. Jon glanced at the little screen. Nick Hutcher, the RSPCA man.
‘Nick, hi there,’ Jon said, pulling onto the gravel verge.
‘Hello. Are you able to talk?’
‘Yup.’
‘Good. I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, so can’t stay long.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’ve been in contact with the guy out in Spain who breeds Alanos.’
Jon slid his hand down the outside of the steering wheel, feeling the stitches in the material catching against his palm. ‘Anything?’
‘Yes. He had two dogs stolen from his farm last year. All the animals are microchipped and so I had the carcass up in Manchester scanned – it’s the female he lost, AH23.’
‘Nice name.’
Hutcher grunted. ‘I asked him about that. Stands for Alano Hembra – female Alano, number 23. Now, he’s had various purchase enquiries from overseas, but he only sells to local farmers for obvious reasons. I asked him if he kept a record of these enquiries and he does. Two from Finland, a few from Russia and America, one from Saudi Arabia. But these were all for single males. Only two enquiries have been for a breeding pair. One from Italy and one from – wait for it – ’
‘Ireland.’
‘Correct.’
Jon clenched a fist. The evidence against de Avila was mounting up. ‘What was the enquiry – letter, email, phone call?’
‘Phone call. Young-sounding bloke, said he was called Mickey.’
‘Right,’ Jon scoffed. ‘And he wanted the dogs for?’
‘His collection. Contera told him Alanos can’t be kept with other dogs. The bloke said he’d keep them in a secure run, at which point Contera informed him Alanos aren’t suited to being confined, either – and politely refused his request. The bloke said money was no object. Contera has had silly amounts offered by Russians and he let the Irishman know he’s not restoring the breed for financial gain. Less than a month later, two animals vanish. It was a professional job – alarm systems were disabled. Bolt cutters were used to gain access to the kennels.’
‘Seems this Mickey doesn’t like being told he can’t have something.’
‘Looks that way. And that still leaves AV08 unaccounted for.’
‘What?’
‘Alano Varón. Male dog, number eight.’
‘Well, I’m also unearthing some interesting stuff about de Avila.’ He glanced in his rear-view mirror. The roof of the abattoir was just visible. ‘Don’t suppose you know much about horses and ponies?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Unwanted ones,’ he replied. ‘What do horse- and pony-trekking places do when their animals get past it? Is there any kind of system?’
‘It’s illegal to dispose of any large animal yourself. Different councils have different rules for dead pets. Of course, in the old days, it would be the knacker’s yard for horses, donkeys and ponies. In fact…bloody hell…’
‘What?’
‘Well, it was largely an Irish thing; the collection and disposal of unwanted horses.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ve got to dash. Oh, and I called my contact in Newcastle back. Not much more on the Irish kennels. His mate didn’t think the name was Darragh, though. Thought there was a ‘v’ in it somewhere, almost like devil. Not sure if he’s just pulling my chain with that, to be honest.’
Jon was back in Clifden by three o’clock. He swung into Aldi, grabbed a sandwich and drink from the chiller then wolfed them down in his car. Still nothing on the pay-as-you-go mobile. This was getting annoying.
He continued north out of town on the Letterfrack road. After a few minutes he saw a large lake on his left, spiky reeds clustered at the edge of the dark water. The right turn appeared soon after. A people carrier was parked up a hundred metres ahead next to an old beige Honda. A couple of dark-haired young men were standing on the grass verge smoking.
Jon pulled over and lowered his passenger window. ‘Is Golden Fields Farm near here?’
‘The farm?’ The man’s accent was heavy. Eastern European, Jon guessed. ‘Is here. This is farm.’ He glanced over his shoulder.
Jon realised there was a gap in the row of conifers that formed an impenetrable screen at the side of the road. It was an entrance, leading to some large buildings set back in the surrounding fields.
At that moment the driver’s door of the people carrier opened. A ginger-haired man wearing combat trousers and a faded red sweatshirt got out. Peeling white letters across the sweatshirt’s front spelled Golden Fields. He approached Jon’s car and spoke with exaggerated slowness. ‘Are you here for work?’ He pointed at the side of the road. ‘Park it there and I’ll take you along.’
Jon assessed the situation. May as well go along with this, he thought. As he reversed in behind the people carrier, more men began climbing out of it, some in tracksuits, some in jeans and T-shirts. He wandered over and joined the group.
‘OK.’ The man in combat trousers announced. ‘I’ll take you to the front office. Watch for lorries, they never pay attention to this.’ He slapped a hand on a circular sign to the side of the entrance. The words read, Dead Slow.
‘Patrick, how are you?’
The young Garda officer stopped in his tracks, mobile phone at his ear. ‘Mr de Avila, hello.’
‘Can you talk, Patrick?’
He glanced across the car park at the station, turned round and returned to his vehicle. Once back inside, he hunched forward, the fingers of his free hand picking nervously at the edge of his seat. ‘Go ahead, Mr de Avila.’
‘We have a problem, Patrick. The British policeman whose details you so kindly gave to Darragh.’
The officer closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s back in Clifden.’
‘He is?’
‘Judging from the posters all round town, yes.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You do now.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want him here.’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘He’s causing my f
amily inconvenience, that’s what.’
‘Has he assaulted anyone else? Something we can actually use?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not sure what can be done, Mr de Avila. Not if Conor Barry is unwilling to press charges. I mean, if he’s only –’
‘The night he paid a visit to our nightclub, he stole something.’
‘Really? He stole something? Well that changes everything. I’ll come round right now. You just need to file a report – ’
‘I will file no report. He stole a pair of security tapes. The footage on one of those tapes could be very damaging to us.’
‘With respect, Mr de Avila, it’s probably for the best I don’t know what that footage – ’
‘I want you to get the tapes back from him and instruct this man to go home, back to Britain.’
Patrick felt a dribble of sweat begin to make its way down the inside of his arm. He rubbed agitatedly at his shirt. ‘But Mr de Avila, if I approach him, he’ll know I have a connection to you – ’
‘The footage on those tapes includes you.’
‘Me?’
‘Calling in at the office to collect your cash from Darragh.’
‘You filmed…’ Patrick looked nervously towards the police station. ‘Oh Jesus.’
‘We’re in the same boat here, Patrick. Now, the longer he stays, the greater the risk he’s exposed to.’
‘Risk? What will you do?’
‘Nothing, if he returns those tapes and goes home. I can keep my head, Patrick. There’s no need to worry about me.’
A short silence. ‘Where’s Devlan? I’ve not seen him or Sean for a while.’
‘They’ll be back very soon. And then things will change.’
‘He’s police, Mr de Avila. If anything happens to him – ’
‘Then retrieve those tapes and ensure he returns to Britain where he’ll be safe and sound. Make sure he’s gone by Saturday. I’ve guests arriving at the farm and if he’s still making a nuisance of himself by then, I won’t be responsible for reining in Devlan.’
‘Mr de Avila, I can’t guarantee he’ll be gone. As I said, how can I raise it with him – ’
‘Are you enjoying that extension on your house? Does little Roisin like playing in her nursery there?’
The officer bowed his head. ‘Mr de Avila, I can pass you information. Be your eyes and ears in this place. But I’ve no influence further than that – ’
‘Don’t annoy me now, Patrick.’
‘Mr de Avila, please. You know I always do what I can...’ He paused. ‘Mr de Avila? Are you there? Hello?’
He slowly lowered the phone to his lap. His hands started to shake violently as the spectre of his dead uncle rose up in his head. Seamus Coffey. A sergeant when Patrick had joined the Guards. It was Seamus who’d taken Patrick aside the night he was filing a drink-driving charge against Devlan. Quietly, he’d advised Patrick to forget about it. The envelope of cash that had turned up shortly after from Gerrard de Avila was a surprise – and one that came in useful. Then Gerrard requested something else; just a criminal records check for a businessman in Galway. Patrick had passed the information on. More cash arrived: more requests followed.
It was the death of Seamus that first gave Patrick an inkling of how perilous his own situation was. Seamus liked to sink a few drinks when he was off duty. More and more, before he died, he liked to finish off the night sinking them in Darragh’s. Patrick had heard the rumours about how his uncle never seemed to hand any cash over the bar. He’d also heard that, sometimes, Seamus even drank in the back office with Gerrard de Avila himself.
Then the accident had occurred. True, Seamus lived alone. True, patrol cars sometimes had to drive him home when he was too drunk to walk. Leaving the gas rings on one night was hardly a surprise. Then waking up, full of a hangover, and turning on his bedside light…
Oh God, Patrick thought. What have I got myself into?
Chapter 29
As they walked along the driveway’s verge, a lorry trundled past them, exhaust fumes mingling with the pungent, meaty aroma emanating from the factory itself. Like a packet of beef and onion-flavour crisps, Jon thought. One that’s been left out for too long in the sun.
The lorry came to a halt alongside a cabin. The barrier lifted and it continued into a courtyard ringed by a combination of old and new buildings.
‘Weighbridge,’ the ginger-haired man announced, nodding to the smooth slab of concrete set into the driveway alongside the cabin. ‘Every vehicle gets recorded going in and out. By the way, my name’s Denis.’
Jon looked at him. Siobhain had said Denis was back in Clifden: this wasn’t the man who’d been driving the van in Manchester. Was there some kind of mix-up?‘What was the farmhouse,’ Denis stated, pointing to the old stone cottage to their right. ‘Now the reception and farm manager’s office. You go there to pick up your wages.’
They rounded the corner and Jon could see the lorry was now backing towards a bay at the front of the modern building. A couple of fork-lift trucks were waiting, roof lights flashing.
‘This here’s your raw materials store.’ The man led them to what appeared to be an old barn flanking one side of the courtyard. Its open design gave them a clear view of the bags and sacks piled inside.
‘Flexible intermediate bulk containers – or big bags as we call them. Full of stuff like rolled peas and corn, alfalfa pellets, sunflower seeds.’ He gestured to the nearest one. ‘Fork-lifts can hook them up by the loops on the sides.’
Identical, Jon thought, to the bags builders deliver sand and the like in.
The ginger-haired man walked over to another section and rested a hand on a paper sack. ‘These – fifteen-kilogrammers – have things like your shrimp meal, fish meal, meat and bone meal, vitamin and mineral powder. Right, any questions?’
Most of the potential employees stared back at their guide with blank faces. Jon wondered how much of the speech they understood.
‘Good,’ Denis said. ‘Any of you drive a fork-lift?’
A few hands went up.
‘Better money,’ he stated, ‘if you can. Right, I’ll take you over the main facility itself. It’s where everything gets mixed together and cooked. Like baking a huge fucking cake, so it is.’
He led them to where the lorry had backed into position. The driver was unlatching the rear doors. ‘Just in time,’ Denis said. ‘Follow me up these steps, mind you keep back from the edge.’
They climbed up to a walkway that curved round the rim of a conical stainless-steel vat. The top was about three metres in diameter. Placing his hands on the railings, Jon was able to peer down into it. In the gore-spattered opening at the bottom were four layers of fierce-looking blades. The smell rising up reminded Jon of when, during a walk near Hathersage, he’d almost stepped on a sheep’s corpse crawling with maggots.
‘This is the macerator,’ Denis announced. ‘Think of it as a giant food blender, but with carbon-steel blades that cost a fucking fortune. All the soft crap from an abattoir? The stuff you can’t sell to people – intestines, offal, eyes, brains, bollocks – it ends up in Dolavs: those things.’ He pointed to the large plastic container balanced on the stumpy tines of a fork-lift. The vehicle was backing slowly away from the lorry. ‘Into the macerator it goes and then we switch it on. But what do we always do before turning a food blender on?’
The man driving the fork-lift yelled out. ‘Put the fucking lid on!’
‘Good man, Olav. Put the fucking lid on.’ He gestured to the circular piece of metal suspended by chains above their heads. ‘Otherwise, this place ends up coated in the worst smelling layer of shit you can possibly imagine. Think scraping up a mud pie made by Satan himself. Right, let’s move before he tips out.’
They proceeded down the other set of steps into the building.
‘Right lads, two ways in,’ Denis pointed. ‘Big doorway for the fork-lifts, small doorway for people. Use the big doorway and you’ll get mown down sooner
or later. Once we’re inside, stick to between the yellow lines, clear?’
He waited for a series of nods then swept aside some hanging plastic strips. One by one, they filed in behind him. Jon found himself in a large airless building with an incredibly intricate system of tubes hanging from the ceiling about twenty feet above. Punctuating the erratic pattern were rows of fluorescent strip lights. The temperature was uncomfortably hot and it only seemed to magnify the unpleasant smell he’d noticed drifting across the fields.
Raising his voice over the loud hum of machinery, Denis continued. ‘OK, so we’ve got all the ingredients for whatever’s being made.’ He led them to a perspex screen. Behind it, three long nozzles stuck out from the side of a machine. ‘The dies on the end of the nozzles decides the shape of biscuit produced. Today we’re doing dog-bone shapes, as you can see. But it could be little fish shapes if it’s cat food – hearts, clovers, circles, swastikas, if you wanted them. Dogs, they like stuff which honks a bit. Like a bone that’s been buried for a while. That’s what it is today, if you can smell it.’
Smell it? Jon thought. It’s been making me want to retch for the entire bloody tour.
‘Once they’re coated, the conveyor whips the biscuits off to the dryer.’
They all walked towards a vibrating box that, Jon guessed, was the width of his house. Metal ladders and walkways encased it. As they got closer, Jon saw the ladders led down as well as up.
‘When this facility was built,’ Denis stated, ‘we couldn’t get planning permission to go higher than ten metres. But this dryer has six decks; first two are above ground, the other four, below. Follow me.’
Their footsteps began to clang as they trooped along the grid forming the walkway to the first set of steps. Now within touching distance of the dryer itself, Jon could feel the heat coming off the sheet-metal casing. He looked between his feet and saw the huge piece of equipment was sunk into a gigantic concrete pit.
‘As you can see,’ Denis called up, already on the walkway below. ‘Dust is the main problem we have.’ He ran a hand along the railing and held up orange-coloured fingers. ‘The machine breathes the stuff out. It clogs up the ventilation system, collects in the grips of your work boots, gets fucking everywhere, so it does. As we get lower, you’ll see there’s also the problem of condensation – moisture dripping down.’