by Chris Simms
Kieron nodded slowly. ‘A man with his fingers in many pies. That family are a bad lot.’
Sighing heavily, Eileen addressed Jon. ‘If you’ll learn anything from this visit, Jon, it’ll be that we Irish can bear a grudge. For generations they can fester. So as a family eventually has no idea why they dislike another so.’
‘But we know they’re bad,’ Kieron retorted, looking from his mother to Jon.
They, thought Jon uneasily. ‘Go on,’ he prompted.
There was a bang as the front door shut. Malachy’s walking stick thudded along the corridor and, a moment later, he appeared in the doorway. ‘Have they given you something to drink?’ he asked, eyes going to Jon’s glass. ‘Ach, so they have.’ He started across to his corner chair, sheepdog trailing behind. Jon reached down to try and stroke it, but the animal shrank from his fingers. There’s only one person who’s allowed to stroke you, he thought.
Malachy lowered himself into the chair, ‘Now, Jon. Don’t be shy. Help yourself to more when you want.’
‘We were talking about the de Avilas, Grandad,’ Kieron said.
‘Oh, them.’ Malachy’s face soured as he produced the glass from the pocket of his cardigan. ‘A little nip would sit well in there. Well, there’s not much I can do about Gerald now.’
Kieron stepped over and took the glass. ‘Gerrard, Grandad. It’s Gerrard who’s building that house. Gerald died over ten years back.’
‘And the world’s a better place for it,’ Malachy replied, hands now resting on his walking stick.
‘Malachy!’ Eileen admonished.
He brought the stick down with a little bang. ‘And I outlasted the bugger! How’s that, Jon?’ He poked the tip of his tongue from the corner of his mouth. ‘I outlasted him!’
‘Grandad’s talking about Gerald de Avila,’ Kieron said, filling the glass. Jon took a look at the label. Redbreast. A pure pot-still Irish whiskey, twelve years old. Thank God I didn’t get him a bottle of Scotch. ‘Gerald cheated Grandad out of some ponies when they were younger.’
‘He did, so,’ Malachy muttered. ‘Terrible man.’
‘In those days the family were just slaughtermen – when Gerrard took over the business, he moved it to the big place they have near Galway.’
‘An industrial park called the Menlo Estate?’ Jon asked.
‘Yes. It’s where I have to send my sheep for slaughter. So the family is still making money out of ours. Since Gerrard’s been head of the family, they’ve moved into other areas, I hear.’
‘I noticed the name on that digger outside. Convila.’
‘That’s their construction business,’ Kieron nodded. ‘But it’s Darragh who’s really behind it all.’
‘The one I spoke to in the nightclub,’ Jon stated.
Kieron nodded. ‘We were at college together in Clifden. Then he went on to University in Cork where he got all his exams in business studies. He’s the brains in that family – got his brother’s share, too.’
Jon looked up sharply. ‘His brother’s?’
‘Darragh has a twin, called Devlan.’
Jon repeated the word in his head. Devlan. Nick Hutcher’s words came back. His snout in Newcastle thought the Irishman’s name sounded something like ‘devil.’ ‘He’s got a twin? I didn’t realise. What’s he like?’
‘They’re not identical, for a start. Devlan is loopers. I used to play Gaelic football with him for Clifden – until he was banned for life. Waited for a fellow in the club car park once, clubbed him half to death, so he did.’
Jon stared at the other man. ‘Someone from the opposition?’
‘No – our bloody captain! Argument over which position Devlan had been told to play in. But that’s Devlan for you – he’s happy to go for you, but only if your back is turned. Should have been locked up when he did that.’
‘Why wasn’t he?’
‘The other fellow wasn’t for pressing charges.’
Jon’s mind was leaping ahead. Shit, he thought. Why didn’t I see it? Maybe Darragh would lash out at a woman, but it was obvious he wasn’t a truly violent type. The demented shriek from the phone call he’d just received echoed in his head. Jesus Christ, the brother might still be in England. Alice. Holly. He got up.
‘Are you OK?’
He looked at Eileen, saw her concerned expression. I need to speak to Rick. See if he can find out if that ferry booking Sophie unearthed was for a Devlan, not Darragh. ‘Sorry, urgent call I need to make.’ He retrieved his phone from his jacket. ‘Can I use the front room?’
Kieron pulled the kitchen door open. ‘Of course.’
He stepped into the corridor then through to the next room, closing the door behind him as he brought up Alice’s number. ‘Come on,’ he murmured as it began to ring. ‘Alice! It’s me.’
‘Hi. What’s wrong?’
He made an effort to relax. ‘Nothing. Just checking how you guys are. Did you have a good time today?’
‘Yeah, it was nice. Just wandered around, really. Fed the ducks, played hide and seek in the woods. Holly’s been asking after you.’
‘Tell her I’ll be back soon.’
‘Still no word from Zoë, then?’
‘Not directly. Sometimes I think the wheels are beginning to turn – but then I realise I’ve made no progress at all.’ He sat down in the armchair by the sideboard covered in photographs. ‘I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s really here. I’ve been round the entire town handing out posters – no one admits to recognising her. And there’s been nothing from Siobhain. God knows what her agenda really is.’
‘Something’s definitely not right with her.’
Jon reached out and examined a photo in its silver frame. He made sure his voice was casual. ‘How busy is it there?’
‘Fairly quiet, actually. About half the lodges seem empty.’
‘Probably the recession. And the lodge you moved to. It’s booked under Lorimer, not Spicer, isn’t it?’
There was a pause. ‘Yes. Why?’
Jon bent forward to look more closely at the black-and-white image. A christening by the looks of it. From the stiff clothes and rigid expressions, he guessed it was taken some time ago. ‘You know, making sure the precautions we agreed are all in place.’
‘Jon, you’re sounding cagey. What’s going on?’
She reads me like a bloody book, he thought, straightening up. ‘It seems Darragh has a twin brother. It could be that this brother was the one over in England.’
‘A twin?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s back in Ireland now?’
‘I’m not one hundred percent on that.’
‘What? He might still be here, in England?’
In Manchester, Jon thought. Having had to kill his prizefighting dog. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Bloody hell, Jon.’
He raised a hand at the empty room. ‘It’s not anything to panic about. You and Holly will be fine where you are, I’m certain. But if you want me to come home, I’ll get the next flight.’
‘I’d feel a lot happier if you weren’t ringing me from another country.’
‘Right, I’m on my way.’
She sighed. ‘No. I mean…I don’t know. You’re sure we’re safe?’
‘If I wasn’t, I’d already be on a plane back. How could anyone possibly trace you?’
‘You’re the policeman – you tell me.’
He weighed it up. ‘They can’t. It’s fine.’
‘As long as you’re certain about that,’ she said uneasily. ‘What’s next?’
‘I don’t know. Give it a bit longer, I suppose. Something has to happen soon.’
‘You didn’t plan for two brothers.’
‘No, but it doesn’t really change anything. I’ll just be putting the proposition to another person as well.’ Three, actually, he thought. Since it seems like the dad is also part of things. God, what am I getting into here?
‘It’s your decision. You’
re the one with the experience in this sort of thing. But I don’t feel comfortable.’
‘It’ll be OK, honestly. I’ll be home by Sunday night, if not before.’
‘Call me first thing tomorrow, OK?’
‘Will do.’
He hung up, eyes quickly scanning the other photos. Assorted portraits. A family pose on a flowery sofa in what was obviously the photographer’s studio. White teeth and immaculate hair. That’ll be the branch of the family who live in Boston, Jon thought, bringing up Rick’s number. ‘Hi mate, how’s things?’
‘All OK, here. You?’
‘Yeah – still poking around without much to show. One thing, though. It looks like Darragh de Avila has a twin brother called Devlan.’
‘Really?’
‘And he might still be in the Manchester area.’
‘Manchester area?’
‘I have a nasty feeling Darragh was never in England. I think it’s Devlan behind the incident on the golf course.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly – that ferry booking. The one for the foot passenger Sophie found – ’
‘Dublin–Holyhead, second of February?’
‘Yup. See if it was for a Devlan de Avila. Also, it would be great if she can search for him on anything returning to Ireland. Plane or ferry.’
‘She’s not back in until Monday now.’
‘Bollocks, I forgot it’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘I could check.’
‘No – that might look dodgy if Parks found out. I’d prefer you keep well clear.’
‘My contact in the NCA called just now. No good news, I’m afraid. It’s turning out to be a nightmare working out who’s really behind those property developments.’
‘It’s not Darragh de Avila?’
‘He can’t say. They’re all holding companies or registered with subsidiaries which are linked to offshore companies. It’s all been set up very carefully. He said he needs something more if he’s to dig any deeper.’
‘More? Like what?’
‘The name of the family’s accountants would be ideal. Something to give him a way into their arrangements.’
Jon crossed his legs. I don’t like the sound of this.
‘And I just did a quick internet search on that name – Tommy Hammell. I don’t suppose he’s a professional children’s entertainer living in Florida?’
‘For all I know, he is.’
‘Well, that was the website which topped the search results. But a few hits further down was a newspaper story from the Dublin’s Evening Herald. It’s six years old.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Tommy Hammell, aged thirty-seven, convictions from the courts in Dublin for fraud. Con-artist by the looks of it.’
‘And?’
‘He disappeared. Given his background, the police don’t expect him to show up.’
Jon frowned. Why the hell was the guy’s name given to me in connection to the de Avila’s business dealings? What did the letter delivered to the hotel say? Something about the pet-food factory. ‘Is he listed as a missing person?’
‘The Garda were treating his disappearance as suspicious. Money left in his bank accounts, summer holiday booked and paid for, that type of stuff. Last activity on his credit card was to fill his car up with petrol at a station on the N59.’
Jon felt his armpits prickle. The road that connected Clifden to Galway. ‘Let me know what else you find.’
‘You’re persisting with this? What if there’s some connection between Hammell and the de Avilas?’
Jon wiped a hand over his mouth as he thought about his phone call with Siobhain. Strictly small-time, she’d said. Nothing to worry about. She must have known that wasn’t true. ‘Listen – I’ll give it one more day. I can’t just leave Zoë here. Not at the mercy of this bloody family.’
Chapter 32
The lock on the hotel door clicked and Devlan de Avila looked up. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
Sean Doyle paused in the doorway. ‘Walking.’
‘Walking?’
‘You know, exercise? Fresh air? Talking of which…’ He crossed the room and opened the window. ‘This place stinks.’ He turned round and eyed the other man’s socks.
‘Yeah, well, we’ll be home soon. Hazel will put on a wash for me.’
‘You could use some of the stuff I bought. Wash some things in the bath.’
‘I’ve never washed a pair of socks in my life.’ The shopping bag rustled as Devlan’s fingers squeezed the tennis ball inside it. His fingers relaxed. Then he repeated the action again, an intense expression on his face.
Sean looked on uneasily.
Abruptly, Devlan put the bag to one side, sat up and scratched at the stubble on his face. ‘We’re going out.’
‘Yeah?’
Devlan nodded. ‘To do a little job. I spoke to Darragh just now. That English peeler wants a fight, so he does.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s been out to the farm and he turned up at the unit in Clifden – sent word to Darragh that business is suspended.’
Sean slowly lowered himself into a chair.
‘What are you fucking smiling for?’ Devlan growled. ‘You think this is funny?’
‘No. But the guy has some brass neck on him, you have to admit.’
‘You reckon? We’ll see.’ He reached a foot down and shoved it into a trainer.
‘What are you thinking?’
Devlan got his other trainer on and stood. Nodding at Sean, he said, ‘You need to get your throwing arm in.’ He stepped over to the table in the corner. Beer bottles and crumpled cans covered it. He picked up two empty litre bottles of San Miguel.
The questioning expression on Sean’s face was replaced by a troubled look.
Devlan bared his crooked teeth with a smile. ‘We’re going to visit the wife and daughter up at that Center Parcs place. Show them how you do things Belfast-style.’
Sean Doyle sat back and draped his forearms over the chair’s arm rests. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Devlan.’
The other man’s eyes lit up. ‘No man crosses my family like he has.’
‘Your dad himself said to sit tight. When’s our flight? Ten hours’ time? We’ll be back in Clifden soon. Just calm your jets.’
‘Fuck that. We’re going to find which bungalow they’re in, Sean, and we’re going to burn the bastard down.’
‘We’re not.’
‘We fucking are.’ He yanked the liner from the litter bin under the table, spilling rubbish onto the floor. ‘Are you up for it?’ he asked, putting the two empty beer bottles inside.
‘You after killing his family, now?’
‘Not kill them. They’ll get out fine. This is a warning.’
‘This is fucking madness, more like. Listen to yourself.’
‘What?’ Devlan’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You’d take it, would you? What he’s doing, you’d take someone doing that to your family? The bastard made us kill Queenie.’ He raised his hand and wiped spit from his lower lip. ‘You’re happy with that?’
‘You know I’m not. That was a very special dog. The hours I spent training her. But there’ll be a time and place to settle with him.’
‘I’ll do it myself then.’ He grabbed his jacket from the chair in the corner then jabbed the hand holding the bin liner at Sean. The bottles inside clinked as he spoke. ‘Dad’s not around forever, you know that. More and more he’s looking to hand over to Darragh and me. And when he does, I want people who I know will defend the interests of our family like it’s their fucking own. Because that’s how it works. Look out for us and we’ll look out for you.’
The two men stared at each other in silence.
Sean’s upper lip bulged as he ran his tongue across his teeth. ‘You’re going against your dad on this?’
Devlan hesitated a moment. ‘People need to know we don’t fuck around. This guy is making us into idiots.’
‘Your dad will go
ape-shit – with the both of us.’
‘Will he?’ Devlan sat on the end of the bed. He shook his head. ‘He’s old, Sean. He’s not got that same…’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘You know the story when that guy from Dublin tried to cheat Dad out of all that money?’ He grinned. ‘Dad fed that fucker into the macerator, sent him back to Dublin in bags of dog biscuits. No messing!’
Sean inclined his head. ‘True.’
‘It should have all been sorted with this peeler days ago. Dad’s good at the talking, fair play to him. But people will be starting to wonder if that’s all he can do.’
Sean’s heel began to jiggle up and down. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Listen, mate. When Dad starts handing over more stuff to me, I’ll need someone to run the kennels, know what I mean? Take charge, like. Those plans to establish our own, Irish, line of Alano? We can get another bitch from that person in Spain. We can get as many as you need. Start touring the rest of Europe, not just Britain. The Germans, the Dutch, the Finns? Fight all them lot. That’s the direction you can take it. Become a world force, like.’ He nodded at the other man. ‘You. It can be you that does it.’
Sean kept quiet.
‘Come on,’ Devlan urged. ‘What do you say?’
Slowly, the other man’s eyes went to the bag sitting between Devlan’s feet. ‘Petrol bombs? Hardly the style your old man favours, is it?’
Devlan looked down at the bottles. ‘You got a better idea?’
Sean looked off to the side. After a second, he said, ‘Maybe.’
‘What Seany-boy?’ There was a playful note in Devlan’s voice. ‘Spit it out. Come on, fella!’
The other man sighed. ‘We’re just putting the frighteners on them, right?’
‘Yeah, course. That’s all.’
Sean sat forward. ‘That Sergeant in the Guards. The one who started demanding bigger and bigger pay-offs.’
Devlan shrugged. ‘Who?’
‘The one who died? The gas leak in his house?’
‘Seamus Coffey?’
Sean spread his hands in reply. ‘We do that up in Center Parcs. But we leave a window open – let them know what could have happened.’
Devlan de Avila’s lips parted in a smile.