Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  The drive up to junction 40 of the M6 took them less than ninety minutes.

  ‘There’s your turn-off.’ Devlan nodded at the sign the car’s headlights had picked out. He looked back at the CDs on his lap. ‘Luther Vandross. Barry fucking White. What sort of a prick listens to shite like this? It was a bloke, wasn’t it? Whose car this is?’

  ‘Yeah, a bloke,’ Sean replied, steering down the slip lane.

  ‘Was he a nigger?’

  ‘No, white.’

  Devlan flipped the cases over his shoulder and reached into the glove compartment once again. ‘George Michael? He’s a fucking bum-bambit.’ The CD clattered against the back windscreen. ‘Elton John? No, No! Barbara Streisand. No!’ Both CDs flew into the rear of the vehicle. ‘We’re in a faggot’s car. That’s what this is. I do not fucking believe this.’ He reached up and tore the little air-freshener off the rear-view mirror. ‘Going to have to disinfect ourselves, Sean. Could be all sorts of germs in here. Thank fuck we’re wearing gloves.’ He started eying the interior of the car with disgust.

  Sean glanced across. ‘What if he’s been using it for a bit of car-park shenanigans? Sucking off other fellows right where you sit?’

  Devlan practically levitated from his seat and Sean burst out laughing.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth, will you?’ Devlan screamed. ‘Say any of that stuff again and I will bury a screwdriver in your fucking ear.’

  Sean regarded the other man uneasily, the laughter dying in his throat. ‘OK, mate, OK. Just having a laugh with you.’

  Devlan was now trying to minimise how much of him was in contact with the seat. ‘Not funny. Seriously, it’s not. How much fucking further?’

  A few minutes later they reached a floodlit entrance with barriers across the traffic lanes. Continuing past, they followed the road through the forest. A small side lane appeared on their left and Sean turned down it. A hundred metres later, they spotted a lay-by.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Devlan said.

  He climbed out and removed a canvas B&Q bag from beneath his seat. They set off into the mass of pine trees, picking their way across the needle-covered forest floor until the faint outline of the perimeter fence loomed before them.

  They edged closer, keeping a careful watch for any guests among the dense trees on the other side. Distant laughter and the sound of bicycle bells. A procession of lights flashed past; teenagers racing along a dark woodland trail. Once they had disappeared, Devlan and Sean jogged up to the twelve-foot-high fence, strands of razor wire looped along its top.

  Devlan removed a pair of wire-cutters from the bag. Each snip caused the surrounding fence to reverberate with a sound like giant bangles shaking. Sean prised the flap back and, in seconds, they were through. ‘You think we’ll find their bungalow?’

  ‘We’ll fucking find it,’ Devlan growled in reply. ‘When we get to the main bit, we split up.’

  Forty minutes later, Devlan’s phone started to ring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s here. I can see her.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘By the main lake, next to a kiddies’ play area. The shops and stuff are right behind me. She’s here, with the little girl. They just came out of a restaurant. Where are you?’

  Devlan checked his surroundings. ‘Not sure. There’s a wooden sign with an arrow for the main village up ahead.’

  ‘Now they’re walking away. Could be heading back to their accommodation.’

  Devlan started striding along. ‘Don’t lose them.’

  ‘We’re just putting the frighteners on them, yeah Devlan?’

  ‘Dead on. Just sending a message, like.’ He cut the call, trying to keep his face straight. Can’t be marching along with a big grin, he thought. People might take you for a loony.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Well,’ Malachy slapped his hands against his thighs. ‘It’s time I hit the hay. Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat there?’

  ‘Absolutely stuffed,’ Jon replied, placing both hands on his stomach. He sat back, smiling from the tales he’d heard. The time when Malachy’s father, Phelim, noticed a hare behaving oddly when he was out cutting turf on the family’s bank at the edge of the bog. The animal had repeatedly lowered its head and pointed its ears toward a distant rock. Eventually, Phelim had laid his spade down and followed the animal. In a hollow beneath the giant stone there was a badly decayed corpse. It turned out to be the body of an old man called Mícheál who, the villagers worked out, must have lost his way crossing the bog on his way home from the workhouse in Clifden during a particularly violent storm. To this day, Malachy had stated, the spot was known by the locals as Dead Man’s Grave. As for hares, he added, many refused to eat them, believing the animals had supernatural powers.

  Jon glanced at his watch. Just after ten. His thoughts turned to Clifden and he felt his cheerfulness fade. Time to go back to that club and hand more posters out. Maybe sit at the bar this time and refuse to move until Darragh showed his face. ‘I should be going, too. Eileen, thanks for the food. It was delicious.’

  She batted a hand in his direction. ‘Will you come back for your tea tomorrow?’

  ‘If I haven’t found Zoë, I’d love to.’

  ‘She’ll show up sooner or later, I’m sure,’ Malachy said, struggling to his feet.

  As Jon pulled into Clifden’s town square, he glanced at the dashboard clock. Eleven fifteen. That’s what comes of being too chicken to drive the bog road at night, he thought. An extra forty minutes to come by the coast.

  There was an unusual amount of cars parked about. Must be because of the pony sale, he thought, lifting the batch of Zoë’s missing posters off the passenger seat and examining the vehicle registrations as he walked along the pavement. Many featured letters that marked them out from different counties.

  Looking further up the street, he could see a few figures outside Darragh’s. He paused before the entrance to his hotel, wondering whether to head up to his room and put on the protective gear. Not worth the hassle, he concluded. The bouncer isn’t interested in another clash.

  The girl on duty in the hotel foyer was waving a brown envelope at him. My God, Jon thought, don’t tell me someone’s actually come forward with some information on Zoë’s whereabouts. ‘That something for me?’

  ‘Yes. It was here when I arrived for work.’ Her eyes went momentarily to the posters in his hand. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jon replied. ‘Have you ever seen her?’

  She shook her head then leaned forward. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t think people in this town aren’t grateful about what you’re doing. They are.’

  Jon blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Standing up to that family the way you are. They’ve been a blight on this place too long.’ A male member of staff appeared from the dining room area. Seeing him, she placed the envelope on the counter then reached for his room key. ‘Just be careful. Please.’ With that, she retreated into the rear office.

  Jon watched her go then looked down at the envelope. ‘Jon Spicer’ had been written across the front and he realised the handwriting was familiar. The same methodical style as on the note pushed through the toilet window of Mannion’s Bar. Siobhain again, surely.

  He took the stairs two at a time, opened the door to his room and sat himself down in the corner. Once the little table lamp was on, he held the envelope up and traced the contents with a fingertip. A flexible piece of card. He tore open the envelope’s flap. A photo, but one with a good third of it snipped off.

  Jon examined what was left.

  The shot was of Zoë, standing next to Clifden’s plane-wing monument. She was wearing a black polo top. Though the lettering on the left-hand side of the chest wasn’t fully legible, Jon knew what the word said: Darragh’s. So she has bloody worked there, he thought. Which means all the arseholes in that place have been lying to me. Sunlight made her hair – dyed dark red in the picture - glow. Probably summer tourist season, Jon thought, judging
by the ice creams people in the background were enjoying.

  Turning the photo over, he saw the same childish handwriting on the back.

  Please don’t give up on her now. Siobhain.

  He studied the image once again. She looked happy – and healthy. Wide smile, those prominent incisors standing slightly in front of her other teeth, like two volunteers stepping forward for a task. And there was an arm around her, the person’s hand dangling forward. The fingernails were varnished a plum colour. Same shade as the person’s who’d dropped the note through the toilet window of Mannion’s Bar. Siobhain.

  So Zoë was here, he thought. I don’t know when exactly, but at some point she was here. This proves it. The knowledge gave fresh impetus to his wavering resolve.

  He removed the sheets of paper from the manila file given to him at the pony auction. What sort of a family am I dealing with here? He flicked over the uppermost sheet listing the nightclub’s profit and loss. Below it were photocopies of the printouts about the various property developments. Phoenix Gardens. Emmet Street. Anderson Court. Just figures: no company details, nothing to give an insight into the de Avila’s exact involvement.

  As he went to place them on the table, the sheet on Anderson Court tilted towards the lamp’s soft light. Jon’s hand hung in the air as he looked down. There were fine indentations on the surface. He held the sheet closer to his face. Letters. A piece of paper had been placed on the Anderson Court printout at some point and something had been written on it.

  He reached to the desk behind him and grabbed the pencil off the hotel notepad. By scribbling lightly across the sheet, faint white letters started to appear.

  query €60,000 planning fees with Blackman & May

  Just the one tiny slip up, Jon thought. Rick’s mobile was on answerphone. ‘Sorry mate – I know it’s late. When you get the chance tomorrow, can you ask your contact in the NCA to run a check on a company called Blackman and May? No idea who they are, but I think they’re linked to one of these big property developments. OK? Cheers, speak soon.’

  He jogged back down the stairs, crossed the foyer and stepped onto the street. As he neared the nightclub, he saw Hazel. She was standing next to the ginger-haired man from Golden Fields Farm. The girl spotted him approaching and, biting on the nail of her thumb, whispered something.

  The man from the pet-food factory looked over his shoulder and turned round. Conor Barry stepped out from the doorway onto the pavement, closely followed by a third man. Jon looked him up and down. The bastard is an inch or two taller than me, he thought, and probably a stone or so heavier.

  Jon stepped up to him. ‘So you’re the one who’s been building all the dry-stone walls round these parts.’

  The giant’s face remained blank.

  Right, Jon thought. That joke fell flat. ‘Evening gentlemen. Darragh around?’

  Conor Barry stepped forward, eyes gleaming. ‘Fuck off, you cheeky English prick.’

  A sudden show of bottle, Jon thought. Now you have two others with you. ‘Conor. How’s the nose? It looks sore.’

  The girl suppressed a smile, moving back towards a notice that said, Private Party. For the crowd going to the fight tomorrow, Jon realised. The bouncer murmured something and the ginger-haired man nodded, not taking his eyes off Jon.

  ‘So I take it you won’t be letting me in then?’ Jon asked, cocking his head.

  ‘Come on and try,’ Conor smiled.

  Jon felt a part of his brain suddenly switch on. Go on, the voice in his head urged. Lay the little fucker out. Just smash him in the face, you know it’ll feel so good.

  At the edge of his vision, the girl started edging across the pavement. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand and remembered his promise to Alice: no violence. ‘It’s OK,’ he said to her. ‘I don’t want any more trouble.’ He turned to the three men. ‘I just want to know where Zoë is.’

  They stared back at him in silence.

  ‘Look, I know she was here.’ He held the photo towards them. ‘Tell Darragh to cut the crap.’

  Not one of them moved.

  Jon sighed. ‘You’ve got my mobile number – it’s on all the posters. Tell Darragh I want a word. Tonight.’

  The girl glanced at the line of men and gave a cough. ‘I’ll…I’ll tell him – ’

  ‘Shut up!’ Conor hissed.

  Jon shrugged. ‘There’s no need for this.’

  Conor pointed a finger. ‘Fuck off back to Britain before we send you back there in a box.’

  ‘Really?’ Jon grinned. ‘And how will you do that?’ He stepped closer as a Lexus pulled up alongside them. The door opened and a couple started to get out from its rear.

  The ginger-haired man placed a hand across Conor’s chest and pushed him back a step. ‘Mr Campbell, go straight in.’

  The man’s eyes bounced between Jon and the group before he ushered his female companion forward.

  Jon took in his appearance. Late fifties, but very trim. Hair cropped short and a nasty scar running down the back of his head. The woman he was with looked to be in her early forties and had obviously had a boob job. As the Lexus pulled away, Jon clocked the dealership’s sticker in the rear window. Belfast. Another punter for tomorrow’s fight. He caught the ginger-haired man’s eye. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  His eyebrows dipped in confusion.

  Jon gave a little salute and set off back to the hotel.

  Devlan leaned to the side, the pine tree’s bark rasping against his coat. Down a shallow tree-lined slope was the rear of the lodge where Alice and Holly were staying.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ he whispered.

  Sean was stretched out on his back, gazing up at the pine canopy. Stars twinkled through little gaps in the feathery foliage. ‘When you last asked ten minutes ago, it was almost one.’

  ‘Right. And the last light went off before midnight.’

  ‘And we need to be at the airport check-in by four,’ Sean added wearily.

  ‘Let’s do it. Kitchen area is immediately on the left. I open a window then keep watch while you do the gas, yeah?’

  Sean nodded as Devlan blew into his hands. ‘Fingers are frozen. You?’

  Sean flexed his fingers in and out, his latex gloves making the faintest of squeaks. ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Good. You can do the door lock, then.’ He handed Sean a key ring that held an array of thin, spiky implements.

  They made their way down to the lodge. Identical ones on each side formed a rough semicircle. When they reached the back patio, Devlan listened at the sliding doors. After a minute, he held up a thumb and Sean skirted round the plastic picnic table and chairs to join him. He sank down on to his haunches, worked a length of metal into the keyhole and teased it to the side. Something clicked.

  ‘Bingo,’ he edged the door open a little. They both listened for another minute then Sean reached through, peeled the curtain back and ducked his head fully inside. He looked back out. ‘No carpet,’ he mouthed.

  Devlan gave a nod.

  Sean eased the glass door open another ten inches and slipped through the gap. Devlan followed him in. A living area with an L-shaped sofa filling one corner. A floor-to-ceiling print of a forest on the wall directly opposite, tree trunks rising up out of the skirting board. To their left was the kitchenette; soft light glowing from the cowling above the gas rings. Very kind of you, Devlan thought, gesturing to Sean to stay put.

  Stepping onto a striped rug, Devlan padded silently across the room, pausing to examine the items on a coffee table. A Nintendo DS and a copy of Red. Perched on a cushion at one end of the sofa was a small beanbag dog.

  He stepped lightly across the floorboards to the door leading into the side bedroom. It was ajar but there was no sound of breathing coming from inside. He peeped round and saw the bed was empty. He made sure every window was firmly shut.

  Back in the corridor, he noted the low ceiling dotted with recessed light fittings. This place will fill up in no time. He
was about to wave Sean over to the kitchenette when the bedroom door at the end of the passageway swung open. The little girl stepped out, the hem of her purple nightie swaying slowly as she came to a halt and stared straight at him. He stared back. She blinked, yawned, and, moving like an automaton, shuffled into the bathroom. A trickling sound started.

  How the fuck, Devlan thought, did she not see me? He looked to his sides and realised: his back was pressed to the wall bearing the giant forest print. Dark clothes, he realised. I blended right in.

  A few seconds later, she reappeared, turned right and disappeared back into the dark bedroom. The door closed. He flicked a hand at Sean, who slid round the kitchen counter. The spring in the dial for the oven creaked slightly as he turned the gas on full.

  Smiling to himself, Devlan picked up the little toy dog perched on the sofa cushion, yanked the head off and put both pieces back.

  Out on the patio, Sean inched the door shut.

  Devlan pointed to the corner of the lodge. ‘They’re both in that bedroom.’

  Sean turned, seeing its window and the curtains behind it were closed. ‘So you opened a window in the other bedroom?’ he whispered.

  Devlan was already making for the trees.

  ‘Devlan,’ Sean hissed, following him up the slope. ‘You left a window in the other bedroom open?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Devlan said over his shoulder. ‘A window in the other one open.’

  Chapter 34

  Squinting at the mobile’s glowing screen, Jon saw Alice’s name. Christ, he thought, sitting bolt upright in the bed. It’s three fifteen in the morning. ‘Alice?’

  ‘Jon? Oh, thank God you answered.’

  ‘Alice?’ People were talking excitedly in the background. A car engine revved. Is she outside? ‘Are you OK? Where’s Holly?’

  She was speaking quickly to someone, words too muffled to make out. Suddenly her voice was back in his ear. ‘Jon? Something’s happened…’

  ‘Where is Holly?’