Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  Now perched on the corner of the desk, Darragh turned his head. ‘How many of us knew the when and where of the fight?’

  Gerrard’s gaze stayed lowered. ‘Not many.’

  Hazel held up a bottle of whiskey. ‘Darragh?’

  He shook his head. She looked over to the far corner. ‘Sean?’

  Sean held up a thumb.

  Gerrard’s chin came up, ridges of skin bulging at the back of his neck. He looked at the monitors showing the inside of the club. Some people were still at the tables, drinking and chatting. Others were getting to their feet and heading for the doors. ‘This is making us look weak. People are going to start taking us for arseholes.’ He turned to Darragh. ‘What information do we have on this policeman?’

  Darragh ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Apart from his home address?’

  Gerrard inclined his head. ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘We know his parents live in Sale, on the edge of Manchester. He has a younger sister lives in a flat in Chorlton. But Dad, we need to consider things here.’

  ‘Consider? We’ve been considering enough, son. That’s the problem. The time for considering has passed. I think your brother had the right idea with the gas – we need to start doing the business to this arrogant English cunt.’

  ‘Dad – everything we’ve been working for; it’s all been carefully planned. The business we’ve built, the investments we’ve made – ’

  ‘Like buying all those properties?’ Gerrard scowled. ‘Would you be meaning those things now draining us fucking dry? Aye, I’m glad I took your advice on investing.’

  Darragh’s face reddened. ‘No one could have predicted the way the market went. We’re not the only people caught out.’

  Gerrard waved a hand. ‘I don’t want to hear anything more about it. We should have kept to what we knew. Even Devlan’s plans to breed those Alanos have more potential than your fancy ideas.’

  The phone on the desk started to ring. Gerrard kept his eyes on Darragh as his son picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Patrick? What’s that?’

  The room watched as Darragh’s face slowly drained of colour.

  ‘You’re sure? Here? Coming to Clifden? OK.’ He hung up, eyes staying on the phone.

  ‘Something to share with us, son?’ Gerrard growled.

  ‘He’s here,’ Darragh whispered.

  The old man tilted his head. ‘Who?’

  Darragh swallowed and when he spoke there was a tremor in his voice. ‘Spicer. Patrick said he turned up at the farm looking for Devlan. He just set off from there, driving towards Clifden.’

  A soft clap filled the room as Gerrard brought his palms together. ‘Sean, did you not used to snatch folk off the streets up in Belfast?’

  Sean nodded.

  ‘Get who you need, find this fucker and take him somewhere nice and quiet. Time we found out where this boy is getting his information from. After that, we can all have some fun with him.’

  Darragh straightened up. ‘Dad, hold on. We need to think this through – ’

  ‘I have!’

  ‘You want to try and take him now, in the centre of town? There are Guards everywhere.’

  Gerrard was out of his seat with surprising speed. The flat of his palm cracked against the back of Darragh’s head. The younger man’s glasses flew off and he stumbled forward. ‘The next person to question me will sorely regret it!’

  Darragh reached down for his glasses as Gerrard raised his other hand in Sean’s direction. ‘Why are you still fucking here? Get me that man.’

  As soon as Sean was outside, he slammed the rear doors behind him and started to pace back and forth. Christ, he thought. They’ll kill him. His mind raced forward. A murdered British policeman. It would fuck everything up. Realising he was in view of the security camera, he moved round the corner and reached for his phone. ‘It’s Sean. Yeah, I’m fine. Listen mate, this is really urgent. Have you a number for Molloy? Yeah, it’s trouble. Serious trouble. OK.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘Got it. Catch you later.’ Mouthing the sequence of numbers, he pressed them into his handset. ‘Brendan? It’s Sean Doyle. I know, I know, too long. Yeah, in Clifden still. And you – still with the party, aren’t you? Office in Stormont now? Sounds plush. Can I talk freely? OK – there’s a peeler here, from England. He’s going after the family I work for. The de Avilas, yes. He won’t give up and it’s starting to go fucking haywire. I’ve no problem seeing an English peeler suffer, believe me – especially this cocky fucker. But Gerrard de Avila has just lost it. I mean really lost it. We’re going to end up with a body here. This thing needs bringing under control.’

  Chapter 39

  Jon passed the Garda station for the second time. The forecourt was still practically empty. All out at the farm, he realised, reaching the site where the pony auction had taken place. He turned the Peugeot round and parked.

  Opening the door let in a gust of cold air. Specks of snowflakes were being carried on the breeze. The dark grey cloud layer above seemed to be bulging downward. Jon hooked his rucksack over his shoulder, stepped through the half-open gate on the right and started across concrete still spattered with bits of manure. Most of the industrial units were closed. As he made his way to the far end, the wind caused something to clang softly against the railings in the empty pony stalls.

  There was no vehicle outside DA Services and a heavy padlock secured the door. Damn, Jon thought, feeling tiny spots of cold as snowflakes made contact with the back of his neck. She’s not here. I doubt she ever was. He walked along a couple of units to Frank Ryan Kitchens. Inside, he could see a grey-haired man bent over a table covered with boxes. He knocked on the door and stood back.

  The man approached the door, a screwdriver still in his hand. It opened inwards and he beckoned to Jon. ‘Come in out of the cold.’

  Jon rubbed his hands together and glanced to his left. ‘I was wondering, have you seen anyone at DA Services today?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the English guy that’s been pinning up the posters?’

  ‘Have you seen her? Has she ever been there?’

  ‘No. Not her.’

  ‘But you have seen other people coming and going?’

  He gave a cautious nod.

  ‘Members of the de Avila family?’

  ‘Listen, they’re a bad lot, that crowd. Best left well alone.’

  ‘How often do they load up deliveries from here?’

  ‘I said, they’re best left well alone.’ He retreated a step.

  ‘Once, twice a week?’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve work to do.’

  The man’s too scared to say anything more, Jon thought. Much like the rest of this town. ‘OK, thanks.’

  He set off for where his car was parked, step slowing as he came round the corner of the pony auction office. A white van was parked sideways across the gateway, rear doors open, engine idling. Cautiously, Jon continued forward, looking for any sign of the driver.

  Movement to his left. Jon turned to see two men walking towards him. For a moment he almost laughed, thinking it was a joke. Both had tights pulled down over their faces, features distorted under the tight layer of fabric. One was a shade under six feet, solidly built, nose squashed to the side. The other was much larger and heavily muscled. Beneath the nylon mask, a mop of black hair was pressing down over his forehead. That’s the monster from outside the night club, Jon realised. He was about to say something when he spotted the metal bar in the big guy’s hand.

  Hey up, he thought. These guys aren’t fucking around. He turned towards them and planted his feet a little wider apart. ‘Where’s Devlan?’

  ‘Waiting to see you,’ the shorter one replied. ‘Into the back of the van and we can take you for a wee chat.’

  Glancing quickly at the van’s rear doors, he saw the corner of some plastic sheeting hanging over the footplate. There’s no way they’re getting me in there, he thought. ‘Fuck off. I decide where we meet.’

  ‘In the va
n,’ the man repeated, splitting away from his companion.

  Jon judged the distances. I could run at the right shoulder of the one with the crowbar. He’d have to check his step to try and bring the weapon up. Time enough to land a punch on him. If he goes down, it’s me and the mate, one-on-one. Except my right hand’s fucked.

  They were now less than ten metres away, closing on him in a pincer movement.

  Jon considered the rucksack hanging from his shoulder. No Asp, no pepper spray, no body armour. Nothing of any fucking use at all. And Devlan’s not even here. Time to run. He spun on his heel and sprinted for the small gap between the van’s rear doors and the metal gate.

  ‘Go!’

  The word was barked behind him. Footsteps as they started giving chase. He reached the van’s rear doors and was angling his body to dart through the gap when a blur entered the periphery of his vision. His world lit up and he heard a crashing sound. Staggering back, he realised the noise had been caused by him careering into the metal gate. A figure emerged from the whorls of colour filling his vision. Through the tights stretched across his face, Jon could see the person’s nose was heavily plastered. Conor Barry. In his hand was a wooden stick with a flattened end.

  The nightclub bouncer grinned and his voice seemed to be coming from the other end of a long windy tunnel. ‘Bet you’ve never had a hurley bat wrapped round your head before.’

  The footsteps behind him came to an abrupt halt and an impact flung his right leg from under him. The crowbar, Jon thought, feeling his left leg begin to buckle. He turned, saw a fist from the shorter of the two men flying directly at his face. Boom, his head snapped back. Do not go down. Whatever you do, stay on your feet. He got a hand to the ground and fought to keep his balance. Conor Barry had turned the wooden stick round – he drove the handle end of it at Jon’s chest. Before it could connect, Jon got a hand up and clamped his fingers around the wood. Barry tried to yank it back and Jon used the motion to regain his feet. Spikes of pain tore through his knee as it took his weight. Allowing himself to be carried forward, he pulled hard on the stick, reaching out with his free hand to hook his fingers into the other man’s face. His right leg was smashed from under him again. This time both knees connected with the concrete. Still keeping hold of the stick, he searched for the bouncer’s eyes with his other hand.

  ‘Get the fucker off of me!’

  A crack to the side of his temple. His vision dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colours and a second later his brain registered a heavier impact. The ground? Is that the ground I can feel against my face? I have to get up.

  Legs braced in a boxer’s stance, Sean Doyle watched the peeler topple to his side, face slapping against the shit-covered concrete. Even though the guy’s eyes were rolled back in his head, his arms immediately started moving, palms flattening as he tried to raise himself up. Sean brought his fist back in readiness to drive it into the side of the bloke’s head once again.

  Next to him, Liam swung the crowbar down into the bloke’s ribs and the peeler’s torso shifted a good six inches across the ground.

  ‘Get away from him, you bloody animals!’

  Sean looked over his shoulder. A man was standing about twenty feet behind them, holding up a phone.

  ‘I’ve rung the Guards. Now stop, for the love of Christ, stop!’

  Thank fuck for that, Sean thought, straightening his legs and dropping his fist. He looked at the other two men. ‘Let’s go.’

  Conor Barry’s mouth opened. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard him,’ Sean snapped. ‘He’s already made the call.’

  ‘A minute – that’s all we need to drag him into the back of the van!’ Barry protested, tights covering his face ripped open, jacket missing most of its buttons.

  ‘The Guards are coming!’ the man with the phone shouted.

  Barry’s gaze moved beyond Sean. ‘You’re Frank Ryan, I know you.’

  The man swallowed. ‘And you’re Conor Barry. So please, just leave him be.’

  Sean removed a pair of pliers from his back pocket and lowered a knee, pinning Jon’s head to the ground. He slid one blade behind Jon’s ear.

  ‘Oh, no. No, no – ’ Frank Ryan whispered.

  The peeler tried to raise an arm. Sean pressed it back down, then, with one practised movement, he clamped the pliers on soft flesh. ‘Just like what happened to his dog,’ he announced, ripping the top of Jon’s ear off. He tossed it to Conor. ‘Something for the boss. Now let’s go!’

  As the other two men started round the vehicle, Sean brought his lips to within millimetres of Jon’s wrecked ear. ‘Get out of here,’ he whispered. ‘Get out now if you want to live.’

  He lifted his knee from Jon’s neck and started striding towards the van, bloody pliers thrust in the shop owner’s direction. ‘You saw nothing, Frank. Any different and I’ll be taking your teeth with these.’

  ***

  Jon sucked in a mouthful of air. The sound of the van pulling away was muffled, as if he was lying in the bath, head just beneath the surface. He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was red.

  Something pressed on his shoulder. ‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?’

  Jon coughed, the fire in his ribs intensifying. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘It’s blood. Your ear – it’s dripping down your face into your eyes. Hang on.’

  Soft pressure against his face. ‘There. Try blinking.’

  Jon did as asked. Still no good. ‘There’s a bottle of water in my rucksack.’

  ‘They took it. Wait, there’s a tap nearby.’

  As the footsteps moved off, he touched his face with his fingertips. The skin round his right eye felt like putty. Where the stick connected, Jon realised. I didn’t even have time to duck. Please, God, don’t let me be blind.

  The footsteps came back. ‘Here. See if this helps.’

  Coolness once again.

  ‘Now try.’

  This time his left eye opened a little. He could see snowflakes falling, concrete peppered with bits of manure and hay, the first couple of business units in the background. Fingers appeared close to his face. He refocused to see they were holding a bloodstained handkerchief.

  ‘Here, press it against your ear. The blood’s coming from there.’

  Jon took it. Holding it against the side of his head, he raised himself into a sitting position, waves of nausea rising at the back of his throat. ‘Did you call the police?’

  ‘No – I didn’t have time. You need a hospital.’

  Jon swivelled his good eye to the kitchen-shop owner. ‘Is my ear gone?’

  He nodded. ‘The top part of it, yes.’

  ‘My right eye?’

  ‘Swollen shut. The hospital is only up the road – I’ll call for an ambulance.’

  ‘No. Help me to my feet.’

  ‘Son, you’ve taken a terrible beating. They’ll have a trolley for you.’

  ‘Help me up.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He crouched down and Jon got an arm round his shoulders.

  Inch by inch, he regained his feet, pain snatching at his breath. Head pounding, he looked slowly around at the bright green orbs dropping silently from the sky. It was a sight he was familiar with from his rugby-playing days. Late tackles, unexpected punches thrown from behind, knees to the head at the bottom of a ruck. A wet sponge, that’s what I need. Something to clear my head. ‘Where’s that tap?’

  ‘There – set into the wall by the gate.’

  ‘Help me over, would you?’

  Leaning on the other man, he tried his weight on his right leg. The knee crunched and Jon pressed his chin against his chest, a low moan escaping him.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Let’s just get you an ambulance.’

  Jon thought about the chain of events if that happened. Into A&E, bedside questions from the Guards, word sent back to Manchester. A phone call from DCI Parks ordering him home. That’s not going to happen, he thought. I’m not giving up now. No fucking way. ‘The tap.�
��

  By locking his right knee and dragging the leg behind him, he was able to hobble with Frank Ryan’s support, over to the tap. Leaning against the wall, he waited for his breath to slow. Then he turned the tap on, bent forward and held his head beneath the flow of water. The cascade was as icy as he’d hoped. After a good thirty seconds, he lifted his head back up and blinked. Better, he thought, feeling the trickles streaming down his chest and back. Much better. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out the keys to the hire car.

  ‘You’re driving to the hospital?’ the shop owner asked. ‘Jesus, let me do it.’

  ‘No Frank, I’m fine.’ Holding one hand against the wall, he started hobbling for the gate. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you even know where the hospital is?’

  I’m not going there, Jon thought. ‘I do. You get on – will you be OK?’

  ‘Me? You should be worrying about yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. Don’t report this, Frank, you’ve done enough. No more risks, OK?’

  The man shook his head. ‘You’re not fit to drive.’

  ‘I’ll manage. Thanks for helping me, I owe you.’ He unlocked the car and lowered himself slowly into the driver’s seat. Flexing his knee caused the pain in it to erupt again, sharp needles this time, shooting straight up into his scrotum. Will I even be able to work the pedals? Air escaped from his clenched teeth as he positioned his foot over the accelerator. Christ!

  The engine started and, aware of Frank watching over the wall, he held a hand up. Then he put the car in gear and slowly moved away.

  Chapter 40

  Rick turned from the plate-glass windows of his penthouse apartment, leaving the view across Manchester behind him. He should have called by now, he thought, looking at his watch. What the hell is taking him so long?

  He crossed to the desk in the corner and checked the airport’s website once again. There it was. Flight AE731, landed. Flipping his mobile over in his palm, he tried Jon’s home number. Answer phone. Again. Just like his bloody mobile. Which would be understandable if he was still airborne, but the plane had already touched down.