by Chris Simms
Next he started removing the T-shirts. He spotted a mobile phone, a basic model by the look of it. After turning it on, he found his way into the recent calls folder. None made and only two received. First was Jon’s mobile, second was anonymous, received yesterday, early evening. He put it next to the bear.
Probing deeper, his fingers nudged something hard. He removed the Asp and glanced nervously at the closed door. Next he found the forearm and shin protectors, both carrying the stamp of Greater Manchester Police A glance in the washbag revealed the slim can of pepper spray.
He got to the bottom, where a few slightly crumpled posters lay. After reading the text, he pulled his mobile out and called the number at the base of the poster, eyes on the handset next to the bear. A few seconds later, it started to ring. Rick hung up, tapping the top of his handset slowly against his chin. Christ, Jon, where are you?
He looked at his watch. Four fifteen. The evening flight to Manchester leaves at seven fifty. If Jon’s name hasn’t appeared on that plane’s passenger list by seven, he thought, I’m going to have to call Parks.
Brendan Molloy’s footsteps echoed softly as he strode down the long, empty corridor. On reaching a door near its end, the Sinn Féin official stopped. Flexing his shoulder once, he knocked.
‘Come in.’
He opened the door and entered a large office. On the far wall was a painting of Eamon de Valera. Next to it was a photo of Bobby Sands, the leader of the 1981 IRA hunger strike in Her Majesty’s Maze prison, Belfast. The man had starved to death shortly after being elected as a member of the UK’s parliament.
Standing in the corner before a filing cabinet was a silver-haired man in a tailored shirt, the sleeves of which were untidily rolled up. He glanced over. ‘Anything, Brendan?’
‘Not so far, Rory. Not for want of trying.’
The man shoved the drawer shut, making the entire cabinet wobble. He locked it, turned to the ten-foot-high window and stared down at the manicured lawns to either side of the wide road leading up to the front of Stormont. ‘Shit.’
‘The touts we have in the Continuity IRA and INLA have been pulled in. No one has a clue.’
The other man smoothed his tie. ‘Someone fucking knows who killed that soldier.’
Brendan nodded. ‘Something else has come up.’
Sinking into the leather armchair, Rory laid a palm on his desk. ‘I’m guessing it’s not good news, either.’ He nodded at the chair opposite.
Brendan sat down and crossed his legs. ‘I got a call earlier about a situation in Clifden.’
The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow. ‘Clifden?’
‘Connemara.’
The older man looked bemused.
‘I know, I know,’ Brendan replied. ‘It’s a way away. But this could prove a worry. There’s a policeman from Britain out there. From a couple of checks I’ve made, it would appear he’s acting entirely alone. He’s ruffling the feathers of the de Avila family.’
‘Who?’
The man waved a hand. ‘Bunch of culchies, but they run things down there.’
‘Connemara? What’s to run? Is it not only bogs and mountains?’
‘And holiday homes. They own a fair number. Plus an abattoir outside Galway…’ He clicked his fingers. ‘You know the pet-food factory Francis Collins owned?’
The other man shook his head.
‘Well, remember after Francis was killed, we had to sort out his affairs? The operation he had cleaning red diesel and selling it in Northern Ireland – Pat took that on, with a percentage going to Francis’s widow. Same thing with his properties in Belfast and Derry – McCague bought them. Gerrard de Avila offered to buy the pet-food factory, saved it from just closing down. I forget what he paid for the machinery, but the cash was appreciated by Francis’s widow.’
‘No, I wasn’t aware. So he owns a few businesses.’
Brendan cleared his throat. ‘What they really are is dog men, Rory. Have you heard of Clochán kennels?’
The man shook his head.
‘It’s very well regarded in dog-fighting circles. They breed a lot of animals and also host events at venues they own. Popular with some of our lot and unionist crews alike. It’s regarded as a neutral venue, where they can all go for a bit of sport.’
‘You mean betting money on pit bulls?’
‘Mainly that breed.’
‘Jesus Christ, this is exactly the kind of shit we should be nowhere near.’
The other man’s eyes slid briefly to the side. ‘My contact says the de Avilas are fast losing patience with this Brit. He’s worried we could end up with another body.’
Rory sat up. ‘Hang on. Are these fuckwit de Avilas with the party?’
‘No, they’ve always kept well out of politics. No involvement. But that hardly matters, does it? An English policeman murdered while on holiday in Southern Ireland? It’ll be another gift for those fuckers down the corridor.’
The silver-haired man looked up, as if searching for cracks appearing in the plaster high above his head. ‘Who is this idiot policeman?’
‘He’s called Jon Spicer. A detective inspector with Manchester police. He’s gone to Clifden searching for some sort of a relative, convinced she’s been working for the de Avila family. They own a nightclub in the town.’
‘Has she?’
Brendan hunched a shoulder. ‘I don’t know. But this policeman won’t give up.’
‘Where are you getting this information from?’
‘A man called Sean Doyle. Used to box for the Holy Trinity Club in Belfast. Was showing great promise until they realised something’s up with his brain. Blackouts in the ring.’
‘Is he someone we can trust?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he with the party?’
‘Yes – but he’s not been about. A few years back, he got in with the de Avilas because he loves dogs. Knows a thing or two about getting the animals fighting fit. When he moved down there and started working for the family, I kept him on the payroll – he’s a useful guy to have around. Did a lot of good jobs for us in Belfast.’
‘And you’re sure he can be trusted?’
‘Oh, there’s no doubt about that.’
Chapter 42
The sound of trickling water began to register. Jon lay still, listening to the droplets fall, trying to gauge where he was. Still at the pony auction place? He could vaguely recall getting over to the tap in the wall and leaning forward to hold his head under the ice-cold flow. Did I pass out? Is that the noise I can hear?
A voice spoke quietly. ‘Just call for an ambulance, Kieron. The man’s been unconscious too long. He could have bleeding on the brain, anything.’
Jon felt something warm dabbing at the side of his head. I’m lying on my back, he thought. Somewhere soft, not concrete. A bed.
A male voice. ‘He was able to speak when we brought him in. He said no ambulance, no police.’
‘He was practically unconscious in his car, Nial! I’m not going to take the instructions of someone who’s half-concussed. Kieron, give me your phone! If you won’t call for help, I will.’
With an effort, Jon licked his lips and the talking immediately stopped. He opened his right eye to see three blurred forms looking down at him. Kieron, Eileen and another man. Of course, he thought, I made it to Malachy’s. He tried to say hello, but all that emerged from his mouth was a rough croak.
Kieron waved a hand, his fingers blurring and multiplying in the air. Jon closed his eyes again. ‘Would you give him a drink, Mum? He’s trying to speak!’
‘I’ll wet some cotton wool.’ He heard the scrape of a glass, and moments later, felt cold water dripping between his parted lips. He washed it around the inside of his mouth and swallowed. Oh my God, that was good. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered. ‘Think I could drink a jug of that.’
Forcing his good eye open, he saw the older man leaning through the doorway. ‘Malachy! He’s awake!’
Like bomb-bursts in his
head, the words made him wince.
‘Sssshhhh!’ Eileen whispered. ‘Keep your voice down. How are you feeling, Jon?’
He blinked. ‘Big, big headache. Probably will get worse when I sit up.’
The shuffle of footsteps as Malachy appeared. ‘Oh, he’s back in the land of the living. You poor boy.’ Jon shifted his head slightly. There were tears in the old man’s eyes. ‘We thought we’d lost you there.’ He got to the side of the bed and placed a hand over Jon’s.
Jon smiled as best he could, feeling the syrupy urge to sleep closing back over him. He was vaguely aware of his grandfather holding a bowl towards Eileen.
‘Here – give him some of the carrageen for his strength.’
She scowled. ‘He wants tea, Dad, not that stuff.’
Jon tried to lift himself up a little and felt the surge of blood behind his swollen eye. ‘No – I’m starving, I’ll eat it.’
His aunt looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure?’
‘He just said,’ Malachy cut in. ‘Feed the boy.’
Lying back, Jon nodded.
Eileen’s voice again. ‘Open up, then.’ A blob of something that had the temperature and texture of blancmange was put in his mouth. ‘He makes it from the seaweed. It is packed with goodness, though.’
He heard Malachy pipe up. ‘You eat that, Joseph. It will do you a world of good, so.’
‘It’s Jon, Dad, remember?’ Eileen stated. ‘Not Joseph.’
A slight delay before Malachy spoke again. ‘You take it fine and easy.’
Jon broke the cold lump up with his tongue. It tasted both milky and salty. ‘Nice.’
Pleasure suffused Malachy’s voice. ‘Feed him the rest, Eileen and then let the boy sleep some more.’
Devlan thrust his hips harder, repeating the movement, increasing the speed of it so Hazel’s head was driven further into the pillows bunched at the top of the bed.
All the time, he stared at the wall, visualising the peeler from Manchester. The man, cowering in the corner of the big shed out at the pet-food factory. He imagined Cuchullain’s chain wrapped round his hand, the links of it digging into his skin as the animal strained at the other end of it, muscles in its huge neck quivering. And he wouldn’t bark. Not when his prey was so close. And it would be his silence that would be the thing that terrified the peeler most. The man would be shrieking for mercy as he finally released the clip on Cuchullain’s collar.
Devlan shuddered, eyelids lowering. He let his weight go forward onto Hazel’s back and rested there for a few seconds. When he straightened up, her face was still buried in the pillows. He reached down and patted her head. ‘I needed that.’
She made a noise of agreement and he sat back on his heels, reaching for the corner of the duvet to wipe himself clean. She fell onto her side, hair still covering her face. He slapped her thigh. ‘Stir yourself. Dad’ll want some food when he wakes up.’
‘Fuck’s sake, I’ve not even slept yet.’
‘Not my problem.’ He climbed off the bed and put his boxer shorts and jeans back on. Then he slipped out the door, crossing an oak-floored landing to descend a few steps into a living area. A giant wood-burning stove was at its centre. Behind the cylindrical glass of its mid-section, flames rose towards a metal flue that stretched a good twenty feet to a wooden ceiling.
Seated on the leather chairs surrounding the fire were Sean Doyle, Conor Barry and the third man from the pony auction car park. Darragh was sitting at a computer in the corner, a couple of open files next to the keyboard.
‘Did you want to bang her any harder?’ Conor asked with a grin. ‘Sounded like you were trying to drill her through the wall in there.’
Pulling a T-shirt over his head, Devlan walked to the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. Incorporated into its centre was a wine rack, bottles of red filling it. ‘I thought you’d enjoy listening. Something for your wank-bank, eh, Conor?’ His eyes moved to the sliding doors that led out on to a wide balcony. Below it, the grey sea was pinched with little waves. On the other side of Clifden bay, pinpricks of light winked along the shoreline. He sat down on the bar stool in the corner, lit a cigarette and turned to the group. ‘So boys, have you got your story straight? I’m guessing he’ll be awake soon.’
The large man looked nervously to Sean, who crossed his arms and said nothing.
‘It wasn’t my decision,’ Conor protested. ‘It was his.’ He stared at Sean, who just shook his head. ‘What?’ Conor demanded. ‘We could have got him into the – ’
‘Who? Me and Liam?’ Sean retorted. ‘Way I remember it, you were busy squealing at us to get the fucker off you.’
‘Fuck you, it was me that – ’
‘What’s all this bitching about?’
Heads turned.
Gerrard de Avila was standing in boxer shorts and a crumpled T-shirt at the top of the short flight of steps. Looking all of his sixty-seven years, he made his way slowly down.
Devlan lifted a pot of tea from the counter at his side. ‘A cup of scaldy, Da? The boys have something to tell you.’
The old man reached the bottom step and crossed to the breakfast bar. Perching on a stool alongside his son’s, he rested a meaty forearm on the granite surface and tapped a finger. ‘Where’s the girl? Is there no food?’
Devlan looked towards the landing. ‘Hazel! Come on!’
Gerrard pointed to the teapot and Devlan filled a cup. Rubbing at an eye, the old man added a couple of sugars, splashed in milk from a plastic carton, then turned to the three men by the wood burner. ‘So, where have you taken him?’
Conor’s and Liam’s eyes went to Sean who uncrossed his arms. ‘We didn’t get him, Gerrard. A man who was there called the Guards.’
Gerrard lowered his mug of tea. ‘What?’
Sean kept his hands flat on his thighs. ‘We’d got him to the ground, about twenty feet from the – ’
‘Ten,’ Conor interrupted.
Sean head came round. ‘You want to have one with me?’
Conor stared back.
‘Come on then,’ Sean continued, readying himself to stand. ‘I’ll break your fucking face.’
Wearily, Gerrard lifted a hand. ‘Enough! Liam, what happened?’
The large man licked his lips. ‘We had him, so we did. At the pony auction place. But this man showed up with a phone in his hand. He said he’d called already – and the cop shop’s practically next door.’
‘Who was he?’ Gerrard rumbled.
‘Frank Ryan,’ Conor replied. ‘Owns that kitchen workshop there.’
Gerrard exchanged glances with Devlan who gave a knowing nod.
The old man turned back to Liam. ‘Carry on.’
‘The peeler wasn’t that close to the van – we’d have needed to drag him over. I don’t think there was time; we had to get away.’
‘Away and shite,’ Conor muttered.
Gerrard took a long breath in and contemplated the view outside. Devlan slid a small plate towards him. ‘Sean had time to get us a souvenir, though.’
The old man looked down at the piece of flesh.
Devlan grinned. ‘When Queenie ripped into his dog back in Manchester, she tore off its ear with her first bite. That there’s the top of the peeler’s ear. Sean used pliers on him.’
The old man nodded appreciatively as Siobhain came down the steps and walked round to the kitchen side of the breakfast bar. ‘I might have it with my eggs,’ Gerrard said, turning back to the room. ‘So, is he still in Clifden?’
‘He won’t have got far,’ Liam replied. ‘Conor stopped him with a hurley bat to the face. I gave him a couple of cracks with an iron before Sean clattered him. Fucking class punch, it was.’
‘Did the Guards pick him up?’ Gerrard asked.
‘Not according to Patrick,’ Devlan replied.
‘The hospital, then?’
‘No. And he’s not back at that hotel he’s been staying in,’ Sean answered. ‘State he was in,
he has to be close.’
For a moment, the only sound was Siobhain as she rummaged around in the cutlery drawer.
‘Is he still driving the same car?’ Gerrard asked. ‘The silver Ford?’
‘No, Patrick said he’s in a black Peugeot now. One of those little hatchbacks,’ Devlan replied.
Gerrard nodded. ‘Right, Conor, Sean, Liam, I want that Peugeot found. Nip out the front and start making calls there. Hazel, you go and get some air, too. The food can wait.’
The three men began to slowly stand, looking confused. Gerrard stared back at them impassively. ‘I want a wee talk with my sons here.’
Behind the breakfast bar, Siobhain bent forward to replace the frying pan in the bottom drawer. As she did so, she slid her mobile phone from her pocket and placed it in the drawer before pushing it shut. Then she joined the men as they filed towards the front door.
Once it had closed behind them, Devlan leaned back against the wall. ‘You don’t trust Sean any more?’
Gerrard hunched a shoulder. ‘I don’t trust anyone outside us three. And Liam and Denis are our cousins, don’t forget. But someone’s passing information to that English policeman. He knows far too much.’
Darragh looked up momentarily from his paperwork. ‘I agree.’
Gerrard swivelled the plate with the piece of Jon’s ear round. ‘You’ve got Cuchullain?’
Devlan nodded as he got off the stool and walked over to the wood burner. ‘And the peeler’s rucksack.’
‘His rucksack?’ Gerrard said. ‘Have you checked – ’
‘Yes,’ Darragh replied. ‘No cassettes inside.’
Devlan picked it off the floor and unzipped the front pocket. ‘Passport, plane ticket, wallet.’ He flicked the wallet open and held up the photo on the inside cover to his dad. ‘Wife and wee girl. Worth a punch in the drawers, she is.’ He let out a chuckle. ‘The wife, like.’
Darragh shook his head.
‘Where’s the dog?’ Gerrard asked.
‘I moved him to Drimmeen.’
Darragh looked across. ‘The place due to be renovated in the spring?’
Devlan nodded. ‘No fucker lives within a mile of it.’