Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  Gerrard’s nostrils widened as he filled his chest. ‘Once we know it’s safe, take him back to Golden Fields. It’s the last place the Guards will think of looking now. We find this person – get the tapes back – then set the dog on him. Once Cuch’ is finished, we chuck what’s left in the macerator.’

  Devlan’s face lit up with delight. ‘Like that shyster who tried to cheat you that time?’

  ‘Hammell,’ Gerrard nodded sombrely. ‘Just like him.’

  Darragh put his pen down and squeezed his temples with the tips of his fingers. Eyes shut, he said, ‘Do you really mean to kill him? An English policeman?’

  Devlan looked over. ‘He’s made us look like cunts for too long, isn’t that right Da?’

  ‘It is. He has to be dealt with, Darragh.’

  Darragh opened his eyes, gaze directed down at his lap. ‘If you’re going to do this,’ he said resignedly, ‘let’s try and make it to our advantage.’

  Gerrard swivelled his stool round. ‘What have you in mind, son?’

  ***

  Rick sat at his desk in the incident room at Longsight and watched the minute hand creep towards twenty-past seven. With a sigh, he called the Border Agency official again. ‘Chris, it’s Rick Saville again. Has he checked in? No? And the flight’s now closed? OK, cheers.’ He pressed red and looked at his phone. ‘Sorry, Jon,’ he sighed. ‘But I don’t know what else to do.’

  He brought up his DCI’s number and listened as her phone began to ring. What a bloody disaster. ‘Hi, boss. It’s DS Saville here, sorry to disturb you so late.’

  ‘That’s all right, Rick. Anything wrong?’

  ‘I’m hoping not, boss. But…but I think there might be. If I’m right, it’s really not good.’

  ‘Is this about DI Spicer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve been in contact about the gas leak up at Center Parcs? He’s yet to return my call.’

  Bloody hell, Rick thought. She’s already heard. ‘Yes. There’ve been other developments.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Jon’s been over in Ireland.’

  ‘I realise.’

  ‘No – I mean he’s gone back. I think he’s there right now.’

  ‘I was under the impression he was in the Lake District.’

  ‘No, he went back to Connemara.’

  ‘Connemara.’

  ‘Yes – he went back to try and locate Zoë, the female who – ’

  ‘I know who she is.’

  Rick swallowed. ‘Of course. I’ve been looking into things this end and the situation is far more grave – I mean, the danger he’s potentially in. Having found out more about this particular family he’s been tangling with, it’s far more grave than we realised.’

  ‘The ones who posed no serious threat, according to assessments from both the NCA and JTAC.’ Her voice had turned hard and cold. ‘That family?’

  ‘Well, those checks, boss, were for links to known paramilitary groups. Which don’t exist – the family has always kept well clear of the Troubles.’

  ‘So what have you managed to discover?’

  ‘Where they’re based, out on Ireland’s west coast, is a town called Clifden. They’ve quietly built an extensive business network. Jon is digging around out there and antagonising the family in the process.’

  ‘I do not believe this.’

  ‘The two men he suspected of being behind the attack on his Boxer dog, Punch – the ones who may be behind the gas leak in the lodge at Center Parcs too – have shown up in Clifden. Jon was about to fly home, but when he saw them, he changed his mind.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘He sent a text to his wife earlier today. We were expecting Jon to be on the evening flight back to Manchester. Check in just closed and he’s not on it.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Jon was returning to Manchester – ’

  ‘Yes, when he heard about what had happened at Center Parcs, he was giving up on his search for Zoë and coming home.’

  ‘And he saw these two men where?’

  ‘At Galway Airport, getting off this morning’s flight from Manchester. The text said he was following them back to Clifden for one last try to resolve the situation.’

  ‘Very delicately put, DS Saville, for how we know Jon likes to operate. You realise he’s out of the MIT? I was his last chance and he’s blown it with me – ’

  ‘With all due respect, boss, I’m now more concerned for his life than his career. He’s not answering his phone and this family, it seems, might have been involved in a several deaths and disappearances over the years.’

  ‘Deaths? According to?’

  ‘A contact who’s been in touch with some colleagues in the Irish police.’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘A con-artist called Tommy Hammell. The owner of a rival abattoir. A couple called Geordan and Fionna Reilly, killed during a hit on a man called Francis Collins who was a member of the IRA’s army council.’

  ‘Christ almighty. How long since you heard from Jon?’

  ‘About twelve hours.’

  ‘Meet me at the office.’

  ‘I’m here already.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be there by eight. Have we any idea of where he’s been staying in this town? Which places he’s been visiting? I need every scrap of information you have.’

  Chapter 43

  The dull throb that pulsed slowly behind his temple finally woke Jon up. He kept his eyes shut, gauging how dark the room was. Fairly bright, he concluded, judging by the glow beyond his eyelids.

  Bracing himself, he opened his good eye. Sunlight was streaming round the edges of the curtains to his left. From beyond the window, he could hear a diesel engine revving, followed by a voice giving instructions. People working on the site across the road, he thought. What time was it?

  He turned his head further, relieved the motion didn’t trigger an explosion of pain in his head. A wardrobe faced him. No sign of a clock there. Carefully, he turned his head in the other direction. A bedside table came into view. On it was a bowl, the handle of a spoon protruding beyond the rim. Next to it was a jug of water, a glass and a bedside clock. Ten to nine. Shit, he thought. It’s the next day. I’ve been asleep for hours.

  He pushed his elbows back to raise himself up. The throbbing behind his eye picked up pace, but was nowhere near as bad as he expected. Looking past the outlines of his feet, he saw his jacket lying across the bottom of the bed. My mobile is in the inner pocket, he remembered. I must get word about what’s going on back to Britain.

  Shuffling into a sitting position, he wondered about his knee. Just feels numb, he thought, turning the bedcovers back. The leg had been strapped tight with bandages. I’m in my boxers. They must have undressed me.

  The sight brought back another memory. Tentatively, he raised a hand to his left ear. More bandaging, these ones encasing the side of his head. God, he thought, they ripped my bloody ear off.

  By leaning forward, he was just able to hook the sleeve of his jacket and drag it up the bed. Sitting back, he took his mobile out. The casing was cracked and the display a blank grey. Pressing the on button caused nothing to happen. The crowbar, he realised, recalling the impact of it against his side. He wanted to groan. And the other phone’s with my luggage in Manchester.

  Peering over the edge of the bed for his rucksack, he realised the men who’d jumped him had taken that, too. My passport, wallet, plane ticket – everything is gone. An echo came to him of one of their voices. The man’s accent wasn’t local, though. It had none of that lilting softness. Harder, snarly. Belfast, that was it. He was from northern Ireland.

  Behind the bowl of the blancmange stuff were several framed photos. More relatives I don’t know. One image was of four girls perched in the undulating dips of a large, smooth rock. They were wearing damp-looking bathing costumes. A thin strip of white sand stretched away behind them to a grass-covered headland. Gorteen Bay, Jon thought, looking closer. And that’s Mum, se
cond on the right. It must be of all of the sisters.

  The bowl of cloudy-white jelly caught his eye. Crystals of partially melted sugar dotted its surface and Jon realised how famished he was. He lifted the bowl and starting spooning lumps of it into his mouth. He raised the glass of water, gulped it down, refilled it and drained it again.

  The handle of the bedroom door creaked and the Border collie’s snout appeared in the crack. The door opened wider and Malachy looked in, eyes widening when he saw Jon sitting there.

  ‘All’s well, dog, all’s well! The boy is awake!’

  Jon nodded back. ‘Morning Malachy, I am.’

  He shuffled in, walking stick clutched in one hand. ‘And how are you feeling?’ he asked, dragging the chair from the corner over and plonking himself down. ‘Any better?’

  ‘Much.’ Jon smiled, glancing down at the empty bowl. ‘I don’t know what’s in that pudding you gave me.’

  ‘The carrageen?’ Malachy replied. ‘Isn’t it wondrous stuff? You would never touch it as a child, but if you want more you will have it and welcome.’ He started reaching for the bowl.

  ‘I’m OK for now, thanks,’ Jon replied, a little confused by the answer. ‘I take it Eileen’s been busy?’ He touched the bandages swathing his ear.

  ‘She has,’ he nodded. ‘I think we emptied O’Dowd’s of all their ice, too. She’s been putting it on your leg and eye.’

  ‘Really?’ Jon replied.

  ‘You don’t remember? You were awake when she was doing it.’

  ‘No,’ Jon replied, thinking the concussion had wiped the memories clean.

  ‘She called in at the chirp of the sparrow to check on you and now she’s out on her rounds. Rest, she said. That eye, though, it looks as full as a tick, so it does.’

  Jon traced a finger over the swollen skin. By tilting his head back, he could see a sliver of the room in front. ‘But it’s still working.’ He angled his head towards his grandad. ‘Malachy, I need to make a phone call or two.’

  He waved a hand. ‘Ach, you’ll have to go to your Aunt Aideen’s for that, you know I don’t have one in the house.’

  Aunt Aideen’s, Jon thought. I don’t have an Aunt Aideen, do I? Oh, unless, he’s mixing me up with that bloke again. The one who’s boat overturned out at sea. ‘Right,’ he replied, placing the glass back on the bedside table. His gaze settled on the photo his mum was in and an idea popped into his head. No, he thought. That’s not fair. You can’t take advantage of him like that. He lifted the photo up anyway. ‘Are these all your daughters?’

  ‘It is, so,’ he answered proudly. ‘Sunning themselves at Gorteen.’

  Jon studied the image. ‘Which one’s Una?’

  ‘There she is,’ he said, voice constricted by bending forward. A finger was pointed at the girl on the end.

  ‘You must miss her.’ Jon looked up.

  ‘I do.’ He sat back, rheumy eyes going unfocused as he stroked his beard. ‘And Mary too.’

  Jon saw sunlight catching in the sparse bristles on the top of his grandfather’s head. He swallowed. Should I do this? No, I shouldn’t. But if I don’t, will I ever learn the truth? Probably not. Mum will never tell me and who knows how long the old boy has left? He looked again at the photo of his mum, one gangly leg skewed to the side, heel jammed into a cleft in the rock. ‘How many years is it since you’ve seen Mary?’

  ‘Mary?’ His eyes grew moist. ‘It’s been too long.’ He reached down and started easing his fingers through the soft fur on his dog’s neck. ‘Too long.’ The dog’s eyes slowly closed.

  Jon thought about his own age. Forty-three. No contact with my grandparents in decades. He shut his eyes too and whispered, ‘I wish she’d come to visit.’

  ‘I know, Joseph. It all happened so long ago, there’s no sense in it, surely.’

  Two words, he thought. I ask two words now and I might just discover the truth. Time seemed to stutter and stall. Do I say them? He kept his head bowed, guilt making the words catch in his throat. ‘What happened?’

  Seconds slid by. He glanced up. Malachy had raised a hand to his mouth and was tapping the side of his forefinger against his lower lip. Jon realised he was trembling ever so slightly. ‘She was such a young girl when we let her go to Manchester. Away from her family. There was blame to be found with us, too.’

  He dropped his hand and gave a little shake of his head. For a moment, Jon thought he wasn’t going to say anything else.

  ‘But the time for blame and anger is over,’ he continued, banging his stick down. ‘As sure as I live, it’s over. Maybe not with the man who made her pregnant, but with our family it is.’

  The man who made her pregnant. Jon looked up, unsure if he’d heard Malachy correctly.

  ‘And that man who stepped forward to marry her? So he wasn’t a Catholic. I didn’t mind. And I think in her heart, Orla didn’t either. Not many would have stood in like he did and been father to another man’s child. He’s a good man and he loves her. We all know that.’

  Jon felt like the room was rushing backwards. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, trying to fight the feeling. The man who made her pregnant. Mum was carrying someone else’s child, that’s what Malachy had said, wasn’t it? She was carrying someone else’s child and another man stepped forward, was prepared to marry her and treat the baby as if it was his own. He breathed in and out, aware of every beat of his heart. ‘This man. The one who married Mary, you mean Alan?’

  ‘Yes – the one who worked on the docks there in Manchester. Alan.’

  My father, Jon thought. Who I thought was my father, but who isn’t at all. He let his head hang forward, the sheer weight of realisation too much. And behind the heaviness, he sensed something else. Something that spun and whirled and twisted with chaotic force. It’s all been a lie. The basis of my life – who I am – it isn’t true.

  Malachy put his hand on Jon’s. ‘It looks like you’re beaten by the sleep again. I shall leave you be.’

  ‘OK,’ Jon whispered.

  ‘Shall I fetch you more of the carrageen? For beside your bed?’

  He shook his head and then heard the scrape of the bowl as his grandfather slid it from the bedside table. ‘There’s more in the fridge when you want it. Now come on dog, away now.’

  Once the door had shut, Jon tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Alan. Are Dave and Ellie also his? They must be; Mum had been married to him a few years by the time they were born. Maybe that’s why there’s such an age gap between me and them. The one who isn’t Alan’s is me. Only me.

  He threw the bed covers aside, the white of the bandaging around his knee stark against the covering of black hair on his legs. I need to get out, he thought. I need some space.

  Darragh placed his phone beside the computer keyboard and looked across at Gerrard. ‘That was Patrick. He’s just come out of a meeting. They’ve been given orders to find Spicer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Every available officer.’

  ‘What?’ The old man sounded alarmed.

  ‘That’s what he said; everything’s on hold until the peeler’s found.’

  Gerrard’s face seemed to fold in on itself. ‘Such concern all of a sudden.’

  ‘He said more officers are being sent from nearby stations,’ Darragh added. ‘Orders from way up the chain, apparently. The English police are suddenly very keen to have him back.’

  ‘I bet they are,’ the old man murmured. ‘So he always was out here on his own private mission. ’

  ‘As we thought.’

  Gerrard looked wistfully at the ocean outside. ‘They had their chance to get him home and they didn’t take it.’

  Devlan shovelled more scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘Cunts.’

  Gerrard looked momentarily irritated. ‘Had that man with the kitchen-fitting business – Ryan is it? Had he rung the Guards?’

  ‘There’s been no report of any incident,’ Darragh replied. ‘The man was bullshitting.’

  ‘Luck
y for him.’ Gerrard brought his hands together to form a misshapen club of flesh. ‘We need to find him first, simple as that. If he’s lifted back to England, he goes home with a load of information about us – including those bloody tapes. And the name of whoever’s been feeding him everything.’

  Darragh nodded. ‘Good thing is, they haven’t the first clue where he is. Patrick said to get ready; they’ll be knocking on all our properties in the area.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Lough Nakilla?’

  ‘Yup. I’ll phone Mum and let her know.’

  ‘Golden Fields?’

  ‘He said that wasn’t on the list he saw.’

  Gerrard’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at Devlan. ‘Buffoons that they are, I knew they wouldn’t think to check back there. OK – get on the phone. I want every man on this. Asking their family, their friends, their fucking priest.’ He clicked a finger. ‘In fact, have the churches checked, too. He’s hiding somewhere. Also bed-and-breakfast places, hotels, all that.’

  Siobhain refilled the teapot and turned to Devlan. ‘Can you give me some money, Dev?’

  He regarded her, a fork full of white pudding inches from his mouth. ‘What for?’

  She looked pointedly at his plate. ‘More bacon, sausage, bread, tea bags. The fridge is near-empty.’

  He pulled a few notes from his pocket and counted them out. ‘Forty-five euro. And get me some more smokes too.’

  ‘OK.’ She crossed the room and lifted her coat from the row of pegs by the front door. ‘I’ll take the Honda.’

  Devlan was sawing at a piece of bacon. ‘The Honda? To get to the shop?’

  ‘It’s a Sunday. I’ll need to find a supermarket that’s open.’

  He grunted in response as she disappeared out the door. Gerrard stared after her. ‘Have her followed.’

  Devlan looked up, jaw motionless, eyebrows arched.

  ‘We know nothing of that girl, other than you’re riding her,’ Gerrard growled. ‘Have the lass followed.’

  ‘Da, she wouldn’t dare breathe a word about us.’

  In the corner, Darragh turned in his seat, head cocked to the side. ‘When you were with her in the sack. Did she have a rag in?’