Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘He’s not part of this,’ Jon continued hesitantly, raising his hands. ‘For God’s sake, he shouldn’t even be here.’

  The leader glanced to Jon. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a sheep farmer. My cousin. Nothing to do with the de Avilas. Or me.’

  The man considered Jon’s response before turning back to Kieron. ‘Stand up.’

  Kieron slowly raised himself to his feet. He was breathing so fast he seemed about to choke.

  ‘Cousin, are you?’

  Kieron managed a single nod, face a deathly white.

  The man took a few steps closer, gun still raised. ‘Name?’

  ‘Kieron.’

  ‘Kieron what?’

  ‘Kieron O’Coinne.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Roundstone.’

  ‘So Kieron O’Coinne from Roundstone, you’ll know never to speak of this.’

  His lips bobbled for an instant. ‘Never.’

  ‘Fuck off out of here.’

  With a helpless glance at Jon, Kieron turned round and vanished into the darkness. Moments later they heard a sloshing sound as his footsteps rapidly receded.

  The leader lifted a little mouthpiece on the wire hanging down the side of his neck. ‘All clear? OK. The noise? A dog. In the back of the van. Open it? You’re joking. Thing sounds fucking huge.’

  He lowered his weapon and held a hand out to Jon. The tips of his fingers flexed a couple of times. ‘On your feet.’

  Feeling sick, Jon raised himself up.

  ‘What’s in the rucksack?’

  Jon realised it was still hanging from his shoulder. ‘Erm…hand luggage, for the airport.’

  ‘Passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The leader turned to the other two men. ‘Get rid of him.’

  Chapter 49

  Jon was marched back to the Peugeot and shoved into the front passenger seat. He stared into the blackness beyond the windscreen. They just executed the entire family, he thought. All three. Just bent down and shot them. And the other gunshots. Where were they coming from? Who else is out there? He glanced fearfully in the direction of the rocky outcrop.

  The driver’s door opened. ‘Keys.’

  Jon pointed. ‘Still in the ignition.’

  The man started the engine, palming the wheel as he pulled onto the single-lane road. As they passed between the two formations of rock, the car’s headlights picked out a young man perched on a ledge to their left. Balanced across his lap was rifle with an enormous telescopic sight.

  The car slowed and the driver partly lowered the window. ‘Thought the last one was going to make it to the van there.’

  The sniper’s voice was calm and businesslike. ‘Never.’

  The car carried on, dropping down back into the wreaths of mist. A short while later they emerged at the junction with the R341.

  Jon saw Sean standing by the side of the road, no sign of his two companions. The man’s face looked strained with nerves. Were you, Jon wondered, part of this? The driver slowed once more and Sean walked round the vehicle.

  ‘It’s done,’ the man at the wheel stated. ‘Wait here until they come back.’

  He knew, then, Jon thought. They’re all working together.

  The driver started forward then touched the brakes once again. ‘There’s some kind of a dog back there.’

  Sean’s eyes went to Jon for a second. ‘Is it alive?’

  ‘Was when we left.’

  ‘Right.’ Sean started towards the car parked on the verge. ‘I’ll take care of him.’

  Within minutes they were on the wider expanse of the N59. A sign stating they were seventy-six kilometres from Galway went past. Is that, Jon thought, where we’re going? Nothing was said by either man as they sped through the night.

  The dashboard clock read 6.37 when they crossed the River Corrib. An airport sign appeared and the driver took it. Jon didn’t stop praying until he could see the bright lights bathing the terminal. They stopped in the drop-off zone and the man in the back got out. The door at Jon’s side opened.

  They trooped into the terminal building. The TV above the Avis desk was blaring away as the two men studied the departures board. There were only two flights left on it, a 6.55 to Glasgow and a 7.20 to Southampton.

  ‘You’re going to Scotland,’ the man to his right announced, directing Jon towards the information desk.

  Jon fumbled with the zip on his rucksack and took his wallet out. Once the flight was paid for, the woman handed him his tickets, eyes not straying to the pair of men hovering just behind. ‘Head straight through,’ she said with a rigid smile. ‘Boarding’s started.’

  Jon felt a tug on his sleeve and he started towards the entrance into the departure lounge. As he approached the gate he saw a thin woman in the seating area of the café talking on a mobile phone. Seeing him, she started getting to her feet, the rims of her eyes looking red and sore.

  The barmaid from Darragh’s. I wonder where she’s going, he thought matter-of-factly before beginning to look away. She’s got one of my missing posters for Zoë in her hand. Something in his head clicked. He looked back at her. You’re Siobhain.

  Phone half-lowered, she was now standing, tears filling her eyes. She mouthed two words. I’m sorry.

  Jon felt his pace slow.

  She wiped at her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Siobhain?’

  She nodded.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it away. ‘Two seconds. Two fucking seconds. Please.’

  The man who’d driven the Peugeot looked at the departure gate. The security guard stationed there was watching. ‘You’re on that plane, whatever,’ the man murmured.

  Jon turned to the girl. ‘Where’s Zoë? Is she still in Clifden?’

  ‘I knew you’d come. If I called you, I knew you’d come.’ Fresh tears started down her cheeks as she raised the ancient-looking mobile. ‘She’s here.’

  Jon looked at her hand. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s here.’ The phone was held out.

  Tentatively, Jon took it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jon, is that you?’

  Zoë’s voice, Manchester accent unmistakable. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Dingle.’ There was alarm and confusion in her voice.

  ‘Dingle?’

  ‘A few hours’ south of Clifden.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What’s going on? Why are you there with Siobhain? She wasn’t making much sense.’

  He looked at Siobhain for a moment. I don’t understand this. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine…I live with someone now. He treats me well. Jon, is Jake OK?’

  ‘What? Yes.’

  ‘Thank God. I thought maybe that’s why you’d come over. Jon, I’m clean. I’ve not touched drugs for months. I know I’ve not been there for him, but I feel stronger now. I think, maybe – ’

  The phone was yanked from his fingers. Jon looked to the side. One of the men was thrusting it back to Siobhain as the Tannoy came to life.

  ‘Final call for flight AR153 to Glasgow. Would all remaining passengers proceed immediately to gate one.’

  A hand pushed him. ‘On that fucking plane.’

  Siobhain’s shoulders rose and fell as she swallowed back tears. ‘They killed my parents. I used you. I’m so sorry. I used you to get back at them. No one else would help.’

  ‘Who?’ Jon asked, as he was shoved toward the gate.

  ‘The de Avilas.’

  Jon tried to stop himself from being forced forward again. ‘The de Avilas killed your parents?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, shadowing him on the other side of the partition. ‘My name is Siobhain Reilly and the de Avilas killed my mum and dad. Castlebar, 1993.’

  At the periphery of his vision, Jon saw the car driver’s head turn. ‘You’re Siobhain Reilly?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Jon felt the hand gripping his upper arm fall away. The o
ther man had stepped back, too. What’s going on here? He looked back at Siobhain. ‘Was she…did Zoë ever work at Darragh’s?’

  ‘No.’ The word caught in her throat. ‘It was the only way I could get at the de Avilas. Bernard had tried going to the Guards, the politicians – no one would believe him. They weren’t interested.’ Something said on the nearby television caused her to look abruptly up at the screen mounted on the wall. ‘See? They killed him. Oh God, they killed Uncle Bernard.’

  Jon’s eyes lifted. Garda officers and firefighters were gathered on a little high street, hosepipes running through the doorway to their side. The photo of a man was filling the corner of the screen. The tramp from the pony auction. But looking younger and in a suit, tie slightly askew. The reporter was talking about a fire in the offices of a solicitor called Bernard Reilly.

  ‘Final call for flight AR153 to Glasgow. Would passenger Jon Spicer please proceed immediately to gate one.’

  ‘Go,’ Siobhain waved a hand, unable to take her eyes from the screen. ‘Go home.’

  Feeling like someone else was controlling his movements, Jon started towards the entrance into the departure lounge. ‘Call the number,’ he said over his shoulder, nodding at the poster clutched in her hand. ‘Tell whoever answers to get word to my wife. Let her know that I’m all right.’ A conveyor belt was in front, a stack of black plastic trays to the side. The de Avilas killed Siobhain’s parents. Castlebar. A woman in a white shirt was asking him something as he walked through the archway of the metal detector. Zoë’s OK, living somewhere else. She never was at Darragh’s. The security guard on the other side was waving him to the right with short, urgent movements of his hand. Glass doors, a woman in day-glo orange tabard signalling to him.

  He walked across, mind reeling as the meaning of what Siobhain had said began to stick. It was all a set-up. None of it was true. The woman reached out and plucked the boarding pass from his hand. She tore the stub off and gave it back.

  Cold air, damp tarmac underfoot. The metal steps into the plane were steep and he had to clutch the handrail as he hauled himself up. A stewardess was waiting. Her mouth was moving as she nodded to her side, empty seats ahead, row after row. He slumped down and leaned his forehead against the little window.

  The men in the Range Rover, their accents were like Sean’s, Northern Irish. Retribution, surely. But for what? Something to do with Siobhain’s parents’ death? They’d stepped back when she’d said her name. The man with the rifle, that was proper military hardware: they had to be IRA. What had Rick said? There was no way they’d ever handed their entire arsenal in. He saw once again the way Gerrard and Darragh had been knocked clean off their feet. A hand touched his shoulder and he had to exaggerate the turn of his head to see her with his good eye.

  ‘Could you fasten your seat belt, sir?’

  He realised the plane was already taxiing along the runway. He clicked the belt into place. Seconds later, he was pressed back into his seat as the engines roared. The floor tilted soon afterwards and he felt the plane rising up, his ears creaking and popping. As they gained height he could see more and more dots of light sprinkled across the dark land below. He was reminded of the night sky above Roundstone and then the plane passed into cloud and the view below was gone.

  Epilogue

  Jon ran a finger along the top of his disfigured ear. The ripped tissue had healed well, but the missing part gave his head a slightly unbalanced appearance. He lowered his hand and smoothed down the stray thread sticking up from his threadbare armchair. ‘I always said you’d sail those exams. I bloody managed to.’

  On the sofa to his side, Rick nodded. ‘Yeah, but it still reminds me of being at school. The nerves. I bloody hate them.’

  ‘Nerves?’ Jon scoffed. ‘You’re able to handle a lot worse than exams, mate. So he’s OK, is he? Your new partner.’

  Rick took a sip from his bottle of lager. ‘Yeah. He’ll be fine. Keen as mustard to learn.’

  ‘Just like you were when you first joined the MIT.’

  Smiling, Rick swilled the liquid in the bottle round. ‘Suppose I was.’

  ‘But now you’re a DI…’ Jon took a swig from his own drink. ‘Old hand that you are.’

  Rick glanced across. ‘So what about you? Will you take it?’

  Jon thought about the last three months. Once he’d got back from Ireland, he’d been summoned to Longsight station and told by Gower he was out of the MIT: permanently. The Chief Super had seemed a touch sad explaining that he’d simply run out of DCIs willing to have Jon in their syndicate.

  He’d also stated that Jon was suspended while the powers-that-be debated exactly what to do with him.

  Then, a few weeks ago, came the call from a senior officer in Manchester’s Counter-Terrorism Unit.

  Word had spread to it of Jon’s exploits in Connemara; how he’d pursued the de Avilas with a relentless determination. The ear-ripping story, and how Jon had managed to drive himself away from it, had already become a favourite tale. The senior officer who’d rung was aware Jon was suspended from duty. He wanted to let Jon know the Unit were about to start recruiting officers. If Jon were to apply, he hinted, a position would be his.

  ‘Not sure,’ Jon shrugged, looking at Rick. ‘It’s an odd one. There’ll be all the training to get through, for a start. Tests.’

  Rick mimicked Jon’s gruff tones. ‘You’re able to handle a lot worse than tests, mate.’

  Jon suppressed a grin before holding his bottle up in salute. ‘Got me. Their command structures aren’t the same as in the MIT, either. Often, there’s no set working day. You get a call about an operation and you’re off.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Anyway, it’s not just down to me, is it?’

  Muffled footsteps moved around above them.

  A shrill bark came from outside. Jon glanced out at the backyard. Holly was with Zak, both of them giggling as the Boxer puppy bounded after a tennis ball, all gangly legs and clumsy paws. Still can’t get used to the long tail, he thought, thinking how Punch’s had been docked at birth.

  When the vet, Valerie Ackford, had rung, Jon didn’t think her proposal was a good idea. But Alice had asked that he consider it for a day or two before deciding. In that time she’d slowly persuaded him to at least visit the house where the owner of the donor dogs who’d provided Punch’s blood transfusion lived. Her third Boxer, Bertha, had given birth to a litter of five pups. Four had been taken, but – she’d wondered – did the owner of Punch want the last one? A little female with a chestnut coat and white bib. Jon knew, as he’d set off for the lady’s house, that he wouldn’t be returning home empty-handed. And sure enough he’d come back with the small dog.

  Holly had wanted to call her Punch, but Jon had gently encouraged his daughter to try and think of another name. Maybe Judy? She’d asked why the puppy had a long tail, whereas Punch didn’t. Jon explained that it was now considered cruel – and against the law – to snip them down to a little stump.

  She’d played with the young dog for a while before looking up at Jon and saying, ‘Wiper.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ he’d replied. ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Wiper.’

  ‘Wiper?’ He’d frowned. ‘You want to call it Wiper. Why?’

  She’d pointed to its spindly tail sweeping from side to side. ‘Because that’s what it looks like.’

  Jon nodded as his mind went back to the handful of days he’d been permitted to remain in Longsight station. The report about what had taken place in Connemara had taken him two entire days to complete. But Jon knew perfectly well, even before he’d handed it in, there’d be no follow-up.

  While he’d been compiling it, internet searches he’d been making on Irish news sites had revealed that the de Avilas were believed to have fled abroad to avoid the attention of a major investigation by the Criminal Assets Bureau into their business empire. Since then, the investigation had unearthed a sprawling network of properties and other assets: funded, it was
believed, by tax evasion, intimidation and bribery. In addition, Devlan de Avila was a suspect in the murder of a solicitor called Bernard Reilly. Motive remained unknown.

  There had been no mention of the bog road. Jon found that he now couldn’t think of that silent collection of lakes without seeing the de Avila family entombed in black mud, a layer of cold, dark water pressing down upon their corpses.

  Four days after his plane had landed in Scotland, the Police Service of Northern Ireland had announced that the killer of the British soldier had been helped into the foyer of a station in Lurgan, County Armagh, where he’d confessed to the crime. His name was Kevin Mulgrew. In July 2000, under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, he’d been released fourteen years early from the Maze prison, originally locked up for his part in planting a bomb that had gone off on the Shankill Road, killing seven people. The man had insisted that, although a member of the IRA when he’d helped plant the bomb, he’d defected since his release to the Continuity IRA – though that organisation flatly denied it. Following his arrest, the furore at Stormont had gradually died down.

  The puppy barked again. ‘So, I bet the guy in Spain was pleased about getting his dog back,’ Rick said.

  ‘Yeah – I gather it’s rounding up cattle again where it should be – hundreds of bloody miles away.’

  ‘Feel sorry for the poor cows.’ Rick lowered his voice. ‘Still reckon that head case was going to set the thing on you?’

  Jon gave a single nod. ‘The more I think about it, the surer I am. They really meant to kill me.’ He looked at his old work colleague for a second before breaking eye contact by sipping at his beer.

  ‘I can’t believe they took out that man on the IRA’s council – if they ever did.’

  ‘Come on,’ Jon protested. ‘It all fits – the names in the file that solicitor handed me, the fact they bought the pet-food factory he owned. Those blokes who showed up on that bog road, they were IRA. Had to be. Your mate in the NCA is bang on with his theory.’

  ‘Well,’ Rick whispered. ‘I’m so glad the de Avilas chose to become tax exiles.’ He flashed Jon a loaded look.