~ Sleeping Dogs ~

by

A. W. Lambert

They arrived back at the Leveille farm a little after nine-thirty. As they approached the gate, they could see lights in the downstairs rooms of the main house. Brennan drew the car to a halt at the gate and as he did so, they were dazzled by a blaze of security lighting.

“Welcome to the Leveille farm,” Stern muttered.

Brennan climbed from the car and approached the gate, standing for some moments before the hidden speaker crackled into life. This time a man’s voice.

“Who is it?”

“Brennan from national security.”

“You came earlier?”

“Yes, we spoke to your sister.”

“Okay. Come to the front door, will you.” There was a loud click and the gate began to swing open.

Brian Leveille had handled his sixty-two years well. He was short, like his sister, but dapper and energetic looking with a round jovial face topped off with a light smattering of feathery, fair hair. He was wearing a smart, light fawn suit, a brown shirt and tie. He extended a welcoming hand to Brennan.

“Sorry about the formal look,” he said, smiling. “I’ve just this minute walked in the door. I hope this won’t take long, I’m off out again soon and I have yet to shower and change.”

“Busy man,” Brennan said, grasping the offered hand.

“Business, I’m afraid. Dublin. A late meeting with European colleagues. It’s the only time we can get together. They’re off home at first light.”

“I understand,” Brennan said. “We won’t keep you any longer than necessary. My apologies for intruding at such an hour. We would have come earlier, but your sister did warn us you might be late.” He turned and motioned toward Stern. “This is Chief Inspector Stern from the London Metropolitan Police.”

They settled in the same room as they had earlier in the day, both refusing drinks offered by Leveille, who poured himself a hefty whiskey from a large Tullamore Dew cask sitting on a shelf behind the bar. He held up the glass in salute.

“Cheers,” he said, taking a mouthful and sighing contentedly. “It’s been a long day, gentlemen.” He put the glass to one side. “Now, what can I do to help? My sister tells me it’s something to do with an incident over the water.”

As before, Brennan took the lead. “It is that, but first may I ask one or two questions?”

Leveille shrugged his acceptance. “Anything I can do to help.”

“I understand your father came to this country from France?”

“That’s right.”

“When was that?”

Leveille drew a breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Good question. Sounds daft and I guess you would expect me to know. You see my father was a pretty close character. He would never talk about the early days, not to us kids anyway and we just accepted it. All I can tell you is it had to be before the war, probably the late thirties.” He reached for the whiskey and downed the remainder. “My father was a shrewd man, Mr. Brennan. He saw what Hitler was up to long before many others and he wanted no part of it.” He reached across and refilled the glass.

“And your mother? She came with him?”

Leveille gave a chuckle. “Good Lord, no. My mother was Irish to the core. My father, when he came here, was single. They were married in forty-seven; that I do know. I was born in forty-eight.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Leveille?”

“I’m a financial advisor.”

Brennan cast his gaze around the room. “Pays well, does it?”

It took a second for the penny to drop, but when it did Leveille smiled broadly. “Yes it does, as it happens, but what you see here is more due to my father’s efforts than mine. My father was a great believer in investments, Mr. Brennan. Over the years he built up a significant portfolio both at home and overseas which was expertly managed for a very long time. Even now, in the present financial crisis, it still holds its own.”

“So how did your father make his money, to be able to initiate his investments, I mean?”

“He started small; he and my mother working hard on the farm.” He noted Brennan’s raised eyebrows. “Believe me, Mr. Brennan, in the early days, this farm was significantly more productive than it is now. It produced high yields in both a variety of crops and livestock. From the very start, my father believed wise investment was the way forward, a philosophy he instilled in me. He took every penny that wasn’t required to run the farm and invested it.”

“And it seems he was right,” Brennan admitted.

“He certainly was. Neither my sister nor I would be where we are today if he hadn’t been,” Leveille said. He took another pull at the whiskey. “Now don’t you think it’s about time you told me what this is all about?”

Stern eased himself forward, onto the edge of the chair. “Does the name Michael O’Farrell mean anything to you?”

Leveille looked blank. “Michael O’Farrell?” He thought for some moments then shook his head. “Should it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But, you see, Michael O’Farrell, who travelled to England from this part of the world only a very short time ago, is the main suspect in a murder enquiry.”

Leveille’s jaw dropped. “Murder? But what on earth has this got to do with me? I’ve told you, I don’t even know any Michael O’Farrell.”

“Yes, so you say, but you see another suspect, a man who we believe to be an accomplice of O’Farrell, has your telephone number listed on his phone. Not only that, we have confirmed this individual has been making calls to your number recently.”

Leveille stared, unbelieving, at Stern for some long seconds before responding. “Now hang on,” he said finally. “You are telling me someone who is suspected of being involved in a murder in England, has recently been calling my number?”

Brennan again. “Yes, that’s right.”

Leveille shook his head determinedly. “No, not possible.”

Brennan produced the piece of paper from his pocket and slowly read out the number. “Can you confirm that is your telephone number?”

“Yes it is, but this doesn’t make sense. I haven’t spoken to anyone. Who is this person?”

“As I said, it’s a man we believe to be associated with O’Farrell.”

“From Ireland?”

“No. He is an Englishman.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Of course, but at this stage I’m afraid we can’t reveal it.” Stern was conscious they were skating on thin ice. All of this was unofficial and if Leveille chose to challenge them and demand formal confirmation of their status, they would be in deep trouble.

Leveille eased himself back in the chair, his face a tight mask. “All I can tell you is I have very little contact with the mainland, other than with a few English associates who represent highly respectable financial institutions over there. I will happily give you their names and numbers, but I can assure you, and they will confirm, I have had no contact with any of them for some months. As for recently receiving calls from this anonymous suspected murderer, I have no idea what you are talking about. Only three people have access to this phone. I am here most of the time, although I have to admit not all the time. My sister pops in occasionally, mostly to check on things when I’m away and a local lady comes in once every week to clean. So who this murder suspect of yours has been talking to beats me.” He glanced down at his watch. “Now, gentlemen, I am happy to do all I can to help, but I really can’t miss this evening’s meeting. It is extremely important. If you want to talk further, I’m afraid we’ll have to arrange another time.”

It was after eleven and the rain had started again when, for the second time, they drove away from the Leveille residence disappointed. With no formal authority, there was only so far they could push Brian Leveille and he’d remained steadfastly adamant he had no knowledge of any connection with the phone calls. Not for the first time since he’d left the force, Stern felt the frustration of not having the power of the Met’ behind him.

Showing the same irritation, Brennan pulled the car out of the rutted track and onto the road. “What d’you think? He knew more than he was admitting, didn’t he?”

“Yes he did, but maybe not about the calls.”

Brennan glanced sideways, his rough jowl etched in the reflection of blue lighting from the dashboard. “I’m not with you.”

“Well it seemed to me the fact someone from the mainland, particularly a suspected criminal, had been calling his number did genuinely confuse him. I’m sure he didn’t understand what that was all about. But I got the impression, when we talked about who else might have received the calls, albeit on his number, he definitely went on the back foot.”

“He was adamant that, apart from him, there were only the two others.”

“Mmmm, he was, wasn’t he?” He drifted into silence as Brennan accelerated away, the windscreen wipers swiping monotonously at the increasing downpour.

“So you think he is aware of others having access to his telephone, someone he wasn’t prepared to tell us about?”

Stern shook his head. “I really don’t know. I just think...” He stopped talking as they rounded a bend and the headlights picked out the stationary car ahead, a figure bent, head beneath the raised bonnet. “Not the time or place to break down,” he chuckled. I guess we had better stop and... What the...?”

On initially seeing the car, Brennan’s right foot had lifted for an instant, but only for an instant. Then, without warning, his foot slammed back down and the big saloon rocketed forward. “Head down,” Brennan shouted. “Get your head down!”

“Instinctively Stern did as he was told and leaned forward as far as the seat belt would allow. Thrown from one side to the other, his head thumped painfully against the door panel as the car, its engine screaming, swerved violently to the right then back again. Even above the screaming engine, he heard several sharp, familiar cracks and the rear passenger window, only inches behind him, shattered into a million fragments.

“Jesus, I’m hit,” he heard Brennan yelp alongside him. “The bastards. The bloody bastards.”