The police operation had also instilled mistrust and suspicion among the members of the mob. Shavo Hogan was accused of giving the police information which led to John Foy being arrested for a second time. Foy was on bail when he was caught collecting guns for another robbery. One day Hogan was attacked in the prison exercise yard by Harry Melia and other former friends. They used a homemade knife to slice off the top of one of his ears. It was the gangland symbol of the rat. Martin Foley went on the run to avoid his trial for assaulting the Tango Squad member. He was extradited from England and given a two-year sentence in 1990. In an interview for London-based GQ magazine in 1991, Cahill claimed that Foley was a police informant and had tried to set him up during the Tango Squad operation. In one of his bizarre conspiracy theories, Cahill even claimed that Foley’s ‘assault’ on the detective had been a ‘set-up’. During that interview he referred to Foley by the nickname ‘the Viper’. It would be the General’s legacy to his former friend.
Other members of gangland’s brat pack had also ended up in prison by the end of the 1980s. George ‘the Penguin’ Mitchell and Gerard Hopkins went on trial for armed aggravated burglary and false imprisonment, when they robbed a truckload of cattle drench worth over £100,000. The two friends, who were working with John Gilligan, held the truck driver at gunpoint. Then they locked him in a refrigerated container where he almost froze to death. Despite serious attempts to intimidate jurors and witnesses, Mitchell and Hopkins were each jailed for five years. The Penguin’s brother Paddy had even organized the theft of files from a court clerk – but it turned out they were for a different case.
The Tango Squad had also concentrated their efforts on John Gilligan, who had been systematically robbing warehouses and factories throughout the country for years. Any commodity which could be sold, from washing-powder to colour TVs, Factory John robbed it. He later bragged of that time: ‘It was great fun and I got a buzz out of it. Sometimes we got stuff and other times nothing. We were chased by the cops now and again and we had plenty of near misses. There were a lot of times when we were in and out of a place and no one knew a thing for ages afterwards. The strokes were a win-win situation for everyone. The victims, the owners of the truck or the factory got the insurance money … and me and the lads got a few bob. It was the perfect crime and doing no harm to anyone.’
By the time the Garda operation started against Cahill, Gilligan was already facing a number of charges for burglary. These included one for the theft of £80,000 worth of chocolate from a warehouse in Tallaght in 1987. While on bail in January 1988, Gilligan and two associates were arrested with goods stolen from a hardware store in Enniscorthy, County Wexford. This time he was arrested by Detective Sergeant Felix McKenna and his T Squad officers. McKenna had had a personal interest in Gilligan since his time stationed in Tallaght. The dangerous Godfather had plagued the hundreds of warehouses and factories covered by the Garda ‘M’ District. He treated the area like his kingdom and if anyone else decided to rob there, then they had to deal with him.
The diminutive gangster used every tactic, both legal and otherwise, to thwart criminal prosecutions against him. He threatened to murder anyone who crossed him or might consider testifying against him in court. On a number of occasions, cases were dropped after Gilligan visited vital witnesses and bluntly told them he would kill them. One terrified witness told Gardaí the thug had placed a shotgun in his mouth and threatened to blow his head off on the morning of the trial. On another occasion Gilligan blamed one of his gang members, David Weafer, for informing and doing a deal with the police after they were caught with a load of stolen Nilfisk vacuum cleaners. During that ‘job’ Gilligan and his crew burst into the Nilfisk warehouse in Tallaght and held up the staff at gunpoint, while they loaded a stolen 40-foot container with hundreds of the machines. Cops caught Gilligan and Weafer in another warehouse unloading the vacuum cleaners. Twenty-two-year-old Weafer, from Finglas, aroused the mobster’s suspicions when he subsequently pleaded guilty to a charge of receiving the machines and got a relatively light two-year sentence. An angry Gilligan organized for some of his associates in prison to slash Weafer’s face with a knife in the showers.
Gilligan made no secret of the fact that he was involved in threatening people. He reckoned that the more people who knew he was dangerous, the easier it would be to convince them to stay at home. Factory John would mock the police whenever he successfully thwarted a trial or investigation. And he had no difficulty threatening anyone in authority who stepped on his toes either.
In May 1988 Gilligan was jailed for 18 months for the chocolate robbery. At his hearing in the Circuit Criminal Court in Dublin, Detective Inspector John McLoughlin described the General’s associate as ‘one of Ireland’s biggest criminals in organized crime’.
Factory John was released in July 1989 but a few months later he was due to go on trial for the Nilfisk robbery. He had used the law to delay the case going ahead for over three years. Inevitably intimidation and threats had been issued against witnesses. Staff at the Nilfisk HQ in Dublin had received anonymous calls, warning them that the place would be burned down if employees gave evidence at the trial. The matter was reported to the police and Gilligan’s bail was revoked. The trial lasted for two weeks, during which the bully boy openly tried to intimidate jurors by staring menacingly at them. In the end Gilligan didn’t need to scare anyone – he got off on a legal technicality.
Factory John grew even more arrogant about his chances of beating the Enniscorthy robbery rap. He’d already ‘got at’ the State’s main witness, the owner of a yard where he stored the loot. But DS Felix McKenna had other ideas. In the run up to the trial, McKenna furnished an extensive report on John Gilligan’s history for the Director of Public Prosecutions. In it, he itemized the number of times Factory John had used intimidation to get off various charges and when he was suspected of threatening jurors. McKenna also outlined Gilligan’s associations with other major criminal groups and republican terrorists. He urged the DPP to have the thief returned for trial to the non-jury Special Criminal Court, like the members of Cahill’s gang.
At a pre-trial hearing for Gilligan and his co-accused, James ‘Fast-40’ Kelly, Robbie O’Connell and Christy Delaney, their lawyers argued that there was insufficient evidence with which to try any of them. The judge disagreed and promptly returned Gilligan’s three associates for trial in the Circuit Criminal Court. When it came to Gilligan there was a surprise in store. The DPP had sent him forward for trial in the Special Criminal Court. Gilligan went white with rage.
On 7 November 1990, after a day-long trial, Gilligan was convicted of receiving stolen goods and jailed for four years. Factory John could not believe what he was hearing. In passing sentence the presiding judge remarked: ‘He has been involved in serious crime for many years and it appears that he has never had lawful employment.’ Gilligan was sent to join the rest of his pals in Portlaoise Prison.
In the meantime Martin Cahill showed the world that the Garda crackdown on his operation had not reduced his propensity for sickening violence against anyone who crossed him. In January 1989, as a result of the Dáil-driven Department of Social Welfare investigation into his affairs, he received a letter informing him that his unemployment benefit was to be discontinued. Cahill had already received a visit from a tax inspector, whom he’d invited to meet with at Cowper Downs. The General soon stopped talking about ‘taxable earnings’ and began discussing the problem with crime and anti-social behaviour. Pointing out the window, he’d said to the nervous official: ‘Now, d’ya see what I mean? Just look out that window and look what those bloody vandals have done now.’ Outside the tax inspector’s car had been set on fire. The General had made his point and he’d received no demand for unpaid taxes.
The letter informing him that his dole had been cut was signed by a Higher Executive Officer called Brian Purcell. Cahill appealed the decision and came face to face with the dedicated public servant at the hearing. Purcell outlin
ed the reasons why the payments had been stopped, namely that Cahill’s means showed that he did not qualify for social welfare benefits. On 9 May, the social welfare inspector appeared on behalf of his department at another appeal hearing, this time for Cahill’s sister-in-law and lover, Tina Lawless, whose social welfare payments had also been cut as a result of the Cahill investigation. The General decided that he was going to have revenge.
Shortly after midnight on 29 May 1989, Brian Purcell was watching TV and reading the Sunday newspapers at his home in North County Dublin. His pregnant wife and two children were asleep upstairs when the front door bell rang. Purcell opened the door and one of Cahill’s henchmen shoved a gun in his face, pushing the civil servant back into the house. His wife was awoken and brought downstairs, where she was tied up and gagged. The four-man snatch team spent an hour in the house, searching for documentation relating to Cahill’s case. They then tied-up, gagged and blindfolded Brian Purcell and took him away in his car. They drove to Ailesbury Gardens in Sandymount, where he was left lying near railway lines. After a while the kidnappers frog-marched him a further 20 yards and put him sitting against a wall, with his legs out in front of him.
The General emerged from the shadows with a .38 revolver in his hand. This was how Cahill dealt with his problems. He didn’t like confrontations or ‘straighteners’. His preferred modus operandi was to turn up in the depths of the night when his victim had no way of protecting himself or retaliating. Cahill shot the terrified civil servant once in each leg and then ran off with his men. Miraculously neither bullet hit an artery or bone.
Brian Purcell managed to work the pillowcases off his head and called for help. He was rushed to hospital where he underwent operations on his legs and recovered from his appalling ordeal. It was a horrifying crime but it succeeded in achieving what Cahill wanted – to send shock-waves through the entire Irish public service. Even when the civil servant was recovering from his injuries, he received an anonymous get well card which read: ‘The General prognosis is good.’ Armed Garda protection was placed on all Department of Social Welfare officials dealing with the Cahill case. Brian Purcell made a full recovery from his injuries and courageously returned to work. In 2011 he was appointed Secretary General of the Department of Justice.
For the second time in seven years, the General had sent a chilling message to the Irish State on behalf of Crime Incorporated. In the final years of the 1980s Cahill had shown, yet again, that organized crime was getting out of control, and that he’d lived up to the predictions in the Serious Crime Squad’s 1985 dossier.
The General’s actions would encourage and embolden his former partners and the new generation of hardened, young criminals who would live up to Larry Dunne’s infamous prophecy. In the 1990s Gangland would be transformed, as the drug trade became a multi-million-Euro business. Organized crime was about to get a lot more sophisticated and violent.
PART THREE
The 1990s
14. End of an Era
‘I’m packin’ in this fuckin’ game. If I get away I’ll never rob a fuckin’ bank again.’
Martin Cahill made this solemn promise to himself as he desperately tried to outrun the Garda who was closing in fast behind him. At the age of 40, Gangland’s notorious General had just realized that he was too old for pulling heists. The years spent gorging himself on cakes and fizzy drinks had taken their toll on his ability to literally stay out of the hands of the law. Cahill was unfit, overweight and suffering from diabetes. As he gasped for breath, the most wanted criminal in history, who had escaped so many times in the past, was only a few steps away from capture. If the Garda caught him, Public Enemy Number One could be sure that the State would help him keep his promise – for a possible 15 years. The General called to his pals running ahead: ‘Lads, come back, come back.’ Then he turned around and shot the unarmed officer twice, at point-blank range.
It was Monday, 8 January 1990, and Cahill had fired the first angry shots in what would go down in gangland history as the ‘Year of the Gun’. The first year of the 1990s was one of violence and bloodshed, marked by a number of dramatic shoot-outs between the police and the armed robbers. This time, however, the Gardaí were the victors, as they took on the gun gangs with a determination not seen before. They measured their victories by the bodies of dead and wounded blaggers who had decided to shoot it out, rather than put their hands up. In 1980, three Gardaí were gunned down when they faced the gangs. But the tables were turned in the first six months of 1990. Three armed robbers were shot dead, several more were injured and a number of major gangs ended up behind bars. The turnaround forced the Godfathers to consider less hazardous and more profitable means of turning a dishonest buck. Over the following years, as the drug trade expanded, most robbers changed job descriptions.
As a detective inspector in charge of the Serious Crime Squad (SCS) in 1990, Tony Hickey was in the thick of the action. He witnessed how the year of the gun brought significant change to Gangland. ‘We had plenty of evidence at the time that criminals exclusively involved in armed robberies looked around and said this is a dangerous business,’ he recalls. ‘The Gardaí had shown the criminal fraternity that they had the ability to take them on and quite a lot of them decided that there was an easier way to make money with less risk, and that was drug-trafficking.’
The armed Gardaí would also have a major effect on Tango One. At 7.35 a.m. on the morning of Cahill’s life-changing decision, porter Willie Blake arrived to open the Allied Irish Bank in Ranelagh, Dublin. He turned off the alarm system, opened the shutters and went out to open the gates to the staff car park at the back of the building. As he did so, Blake was grabbed by Eddie Cahill and Eugene Scanlan, both of whom were armed and masked. They pushed him back inside and demanded to know who had the keys of the safe. Martin Cahill joined his crew about ten minutes later and took over the interrogation. He held a grenade up to the terrified porter’s face and told Blake he would be blown up if there was ‘any messin’. Over the next 50 minutes the porter admitted staff, as Cahill stood behind Blake holding a noose around his neck and a gun in his back. The staff members were ordered to lie on the ground while they waited for a manager to arrive with the keys to the night safe. Outside the bank, a fourth member of the gang suddenly banged on a rear window, to relay some kind of signal. The General obviously wasn’t aware the window was connected to a silent panic alarm. The Gardaí were immediately called from a central monitoring station. Within minutes Martin Cahill could hear the sirens.
When he looked out he spotted the first squad car, containing uniformed officers John Moore and William Joynt, as it pulled up outside. The three men in the bank dropped everything, including a bag of guns, and ran out through the back door onto Ranelagh Avenue. When they spotted Garda John Moore at the front door, they ran in the opposite direction towards Ranelagh Park. Moore ran after the raiders, who headed for the Chelmsford Avenue exit. The General started to lag behind and couldn’t keep up. Moore closed in on him with the intention of rugby-tackling him to the ground. Cahill later recounted what happened to his old pal John Traynor, and said it was in those seconds that he decided that it was a younger villain’s job.
Cahill shot Garda Moore in the right arm and then continued running. With the adrenalin rush, the brave young officer didn’t realize that he had been hit and kept chasing the potential killer. At the same time, Eddie Cahill, who was much fitter than his older brother, had doubled back behind John Moore. Eddie shot the Garda again, this time grazing his right leg. Martin Cahill also fired another shot at Moore. He later told Traynor how close he’d come to killing the unarmed cop when he’d aimed a fourth shot at Moore’s chest but the gun’s trigger broke off. Ironically the old gun was part of the consignment of weapons he’d stolen from the Garda depot, less than a decade earlier.
Garda Moore kept up his pursuit until he collapsed on the pavement at the park gates of Chelmsford Avenue. The young officer was rushed to hospital, where doctors to
ok a bullet from his arm and treated him for a flesh wound to his leg. He was lucky to be alive. In the ensuing confusion the gang escaped. The General was last seen running through the grounds of the Royal Hospital in Donnybrook. He was puffing and panting and holding his stomach. But he managed to get away.
The investigation into the botched robbery soon uncovered the General’s involvement. At the time his gang had been seriously depleted thanks to the efforts of the Tango Squad and the SCS. But he still had a number of associates at liberty as a consequence of the bail laws – both Scanlan and Eddie Cahill were both awaiting trials for serious offences, including armed robbery, possession of firearms and drugs. Just over a month later they were arrested in connection with the Ranelagh incident. Martin Cahill wasn’t lifted because, in the absence of forensic evidence or a positive identification, senior officers believed there was no point. No one was charged with the incident. Cahill had a lucky escape, but the same could not be said for some of his associates.
Thomas Tynan, Austin Higgins, Brendan Walsh, PJ Loughran and William Gardiner were a potent, deadly mixture of criminals and republican paramilitaries – forever remembered in gangland folklore as the Athy Gang. They formed the nucleus of an overall team of ten criminals whose members came from both sides of Dublin. During 1989 there were a total of 49 armed robberies from banks in Ireland. The Athy Gang accounted for 32 of these, taking over £300,000 in the process. By September they had already carried out 20 robberies. Over the next four months they carried out another 12. Even by the General’s standards, the gang had become one of the most prolific teams of blaggers ever seen.
PJ Loughran and William Gardiner, both IRA members, were the leaders of the motley collection of mavericks. Loughran, who was 29 and originally from Dungannon, County Tyrone, was one of the many republicans on the run in the South. He’d moved to live in Coolock, North Dublin, to hide from the authorities in Northern Ireland where he was wanted for terrorist offences. Gardiner, who was from Cabra and aged 37, had also been an active member of the organization. They were both experienced armed robbers and had worked with John Cahill and his crew for nearly two years. That partnership had ended when Gardiner, Loughran and Dutchie Holland escaped after the security van job went wrong in September 1988 and John Cahill, Albert Crowley and Noel Gaynor were arrested.
Badfellas Page 28