‘I know. But why did he need to escape at all if he was colluding in his own kidnap – unless, of course, he began to suspect that they weren’t going to let him go when the ransom was paid?’
‘I’m sure that his escape was a fake,’ said Katie. ‘His whole kidnap was a fake. The High Kings wanted Derek Hagerty discovered by some innocent passing motorist, so that his story sounded genuine. The trouble is, it didn’t go according to plan. I don’t think they bargained on somebody like Norman Pearse suspecting that it was all a put-up job.’
Katie slowed down for the Magic Roundabout, where the heavy rain had slowed the traffic even more than usual.
Kyna said, ‘But think about it. Why did they have to pretend that he’d escaped? They knew they were going to collect the ransom money anyway. What did they actually think they were going to gain by it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Katie. ‘The only thing they did gain out of it was to make a show of us. We handed over a quarter of a million euros of public money when we didn’t have to – if only we’d been aware that Derek Hagerty was already free. On top of that, of course, there was the bomb and Garda McCracken losing her life, and that made us look a thousand times more incompetent, and almost criminally negligent.’
Kyna nodded. ‘Exactly. They made us look like bungling eejits. But maybe that was all they were trying to do – nothing more than that. Maybe that was the whole point of it, neither more nor less. And you have to admit they succeeded.’
‘Well, it could be you’re right,’ said Katie. ‘We’ve been getting a very bad press lately. God knows what they’re going to say when they find out that Pat Whelan’s been kidnapped. Not that they’re going to know about it – not just yet, anyway.’
‘Actually, ma’am, I hate to say this, but the media haven’t been giving us such a hard time, not the force in general. It’s been you, personally. Didn’t you see the Examiner this morning?’
‘No. It was on my desk but I didn’t have time to read it.’
‘Didn’t Tadhg McElvin tell you about it?’
‘No. I haven’t seen Tadhg since yesterday.’
‘Jesus, he should have done. There’s an editorial that says something like ‘Is A Woman Cop Tough Enough To Fight Cork’s New Crime Wave?’ Fergal Byrne wrote it. It’s all about you, and the High Kings of Erin running rings around you.’
‘Oh, come on. The press have been sniping at me with monotonous regularity ever since I was appointed,’ said Katie. ‘They don’t like me because I never give them all the juicy scandalous details they’re panting for and I don’t go out drinking with them.’
‘Well, yes. But they also had a comment from Bryan Molloy, saying how he’d sorted out the gangs in the Limerick by cracking down on them so hard, and if you didn’t arrest the High Kings of Erin pretty soon he was going to bring in the same zero-tolerance policies in Cork. He didn’t say so in so many words, but the implication was that he doesn’t think you’re up to the job, being a woman, and the public shouldn’t have any faith in you.’
Katie was driving into the city on the South Link Road now, under the Old Blackrock Road overpass. Up ahead of her, even through the rain, she could see the green glass tower of the Elysian, where Michael Gerrety lived. Right now, however, her mind was much more troubled by the High Kings of Erin than Michael Gerrety.
‘I’m going to be talking to Derek Hagerty now, and his solicitor,’ she said. ‘I’m going to give him one last chance to tell me the truth.’
‘And if he still won’t?’
‘Then I’m going to show Bryan Molloy what zero-tolerance is really all about. You just watch me.’
***
Derek Hagerty was sitting with his solicitor in the interview room. He was looking even more gaunt and exhausted than yesterday, but he had showered and shaved that morning and he was wearing an ill-fitting tan-coloured suit with a shiny orange tie – all in preparation for the District Court appearance that Katie had called off.
His solicitor, Margaret Rooney, was a tiresome young woman who handled legal-aid cases for a South Mall solicitor’s firm called Sharkey’s. She had upswept glasses and a French pleat and very thick ankles. When Katie came into the room she made a point of glaring at her watch.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you,’ said Katie. ‘As you’ve probably heard, a young detective garda has died from a gunshot wound and I needed to give my condolences to her family.’
‘Yes, well, we were very disturbed by that, too,’ said Margaret Rooney. ‘It seems like this city’s becoming more and more like the Wild West every day.’
Katie ignored that remark. Instead, she opened the folder that she had brought into the interview room with her and said, ‘We’ve withdrawn the charge against Mr Hagerty of conspiracy to commit fraud, but that’s for one reason only, and that is insufficient evidence. However, I want to make it clear to him that we will continue to investigate the circumstances of his supposed abduction and his supposed escape from that abduction.’
‘I’m not sure that I’m too happy with the word “supposed”,’ said Margaret Rooney, interrupting her. ‘My client has been through a deeply traumatic experience at the hands of a vicious kidnap gang and I would have thought that he deserved support and sympathy rather than suspicion.’
Katie turned to Derek Hagerty. ‘Derek,’ she said, ‘you’ve come so close to admitting what you did. I don’t think you went into it thinking for a moment that anybody was going to get hurt, let alone killed. But I can tell you this in strictest confidence – the detective garda who was shot was trying to prevent two men from abducting the young fellow who found you along with Meryl Pearse.’
‘What?’ said Derek Hagerty.
‘His name is Eoghan Carroll. It’s our guess that they took him because – rightly or wrongly – they thought he might have information to prove that you weren’t really kidnapped at all.’
‘Now hold on a minute!’ Margaret Rooney chipped in. ‘My client completely refutes your suggestion that he colluded in his own abduction.’
‘If that’s the case, what possible motive did those men have for taking somebody they thought might be a witness?’
‘I don’t know, Detective Superintendent, and my client has no more to say on the matter.’
‘Whatever their motive, Ms Rooney, clearly it was strong enough for them to think that it was worth them shooting and killing a police officer.’
‘Are you going to protect me? Me and my family?’ Derek Hagerty put in. ‘You did promise that you were going to give me protection.’
‘Yes, we’re going to give you protection,’ said Katie. ‘You’ll be going back to your own home today and we’ll post officers on watch around the clock. We have a property just outside Macroom that will be ready for occupancy by the weekend, and you and Shelagh will be able to move there until we feel that it’s safe for you to come back.’
‘And how long do you think that will be?’ asked Margaret Rooney sharply. ‘It doesn’t sound as if you’re making very much headway in this investigation.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Ms Rooney,’ said Katie. ‘But I’m going to tell you one more thing in confidence. Another bankrupt businessman has gone missing and the same people are claiming that they’ve abducted him.’
‘These High Kings of Erin?’ asked Margaret Rooney.
‘We don’t know for sure who they are. But it’s possible that he’s made a similar arrangement to the one that you made with them, Derek – I know, I know, you’re completely denying it. But we’re gravely concerned for his safety whatever he’s agreed to do. And, of course, we’re equally worried about Eoghan Carroll.’
She paused for a moment, watching Derek as his eyes darted from one side of the room to the other and he fiddled with his tie. Come on, Derek, she thought. Things can only get worse before they get better. Just have the courage to come out with it and tell me what really happened.
But Derek Hagerty gave her a guilty, wou
nded look, and said nothing. Margaret Rooney stood up and crammed all her papers into her briefcase.
‘We’ll be going now, then,’ she said. ‘I was told that there’s a car waiting for Mr Hagerty in the car park.’
Katie stood up, too. ‘Derek?’ she said, but he still wouldn’t speak.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Have it your way. But you know very well what the consequences are going to be if you stay silent.’
Margaret Rooney said, ‘Please, Detective Superintendent, don’t try to make my client feel responsible for something that hasn’t happened yet. He has a perfect right to safeguard his own life, and those of his family, before he starts worrying about the hypothetical deaths of other people.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ said Katie. ‘I shall think about that when I’m attending the hypothetical funeral of Detective Garda Goold.’
***
Katie went downstairs with Derek Hagerty and Margaret Rooney to the car park doorway, where a short, stocky protection officer was waiting for him. The officer was wearing a dark blue anorak with rain spots on it and smelled of cigarettes.
‘Mr Hagerty?’ said the protection officer. ‘Your code name for now is Matthew McGinty. That’s just for the sake of security, like. You know, in case of phone hacking, or being overheard.’
Katie said nothing as Derek Hagerty was led across the car park to a black Mondeo. It was drizzling and so she stayed in the doorway, with Margaret Rooney standing too close beside her. On the building overlooking the car park, at least twenty hooded crows were perched, looking bedraggled in the rain. They hopped and fluttered a little when the Mondeo’s doors slammed, but they didn’t fly away.
‘That’s that for now, then,’ said Margaret Rooney.
Katie gave her a chilly smile. ‘For now, yes. Ms Rooney, I’m sure you can find your own way out, can’t you?’
***
Derek Hagerty sat in the back of the Mondeo next to the protection officer.
The driver’s eyes were hovering surrealistically in the rear-view mirror. ‘Tivoli Estate, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Derek, clearing his throat. ‘Head directly along the Lower Glanmire Road until you get to Trafalgar Hill and I’ll direct you from there.’
‘I do know where the Tivoli Estate is,’ the driver told him, as he drove out of the Garda station car park. He turned left on to Old Station Road, past the Elysian and then up Albert Street towards the river.
There was hardly any traffic, but halfway up Albert Street there was a pedestrian crossing, with two men in khaki raincoats standing beside it, waiting to cross. They must have already pushed the button before the Mondeo appeared around the corner, because the lights turned to red just before it reached them.
‘For feck’s sake,’ complained the driver, slowing down. ‘There’s nothing coming at all. Idle feckers could have strolled across with no trouble whatsoever.’
As soon as the Mondeo had stopped, however, one of the men stepped out in front of it and stayed there, while the other man approached the passenger side where Derek Hagerty was sitting. Both men were wearing wraparound dark glasses.
The protection officer said, ‘Shite!’ and thrust his hand into the front of his coat, but he was seconds too late. There was a muffled sneezing sound and the window next to Derek Hagerty shattered as if a bucketful of ice had been emptied into his lap.
The driver immediately tugged the Mondeo’s gearstick into reverse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal. The car lurched backwards with a squitter of tyres and collided with a loud bang with a Butlers minibus that was just pulling up behind them.
By now the two men in raincoats were already hurrying away down the pedestrian alley beside the ACC Bank. The Mondeo driver changed gear and shot forward, speeding the last fifty metres to Albert Quay.
‘Hospital!’ shouted the protection officer. ‘There’s blood all over!’
‘I’ll have to take the Western Road,’ said the driver. He was trying to stay calm but he was panting. ‘There’s some kind of a hold-up on the South Ring, I heard. Big lorry broken down or something like that.’
They sped through the city centre, weaving in and out of the traffic and running one red light after another. The Mondeo had no siren but the driver had his headlights on full and repeatedly blasted his horn. Derek Hagerty was slumped forward in his seat, swaying from side to side as they swerved around corners and overtook buses. While they were driving so fast it was impossible for the protection officer to see exactly how serious his injuries were, but the legs of his tan-coloured trousers were soaked maroon with blood and he could see pinkish lumps on his shoes that could have been brain tissue.
As they turned into Washington Street, the protection officer called in to the station.
‘Doyle here. McGinty’s been hit. Shot. That’s right. I think it’s bad. We’re taking him to the Wilton Hilton right now.’
He paused, listening, and then he said, ‘Just passing the city courthouse now. Okay. That’ll be grand. Okay. Two fellers stopped us at the pedestrian crossing on Albert Street, the one right next to Albert Road. Browny sort of raincoats, the both of them, and sunglasses. Heavy build I’d say. One stood in front of the car to block us while the other one shot McGinty right through the window. Sounded like he was using a silencer. Then they ran off towards Eglington Street.’
As they reached Victoria Cross and turned south down Wilton Road towards the hospital they heard a siren and a patrol car, with its blue lights flashing, came out of a side road on their left and drove ahead of them, clearing the way.
They turned sharply into the hospital car park which made Derek Hagerty flop sideways across the protection officer’s thigh. It was then that he could see that there had been no point in them rushing him to A&E so fast. Derek Hagerty must have turned his head away as the man in the raincoat approached the car, because there was a bullet hole immediately behind his left ear and a triangular piece of his left temple had been blown away and lay on the floor, like a large fragment of a broken teacup. Glistening beige blobs of his left frontal lobe were still clinging to the back of the passenger seat in front of him.
The driver pulled up in front of the hospital entrance and two orderlies came hurrying out, wheeling a trolley, as well as two male nurses, one tall and white and the other short and Indonesian. One of the orderlies opened the car door and the Indonesian nurse leaned over to take a look inside.
After only a few seconds he stood up straight, shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s directly to the mortuary with this poor fellow,’ he said. ‘Do you know who he is? You are police, yes, correct? Do you know his next of kin?’
The protection officer took out a cigarette and tucked it between his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said, with the cigarette waggling, ‘we know who he is, and we also know his next of kin.’
‘I’m sorry, no smoking on the hospital grounds,’ the Indonesian nurse told him, as he flicked his lighter. ‘We have to consider our patients’ health.’
The protection officer looked at Derek Hagerty in the back of the car, soaked in blood and glittering with broken glass.
‘Oh sure,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t want him getting lung cancer on top of having his head blown off, would we?’
35
Katie had only just returned to her desk with a cup of coffee when her phone rang. More thunder was grumbling somewhere in the near-distance, southwards, over the airport.
‘It’s Liam Fennessy, ma’am. Gerry Doyle’s just called in to say that Derek Hagerty’s been shot.’
‘What? He’s been shot? I can’t believe it. I saw him leave here with Gerry not five minutes ago. What happened? Where is he?’
‘It seems like they were ambushed at the pedestrian crossing on Albert Street, you know, right beside the junction with Albert Road. Two fellows in raincoats. They shot him through the car window. They’re taking him to CUH now.’
‘Do we know how badly he’s been hurt?’
> ‘Not yet, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear.’
Katie sat down. She felt deeply shaken, as if the floor were going to open up beneath her and she was going to drop three floors to the basement, still sitting in her chair, with her desk and everything else crashing down, too.
Apart from Inspector Fennessy, Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán and Detective O’Donovan, no other members of her team had been advised as to when Derek Hagerty was going to be driven home, and as far as she knew Superintendent Denis MacCostagáin had briefed only four of his gardaí about it – the officers who would be on twenty-four hour protection duty. So how in the name of God had the killer known which car he would be travelling in, and exactly when it was going to be leaving the Garda station, and what route it was going to be taking?
If there had been any doubt at all in her mind that somebody in the station was passing information to the High Kings of Erin, this had dispelled it completely. But it only made her feel more helpless and frustrated. How could she possibly hope to catch them if they knew everything that she was planning to do before she did it?
In her mind she had already started to work out a scheme that could lead to their entrapment, and she had been thinking of discussing it with all of her detectives, and with Denis MacCostagáin, too. Now, however, she felt she ought to keep it to herself, at least until she had some idea of who the station’s informer might be.
She prised the lid off her coffee, but she didn’t really feel like it now. What she really felt like was a drink. She picked up the stack of manila folders that had been left on her desk and started to go through them, although she was so shocked and angry that she found it difficult to concentrate. Detective Horgan had given her a progress report on a Lithuanian gang suspected of smuggling heroin into the country through the ferry port at Ringaskiddy in two white vans. The vans were now parked in a yard in Gurranbraher and were being kept under observation until somebody from the gang came to collect them.
Katie was still reading through this when Detective Dooley knocked at her door. He was a chatty, dapper young man with a heart-shaped face and intensely blue eyes. His brushed-up black hair and slim-fit suit made him look about twenty-two, but he was actually ten years older. Katie had found that his looks made him particularly useful for infiltrating the bars and pubs and nightclubs in Cork where bangers and bóg were being hawked around.
Taken for Dead (Kate Maguire) Page 30