‘Well, go on,’ Mulcahy said.
Ford grinned. ‘Okay, so I was rooting around over in the archive trying to get some info on this Kearney wan from the case files on Klene and getting nowhere. There were a couple of notes about her, but only saying that she was a receptionist there back whenever.’
‘That’s what I heard,’ Mulcahy agreed.
‘Right. So I logged on to see if we had anything on her, in her own right, and it turned out we did – an arrest ten years or so ago, right from the time she was working at the record company. So I requested that file, too, seeing as I was over there, and fuck me if it wasn’t right there on the first page of her arrest sheet – the person she asked to be made aware of her incarceration was one Declan Begley of St Theresa’s Terrace, Drimnagh, Dublin 12.’
‘When was this?’
Ford thumbed through to one of the photocopies. ‘On 12 October 2000, booked into Kevin Street Station, one thirty in the morning.’
‘Did it say what their relationship was?’
‘No, but is it too much of a stretch to think boyfriend? I mean, you’re not very likely to call your boss or your dealer to come get you out, are you? She’s a bit of a looker, too. You could see Bingo wanting to have a bit of that.’
Ford pulled another page from his sheaf of photocopies. It was a grainy, very poor copy of a mug shot of a young woman Mulcahy assumed was Gemma Kearney. He immediately found himself wondering what she looked like now because despite the poor reproduction it was clear that, back in 2000, she had been very good-looking indeed: a dead ringer for the model Cindy Crawford, right down to the beauty spot on her upper lip.
Ford had obviously noted it, too. ‘Them birthmarks can look revolting on some women,’ he said, ‘but on her it looks like a come-on.’
Mulcahy decided there was no point correcting him. ‘Her dealer, did you say? It was definitely drugs she was picked up for, then?’
‘That’s the thing. Remember, this was months before ourselves and the CAB closed in on Klene. And her arrest didn’t take place on the Klene premises. It was in some music club on Wicklow Street, closed down long since. She was arrested under Section 2 of the 1996 Act, charged with possession of controlled drugs – cocaine, ketamine and Es – significant quantities thereof.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah, more than enough for an intent-to-supply charge.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Mulcahy said. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all. Are you absolutely sure it’s the same woman?’
‘You’re the one gave me her details.’ Ford held up the arrest sheet for Mulcahy to see.
‘But this woman’s an accountant now, with her own practice,’ Mulcahy said. ‘You can’t qualify for that if you’ve got a conviction for dealing, can you?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. But it doesn’t apply here, anyway. That’s what I was about to say. She wasn’t convicted. It never went to trial. She was let off with a slap on the wrist.’
‘For possession with intent?’ Mulcahy looked at him sceptically. This was getting stranger by the second.
Ford shrugged and flicked forward a few pages through his photocopies. ‘Some meathead came forward and said he’d put the gear in her bag without her knowledge. He got twenty-six months. She was never even charged, only given a strong warning. There’s a note on the file from the desk sergeant at Kevin Street about her being administered a caution.’
‘What they’re really saying is someone took the rap for her?’
‘Yup, a guy called Ciaran Stock, a right scumbag, loads of form. Dead now, actually. OD’d while he was banged up in the Joy. Not on that conviction, the next.’
‘Why would he take the fall for her?’
Ford shrugged. ‘Why do they ever? Paid to, or made to? Writing off a smack debt? Either way, you can be sure Begley was behind it.’
‘Sounds like his style all right. But it’s a lot to read into one line on a charge sheet, and I can’t see where his connection with Klene comes in.’
‘Not in relation to her, no, you wouldn’t.’ Ford fixed Mulcahy with a grin that screamed, Go on, ask me, ask me.
‘To what, then?’
‘Well, like I said, I hadn’t seen any mention of her in the later Klene files, or Begley for that matter, so I dived back in, looking back before the date of her arrest, and there I saw his name again, early on. Like I said, you have to remember this was a good eighteen months before the CAB managed to close the place down, okay?’
Mulcahy nodded. ‘So?’
‘It looks like our lads were on to them from fairly early on. About the drugs, anyway. The extent to which it was a laundering outfit only became clear later. In the early stages we did a surveillance op on the Klene premises, down off Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. Sure enough, Begley gets regular mentions in their logs, but while the lads clearly know who he is, they never actually mention what he’s doing there. Like it was so obvious it didn’t need to be said. Annoyed the fuck out of me, that did. So then I started really digging.’
Mulcahy knew what that was like. When Ford got the bit between his teeth, he was like a force of nature: unstoppable.
‘And what did you turn up?’
‘Not so much, actually,’ Ford said, still grinning. ‘Until I came across this.’ He pulled another photocopied document out of the sheaf in his hand and brandished it in front of Mulcahy.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘A certificate of business registration from the Companies Office.’
Mulcahy glanced at the document but nothing of interest caught his eye, other than the fact that it had been issued in the name of Klene Records on 15 February 2001.
‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’
Ford pointed at a column of names on one side of the document. ‘That’s the list of registered partners in the business at the time the CAB moved in on Klene.’
The list was like a rundown of the top-ten ringleaders in the Drimnagh gang at the time.
‘It’s a wonder they ever got it off the ground with that gang of gougers in charge.’
‘They weren’t so well known back then,’ Ford said. ‘Anyway, a business only has to be registered with the Companies Office, not the Gardai. Anyone can set one up.’
Mulcahy shook his head impatiently. ‘Obviously, but I don’t see where any of this is going.’
‘Look at the date. It’s a good five months after the date of Gemma Kearney’s arrest.’
‘So?’
‘So, by this time Klene’s been running as a proper business for a couple of years. A front, but a properly incorporated one, according to our own surveillance notes. So how come this document suggests that the company was only registered more than two years after it was set up? That’s just not possible. Legally, getting the cert is the first thing you have to do with any business. Therefore it must have been changed or altered or something.’
‘Fair enough,’ Mulcahy said, still baffled. ‘And your point is?’
‘Jesus,’ Ford sighed theatrically. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the bright one. Look, my point is, I have a pal who works in the Companies Office, so I called her and asked her how that could’ve happened. She says some companies re-register if there’s been a major change to structure or ownership – like if a sole trader sells out to another business that then absorbs or incorporates it. So I asked her to check this one out for me. And by the time I get over there she’s found out that, sure enough, there was an earlier certificate issued, and she’d done a copy for me. Here.’ Ford presented Mulcahy with the photocopy. ‘As you can see, none of the business particulars have changed – still Klene Records, registered office Creighton Street, blah, blah – but just look at the ownership details on this one.’
Mulcahy did. And then he looked again. Far from the gallery of grotesques listed on the other certificate, there was just one owner’s name on this sheet – ‘Klene Records, sole trader and proprietor: Declan J. Begley.’
‘W
ell, fuck me,’ Mulcahy said, not entirely sure what to make of it. ‘Bingo the businessman.’
‘Precisely. But look – here, my lady friend gave me this as well. Stamped the same date.’ Ford arched his eyebrows, handing him another sheet, this time with a ta-dah flourish. ‘This is the attachment to the cert, where the applicant has to set out the commercial aims and activities of the company in more detail.’
As soon as Mulcahy had it in his hand Ford started stabbing a finger at one line in particular. ‘Look there, yeah?’
This time Mulcahy couldn’t even offer an expletive in response to the information contained there: ‘Company secretary and treasurer: Gemma C. Kearney.’ He just stared at it, gobsmacked.
‘Good, eh?’ Ford said. ‘Her name’s been removed from the later cert, as well, see,’ Ford added, jabbing his finger at the re-registered certificate. ‘And you won’t believe whose replaced it.’
Mulcahy read the name he was pointing at: ‘Thomas Francis Hanrahan.’
That could only be one person: the ape they’d visited out in Drimnagh first thing Monday morning. ‘Tommy the Trainer?’
‘You got it in one.’
‘Jesus, Liam. That’s some digging you’ve been doing.’ After the day he’d had, though, Mulcahy couldn’t even begin to get his head round it. The one thing that was crystal clear, though, was that it couldn’t be ignored.
‘Puts paid to one mad delusion I had, anyway,’ Ford said, looking pleased with himself.
‘What’s that?’
‘That you’re the feckin’ genius in this outfit.’
Mulcahy laughed. ‘Right, and I’ll be more than happy to acknowledge your intellectual superiority if you could tell me what any of this means. In terms of today, that is.’
Ford looked askance at him, not at all happy with that response. ‘I was kind of assuming you’d be the one telling me that. You were the one who brought the Kearney bird’s name into it. Who is she?’
‘I’m not even sure myself, Liam. All I know is she’s gone missing.’
‘Missing? How do you mean, missing?’
Mulcahy gave a long sigh and put his hands up to his eyes, hiding behind them for a few seconds, before rubbing them hard with the flats of his fingers.
‘Look, Liam, don’t get pissed off, but I haven’t got anything like all the facts myself. She’s just a name I heard from someone else.’
‘In connection with Begley?’
‘No, not at all.’
The look Ford gave him now married scepticism with exasperation. ‘You’re the one who’s not making any sense now, boss. Why would you send me off looking up the Klene files if you didn’t have a reason?’
‘All I’m saying is, I genuinely didn’t know Kearney had any connection to Begley when I asked you to look her up. But now you tell me they were lovers or business partners or something at one time, I honestly don’t know. It’s just hard to ignore the fact that she’s disappeared off the face of the earth in the last couple of weeks.’
Ford scratched his head, as confused as Mulcahy by now. ‘You think she might’ve got caught up in this mess with the Colombians?’
‘Who knows, Liam. But I didn’t think there was any connection between McTiernan and Begley, either, beyond a passing acquaintance, and now he’s lying dead out in Leopardstown, too. I can’t help thinking there’s a bigger picture here that we’re not seeing. And maybe Gemma Kearney was part of that, as well. Otherwise, why else would this come up, right here, right now?’
Ford was nodding his head vigorously. ‘I told you there was more to that fat fucker than you thought.’
‘Yeah, and I’m beginning to think you might be right – just this once.’
‘Glory be to fuckin’ Jaysus,’ Ford said, raising his hands in a mock hallelujah.
Mulcahy laughed, and tried to stifle a yawn that escaped at the same time.
‘I’m too shattered to get into it now, Liam, but tomorrow let’s have another, proper look at this. We’ll leave Aisling and Aidan to get on with the Rosscarbery Bay end, and we’ll run with this for a bit, see where we get to. All right?’
‘Great, can’t wait.’ Ford jerked his head towards the door. ‘Are you going to buy me a pint now or what?’
Mulcahy frowned apologetically at him. ‘I’ll get you next time. I have to check out one or two more details about Kearney, make sure we’re not hightailing off on a complete wild goose chase. Speaking of which, do you know if Aisling got those details of Begley’s movements from the Spanish yet?’
Ford shrugged. ‘Actually, she did mention that some shit-for-brains on the Spanish end wouldn’t play ball with her over sharing Begley’s flight details.’
‘Okay, that’s got to be a priority for the morning, then. I’d be very interested to know if Begley was in Cork at all recently. That’s where Gemma Kearney’s been based for the last few years.’
‘Cork?’ Ford grinned. ‘She can’t be all bad, then.’
‘I’ve never known it to be a recommendation myself.’ Mulcahy laughed. ‘Okay, you get out of here now. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Ford gave a mock salute and loped out through the door, looking pretty happy with himself. Mulcahy put his elbows on the desk, cupped his forehead in his hands for a good minute, the tiredness of the day catching up with him. Then he turned to the computer, clicked into the GNDU intranet and scrolled through the contacts book until he found the number he was looking for. He dialled it from the desk phone.
‘Hi. Detective Inspector Mike Mulcahy here. I know it’s late but is there anyone still on duty in Missing Persons?’
18
‘Siobhan?’
A silence first. ‘Mulcahy?’
‘Are you at home?’
More silence, then, ‘Why?’
He was on his mobile, standing at the entrance to a gated development in Ballsbridge, just off the main drag on the Merrion Road. It was dark and funereally quiet, and while his memory of waking up in one of the swanky apartments inside, once, a year or so before, was as strong as it could be in the circumstances, he had no idea what number it was, or any recollection whatsoever of the tall, white iron gates that refused access to anyone who didn’t know the security code.
‘I’m outside your gates. I need to talk to you.’
The silence was deeper and longer this time. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mulcahy. I’m sorry about earlier, genuinely. I should never have asked to meet you. It was stupid of me to think … ’ She trailed off, left it hanging.
‘I want to talk to you about Gemma Kearney.’
‘Look, Mulcahy, it’s late. I’m not dressed. The place is a mess.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll go down to Crowe’s, get a drink and wait for you. Like I said, it’s about the missing girl, not us. If you’re not there in twenty minutes, I’ll know you’re not coming.’
‘No, wait,’ she said, grabbing at it now, thinking about it. ‘Okay, but not Crowe’s – it’s always manic in there on a Wednesday. Go into Madigan’s, the Horse Show House – you know it? Opposite the RDS. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves think in there. I’ll come as soon as I’ve put some proper clothes on.’
He left the car where it was and walked back up the street. Turning left, he saw a huge Guinness ad painted on a gable end, and a pub sign beyond. He’d never been in the place before, but it was okay, quiet like she said, though probably mobbed whenever there was a show on across the road at the RDS. He sat at the bar, realised he hadn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime and ordered a steak baguette and chips along with his pint. He was halfway through it when she came in the door. A flicker of anxiety in her big blue eyes as she glanced around the room. She had delayed long enough to put on some fresh make-up, as well as the clothes, he reckoned. Now he was used to her hair short like that, he couldn’t help thinking it made her even more beautiful than he remembered.
He put that thought away, waved at her, left the food on the bar a
nd ushered her over to a corner table before going back to order the gin and slimline tonic she asked for.
‘I’m only staying if you promise not to bring up lunchtime again,’ she said when he got back.
‘Fine. I meant what I said. I came to talk about Gemma Kearney. You were right. We did have some information on her.’
She looked interested, took a sip of her drink and sat back. ‘You as in the Drugs Squad, or you as in the Gardai generally?’
‘Both.’ He looked across the table at her assessingly. ‘Did you already know about this before you asked me, or were you fishing?’
‘Fishing?’ she repeated, insulted. ‘I told you everything her mother told me. The only reason I asked you was because if Gemma had been in trouble over drugs before, the Missing Persons guys might not bother pulling out all the stops. You know how it is. I don’t suppose you got in touch with them for me, did you?’
‘Not for you, no,’ he said.
‘But you did get in touch with them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And you were right. She’s not on anyone’s priority list.’
She looked at him expectantly, and he knew his plan to avoid giving her any direct answers was hopeless. He remembered now how trying to palm her off about anything she’d homed in on was like trying to wrestle a shark. No way should he have come out to see her tonight. He was too tired and she was too sharp. She seemed to have put the incident at lunchtime entirely behind her, seemed like a different person altogether. He could see who was going to get more out of this conversation.
‘I could do with another drink,’ he said, and asked her if she wanted one, too, but she had barely touched hers.
‘So, are you going to keep me in suspense all night?’ she said when he got back from the bar. She flashed him the old smile, the one he recognised from a year before. ‘Why are you here?’
Dublin Dead Page 18