‘Well, all of the successful raids the task force has been involved in – and there have been a lot of those over the past three years – have been the result of tip-offs from informants. Trevor Murphy has registered a number of informants on the system since he joined the task force, all of whom have received substantial payouts. Most of them were one-offs but there is one name that comes up again and again as the source for pivotal information that has led to major seizures.’
‘Trevor registered the informants? Trevor Murphy, not Healy?’
Kennedy nodded.
‘Okay.’ Cormac was slightly thrown. Not so much by Trevor’s involvement – he’d been front and centre with Healy since he’d joined the task force – but because he’d registered a name. The CHIS was controversial because the paperwork and processes involved were a colossal pain in the arse. If you could find a way around the system, most would. Many did. And if Trevor Murphy was working for the McGrath gang, they would be the source of his information. He would hardly register an informant that would lead right back to them.
‘And this informant’s tip-offs led to the raids against the Killeens?’ Cormac asked.
‘Yes,’ said Murray.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ He was thinking, thinking.
‘The informant’s name is Niall Collins,’ said Kennedy. ‘We have an address for him, from the system, but I can’t tell you if it’s current.’
‘And he’s been paid?’
‘According to the register, close to fifty thousand over the last three years.’
Which might explain why Trevor had registered him on CHIS. He’d have had to have gone through the formal approval process to get his hands on that amount of money.
‘If you have his name, and you have an address, why do you need me?’ Cormac asked. Kennedy and Murray exchanged a long look and for a moment he thought they weren’t going to answer.
‘We’ve been ordered not to speak to him,’ Murray finally said.
‘Ordered? By whom?’
‘By our boss. By our boss’s boss,’ Kennedy said. ‘The official word is that Niall Collins is a high-level informant. His life would supposedly be at risk if we approach him, so officially there’s a do-not-approach order against him.’
‘So you’re asking me to do it?’
‘You’re suspended already,’ Murray said. ‘Unless we pull something out of the fire in the next couple of weeks, you’re gone anyway. And officially at least, you don’t know anything about the order. What do you have to lose?’
There was an eagerness, an intensity about them that was off-putting. He felt backed into a corner.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ Cormac said. They wanted this too much. Cormac didn’t believe that Niall Collins was a genuine source. If he was, Trevor Murphy would never have given his name.
‘We’ve heard a few things,’ Murray said. ‘We think he’s got something that could take down Trevor Murphy, and if we take Murphy down then the whole house of cards will come down with him.’
‘What something?’ asked Cormac. ‘What has he got?’
Murray shook her head. ‘We don’t know. We don’t have any details. But a source we trust told us there’s definitely something there.’
Cormac was the first to leave the derelict old house that afternoon. They’d agreed to leave separately, but Matt caught up with him before he’d gone halfway down Moss Street.
‘Well?’ he said, over Cormac’s shoulder.
Cormac threw him a sideways glance. ‘Well, what?’
‘Are you happy?’
‘It sounds like it’s going to be a skeleton crew for the raid on the incinerator.’
‘We won’t need an army,’ Matt said. ‘We just need the right people. And the more we bring in the bigger the risk that something will get back to them.’
‘And what about you, Matt?’ Cormac asked. ‘What’s your role?’
Matt grinned at him. ‘I don’t have a role. I’m just your friendly Interpol observer.’
‘Okay.’
‘You were right about Healy and the money, by the way,’ Matt said. ‘The house Healy’s wife is living in – the one in Spain? It’s worth five and a half million.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I’m serious. Five and a half million. And I’ll say this for her. She’s got good taste. A traditional Spanish villa, up in the hills with a view down to the sea. Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms. Beautiful gardens, swimming pool, wine cellar. You name it.’
‘It’s not in Healy’s name.’ He wouldn’t be that stupid. That arrogant.
‘Well, here’s where it gets interesting. Seven years ago the wife filed for divorce. Six months after filing she withdrew her application. Two months after that the house in Spain was transferred, mortgage free, into her name. Now, before the transfer, it was owned by a company established in Panama. But for at least three years before the transfer, she lived in the house and according to her tax returns, she wasn’t paying rent.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘We don’t know. Well, my guess is that the company is owned by Healy, and the transferring of the house was part of a deal he made with her for her to withdraw the divorce petition.’
‘Christ.’ Cormac ran a hand through his hair. ‘Five and a half million euro.’
‘That’s not all,’ Matt said. ‘We’ve got her bank statements. She’s getting twelve hundred euros a month, transferred directly from Healy’s bank account to hers.’
‘Okay,’ Cormac said. That sounded like reasonable alimony for a garda sergeant to pay. Healy would be bringing home about three and a half grand, net.
‘She gets a second transfer, this one for twenty-two thousand euros a month, from . . . you guessed it, that friendly little company in Panama.’
Cormac shook his head. This was unbelievable. Healy was making virtually no attempt to hide things. He might as well be dancing about in the streets, waving bags of cocaine and cash about.
‘What about the house in Ireland?’
‘Well, he’s a bit more discreet there. The house is worth a packet now, but it wasn’t when he bought it back in 1990. Would have cost him about two hundred and fifty grand, give or take.’
1990. Healy couldn’t have been with the gardaí for more than a couple of years at most at that stage. Cormac tried to remember what sort of money he’d made as a new garda in the early nineties. It couldn’t have been much more than a grand a month, could it? How could Healy have managed a mortgage on a property worth a quarter of a million euro by himself? Cormac thought about the bedsit he’d rented as a young cop, the beans on toast that were a regular meal towards the end of each month when things got tighter.
‘What about Murphy?’ Cormac asked.
‘What about him?’
‘Anything in his financials that raises questions?’
‘I haven’t looked yet,’ Matt said. ‘The priority was Healy, and honestly, there was so much there that as soon as I started looking there was no time for anything else.’
‘Right,’ Cormac said. ‘Of course.’ He needed more. The fact that Healy had access to significant wealth and that wealth was being funnelled through shell companies should have been enough to at least kick off an inquiry, but it wasn’t. He needed something simple, something that couldn’t be explained away, and, ideally, something that would catch Trevor Murphy in the trap too.
‘You were right about the numbers, too,’ Matt said. ‘They don’t look right.’
‘Prices?’ Cormac said.
‘Yes. All of it. Of course, it’s not an exact science. No one can say for sure how much is getting into the country. But our people tell me that with the amount of stuff that’s been seized over the past twelve months, we should have seen a spike in Dublin heroin and amphetamine prices. And that’s just not happening. Drugs are cheaper today than they have ever been.’
‘The sooner we stop this, the better,’ Cormac said. ‘I can’t believe they�
��ve been standing over this for two years. What the hell were they thinking?’
‘It’s more complicated than you think, Cormac. It’s hard to know where the lines of this thing are drawn, who’s involved, who isn’t. And then there are those who don’t want to know. Murray and Kennedy have been handed this thing to solve, but at the same time they’re heavily constrained.’
‘Constrained in what way?’
‘Come on. You know the way this works. If you’re the Commissioner or the Minister for Justice, and you’re told there’s a chance that there’s a large-scale criminal conspiracy at the heart of An Garda Síochána, are you going to be the one to try to root it out? Or do you just assign the investigation to someone and then do what you can to make sure they can’t make any headway?’
Cormac stopped walking, turned to his friend. ‘Are you serious?’
‘The Commissioner’s been in his job for five years. This thing happened on his watch. If it’s exposed, then he’s exposed too. As incompetent, or worse.’
‘You’re not telling me that the Commissioner is in on it, too?’ Cormac asked.
‘No, I’m not saying that. But I’m saying that he must know about Murray and Kennedy’s investigation, and yet it doesn’t seem to be a priority, does it? They’ve had as much obstruction as they’ve had assistance through this thing. That’s where the frustration and the lack of trust comes from, you know. You have to give them a break, Cormac. They’ve been doing a thankless job, and they’ve been doing it alone.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Given the bad news about Maggie, the newspaper article and general loneliness, Peter had expected to sleep badly. But after building up the fire so his living room was actually warm, he slept solidly, waking only once as the fire burned low. He piled on the last of his fuel, and slept again until morning, then woke later than usual. The room was still warm, though the fire had burned to embers. It had snowed overnight, and looking out the window he saw that the snow was beginning to stick. Bloody hell.
Peter dressed and ate another bacon sandwich for breakfast. He went outside and the cold caught his breath. He got the car engine running, went back inside to fill the kettle, waited for it to warm up so that he could defrost his windscreen enough to see where he was going. That done, he set off, swinging by Horan’s on the way to the station. The lights were on inside – he saw Sharon behind the till. Peter parked the car, looked around for the sacks of wood and turf that were usually stockpiled outside by the front door. Nothing. The bell above the door chimed as he went inside and Sharon looked up.
‘It’s bloody freezing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The radio says it’s going to get way worse too. It’s going to snow all weekend, and it’s due to drop to minus twelve on Sunday. I’m warning you now, if it gets that cold, I’m not getting out of bed.’
‘I was just looking for fuel,’ Peter said.
She looked towards the door. ‘There’s none out there?’
He shook his head.
‘Jesus Christ, that lazy bastard. He was supposed to bring it around last night.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Hang on. I’ll get some for you. What were you after?’
‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll bring it around,’ Peter said.
Sharon smiled. ‘I’m not going to say no to that.’
She brought him around the back of the shop, to a small car park and a fenced fuel store, where sacks of turf and logs were piled high.
‘I only need a couple of bags of turf,’ he said. ‘But . . . do you need me to bring a bit more of it around? Get you set up?’ He was early for the station. He might as well help her out for ten minutes.
‘Well . . . thanks,’ she said. She glanced at him over her shoulder as she unlocked the padlock on the gate to the storage area. ‘That would make life a bit easier.’
He took the time to lug bags of turf and logs around to the front and stacked them by the door where he’d seen them before. He kept going until there was no more room at the front, until he was sweating a little under his layers. She came out to watch him bring the last bags up.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Are you terminally bored, or just extremely nice?’
Peter laughed. ‘Neither,’ he said. He followed her inside to pay. She took his card, ran it through the machine.
‘That’s it?’ she said. ‘Just the fuel? No microwave dinner today?’
‘I might risk the pub this evening,’ he said. He’d have to chance running into Des. ‘I need a break from nuked mashed potato.’
She wrinkled her nose. Hesitated before handing him back his card.
‘I heard you were asking about the Lynches at the pub the other night,’ she said. He gave her a look, and she half smiled, let her eyes slide away from his. ‘My cousin Mike works behind the bar.’
‘Right.’
It was Peter’s turn to hesitate. Clearly, anything he asked her would be around the village by lunchtime. On the other hand, she was obviously connected enough that she might have some useful information.
‘Did you know them at all?’ he asked.
‘Who, the Lynches?’ She sat back on her stool. ‘Not really. They came in here for their bits and pieces, same as everyone else, but they weren’t exactly chatty.’
‘Did you ever hear anything about Miles Lynch selling his farm?’ Peter asked.
She widened her eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Who was he selling it to? Someone local?’
‘Can you think of any likely candidates?’ Peter asked.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t think of anyone here who would have had the money. Or who would have wanted it. The land out that way isn’t great for farming. Maybe a neighbour?’
Peter nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He raised a hand in farewell, headed towards the door.
‘You could try the lawyer,’ she said. ‘If anyone knows, I suppose it would have to be him.’
‘Which lawyer?’ Peter asked.
Sharon rolled her eyes. ‘There’s only one. But you’ll have to drive if you want to see him. He’s in Clifden. Stuart Connolly. Everyone goes to him.’
Peter was growing used to having the station to himself in the morning, and he wasn’t disappointed. The place was dark when he arrived. He unlocked the doors and let himself in. It was warm inside – the heating was obviously set to come on automatically – and he took off his outer layers gratefully and made himself a cup of coffee. There were biscuits – chocolate Hobnobs – and he helped himself to two before making his way to his desk. He felt . . . better. He was worried about Maggie, yes, and he couldn’t quite shake the fear that the investigation into his shooting of Jason Kelly would be reopened, but right now, in this moment, he felt better.
He took out the Lynch file again, started working his way through it, double-checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything about the sale of the farm. There was no mention of it. He started making notes of his conversations with Stephen Kielty and Naoise O’Gorman. It was possible that Naoise’s information about the sale of the farm might be a complete red herring, but he would follow the path as far as it took him. He was comfortable with that decision. It felt like good police work. Peter paused. This was Reilly’s approach to investigation. Follow every path, every trail. Dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ because you don’t know what you don’t know. It had been days since he’d spoken to Reilly. He’d promised to do what he could to clear Peter’s name, but maybe he’d moved on. Maybe he was busy building his own landing pad.
For once, Des arrived before Jim Brennan.
‘Peter. How are you?’ he said, as he hung up his coat. ‘Cold out there. The forecast for the weekend isn’t good.’
They’d last seen each other after the trip to the Lynch farm. Peter didn’t know what he had expected – a bit of a cold shoulder, maybe. But Des, it seemed, was determined to be affable.
‘How did the interview go?’ Peter asked.
Des scowled. ‘He’s a smooth little bastard, I’ll give him that. He h
ad an answer for everything.’
‘The worst ones always do,’ Peter said.
Des settled himself into his chair. ‘Jane’s father called yesterday evening. He wants to come in to see us, with Jane, this afternoon.’
‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ Peter said.
Des looked grim. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ he said. He turned on his computer, and Peter turned his attention back to his work. He thought about telling Des about his conversation with Naoise O’Gorman, rejected the idea.
‘I went by Maggie’s yesterday evening,’ he said instead.
Des looked at him.
‘The doctor was with her. She had a fall. Or fainted. She seemed confused. Very tired.’
‘Anna wasn’t with her?’ Des asked.
‘She was at work. She got back just before I arrived.’
‘Right.’
‘The thing is, the doctor seems to be thinking that Maggie needs to go into a home. He says she has problems with her blood pressure, and that she’s forgetting too much. Not eating.’
Des frowned. He’d picked up a pen and he rolled it between the fingers of his right hand. ‘I suppose it was bound to happen, though she seemed fine not so long ago.’ He paused. ‘Anna could always stay on in the cottage, if Maggie does go. She probably couldn’t pay much in the way of rent, is the only thing.’
It irritated Peter, that Des seemed more concerned about Anna than he was about Maggie.
‘Where did you find her, anyway?’ Peter asked. ‘Anna, I mean.’
Des put his pen down. ‘She got the bus out from Galway, arrived in the evening and landed into the pub.’ He laughed. ‘She’d arranged to rent the same shitty little flat you’ve ended up in. All she could afford, I suppose. I couldn’t have that. She had the little girl, no car to get her about. So I thought of Maggie.’
‘Anna told me her daughter doesn’t like cops,’ Peter said.
Des leaned back in his chair, a sardonic look in his eye. ‘What are you suggesting, Peter?’ He stared Peter down, daring him to take it further.
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