by Jo Spain
Tom had to suppress a wry smile when the minister mentioned resources – only last month he had sent a memo to the commissioner banning all paid overtime and extending the moratorium on recruitment for the force.
The inspector encountered Ray again in the corridor on the way to the incident room in Phoenix Park headquarters. The detective had a large cup of coffee in one hand and was balancing a roast chicken and stuffing sandwich on a folder in the other.
‘If I wasn’t married already . . .’ Tom said, reaching out gratefully.
Ray watched, irritated and amused, as his boss stole his lunch. The same man who had been concerned he wasn’t eating enough just over an hour ago.
‘Who have we got?’ Tom mumbled, through a mouthful of food.
‘The usual suspects. Ourselves, Laura, Michael. Bridget Duffy and Brian Cullinane are here. Hairy Kelly has transferred from Blanchardstown so I asked for him. We’ve been allocated a squad of about twenty rank and file for interviews, supplemented by Leinster House security.’
‘Mass resources, my eye.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Don’t get me started. Okay, let’s get this show on the road.’
The noise and bustle in the room died down when they entered. Laura muted the television in the corner, which showed a reporter in blustery weather outside Leinster House, a tracker story feed running at the bottom of the screen: ‘Gardaí hunt gunman following shock shooting in Dáil.’ To the uninformed, the headline might imply that an irate citizen had stormed the parliament when it was in session and taken out an elected member.
Tom surveyed the case board, on which various sheets and established facts had been pinned. He took in the highlights, then faced the room.
‘It’s not that I don’t like spending my weekends with you lovely people, but seriously, seventy-two hours was all I asked for. Credit where it’s due, though. It’s a spectacular way to get me back to work.’
There were grim smiles and apologetic shrugs. The team members knew how hard the inspector worked and the weight of responsibility that being in charge carried. They also knew that he always ensured each of them got time away when it was needed. It was one of the characteristics that made them grateful to be on his squad and fostered their loyalty to him.
‘So, folks, we have a man shot in the back and face, most likely while attempting to flee an attacker within the parliament complex. The incident took place inside a locked office building that could only be accessed through an underground tunnel, which originates in Leinster House. We have – how many people do we know for certain were in the complex last night?’
Brian Cullinane lifted a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length as he squinted at it through narrowed eyes. He needed reading glasses but was fighting it. The poor sod was already sporting a Benedictine bald patch and he hadn’t yet turned forty. The last thing he wanted was a pair of spectacles. It was hard enough being a gay policeman. Receding hair and glasses would be the nail in the coffin of his love life.
‘Thirty-five employees, consisting of twenty ushers, six bar and canteen staff, five members of the “Bills Office”, and four civil servants working in the one-stop shop, an information go-to point for TDs. And a partridge in a pear tree.’
He turned the page. ‘There were ten guards at various positions throughout the complex. I have seventy names of people who were definitely in the buildings in and around the time period we’re looking at, ranging from political staff to ministerial secretaries, TDs, ministers and the Taoiseach himself. Twenty-three people were signed in as visitors in that 9 p.m. to 10.30 p.m period, according to the log. Those signed in earlier in the day had returned their visitor passes before 9. All bar two of the late visitors were guests of TDs and were brought to the Dáil bar. The other two were a relative of a staff secretary, collecting her from work, and a Mr Carl Madsen. We can check this list against the CCTV footage of people entering and leaving the complex.’
‘Jesus H Christ! How many is that in total?’ Tom felt the back of his head start to throb.
‘One hundred and thirty-eight. That we know of. From the sounds of things, we’re lucky. There could have been a thousand on an evening when the Dáil was in session.’
‘I don’t know,’ Laura mused. ‘We have enough people to make the investigation cumbersome but not so many that somebody was bound to have seen something. If they’d all been in, it would have been next to impossible for the killer to strike.’
‘Boss?’ Michael was reading a text on his phone.
‘What is it?’
‘The IT lads. I’d better run down to them. I’ve been on their case all morning and it sounds like they’ve found something.’
‘Something that will shed light on that photo we found, hopefully,’ Tom remarked, casting a glance over his shoulder at the case board and the copy of the picture pinned to it. ‘Go ahead, Michael. Okay, we’ve one hundred and thirty-eight people – how many gave initial statements?’
‘Seventy, including the ten gardaí. And you spoke to two more this morning – Aidan Blake and Darragh McNally. The rest had left the complex by the time the body was found and the alert was sounded.’
‘We need to organise formal statements from McNally and Blake,’ Tom said. ‘And that’s still a lot of people not interviewed. Who were these guests in the bar?’
‘Constituents, mainly. They were in small groups and the TDs hosting their attendance are swearing to them all being in the bar for the duration, excusing toilet trips. All told, it looks like there were about sixty people in the bar between 9 and 10.’
‘We’re talking about a bar,’ Ray said. ‘Was everybody sober and keeping an eye on each other?’
Brian shrugged. ‘Your guess . . .’ he trailed off.
‘Did anything come out of the initial statements?’ Tom asked.
‘Bridget and I are going through them. Nothing yet. One usher reckoned he saw Ryan making his way through the main building around 9. Alone.’
The inspector sighed.
‘Right. We need to organise initial interviews for those who had left the complex before the body was discovered and talk again to those questioned last night. Now they know how serious it is, they’ll all be wracking their brains trying to recall if they saw Finnegan or anyone else acting suspiciously. I’ll be talking to the Taoiseach, obviously, and I’ll take Carl Madsen too. Anything from forensics or pathology?’
Laura stood up.
‘Initial reports from both departments are in.’
She paused as half the room clapped.
‘Why, thank you. I’ll take full credit for their speedy turnaround.’ Laura smiled wryly. ‘So, Ryan was shot twice. In the back, then the face. Ballistics say the weapon fired was most likely a Glock .38, 9mm. Both bullets have been retrieved, one at the scene, the other from the victim. Ryan was in good health, bar the injuries he sustained in the car crash. He suffered bruises and minor injuries consistent with a tumble down stairs and falling after he was shot. That fits with Garda Coyle’s theory about Ryan fleeing his attacker from the sixth floor. They’re estimating time of death between 9.30 p.m. and 9.45 p.m. That’s the tightest they’ll give us.
‘There was tonnes of DNA at the scene and it will be extremely difficult to eliminate it all – the tunnel is open to everyone in the complex. There wasn’t anything unusual on Ryan except a little cartridge ink on his fingertips, which he could have picked up handling pages hot off a printer.’
Tom stroked his jaw. The bristles were getting longer. Louise would ring him later to tell him he had looked a right state on the news. McGuinness would be thrilled, though – his lead detective working so hard he’d no time for bathroom breaks or personal hygiene.
‘So he was shot with a Glock,’ he said. ‘Well, there’s another lead. Who in Leinster House last night could have had a Glock in their possession? Let’s run a check and see if anyone has a firearms licence or training certificate, though we can’t rule out somebody getting
their hands on an illegal weapon.’
‘Could it be a professional hit?’ Laura asked.
It was Tom’s turn to shrug.
‘Easily. Though if it wasn’t somebody who worked in the place, they would have had to be signed in. Make sure to look closely at new employees, just in case.’
The inspector felt hopeful. It was extremely difficult for an ordinary civilian to get their hands on a gun in Ireland. They might be able to trace where these bullets and the weapon they belonged to had come from.
Tom filled them in on his visit with Kathryn Finnegan and the meeting with Blake.
‘Ryan Finnegan seems to have been a fairly ordinary man,’ he concluded. ‘The only striking evidence so far is that dodgy picture we found.’
Tom turned and stared at it again. Amongst photos of the victim’s bloodied corpse, it still stood out on the board. He peered at the back of the man’s head in the foreground of the image. Was it Ryan himself? Their victim’s hair had been lighter than the black hair of this man, but it could have been dyed. Or was it somebody Ryan knew?
It could, of course, just be an image of two random men taken from the internet, though why Ryan had it on him was beyond Tom.
‘Moving on from how he was killed – the real question is why?’ The inspector faced the room again. ‘He doesn’t seem the sort to have been involved with criminal elements. Maybe he was cheating on his wife, but there was nothing in her demeanour or reaction to make me consider her as an avenging spouse. We’ll verify her statement about being home with the baby all night, though. That photo is the only anomaly about Ryan Finnegan that’s jumping out. Is it possible he was being blackmailed or bribed, or was he doing the blackmailing and bribing?’
‘Did Linda McCarn have anything useful to say when you interviewed Blake?’ Ray asked.
Tom hesitated. Could he describe the psychologist’s behaviour as strange, when she was always a bit odd?
‘She started telling me about some piece of legislation Minister Blake is working on that’s not kosher,’ he replied, and shrugged.
Ian Kelly snorted, running a hand over his shiny egg-shaped head. He’d carried his ironic nickname ‘Hairy’ from his role as station sergeant in Blanchardstown to his new post in headquarters. Tom preferred to call him Ian, fearing his crown might also go in that direction and not wanting to be a hostage to fortune.
‘That’s hardly news, is it? A politician doing something dodgy. It’s government. Bought and paid for.’
Bridget Duffy, Laura’s flatmate, shook her head in disagreement, her dark ponytail whipping back and forth, her little snub nose indignant.
‘That’s a terrible, sweeping generalisation. Aidan Blake is a decent politician. Everybody knows that. One of the only ones, I grant you. I like him.’
‘You and every other woman in the country,’ Ian retorted.
‘St Aidan, Minister of the God-like Resources and boundless Energy,’ Brian quipped.
Bridget made an un-ladylike gesture with her middle finger.
Tom held up his hand.
‘Children! I’ll follow up with Linda. She still hasn’t seen the photo. Maybe she’ll be able to deduce something from it that we can’t.’
On cue, the door opened.
Michael was back. He was holding a brown envelope, his face as grey as his Adidas hoodie.
‘What is it?’ Tom asked.
Michael swallowed.
He handed the envelope to Tom, holding it between his finger and thumb as if it was contaminated.
‘You’d better look for yourself.’
Chapter 7
‘Jesus, you look like I felt when I woke up in the honeymoon suite of the Gresham and realised I’d married the girlfriend.’
Willie stood beside the car, stroking his neat grey moustache, his garda uniform, as ever, starched and ironed with precision by his much-maligned wife. Leaves blew through the Park, October gusts battering the ancient trees. Tom pulled open the passenger door, leaving Ray and Michael to jump in the back. When they travelled in this manner, the inspector always felt like they were a parody of a family out for a jaunt, he and Willie playing the parents, his two detective colleagues their teenage charges.
Not today. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Tom slipped into the seat and turned to Willie.
‘You know the fastest way to Sean McGuinness’s house?’
‘As it happens.’
Willie Callaghan was a font of all knowledge when it came to Dublin geography, no surprise given his years behind the wheel. The man was never happier than when he was in the car, especially when he had a captive audience listening to him whine about his wife. Tom knew that his driver was very happily married but he enjoyed the exaggerated tales of homelife woe and the humour Willie brought to them. Louise, in a moment of psychological insight, had suggested that perhaps Tom kept buying unreliable cars because he liked driving around with Willie. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. In their heads.
Tom had phoned Sean McGuinness to let him know they were coming. The chief had gone home directly after the press conference to mind June, telling Tom he was on the other end of the phone if he was needed.
And now he was.
The inspector spun round in his seat. He was holding the envelope on his lap, afraid if he let it go it would fall – into the wrong hands.
‘Tell me again, from the top.’
Michael was sweating. He’d nearly had a heart attack when the head of the IT department had pulled him into a small office and shown him what they’d discovered.
‘Right. So, we’ve confirmed the computer in the office on the sixth floor was originally Ryan Finnegan’s. The Oireachtas IT team had updated the system and security features, but they left the browser history and personal files untouched. Luckily. Or they’d have seen what we’ve found.
‘Each Oireachtas employee is given an account for the intranet in Leinster House. That’s the internal server. They’re set up on this system called Parliament Notes, which gives them an email address – so and so at oireachtas dot com. Seven months ago, Ryan logged into Blake’s account and saw an email containing the pictures you currently hold in your hand. After forwarding them to himself, he saved all of them deep in the hard drive of his computer and deleted the email from his account – most likely because he feared they would be too easily hacked into there. He thought they’d be safe where he’d hidden them.
‘Last night, Ryan went over to the office where his computer had been mistakenly transferred and accessed the images, printing them off. He also saved them to an external device, most likely a USB stick.’
‘Which wasn’t found,’ Tom said.
‘No.’
‘Hold on,’ Ray said, confused. ‘Just go through this again. If Garda Coyle was right last night and Finnegan was discovered in that office and then pursued, we can make the leap that the killer took the USB stick from Ryan or from the computer itself. Presumably, having taken the offending images from the scene, our murderer would want to ensure there were no other copies. So, why leave them on the hard drive? And can the IT guys tell what time the USB stick was taken out of the machine?’
‘Yes, to your last question. The USB was removed at 9.46 p.m. So, unless Ryan flung it somewhere, we can speculate that the killer took it. IT said Ryan had successfully downloaded the images onto the external device. He then either closed the hard drive or the computer automatically locked after a period of inactivity. The killer probably did want to examine the machine to find and delete the image files, but without Ryan’s username and password, he wouldn’t have been able to log in. This wasn’t like the computer you brought to life in Ryan’s office by just touching the keyboard – the computer on the sixth floor had all the security walls enabled. And even if the killer could have gained access, he would have struggled to find the images – they were buried in an obscure file.
‘Our man just had to hope that no one found the images on the computer. Granted, he could have
taken the machine itself, but it’s large and presumably he didn’t want to draw notice by wandering around Leinster House with a stolen desktop under his arm. He could have smashed it, but that would’ve definitely drawn our attention and he’d no way of knowing if the images could still be recovered by an IT expert. He took a risk that we wouldn’t chance upon the office and recognise the significance of the computer. Remember, too, that the picture we found was hidden beneath Ryan’s body. The killer must have assumed he’d taken all the images and the USB stick, so there’d be no trail or reason to search a computer other than the one in Ryan’s office.’
‘You said the original account the email was sent to was Blake’s. Did Ryan hack it?’
‘No,’ Michael replied. ‘He actually had access to that account in his position as PA. The IT guys were able to track his computer activity on the night the emails were sent.’
Tom turned to look out the windscreen as Michael ran through the IT department’s explanation. They had crossed the River Liffey and were now driving past the heavy police presence on Merrion Square to the rear of Leinster House. They turned left onto a bustling Baggot Street, heading for Sandyford. They’d soon enter the affluent leafy suburbs near the national soccer and rugby stadium.
The envelope and its contents burned on his lap.
What in God’s name had they stumbled upon?
*
‘Come in, come in. Michael and your driver are not planning to stay out there, are they?’
‘June, what did I say about answering the door? Oh, it’s you, Tom.’
Superintendent McGuinness rounded the stairs just as his wife was ushering the inspector and Ray in. His look of concern was replaced with one of embarrassment, when he realised his colleagues had witnessed him barking at his spouse.
‘Really, Sean, I’m not completely doolally. Not yet.’ June glared at her husband. ‘It’s Saturday afternoon, I thought it might be one of the kids.’
Tom couldn’t see anything different about the chief’s wife. June was a couple of years older than Sean but her complexion was still youthful. She kept her greying hair neatly bobbed, complementing exquisite cheekbones and full lips. She had been attractive in her prime and still was, in a schoolmarm-ish way. And of course, that had been her chosen career, teaching. She wasn’t long retired.