Murder on Pay Day

by David Pearson

  “Yes, sir, that’s no problem,” Fahy said.

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing, sir. The younger brother’s prints were found on the spent shot gun cartridge we recovered from the scene too, so it looks like it’s the two of them again.”

  When Sally Fahy had left the office to attend to the notices, Lyons asked Hays, “What do we do now?”

  “Let’s see where these two bozos hail from. Where’s their family home. Then we can get the local Gardaí to keep an eye out for them in case they have a strong homing instinct. Can you do that? Give them the details of the Pajero too. I’m going to update Plunkett,” Hays said.

  * * *

  On the way home in the car, Lyons said to Hays, “How did you get on with Plunkett? You didn’t say.”

  “He’s pretty up tight. He thinks if we don’t get a quick result on this that Dublin will insist on taking it over, and that could affect his master plan quite badly. But apart from that, he was pretty supportive, though of course he wasn’t best pleased that we had half the force staked out in Clifden at enormous expense when the blag was going off somewhere else. Those Armed Response guys really know how to charge for their services. I know it’s only ‘funny money’, but that little caper cost the boss €18,000 straight out of his already depleted budget. He said he’d have to push it into next year.”

  “That’ll be you next year, you know. All spreadsheets and reports, budgets and resource management. You won’t have a minute for us poor coppers out lifting thieves and murderers, wait till you see,” Lyons said.

  “You’ll be grand without me getting in your way, Maureen. Give you a chance to shine even more than you have already.”

  Lyons said nothing.

  Chapter Eleven

  They had been in the station for about an hour, and were sitting in Hays’ office reading the overnight activity logs together, when the phone on Hays’ desk sprang to life.

  “Inspector Hays? It’s Séan Mulholland here from Clifden.”

  “Good morning, Séan. How’s things?”

  “I’ve just had the manager of the bank here in Clifden on to me. He’s been opening the night safe bags, and he’s found a couple more of those €50 notes in the lodgement from O’Dowds out in Roundstone,” Mulholland said.

  “I see. Did you tell him to put them away somewhere safe for us?”

  “Sure, of course I did. He’s got them set aside in a plastic bag, and he says he’d debited the O’Dowd account with the €100 too.”

  “Always the banker, eh? Right, listen I’ll come out directly with Inspector Lyons. Could you get one of your lads to meet us at O’Dowds?” Hays said.

  “Right, no bother. I’ll get Jim Dolan on it in about half an hour. That’ll give you a chance to get on the road. He’ll meet you there,” Mulholland said.

  Hays filled Lyons in on what Séan Mulholland had told her.

  “Let’s get out there sharpish. Those blaggards must still be in the area.”

  * * *

  The Christmas frenzy of shopping for presents and cards was well underway in Galway. Even at that early hour of the morning, the streets were busy, and cars had been parked all over the place, ignoring the yellow lines and disabled space signs, so that navigating through the narrow streets was a chore. Several times Hays had to give a quick blast on his car’s siren to get a vehicle to move out of the way, but at least the weather seemed to have taken pity on the shoppers. It was grey, overcast and breezy, but the rain was holding off, for now at least.

  It took them a full hour to reach Roundstone, where commerce seemed to be moving at a more relaxed pace. They spotted Jim Dolan’s squad car parked directly outside O’Dowds Pub, and Hays pulled his silver Mercedes in behind it.

  “Good morning, Jim,” Lyons said as she got out of the car.

  “Morning, Inspector. You got here quickly,” Dolan said.

  “Yes, Mick doesn’t hang about. And the car knows the way by now in any case,” Lyons said.

  The three Gardaí went inside O’Dowds, where the staff were cleaning the place and setting the bar up for the day ahead. Even in the depths of winter, O’Dowds enjoyed a reasonably brisk trade at lunch time, and again in the evening, although, of course, nothing like the number of customers that frequented the place in summer, when they often spilled out onto the street, and had to queue for their meal.

  A bright young Polish girl came over when she saw the group entering the place.

  “Good morning,” she said with just a slight trace of an accent, “how may I help you this morning?”

  Hays introduced the trio and asked if there was a manager around.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. He doesn’t come on till half past twelve today. But I’m sure I can help you,” she said confidently, “my name is Anika, and I’m in charge when the boss isn’t here.”

  “OK, Anika, thank you. May I ask if you have any CCTV here?” Hays said.

  Lyons was doing her usual trick. She had broken off from the little group and was having a good snoop around the public bar and lounge. Then she went out through the door at the back of the bar, where the premises opened up into a large kitchen and service area. She noticed that it appeared to be spotlessly clean. Two young men were working at the benches preparing salads and sauces for the lunchtime crowd.

  “No, I’m sorry, Inspector, we just have a camera trained on the till for security reasons, but it doesn’t pick up much – just the till itself. What is this about please?” Anika said.

  “Sometime over the last couple of days, you took in some new €50 notes across the bar. They were in the lodgement that was made using the night safe in Clifden last night. I don’t suppose you remember anything about that?” Hays asked.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. I was serving the night before last and these two guys came in and bought drinks. They weren’t local. They paid for the first drinks with a new €50, and I gave them change, but when they got their next drinks, they paid again with another new €50 note. I remember it, because we were running low on twenties, and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t use the change I had given them,” the girl said. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Oh no, not at all, Anika. But would you recognize these men again if you saw them?”

  “Maybe. It was quite busy, and I wasn’t really looking at their faces. I was concentrating on pulling their pints.”

  Hays took a sheet of paper with two photographs on it out of his inside pocket, and unfolded it on the counter in front of the girl.

  “Could these be the men?” he said.

  “Hmmm, yes, maybe. They look a little familiar, but I can’t be sure. I’m sorry,” Anika said.

  Hays wasn’t sure if the girl was just being careful not to identify the Geraghty brothers for fear of some unpleasantness down the line, or if she was being genuine.

  “OK, Anika. Thanks for your help. Here’s my card. If you see these two in here again, I want you to call me urgently. Don’t let them see you making the call, just be sure to call immediately, won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes of course. Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” she said.

  When Lyons re-appeared from her uninvited tour of the premises, the three sat into Dolan’s squad car to compare notes.

  “Anything Jim, Maureen?” Hays said.

  “No, Mick. The place looks clean and well run, but I didn’t spot anything unusual. The Geraghtys weren’t hiding in the fridge anyway,” she said.

  “Jim?”

  “I checked out the CCTV while you were talking to the girl. It’s as she said. It’s just a single camera focused on the till in the lounge. Not very high tech at all.”

  “Damn. Well at least we know that they are probably still in the area. That’s something. Let’s drop in on Pascal and see if he can at least give us a cup of tea,” Hays said.

  They drove out in the two cars to the little one-man Garda station near the church at the end of the village and parked.

  “Morning Pascal,
” Lyons said as the three of them entered the station.

  “Oh, good morning, Inspector. Morning Inspector Hays, Jim. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Brosnan said, looking just a little uncomfortable with the invasion by two senior officers and a colleague.

  “Have you got the kettle on, Pascal? And I hope you have some biscuits,” Lyons said.

  “Oh, right. Just a pit-stop then. Any news on the Geraghtys?” Brosnan said as he refilled the kettle and rooted in the cupboard for some clean mugs and a packet of chocolate digestives.

  “Well, we believe they were in O’Dowds the other night. They passed two more of Paddy McKeever’s fifties across the bar. It might be a good idea if you were to spend some time in O’Dowds yourself, Pascal. In plain clothes, of course,” Hays said.

  “Well that’s no hardship, sir. I’ll go down for my evening meal tonight and hang around for a while, see if anything turns up.”

  They were all seated at the small round table that occupied much of the floor space in the small kitchenette at the back of the station, when the sound of a tractor arriving in the car park got their attention.

  Brosnan rose and looked out the window.

  “That’s old Cormac Fitzgerald. He’s probably here about the tax on that tractor of his. It’s ancient. I don’t know how it keeps going at all,” Brosnan said, moving back out to the public office at the front.

  A few minutes later, Brosnan re-appeared and sat back down at the table.

  “Now there’s a funny one for ye,” he said. “Old Fitzer came in to tell me that he was out late last night checking up on his sheep, and he swears he saw smoke coming from the chimney of the old cottage up the boreen behind the village; An Tigín it’s called. And he was asking if that qualified him for the reward. Honest to God, I’m not joking!” Brosnan said.

  “Is this old guy reliable?” Lyons asked.

  “Oh, I’d say he is. He must be nearly eighty now, but he’s as sharp as a needle,” Brosnan said.

  “And is his tractor taxed?” Dolan said.

  “Ah well, he’ll get that sorted out, don’t worry. He was driving an old black Morris Minor up to a few weeks back, but it basically fell apart, so now he uses the tractor to get about, but it’s not taxed for the road. So, I told him he needs to get that fixed up. It’ll be fine, I’ll make sure he does it,” Brosnan said.

  “And what about this Tigín place. Who owns it?” Lyons said.

  “It used to belong to Festus O’Rourke. He died last year – remember? It was his grave where that bloke Weldon was found on the day of the funeral. Then some fancy fella from Galway bought the cottage. It’s been empty ever since. He’s looking to build a big extension onto it, and he has the planning permission lodged with the council. I doubt they’ll go for it though, unless he can pull a few strings, the access is very poor,” Brosnan said.

  “Maybe we should wander up and have a look around. But not all of us, we don’t want to be spotted. Why don’t you go back into Clifden, Jim? Maureen and I will stroll up to the house and see if there’s any sign of anything,” Hays said.

  “Do you think we should get backup out, Mick?” Lyons said.

  “Not yet. Let’s just have a look ourselves first. Plunkett would go completely crazy if we got the ARU out again for no reason,” Hays said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brosnan gave Hays and Lyons directions on how to get to An Tigín. They parked their car at the bottom of the narrow track, which had a healthy crop of grass and weeds growing up in the middle of it.

  “We’d better put on our pistols, Maureen, just in case,” Hays said.

  The two detectives retrieved their Sig Sauer P220 handguns from the special cases in which they were stored in the boot of Mick Hays’ car.

  “I hope we don’t need these things, I hate them,” Lyons said, attaching the gun’s holster to her belt, and pulling her jacket down over it, so as to keep it out of sight.

  They sauntered up along the narrow, twisty track towards the cottage as if they were just having a look around, perhaps in the manner of some prospective buyers. They stopped to read the planning application nailed to the gate, and then moved on up the path towards the house itself. As they rounded the last bend, they spotted the dark green Pajero with the Galway registration plate parked outside the cottage.

  Lyons went to the side of the vehicle, intending to see if the passenger’s door was open, while Hays continued on up towards the front door of the house. It was in quite poor repair, with the dark green paint on the front door cracked and peeling, and the wooden window frames to the sides of the entrance rotting away slowly. He wasn’t surprised. If it had been occupied by an old-timer who couldn’t maintain the property in reasonable condition, and then been left idle for a year, it was hardly any wonder that the house needed some TLC.

  Just as Hays got close to the front of the house, the door burst open. A man came running out, shotgun in hand, quickly followed by another man who was armed with a short iron crowbar. The man with the gun levelled it at Hays, and there was an almighty bang as the gun was discharged right at the inspector.

  Hays keeled over where he stood, screaming and clutching at his thigh. The man ran on towards the vehicle, and seeing Maureen emerging from behind it, once again pointed his gun right at her. The second man shouted, “No! Leave her. We need to get outta here!”

  Lyons fumbled with her jacket in an effort to release her side-arm from its holster, but by the time she had it in her hand, the old jeep had been started and was tearing off around the corner of the driveway, wheels spinning, throwing up gravel. Lyons aimed her pistol at the rear of the jeep, and just managed to get one shot away, smashing the back window, before the old Pajero, its engine roaring, disappeared around the corner.

  Lyons ran to her partner.

  “Mick, Mick, are you OK?”

  Hays’ trousers were shredded on his left leg above the knee, and blood was seeping out onto his hand where he was holding it. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he was clearly in a great deal of pain, writhing on the ground in the dirt.

  Lyons realised she needed to stem the blood flow, but how? She ran back into the house and grabbed a towel from the linen cupboard beside the old fireplace, and dashed back to his side. She folded the towel into a pad, and pressed it against his bleeding leg. Then she took off her belt and wrapped it around the leg, tightening it over the towel to exert pressure on the wound and hold it in place. The blood flow from his wound slowed.

  “Christ, Mick. Stay with me. I’ll get help.”

  Lyons took out her mobile phone and called Séan Mulholland.

  “Séan, Séan, it’s Maureen. Look, Mick has been shot. We’re here at the old cottage up behind Roundstone, An Tigín it’s called. I need an ambulance immediately. And get road blocks set up for the Pajero. The two Geraghtys are after getting clean away in it,” Lyons barked down the phone.

  “Jesus, Maureen. Is he OK? I’ll get the ambulance out at once. But call Pascal. Get him to get the doctor from Roundstone. That’ll be quicker.”

  Lyons then called Brosnan and told him what had happened, and asked him to get the doctor from the village up to the cottage as soon as possible.

  Hays was still losing blood. After ten minutes, Lyons had to release the belt on his leg for a minute or two to minimize the damage to the blood vessels in his leg. When she did, blood started flowing from the wound again onto the ground, and Hays was going very cold and grey, and she felt he was slipping into unconsciousness.

  “Mick. Mick! Stay with me. Talk to me!” she shouted, but all Hays could do was grunt and groan as the pain broke through following the original shock that he had suffered, which had initially suppressed the agony.

  After what seemed an age, but was in fact only seven or eight minutes, a red Volvo estate car skidded to a halt on the loose gravel. Dr Brady, who had had the good sense to bring his nurse with him, climbed out and ran across to where the prone form of Senior Inspector Hays lay on the ground.r />
  As he started to work on Hays, he introduced himself, and his nurse, Agnes.

  Brady filled a syringe with a clear liquid and injected Hays in the good leg saying, “This will ease the pain. Agnes, get me a large dressing from my bag, and let’s see if we can set up a drip here too. And get the rug from the back seat, he’s very cold.”

  Brady removed the temporary arrangement that Lyons had fixed to Hays’ leg with her belt. He then cut away Hays’ trousers and peeled them back to reveal a number of pellet wounds in the man’s leg. He applied a proper dressing to the wounds and strapped it on tightly to seal the wound. With the help of the nurse, he then set up a drip with a clear plastic bag full of fluid, asking Agnes to hold it two feet above Hays to allow gravity to feed the liquid into him.

  “Maureen, can you go in the house and see if you can find a hot water bottle? He’s very cold, and we don’t want to add hyperthermia to his troubles. Is the ambulance on its way?” the doctor said.

  “Yes, I called it about fifteen minutes ago. I’ll see to the hot water bottle.”

  Lyons was very reluctant to leave her partner again, but figured he was in good hands, and he needed to heat up. She went into the house and filled a kettle, putting it on the gas stove to warm while she searched for a hot water bottle.

  As she moved around the dirty old kitchen, she noticed a half empty bottle of vodka on the table, and several empty beer bottles.

  “They’ll be great for fingerprints,” she thought to herself, unable, despite the emergency, to get police procedure out of her head.

  She found an old stone hot water bottle at the bottom of the hotpress beside the open hearth, and filled it with the water from the kettle which by now was singing nicely. She wrapped the stone jar in another old towel before bringing it back outside to where Hays was still lying on the ground.

  Back outside the doctor was still kneeling on the rough ground attending to his patient. Lyons gave him the hot water jar, which he placed against Hays’ side – the side away from the injury.

  A few minutes later they heard the wailing of the ambulance’s siren approaching. The ambulance driver squeezed his bright yellow vehicle past Dr Brady’s Volvo and pulled up. The two paramedics got out of the ambulance and came trotting over, their kit bags in their hands.