The superintendent said nothing, but picked up the phone and called Mick Hays’ mobile.
“Hello Mick. How are you feeling?” Plunkett said when Hays answered.
“And are you home now?”
Hays confirmed that he was at home.
“Well that’s good anyway. Listen, I have Inspector Nicholson from I.A. here with me. He was wondering if you could be available for an interview tomorrow morning? He can come out to your house if you like.”
“Oh, right. Yes, I understand, of course. Ten o’clock you say. Hold on a second,” Plunkett said.
Nicholson nodded.
“Ten it is then, here in Mill Street. You can use my office. What? Oh, right, the ground floor, yes of course. I’ll reserve a room for you both down below so. Thanks Mick. All the best,” Plunkett said.
Nicholson stood up.
“Well, if that’s all, Superintendent, I’ll get out to my hotel and check in. I’ll see you in the morning, perhaps.”
“Fair enough, Inspector. Would you like me to stop by the G and we could have a drink later?” Plunkett said.
“No, you’re fine, Superintendent. I have a good bit of paperwork to get done tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The two men shook hands, and Nicholson departed.
As soon as Nicholson had left and was out of earshot, Plunkett called Lyons at her desk.
“Maureen. If you have a minute, we need to talk,” he said.
* * *
When Lyons got back to her desk having spoken to Superintendent Plunkett, she was very unsettled. From what Plunkett had told her, it looked as if this Inspector Nicholson was out for blood. Maybe that’s what got you promoted in Internal Affairs, or maybe the man was just vindictive – it didn’t matter, the result would be the same.
“Damn it,” she said to herself, “if only I hadn’t fired off my gun at the departing jeep, they would probably never have got involved.”
She was pondering all sorts of dire scenarios in her head, when her phone rang.
“Lyons.”
“Maureen, its Séan here out in Clifden.”
“Hi, Séan. What’s up?”
“We found the old green Pajero, Maureen. It’s been burned out, but there’s a good lot of it still intact. It’s out near Murvey stuck in the old ruined barn beside where that fella Maguire used to live. Remember, the man we got for the murder of the Polish girl?” Mulholland said.
“Nice one, Séan. Yes, I remember the place well. How the hell did you find it?”
“Well, at this time of year we do the rounds of the places where the local men distil their poitín. They’re often active coming up to Christmas, there’s a good market for the stuff at this time of year. Peadar was out there hoping to catch them. He overheard an old fella in the pub saying he had seen smoke which he assumed was from a still, but when he went out to investigate, he found the jeep.”
“OK, well I’ll get Sinéad out to see what she can get off it. I don’t suppose there was any cash in it?” Lyons said.
“Ah now, away with ye, Maureen. Fat chance.”
Lyons called Sinéad Loughran and told her of Mulholland’s find, asking her to get out there to see what they could get off the old jeep, and to confirm that it was definitely the one used by the two Geraghty brothers.
“Are you coming out too, Maureen?” Sinéad asked.
“No, no I’m not. Get Eamon to go with you. I need to be here. Mick is out of hospital and needs minding at home.”
* * *
When Lyons got home she found Hays in good form. He seemed to be largely mobile, albeit with a pronounced limp, and he had prepared a meal for them both, complete with Maureen’s favourite red wine – Valpolicella - which was served at just the right temperature.
“God, this is great, Mick. We must try and get you shot a bit more often if this is the result!”
As they ate their meal, Hays asked if Lyons had made contact with Rollo.
“Oh, yes I did. Crikey, Mick, you sure know how to pick them! He stank!” Lyons said between mouthfuls.
“I know he’s no oil painting. But we have talked about that before. He says old fellas like him are completely invisible to most people. They just never see him, and that gives him the chance to eavesdrop on all sorts. Did he tell you anything that could help us with the Geraghtys?”
“He said he heard some blokes talking about them, and that the word ‘Glen’ came up in the conversation. That’s all he knew,” Lyons said.
“Is that all? And that cost you fifty euro!”
“No, Mick, it cost you fifty euro – and a bottle of whiskey. You can pay me later,” she said smiling.
After they had finished eating, and polished off the bottle of wine, they sat over on the sofa in front of the fire.
“Glen, Glen,” mused Hays. “Have you a map of Clifden and the nearby surroundings?”
“I think so. It’s upstairs, hang on I’ll go and get it,” Lyons said.
Lyons came back a few minutes later with Ordnance Survey sheet number 37 covering Clifden and its environs to the north, and spread it out on the coffee table.
Hays leaned forward, wincing slightly as the muscles in his thigh were stretched.
They studied the map for a few minutes.
“The only thing I can see with ‘Glen’ associated with it in that area is the Abbey Glen Hotel,” Hays said.
“That’s funny. I was just looking at the Tribune earlier, and I saw an ad for a Stephen’s Day party that they’re holding out there. Apparently, it’s an annual event. Tickets are €20, and I was actually wondering if you might like to go. My treat,” Lyons said.
“Well, maybe. But more importantly, if they have a big bash on Stephen’s night, that means they’ll have a right lot of cash to lodge the day after. And what’s more, with the banks closed from Christmas Eve, they’ll have all the takings from Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day as well,” Hays said.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Lyons said.
“I sure am. Tell you what. After we have both had a nice chat with Inspector Nicholson tomorrow, why don’t we head out there and have a talk to the manager. You can find out who he is in the morning and give him a call. Say we’re coming out to see him,” Hays said.
Chapter Seventeen
When Lyons arrived at Mills Street the following morning, Frank Nicholson was already there. He was looking even more dapper than he had the previous day, in a different navy pinstripe suit, the creases in the trousers of which were like blades.
“Come in, Inspector Lyons, this shouldn’t take too long,” Nicholson said with no hint of a smile.
They sat opposite each other in the small interview room. Lyons was glad that she had collected a cup of coffee from the Costa Coffee outlet across from the police station on her way in. Nicholson had none.
The man took out his leather-bound notebook and gold Mont Blanc pen, and prepared to take notes.
“I’d like you to outline the series of events that led up to the moment when you found it necessary to discharge your firearm out near Roundstone, Inspector,” he said.
Lyons began, picking up the story from when Hays and herself had approached the house on foot.
“No, Inspector. I’d like you to start from the point where you were in the Roundstone Garda Station when the civilian came in and told you that there was someone occupying Tigín.”
“Well, Inspector, firstly he said no such thing. He simply said that he thought that he had observed smoke coming from that direction, and he had surmised that it was from someone lighting a fire in the house,” Lyons said.
“And did it not occur to Senior Inspector Hays or yourself that this might be where the Geraghtys were hiding out?” Nicholson asked.
“You’ll have to ask Senior Inspector Hays what he thought when he was told of the smoke. I simply felt that it might be worth going up there to see if there was any actual evidence that someone was using the house.”
“Was that not a bit
naive of you?”
“If that is your judgement, then so be it,” Lyons replied.
“Go on. What happened when you got to the cottage?”
Lyons went on to describe how both of them had approached the house, and as they did so, two men burst out the front door, the one in front brandishing a sawn-off shotgun which he fired at Hays, hitting him in the leg.
“And what did you do, Inspector?”
“I took cover to the side of the vehicle, and started removing my sidearm from its holster on my belt.”
“Did you intend to shoot the fleeing gunman?”
“No, I did not. I intended to defend myself and protect Senior Inspector Hays as best I could in the event that there were any further attempts by the gunmen to do us harm.”
“And were there?”
“Yes. As the jeep sped off, I saw the barrel of the shotgun appear out of the passenger’s side window of the vehicle, pointed in our direction. So, in order to deter the gunman from firing again, I put a single round from my pistol into the rear of the jeep. It appears that it had the desired effect, as the gunman didn’t shoot again,” Lyons said.
“When you fired your gun, did you intend to kill or wound either of the occupants of the fleeing vehicle?”
“No. That was not my intention. As I have said, I fired into the vehicle as a deterrent, and it seems to have been a successful one.”
“I presume you have returned the gun to the armoury here, and that the bullets have been counted back?” Nicholson said.
“No, Inspector, I haven’t returned it yet. In fact, I lent it to Garda Pascal Brosnan as he was left on point at the property. I gave it to him to defend himself in case the gunmen returned. As they left in a hurry, I thought they might come back looking for something that they had left at the house, and without a gun, Brosnan would have been a sitting duck.”
“And tell me, Inspector, do you normally just give away your firearm to anyone you casually meet whom you think might find it useful?”
“I was hoping to find another criminal to give it to, Inspector, but as they had all disappeared, I gave it to a firearm trained member of the force instead,” Lyons said, beginning to get very fed up with the way the interview was going.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, Inspector Nicholson, I have two potential cop killers to run to earth,” Lyons said.
“Very well, Inspector. We’ll leave it at that – for now,” Nicholson said.
Lyons got up, turned and left the room without another word.
When she got back to her desk, she called Hays on his mobile. He was on the way to the station in his car. Lyons relayed the details of the discussion she had had with Inspector Frank Nicholson, and they agreed that he would tell exactly the same story, which was, in any case, for the most part perfectly accurate.
When Hays went into the interview room to have his discussion with Nicholson, he exaggerated the extent of his wound somewhat. The interview went much the same as Lyons’, with Hays just adding that at the time he feared for his life, and had it not been for Inspector Lyons, he might well have been shot again by the fleeing gunmen, with fatal consequences.
Nicholson finished the interview by ten thirty, and was slipping out of the station when the desk sergeant, Sergeant Flannery, caught his attention.
“Eh, I think the superintendent would like a word before you go, sir,” Flannery said.
Nicholson pretended not to hear, but to his surprise, found that he couldn’t open the outer door of the Garda station. Flannery had popped the electronic lock from behind his desk, so that Nicholson had to come back in.
“The outer door seems to be locked, Sergeant. I need to leave,” he said.
“Ah, yes, right. It gets stuck a bit from time to time, but as I was saying, Superintendent Plunkett would like a word before you go. You can go right on up – you know where his office is.”
Nicholson made his way up to Superintendent Plunkett’s office, and knocked on the door.
“Come in, Inspector, come in. Would you like a cup of coffee, I’m just about to have one myself?”
“No thanks. I need to be getting back. This is the last working day before the holidays, and I need to get my report written up,” Nicholson said.
“Oh, right. And how did that all go? Anything interesting come up?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss it, Superintendent. I’ll be writing it up, and sending it on to the chief superintendent. You’ll hear all about it in due course.”
“Well, it’s usual in these cases, Inspector, to give a senior officer a ‘heads-up’ you know. It’s important for me to know how to deal with my own officers. It’s a sensitive situation.”
“I’m sorry, Superintendent, I have my procedures to follow. I’ll see that you are informed without delay,” Nicholson said.
“Very well. You had better be on your way then. But Inspector Nicholson…”
“Yes?”
“Make sure you stay within the speed limit on the way back. My lads are very sharp with the speed traps on that road.”
With that, the superintendent put his head down and went back to shuffling papers on his desk, leaving Nicholson to exit his office without further ceremony.
* * *
Hays and Lyons were back in Hays’ office comparing notes.
“How do you think that went?” Lyons asked.
“I’m not sure. I’m sure we said more or less the same things, but I got no feedback at all from him. Seemed like a cold fish to me. What did you think?” Hays said.
“Same. He did make some smart-arsed remark about me lending my gun to Pascal, so I went back at him on that. Apart from that it was pretty straightforward. It just depends on his own agenda, I guess. We’ll just have to wait and see. Now, are you up for a trip to the Abbey Glen?”
“Yeah, sure. Just let me check in with Plunkett first. Then we’ll head off,” Hays said.
Hays called the superintendent and they exchanged a few choice words about the man from Internal Affairs.
“I’d say we’ll be all right, Mick. He can’t make too much of it, to be honest, and with a bit of luck, the chief super will give me a heads-up before anything is cast in stone. Don’t you worry about it in any case. Have a good Christmas, and let’s hope we sort out the Geraghtys as soon as we’re back,” Plunkett said.
“Same to you, sir. And we have a bit more on that front. We may get it sorted sooner than we think,” Hays said.
“Good man, Mick. That’s the spirit. And give Maureen my best,” Plunkett said finishing the conversation.
* * *
The two detectives set off for the Abbey Glen Hotel in Clifden. The traffic in town was manic, but once they got past the university, things thinned out remarkably, and they encountered very few hold-ups as they drove out along the N59.
The weather was grey and overcast – the kind of atmosphere that renders the landscape flat and uninteresting, though the rain was holding off well. They passed Moycullen where the shopkeepers were busy raking in the very last of the Christmas trade, and then on out to Oughterard which seemed eerily quiet given the day that was in it.
“This place is like a ghost town,” Lyons remarked as they drove along the main street past the triangle and on towards the narrow bridge across the river at the end of the town.
“Sure, half the place is boarded up and for sale. I don’t know what happened to it. I used to enjoy coming out to Sweeney’s Hotel here for a meal or a quiet pint, but even that’s closed now. It’s a shame,” Hays said.
Galway FM Radio was blasting out the usual mix of tired Christmas songs, punctuated by advertising from the various gift shops in the city, imploring last minute shoppers to get their loved ones something precious and expensive to mark the occasion. Lyons turned the radio off almost immediately.
“So, what’s the plan out here?” she said.
“We’ll have to play it by ear. Let’s see what the manager can tell us about their arrangements for their
takings, and give us an idea of the sums they will be handling the day after St Stephen’s Day. When we have that, we’ll be able to decide what best to do. Do you think the Geraghtys would really go for it after what happened with the postman?” Hays said.
“Well, something is keeping them out here in the wild west, and it isn’t the weather. And I think they know that when they are caught they’ll be going down for a long time, so they probably want to get as much cash together as they can for their families for when they’re away.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ve known a good few criminals playing that game,” Hays said.
“Or, it could just be that they’re waiting for Christmas day to make their escape, thinking that there’ll be none of us around. Who knows. But we can’t afford to take any chances,” Lyons said.
Chapter Eighteen
The two detectives called in on Séan Mulholland as a courtesy before they reached the Abbey Glen.
“Ah, ’tis yourselves,” Mulholland said with a big welcoming smile.
“I hope you’ve brought my Christmas present? And there I was thinking you’d forgotten all about us out here in Clifden.”
They exchanged seasonal greetings, and then Mulholland offered them coffee, which they gladly accepted. They needed refreshment after the drive.
As Séan Mulholland put their two mugs of instant coffee down on the table, he asked, “Would you like a little drop in that to warm you up, given it’s the festive season?”
“Ah no, you’re grand Séan,” said Lyons, answering for both of them.
“So, tell us, this man Wallace out at the Abbey Glen, what’s he like?” Hays asked.
“He seems like a decent sort of a chap, for an Englishman. He’s been manager out there for about three years now, and he always treats us fairly. He’s nice enough too,” Mulholland said.
From what Mulholland had said, it seemed Mr Wallace had realised that a certain amount of generosity towards the local Gardaí was tactically a good idea, and while it hardly amounted to bribery, he felt sure that Séan and perhaps some of the others based in Clifden, had benefitted from the hotel’s hospitality from time to time.
Murder on Pay Day Page 9