Murder on Pay Day

by David Pearson

  “Oh? And what were the two letters?”

  “A.G. Doesn’t mean anything to me, but it is a bit odd, so we went down to take a look. There’s no sign of any kind of attack or anything, it just looks like the man died from exposure. He was in poor condition anyway,” Sinéad said.

  “Any idea who he was? Any I.D.?”

  “Nothing on him, but a couple of other rough sleepers turned up when they saw the ambulance, and someone said his name was ‘Rollo’,” Sinéad said.

  “Shit! He’s one of Mick’s snouts. He gave us some information about the Geraghtys just before Christmas. Are you sure there’s no sign of foul play? The older Geraghty brother is called Anselm – A.G.”

  “Wow. Well in that case I’ll have a good thorough look around, and I’ll get Dr Dodd out and he can do a PM on the poor old fella too. Do you want to come down?”

  “Yes. I’ll get Mick and we’ll be down in a few minutes. Mick is just upstairs at the moment, but he won’t be long. Where exactly is it?” Lyons said.

  “It’s the fuel depot – McIntyre’s – on the east side of the harbour. I’ll preserve the area till you get here.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  * * *

  It was a wretched scene down at McIntyre’s fuel depot where Rollo had been found. Amongst the piles of peat briquettes, bags of smokeless coal, and sacks of logs, partly covered with a dirty green tarpaulin, the lifeless body of the old man, still wrapped in his filthy old herringbone tweed coat, lay in the dirt.

  Hays donned a pair of blue vinyl gloves and went carefully through the pockets of the old man’s coat. In the inside pocket of the jacket, he found a naggin bottle of whiskey with about a tablespoon full of amber liquid left in the bottom. He lifted it carefully out and handed it to Sinéad.

  “Have this analysed, will you, Sinéad?” Hays said handing her the bottle.

  In another pocket, Hays discovered a ten and a five euro note, and three more euro in coins. He lifted the money carefully, and placed it in a plastic evidence bag.

  As Hays straightened up, the figure of Dr Julian Dodd, dressed immaculately as ever, loomed into sight.

  “Good morning Inspector, Maureen, Sinéad. What am I doing here?” the doctor said.

  “This is Rollo,” Hays said, indicating the prone figure of the dead man on the ground. “There are some aspects of his death that may be suspicious, so we need you to have a look, and then do a PM to see what took him,” Hays said.

  “You’re joking! Two or three of these old guys die out here every week. What makes you think this one is a bit off?” the doctor said.

  Lyons explained the note they had found stuck to Rollo’s coat, and the tentative connection to the Geraghtys.

  “Very well. If you insist, Inspector. Can we get him out of this dreadful place?”

  “Yes, sure. Give me a call later when you have some news.”

  As Rollo was loaded up into the anonymous black Mercedes van, Lyons turned to Hays.

  “I’m really sorry, Mick. I know you had known him a long time. Are you OK?” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. He wasn’t a bad old bugger you know. I realise we didn’t move in the same social circles, but still.”

  “Yeah, I know. Never mind. If there’s anything iffy about it, Dodd will find it, don’t worry.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Superintendent Finbarr Plunkett’s secretary put the call to the chief superintendent through to him.

  “Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. Thanks for taking the call. I just wanted to have a quick word with you about the Internal Affairs enquiry into Inspector Lyons’ use of a firearm,” Plunkett said.

  “Oh, yes, Finbarr. Hold on, I have the draft report here somewhere. I was looking at it yesterday,” the chief said.

  “Yes, here it is. Let me see. Well, Inspector Nicholson has formed the view that Lyons discharged her gun unnecessarily, but that in doing so, she did not endanger life. He recommends some re-training for her in the use of firearms and a note on her file. Is that how you see it, Finbarr?” the chief superintendent said.

  “Well, not exactly, sir. It’s clear to me that she felt her life, and that of her colleague, were directly threatened, and she discharged the weapon in an effort – successful as it turned out – to deter the gunman from firing again. We must remember that these two lads had already shot and wounded an officer. I’d be happy to leave it at that, but of course, I’ll be guided by you, sir,” Plunkett said.

  “Hmm, I see what you mean. It might be best if we could play it down a bit, in view of the upcoming changes in the structure out there all right. Are you happy that this Inspector Lyons isn’t a hot-head?” the chief superintendent said.

  “Oh, she’s anything but that, sir. She has been very successful in apprehending a number of very serious criminals over the past few years, and she’s known for keeping a cool head. Even when she was taken captive by a nasty thug a couple of years ago, she stayed cool, and not only made her escape, but arrested the blighter while she was at it,” Plunkett said, hoping he wasn’t talking Lyons up too much.

  “OK. Well, look, I’ll have another word with Nicholson, see if he can tone it down a bit. I have a good bit of influence with that particular gentleman as it happens, so leave it with me.”

  “Thanks, sir. That would be very helpful. Oh, and Happy New Year, sir.”

  “What? Oh, yes, thanks. And will you have a word with Ms Lyons and suggest that she acts a little less like Annie bloody Oakley next time she has a gun in her hand?”

  “Yes, sir, of course sir. All the best,” Plunkett said, hanging up.

  When Superintendent Plunkett had finished the call, he sent for Lyons who was back in the station after the grim discovery down at the docks.

  “Come in, Maureen. Take a seat. I’ve just been speaking to the chief superintendent about Inspector Nicholson’s report,” he said, plonking himself back into his own chair.

  “Oh, right. Am I in trouble?” she said.

  “I don’t think so. I explained to the chief that you were not given to rash behaviour, and that you genuinely felt that your life, and the life of Hays was under threat. Nicholson of course wants you to be re-trained, and all sorts, but I think I managed to talk the chief around.”

  “So, what happens now, sir?”

  “Probably nothing. I doubt we’ll hear any more about it. The chief won’t come back to me unless it’s being taken further, and from what he said, I think that’s very unlikely. How’s Mick’s leg coming along?” Plunkett said.

  “He’s fine. You’d hardly notice anything now, although it doesn’t stop him putting on the agony act if he thinks he’s not getting enough attention from me.”

  “In other words, he’s a typical man, Maureen,” Plunkett said with a smile.

  “I’m glad you said that, sir. I couldn’t possibly comment! Will there be a note on my record sir, about the gun I mean?”

  “I’ll check it in a month or so, but I don’t expect there will, no.”

  “Thank you, sir. Is that all?” she said.

  “Yes, that’s it. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time Sinéad Loughran called Hays about the death of Rollo.

  “Hi, Inspector. We have some results now from the man we brought in earlier – Rollo, is it?”

  “Yes, that’s him. What’s the story?” Hays said.

  “It looks as if the bottle he was drinking from was heavily laced with methyl alcohol. He probably wouldn’t have noticed it very much – the flavour would have been disguised by the whiskey. He probably thought it was just a very strong bottle. So, what with his general condition, and the adulteration of the booze, his constitution just gave up. He died of heart failure. I’m sorry, sir,” Loughran said.

  “I see. Any idea of the time of death, Sinéad?”

  “Dr Dodd says probably between 2 and 5 a.m. It’s hard to be more accurate, but body temperature sup
ports that estimate,” Loughran said.

  “Are there any fingerprints, DNA or other trace evidence anywhere on his clothes, or in the yard?” Hays asked.

  “Nothing, sir. The bottle is clean except for his own dabs, and the yard is wet and dirty, so there’s no discernible footprints of any use. There are no other traces on the man’s clothes either.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any CCTV in the yard?” Hays said.

  “No, sir. Nothing anywhere near there I’m afraid.”

  “Damn. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance really. What happens to these people when they pass like this, Sinéad?” Hays asked.

  “I think the council arranges something for them, sir, but I’ll check it up and let you know.”

  “OK, thanks Sinéad. Talk later.”

  Lyons came into the office just as Hays was finishing the call.

  “What’s the story?” she asked.

  Hays relayed the information that Sinéad Loughran had provided.

  “I’m sorry, Mick. That’s lousy. Do you think we should open another murder enquiry?” Lyons asked.

  “I have an idea. Get Eamon to ask around amongst the other rough sleepers. I doubt that he’ll come up with anything, but you never know. Then I’ll contact the council and see if we can arrange some sort of proper funeral for Rollo. That might bring out a bit more information. Nothing too fancy that would make his mates feel uncomfortable – maybe some kind of buffet with soup and sandwiches in the grounds of the church.”

  “Good idea. But do we need a board and an incident room set up?” Lyons asked.

  “No, I don’t think so, not yet anyway. I’ll have a word upstairs, but in the way of these things, with no evidence that we can see, I doubt if they’ll want to spend a lot of time on it to be honest,” Hays said.

  “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Lyons said.

  “It’s just being realistic, Maureen. It’ll probably be put down to sudden death due to exposure. Unfortunately, the likes of Rollo don’t vote, and don’t pay taxes,” Hays said.

  “Terrific,” she said and went to find Eamon.

  * * *

  Hays waited till his meeting with the superintendent on Thursday to raise the issue of Rollo’s death. There was no hurry – after all Rollo wasn’t going anywhere, and it was not as if there were queues of grieving relatives waiting to bury the poor man.

  Eamon Flynn’s investigations among the underprivileged of Galway city had revealed nothing. These men were suspicious of the Gardaí who rarely wanted to do anything useful for them, and more often than not just wanted to move them on, or even prosecute them for vagrancy, or some of the petty theft that they indulged in to stay alive. Flynn’s manner didn’t help either. He didn’t want to be amongst them, and his hostility was quickly picked up by men who relied on their instincts for survival.

  On Thursday afternoon Hays kept his appointment with the superintendent. They spent an hour going through a series of spreadsheets covering everything from overtime and allowances for all the members of the force under Plunkett’s control, to stationery and fuel costs for the plethora of vehicles under their management. As they completed the last of them, Plunkett said, “You’ve no idea how happy I am to be handing this lot over to you, Mick. They drive me round the bend.”

  “It will take me a while to get the hang of it all, sir,” Hays said.

  “Ah, you’ll be fine. To be honest, I doubt if anyone actually looks at them in any case!”

  “You heard about my snout, Rollo, I suppose, sir?” Hays said, keen to get off the topic of budgets.

  “I did, Mick. Is there something more I should know?” Plunkett said.

  Hays went on to explain about the lethal cocktail they had discovered in Rollo’s whiskey bottle, and the Post-it Note stuck to his overcoat.

  “Is that all you’ve got, Mick?” Plunkett said.

  “Yes. That’s about it. None of his contemporaries are saying anything, and there’s bugger all evidence, although I’m sure the Geraghtys had a hand in it somehow, even though they were locked up at the time.”

  “Ah, Mick, if I were you I’d leave it alone. What good will it do spending scarce resources running around after a down and out, even if he was helpful to us from time to time? We’ve more to be doing with our time,” Plunkett said.

  While Hays recognised the reality of what Plunkett was saying, he didn’t entirely like it. In a funny way, he had been fond of the old guy, and he’d known him for a good few years. But he also knew that these folks rarely got any of the right kind of attention from the authorities. They were a nuisance to be tolerated rather than looked after, and what had happened to Rollo probably wasn’t all that unusual in any case. He filed it away, as he had done a number of times in the past.

  * * *

  As soon as the Geraghtys were fit to walk around, they were taken before the court for a brief hearing. Hays went along to ensure that there was no possible chance of them getting bail and he wasn’t disappointed. Judge Meehan remanded them to appear in Loughrea in two weeks’ time, and while the judge looked curiously at their injuries, he made no comment.

  As they were being taken out of the courthouse to the waiting transport that would remove them to the remand centre in Claremorris, Hays encountered the two brothers being walked out, handcuffed, in the company of two armed Gardaí.

  “I’ll be seeing you later, Mr Hays,” Anselm Geraghty said with a sneer on his face, “oh, and give my regards to Rollo.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “You know what you need, Ms Lyons?” Hays said to his partner back at the station.

  “And what would that be, Mr Hays?” she replied with an impish grin on her face.

  “A holiday! Why don’t we see if we can get away for a week to somewhere nice? Then, when we get back, we can start working on the superintendent’s master plan,” Hays said.

  “Sounds good to me. Are you thinking bikinis or winter warmers?” she said.

  “Bikini – definitely, and speedos for me, of course.”

  “Bloody hell, Mick. That’s a scary mental image for a girl at this hour of the morning. Canaries?”

  “Perfect. I’ll square it with upstairs, and you get onto the travel agent and see what you can conjure up. My treat, so go easy on the credit card, there’s plenty of budget accommodation to be had, even at this time of year,” he said.

  “No chance. I’m a five-star sort of girl, or hadn’t you noticed?” she said, smiling warmly at him, and thinking how thoughtful he was.

  * * *

  When Hays returned from a brief chat with Superintendent Plunkett, he popped into Lyons’ office.

  “How does Los Cristianos in Tenerife grab you? Leaving Sunday morning from Shannon,” she said.

  “Terrific. Well done you, and the boss thought it was an excellent idea too, by the way.”

  “Just as long as he’s not coming with us!” Lyons said.

  “Well, I did invite him, but he says he’s too busy!”

  * * *

  The two detectives enjoyed a glorious week in the Canary Islands. While Hays’ leg hadn’t enjoyed four hours sitting in the middle seat of three on the somewhat cramped Ryanair Boeing 737, once they disembarked, and he got a chance to stretch it on the long walk to collect their baggage, it eased out and felt a lot better.

  Lyons had chosen the hotel well. It was the height of luxury, and positioned conveniently close to the beach and the centre of the little resort, which seemed to have a good array of excellent restaurants, bars and shops.

  The weather was kind to them too. At between twenty-three and twenty-seven degrees and sunny each day, it was just the type of climate they both enjoyed.

  They spent most days lounging by the pool or swimming in the sea, and while Hays was still careful not to walk too far, they managed a few gentle strolls along the coast on top of the dramatic cliffs that give Los Cristianos its unique scenery.

  In the evenings, they enjoyed some excellent meals at a
ny one of the seafood restaurants in the town, and after a nice bottle of good red Spanish wine, they ambled back to their hotel, retired, and made love gently and passionately in the enormous king-sized bed.

  By the end of the week, they were both feeling thoroughly refreshed and were almost looking forward to getting back to work. Hays’ leg had healed up well by this time, and the journey back didn’t bother him nearly as much.

  Arriving back into Shannon at almost midnight, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and flurries of light snow were drifting across the apron at the airport, but not sticking for long, as the temperature was just above four degrees.

  When they saw it, they both decided to check in to a local hotel for the night rather than drive back to Galway.

  “Let’s finish off the week in style, Maureen,” Hays said as they checked into the Park Inn just near the airport.

  “Amen to that!” Lyons echoed with a wide grin on her pretty face.

  * * *

  Several months later, when the Geraghtys’ case finally got to court, the case was concluded pretty quickly. They pleaded guilty to a number of the charges against them, but not guilty to the murder of Paddy McKeever. But the evidence told a different story, and with the fingerprints on the spent cartridge, and positive evidence that Anselm’s gun had been used to fire the fatal shot, with his fingerprints all over it, there was little doubt. The jury took just two hours with their deliberations, and convicted them both of murder, aggravated assault, robbery, and wounding a police officer in the execution of his duty.

  Mitigation was entered by the defence for Emmet Geraghty. It was put forward that he was being led and coerced by his older brother, and that he was scared what would happen if he didn’t go along with him. This was largely shot down by the prosecution, citing the incident at Deasy’s yard, where Emmet, acting alone, had threatened the lives of both Tadgh and Shay Deasy.

  Both were handed down life sentences, with the judge specifying that Anselm should not be eligible for parole for eighteen years.

  Just over a year into his sentence, Anselm Geraghty was discovered at 6 a.m. lying in a pool of his own blood on the cold, wet floor of the toilet block in Limerick prison. The prison authorities reported he had been stabbed with a finely sharpened tooth brush handle that had been found lodged in his carotid artery.