Sinéad Loughran had heard both sides of the conversation with Tom Scanlon.
“He’s a useful contact,” Sinéad said.
“Isn’t he just. One of Mick’s of course – see what I mean? Anyway, your mission, Ms Loughran, should you choose to accept it, is to explore that little memory thingy you got from the car first thing tomorrow, and find out just what our Mr Ellis was up to,” Lyons said.
“Oh, no pressure then.”
When they had finished their second drink, the two women left the pub. Lyons wanted to get home to do a job on the house before Mick returned the following day. She had done a lot of work on the place even before she moved in, and she wanted it to be a real home for them both to act as a catalyst cementing their relationship.
On the way home, an idea came to her. Based on the information Mick Hays had shared with her about the Ashton’s, she decided it would be a good idea to have them interviewed before they left the country. She didn’t want to do it herself, so she called Eamon Flynn on her hands-free phone as she was driving home.
“Hi Eamon. Look I’d like you to do something for me. Could you go out early tomorrow morning to the Ocean View Guesthouse near Clifden and interview Mr and Mrs Ashton. Give them a good grilling about where they were the night Ellis was killed, and see what you can shake loose. Bring Pascal Brosnan along too if you like, to lend a bit of weight to the process,” Lyons said.
“Sure, boss, that’s no problem. What time do I need to be out there?”
“I’d get there around eight if you can. We don’t want them doing an early one and getting away before you have a chance to speak to them. And when you’ve finished the interview, give me a call and let me know how it went. Is all that OK?”
“Yes, fine. I’ll call you after. Bye,” Flynn said, and was gone.
Chapter Twelve
Flynn left the city early to get out to Clifden by eight o’clock in the morning as instructed. There was virtually no traffic at all on the road, and he ignored the speed limit, so he made good progress. He had called Pascal Brosnan the previous night and arranged to meet him at Ocean View at eight o’clock.
Although the two men were of different ranks, they tended to greet each other by their first names if no one was about.
“Hi Pascal. Thanks for coming out,” Flynn said, getting out of his car on the neat tarmac driveway of the guesthouse.
“Ah, no bother Eamon. What’s the drill here?”
“We just have to interview the Ashtons. Inspector Hays has been doing some investigations in the UK, and he reckons they are worth a shake,” Flynn said.
“How do you want to play it?” Brosnan asked as they walked towards the door.
“Just as it comes. Feel free to join in if you think I’m missing anything.”
Mrs Curley answered the door and was clearly surprised to see two policemen calling at such an early hour.
“Good morning, Mrs Curley. Garda Brosnan and myself just wanted a word with the Ashtons before they leave. Are they up yet?” Flynn asked.
“Well, you’d better come in,” she said, indicating that they should go into the lounge on the right side of the hall. The lounge was very clean and tidy, and provided a large comfortable sofa and several well upholstered easy chairs, as well as a modern television and a sideboard covered in current magazines and brochures for the various attractions in the area. Flynn noticed that the embers of turf in the fire were still giving out a modicum of heat, which was why, he surmised, the grate had not been cleaned out as yet.
“If you’ll just wait here, I’ll tell them you’re wanting to speak to them. They’re just having their breakfast. Oh, and would you gentlemen like a cup of tea or coffee?” Mrs Curley asked, unable to prevent her natural hospitality coming to the fore.
“That would be very nice, Mrs Curley. Tea would be fine,” Pascal Brosnan said.
Mrs Curley left them to it, hurrying away to tell the Ashtons about their visitors and prepare the unexpected additional refreshments for the two men.
After a few minutes, Jack and Alison Ashton came into the lounge and the two Gardaí introduced themselves. When all were seated, Flynn opened the conversation.
“As you know, folks, there was an unpleasant incident out at the pony show the other day in which a man lost his life. We believe he was murdered. We’re talking to anyone who was there on that day, or has any connection to the deceased. It’s purely routine in these circumstances.”
Alison Ashton was clearly uneasy with the situation. She was seated at the very edge of her chair, and was wringing her hands together uncomfortably as the detective spoke.
“So, may I ask you about your movements on the day in question? I assume you were together for much of the day,” Flynn went on.
“Yes, yes of course,” Jack Ashton said. “We breakfasted here as usual. Then we went out to the show and spent the morning watching the jumping and talking to some of the competitors, and people we know from the pony club. We left at about one o’clock, and drove on out towards Westport, stopping at the viewing area in Louisburg to enjoy Mrs Curley’s marvellous packed lunch,” Ashton said, looking at his wife for confirmation. Alison nodded and smiled briefly.
“Then we drove on into Westport and visited Westport House. That would have been mid-afternoon or thereabouts. After that, we drove back into Clifden where we had dinner in Foyle’s Hotel at around seven o’clock. Then we came back here, watched the BBC News on TV and went to bed,” Ashton said.
“Did you have a reservation for Foyle’s Hotel?” Brosnan asked.
“Oh, yes we did. It was very full, so we booked it the previous day, and they said as long as we would be gone by eight-thirty when they needed the table, that would be fine.”
“Tell me, Mr Ashton, did you know the deceased at all? David Ellis was his name,” Flynn said.
“No, no, I don’t believe so. Was he a breeder?”
“No. He was an investigative journalist. We think he may have been working on a case related to the ponies, or at least horses in general. Are you sure you never came across him?” Flynn asked.
“Quite sure, Sergeant. Now, if there’s nothing else, we need to get packed up and be gone. We have a ferry to catch,” Ashton said.
* * *
Mrs Curley brought in a tray with a large pot of tea, four cups and saucers, and the inevitable plate of home baked scones just as the Ashtons stood up. Flynn was sure she had been listening at the door and timed her entrance to disguise the fact.
When the Ashtons had gone upstairs, Brosnan went to find the lady of the house to confirm the times that Ashton had given them for the night Ellis was killed.
“Yes, that’s right, she said. They came in about nine. We watched the Irish news on RTE, and then they asked if we could change channel to the BBC so they could see the English news. After that, they went up to bed,” the woman said.
“And they didn’t go out again at all?” Brosnan said.
“No. I would have heard them coming and going. No, they stayed in after that. Why? Is that important?
“Just making sure we have covered everything, Mrs Curley. Thanks for the tea. We’ll leave you in peace now.”
Once they were outside, and out of earshot, Flynn phoned Foyle’s Hotel and checked that the Ashtons had in fact eaten dinner there that night.
“Oh yes. They have been in a few times, and they were definitely here that night. We were very busy, but I remember them. They left a generous tip,” the girl on the phone said.
“Well, that’s that,” Flynn said to Brosnan.
“Was it worth the trip, Eamon?”
“I think so. Strange that they didn’t say that they knew Ellis from the guesthouse. They were staying there at the same time, and they must have breakfasted together at least. And Mrs Ashton was very nervous,” Flynn said.
“God, I missed that completely, but you’re right. Is it significant?” Brosnan said.
“Could be, Pascal, could be.”
Flynn caught Lyons just before she left the house for work and relayed the details of the interview with the Ashtons.
“That’s all very well, Eamon, but what feeling did you get when they were talking to you? Did you get a sense that they were hiding something?”
“Well they denied knowing Ellis, despite the fact that he had been at the guesthouse with them, and it’s not exactly palatial, so they must have met at some stage.”
“Interesting. Well thanks anyway. See you later.”
* * *
Lyons sat at her desk nursing a mug of milky coffee. After she had given the house a thorough clean the previous night, she had finished off an open bottle of red wine, watching some daft mind-numbing game show on TV. There must have been more in the bottle than she thought, for her stomach felt acidy, and she had the start of a thumping headache. She swallowed two paracetamols in the hope of seeing it off before it really took hold.
By nine o’clock the open plan office had filled up, so she made an effort and called the team together.
“Right, folks, we have lots to do today. I want to see some real progress before Inspector Hays gets back, or he’ll think we’ve been on holiday too!” A murmur of subdued mirth went around the room.
“John, can you talk to Sinéad, and between you get busy with that memory stick. Get as much as you can off it, and arrange it in reverse date order – latest first. Get Sally involved if you need her, and while you’re at it, get onto his bank and get them to expedite his bank statements – and I don’t want to hear any of that data protection bullshit – got it?” Lyons said.
“Yes, boss,” O’Connor said.
“Sally, I want you on Weldon. Again, bank statements, travel records, even bloody parking tickets. There’s something not right with him. You’ll need a warrant, so get the form done up, I’ll sign it and then you can take it upstairs,” she said. “Oh, and Sally, can you go along to the PM? I’m not feeling up to looking at dead bodies being slit open this morning.”
“Sure. But about Weldon’s bank accounts, wouldn’t it just be easier to ask him for them, boss?” Fahy said.
“Probably. But I don’t want to alert him yet, so just do it the way I asked, will you?” She realised that she was being a grumpy cow, but the tablets hadn’t eased the pain in her head and she was determined to make progress before Mick returned.
“I’m going to dig around on Ellis now that we know what he did for a living. I’ll get the lads in Dublin to go around to his place too and see what they can find. Let’s chat again at one o’clock,” she said.
Lyons retreated to her office and started trawling the net for any articles she could find concerning, or written by, Ellis. It didn’t take long for her to get lucky. There were a number of pieces featuring Dionysus. The stories featured a lot of fairly low-level crime where Ellis had brought wrong-doers to book when the Gardaí had been unable to do so due to the constraints under which they were operating. Ellis was able to use entrapment and infiltration, and he was able to do some other illegal stuff too that led to the exposure of criminals involved in fencing stolen property or car theft. Once the criminals were caught, Ellis would sell the story to the papers or TV stations who love this kind of stuff. It seemed he was careful to avoid anything involving organized crime though, probably in case they decided to take revenge on him.
“Well that didn’t work out too well, David, did it?” Lyons said to no one at all.
She was just starting down another rabbit hole on her PC when the phone on her desk jangled.
“God, that bloody thing is loud today,” she thought, reaching for the instrument.
“Lyons,” she said.
“Maureen, good morning, it’s Superintendent Plunkett. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes in my office?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Now?”
“Thanks, yes, now would be fine,” he said and hung up.
Lyons had a good idea what this was about, so she rehearsed a few lines as she climbed the stairs to the third floor where Plunkett had his relatively plush office. Before Lyons had properly sat down in front of his very spacious and clutter free mahogany desk, Plunkett began to speak.
“Look, Maureen, I’ll get straight to the point. I see you’ve requested a warrant to see Oliver Weldon’s bank accounts. Is that really necessary? I know Oliver, quite well as it happens, and I very much doubt that he’s involved in anything shady, let alone murder,” Plunkett said.
“Yes, sir, I understand. But we need to cover all the bases on this one. I’m sure you’re right, but I need to be thorough.”
Even as she said it, she knew it sounded weak.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve gone after an acquaintance of mine who turned out to be totally innocent, is it, Inspector?”
Lyons knew that he was referring to James McMahon, and architect from Galway who had been investigated in connection with the Lisa Palowski murder out on the old bog road, near Ballyconneely a few years back.
“Well, yes, sir. But it did look as if he could have been involved, and he was visiting an escort regularly if memory serves.”
Lyons was determined not to roll over for the superintendent too easily.
“Hmph. Well anyway, what’s your interest in Mr Weldon?”
Lyons went on to explain that she was fairly certain that Ellis was investigating something that was going on to do with the bloodstock business, and as Weldon was top and tail of the event where the man met his death, she felt the need to investigate. He wasn’t the only person of interest that they were looking at.
“Oh, very well then, I’ll sign it off, but I’m not happy. Not a bit happy. This better lead to something, or there will be consequences. Dismissed!”
“Jesus,” thought Lyons as she made her way back to her office, “I wonder how much raw meat he had for breakfast. Her headache was back – well, in truth, it had never really gone away. She felt like shit.
Back in her office she started looking through her PC again to see what else she could find out about Ellis. She had only just got started when a dark shape filled her doorway. It was Superintendent Plunkett.
“Maureen, I need you with me now. Get your jacket, and hurry up,” he barked.
By the time she had locked the screen on her computer and picked up her jacket from the back of the chair, Plunkett was already disappearing down the corridor.
* * *
Lyons sat back in the plush beige leather of Plunkett’s Audi A6. She had never been in the Super’s car before and she loved it. The dashboard was walnut and there seemed to be all sorts of gadgets at the disposal of the driver and passenger, as well, of course, as fully automatic climate control. The big engine purred sweetly, even though he was pushing it along fairly hard.
“Where are we going, sir?”
“Out to Bearna. Oliver Weldon’s disappeared, and poor Laura is beside herself with worry,” he said.
Lyons knew she had to tread carefully here after their earlier exchange. On the one hand she felt somewhat vindicated by the situation, but she also felt that Plunkett could easily blame her for Weldon’s disappearance. It was completely ridiculous, but you didn’t get to be Superintendent in the Gardaí without learning how to pass the blame for the things that went wrong onto the lower ranks.
Before she had time to frame a tactful question, the superintendent went on.
“He got a phone call about five o’clock yesterday and said he had to meet someone out west. Laura was out at Bridge last night and when she came home she went straight to bed and didn’t notice he wasn’t home until this morning,” he said.
“And she doesn’t know who the phone call was from I suppose?”
“You suppose correctly, Inspector,” he replied, and pushed the sleek black car on a pace towards Bearna.
Bearna is a thriving village community that lies to the west of Galway city, out past Salthill on the Galway Bay coast. It used to be a small, sleepy place – just a few houses and shops – on the
way to Spiddle, but in recent times it had grown substantially. The village is officially designated as part of the Gaeltacht, or Gaelic speaking region. As a result, to encourage population growth, or rather to stem de-population, Galway County Council allowed much more lenient planning consent in the area, and soon after they had relaxed the rules, very large houses began to spring up between the narrow coastal road and the shoreline. The wealthy tradespeople of Galway had taken full advantage of the position, and several properties with indoor swimming pools, gymnasia, and other unlikely features, all running to over five thousand square feet, had appeared in the area. Weldon’s was one of these. It stood on the rocky, boggy ground to the left of the R336, and enjoyed spectacular views of the Atlantic Ocean from the back of the property. A low, flat-roofed building, so designed to minimize the impact of the prevailing westerly wind during the stormy winters, the house was ultra-modern in style and maintained in immaculate order.
As Lyons got out of the Audi she noticed a slight autumnal coolness on the breeze, and she could see that the heather was now in full bloom – a sure sign that winter wasn’t far away.
Chapter Thirteen
Laura Weldon was in a bad way. She had obviously been crying, and couldn’t stand still, prancing up and down wringing her hands.
“It’s all right Laura,” Plunkett said, “we’ll find him. It’s probably just something perfectly simple. Don’t fret.” Then, as an aside to Lyons, he went on, “Could you rustle up some tea, Maureen, and while you’re out in the kitchen, call the station and get another female officer out here pronto. Get her to bring a telephone recording device in case there’s a ransom demand,” he said.
“It’s not like Oliver at all. He always keeps in touch,” the woman said, near to tears again.
“What happens when you call his mobile?” Plunkett asked her.
“It just goes straight to voice-mail. It must be turned off,” Laura said.
“Have you tried texting Oliver?”
“Yes, of course, Finbarr, but there’s been no response,” she said.
“Have you any idea exactly where he was going, Laura, and who he was meeting?”
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 7