“It was a bit mad, to be honest. They didn’t really speak English, and I don’t do French, so it was all a bit stilted. I don’t think they were too interested in rural crime at all – more of a junket I’d say. But at least the brought me a nice hamper of good French wine and cheeses,” the superintendent said.
“It’s well for some,” Lyons said to herself.
Chapter Fifteen
When Lyons got to O’Conaire’s, she found Mick Hays sitting at the bar with a half-finished pint of Guinness in front of him. He got up when he saw her and the two embraced for a little longer than was appropriate given the location. When Lyons eventually withdrew, she had a tear in her eye. Hays saw it, and took her in his arms again and held her close, saying, “Hey. It’s OK, love, it’s OK.”
She finally stood back and said, “For pity’s sake Mick, will ye get me a drink?”
“That’s better, tiger! What’s your poison?”
Lyons spent the next half hour filling Hays in on the events of the day. He listened intently without interrupting until she had finished the story.
“And to top it all off, he wants you – Mr Senior Inspector – to go and see Weldon in the morning. Apparently, I’m not up to it!” she said.
They ordered their favourite meal as they sat in the window upstairs in the restaurant looking out over the calm water of Galway docks. A coaster, looking far too big to fit in the cramped harbour, was manoeuvring up against the quayside to collect a load of scrap metal that had been processed in one of the factories in the industrial estate adjoining the pier.
“Anyway, enough about me. How was your training course?” Lyons said.
“Better than I thought to be honest. The first day was a bit boring, but on day two they focused on the future, and the plans that they had to gear up the whole digital crime detection area. A chief superintendent gave us a talk,” Hays said.
“Cool. Anything we could use?”
“Probably. But it’s only at the planning stage for now. They’re setting up a new unit in London. He even asked me if I’d be interested in heading it up. Apparently, they had done a good deal of investigation into my background before I arrived,” Hays said.
“Jesus, Mick. Leave the Guards and transplant yourself to London? What did you say?” Lyons studied his face, and in particular his eyes, as she waited for his response.
“I thanked him for his kind offer and said I would give it some serious thought,” Hays said after a moment or two.
Later, after they got home, they went to bed and made love, but it was purely perfunctory. A physical release, lacking any real passion or emotion. As Hays drifted off to sleep, Lyons turned her back to him. “Damn it, I’m losing him,” she said to herself, and quietly cried herself to sleep.
* * *
The following morning Hays phoned the hospital from his office and was told that Oliver Weldon was to be discharged as soon as a doctor had seen him at about eleven o’clock. His wife was coming in to collect him, so they should be back home in Bearna by noon.
Lyons called John O’Connor into her office and was being updated on what had been discovered about David Ellis, the dead man, the previous day while Lyons was busy dealing with the Weldon incident.
“As we know, Ellis was an investigative journalist. In the last few years he had worked on a number of crime stories, employing techniques denied to the police, and had been instrumental in the arrest of some pretty big names, leading to successful prosecutions. Most of these were white collar crimes – fraud, tax evasion, money laundering and so on,” O’Connor said.
“I see. Any idea what he was working on just now?”
“Well the Dublin lads found a notebook in his apartment that may give us a clue, but it doesn’t mean much to me,” he said.
“What about the memory stick?” she said.
“Not much there. Bank statements. A few fairly bland letters. Some budgeting spreadsheets, and a few drafts of old articles that he must have had published, but nothing current,” O’Connor said.
“What do the bank statements tell us?”
“All the usual stuff. Rent payments, utility bills, that sort of thing. Cash withdrawals mostly from ATMs, and sporadic in-payments by bank transfer of quite decent sums, presumably when he got paid for his work. Oh, and there’s a monthly payment of a thousand euro going to another bank as well.”
“Could be a loan for a car or something,” Lyons said.
“That’s a bit rich for a car loan, boss, and anyway wasn’t he driving an eight-year-old jalopy that we found out in Clifden?”
“Yes, I see what you mean. Follow that up. See who’s at the receiving end, and then collate everything relevant into a folder. Include the notes from the notebook and leave it to me, John, thanks,” Lyons said.
“Already done,” O’Connor said producing a red plastic document folder and handing it to the inspector. Lyons studied it. Her instincts took her to the jottings that had been found in Ellis’s Dublin flat. On one page, there were a series of what could be disconnected jottings, but Lyons was nevertheless intrigued.
“TGNS 6393”, “Ashtons”, “3 deaths”, “Carlyle”.
Before she could process the information, O’Connor was back at her door.
“Sorry, Inspector, you asked me to do a bit of a background check on Oliver Weldon, so I did.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s all much as you would expect – pillar of the community, well connected, lots of charity stuff – but there is one odd thing. He appears to have at least eight bank accounts, two in England,” O’Connor said.
“That’s a bit odd all right. What age is he? He looked about a hundred and fifty when we got him out of the grave.”
“He’s fifty-two, and no children.”
“Is Laura the original wife?” Lyons said.
“Yes. They married when he was twenty-eight. She was a successful show jumper – she still does a bit, but it’s mostly dressage these days.”
“And how does Weldon make his money? Let me guess – horses.”
“Exactly. He breeds them and trades extensively in thoroughbreds, and the Connemaras too. But the real money is in the thoroughbreds. He’s been quite successful,” O’Connor said.
Before Lyons had a chance to look any further into the notes on Ellis, Hays appeared in her doorway.
“I’d like you to come out with me to see the Weldons in Bearna,” he said.
“But Plunkett said you were to do it.”
“He didn’t specify I was to be on my own, and anyway, I’m not having you cut out like that – it’s your case, you should be in on it,” Hays said.
“OK, cool. Let’s go,” she said, taking her jacket from the back of her chair and grabbing her handbag off the desk.
On the way out to Bearna, Lyons asked Hays if he had thought anymore about the job offer from the UK.
“Haven’t had a chance to be honest. And I’d have to make sure they could find a good spot for you too,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me. I could probably get a job at the checkouts in Asda or something,” she said in a rather caustic tone. But they didn’t have time to pursue the conversation as they had just arrived at Weldon’s palatial spread.
When Laura Weldon answered the door, Lyons introduced Hays giving him his full title, and they went inside. Oliver Weldon, looking better than he had the last time Lyons had seen him, but still tired and drawn, was sitting in a large comfortable armchair positioned so that he could look across the bog to the sea through the large picture window.
Hays shook hands with the man and told him not to get up. Laura Weldon offered the two detectives tea, which they willingly accepted. They were happy to have her out of earshot for the questions they were about to ask her husband in any case. Hays got straight to the point.
“Mr Weldon, Superintendent Plunkett has asked me to take personal charge of this very serious incident. He sends his best wishes to you by the way. We need to ask you some
questions about the incident itself, and what you believe may have been behind it.”
“Well I can tell you what happened, certainly, but I have no idea whatever was behind it, no idea at all,” Weldon replied.
Lyons felt he was a little too certain, and she noted that he looked down at the floor as he delivered the last part of the sentence.
“I received a phone call at about five o’clock the day before yesterday. The caller was well spoken with a British accent, and called himself Roger Williams. He said he was in the market for a young thoroughbred filly and had heard that I might be able to help him. He asked me to meet him at the caravan site at Gurteen, saying that his wife had taken the car into Galway,” Weldon said.
“Do you often get that type of unsolicited enquiry, Mr Weldon?” Lyons asked.
“Not often, but it does happen sometimes. That’s the business I’m in, and I’m quite well known. Most of my transactions are concluded at organised sales at Goff’s or somewhere, but it’s not unusual to get such an approach,” the man said.
“Very good. Go on, sir. What happened when you got to Gurteen?” Hays said.
“Well I was driving down the narrow road to the car park at the beach. About two thirds of the way down, the lane was closed off with three traffic cones, and two men were standing there indicating that I pull over to the side. I thought it was something to do with the building going on there, so I pulled the car across the site entrance. As soon as I’d stopped the car, the door was wrenched open, and I was dragged out and one of them put tape across my mouth and bound my wrists. It all happened so quickly,” Weldon said, clearly not enjoying having to recall his treatment.
“Did either of the men speak?” Lyons asked.
“No. Not at that time, Inspector, but later on just before they, well you know.” His voice was breaking up and he was visibly shaking as he recalled what had been done to him.
“Go on,” urged Hays, “what happened next?”
“Then they bundled me off across the fields and up into the graveyard, and we stopped beside an open grave. I was terrified. I thought they were going to bury me alive!” Weldon half sobbed.
“Did you struggle with them, Mr Weldon?” Lyons said.
“Yes, of course, at first at least. But they were very strong, and there were two of them after all, and they had bound my wrists with that dreadful tape. Anyway, I was frightened for my life!”
“Did you get a good look at them?” Lyons said.
“Not really. They both had black woolly hats on pulled well down, and jackets with high collars. One was taller than the other though, and they were both wearing builder’s boots. I think maybe one of them might have had some sort of tattoo on the side of his neck though, but I couldn’t make out the shape.”
“So, what happened at the grave?” Hays said.
“The taller one said ‘This is just a warning for you. Don’t say nothing to nobody, or next time we’ll fill the bleeding grave in on top of you. Got it?’ And then they bound my ankles with that tape and pushed me in. I landed on my front, and had to wriggle around to get on my back, just in time to see them putting the cover over, and then they were gone.”
“Very nasty. Very nasty indeed,” Hays said.
Mrs Weldon came in carrying a tray with four bone china tea cups and saucers and what looked like a solid silver teapot. There was an Irish linen tray cloth, a silver milk jug, a matching silver sugar bowl with cubed sugar and a little silver tongs, and, inevitably, a plate of homemade buns.
Lyons took the interruption as an opportunity to go outside. Her first call was to Sinéad Loughran. She asked Sinéad to go out to Gurteen and do a forensic search of the area between where Weldon’s car had been found and the graveyard.
“Anything at all, Sinéad. They may have dropped cigarette ends while they were waiting for Weldon to arrive. And look for boot prints going away across the fields up behind the site. Weldon says they went up that way to get into the graveyard,” Lyons said.
Next, she called detective Eamon Flynn in Mill Street.
“Eamon, I want you to organise two or three uniformed Gardaí to go out to Gurteen and question the locals about the incident there involving Oliver Weldon. Someone must have seen something. Get Séan Mulholland to volunteer Jim Dolan as well. I want every house and caravan knocked up. Oh, and just on the off chance, see if anyone bought a roll of strong duct tape in Roundstone earlier in the week. There were two blokes, possibly British. Rough looking men by all accounts,” she said.
“What about the Ellis case, boss? John has dug up some more information,” Flynn said.
“OK, good. I’ll be back in before long and we can pick it up then. Let’s have a briefing at, say, three o’clock.”
Hays decided not to persist with any more questioning of Oliver Weldon. Of course, there was more to be told, but instead of pushing it with Laura present, he asked Weldon to come into the station the following day to make a statement. “While it’s still all fresh in your mind,” Hays said.
On the way back to town Lyons decided not to raise the sensitive topic of Hays’ recent career opportunity. She would save that for later when they were alone, and had time for a proper row.
Chapter Sixteen
When Lyons got back to the station she called Sally Fahy and John O’Connor into her office.
“Right, John, what have you found out about our victim?”
“Quite a bit. From the notebook the Dublin lads got from his flat, I may have been able to make a link to the pony show,” O’Connor said.
“Go on.”
“Well that reference TGNS 6393. It’s a Lloyds Insurance Syndicate in London. Treadwell, Galbraith, Newton and Smythe, and they specialize in insurance for all kinds of horsey stuff. You can even insure against your stallion firing blanks,” he said.
“Thanks, John, a little too much information if you don’t mind,” Lyons said, “is that it?”
“No. He had the name Jack Ashton in the notebook too, and an odd entry, ‘Molly Boru’. I looked up Molly Boru. She was a horse that won a few races in England as a two-year-old. Jack Ashton trained her,” O’Connor said.
“Hmm. Interesting, and then our Mr Ellis ended up in the same guesthouse as Jack Ashton during the week of the show. More than a coincidence?” Lyons said.
“I’d say so,” Sally Fahy said, “why don’t I give that Lloyds crowd a call and see what I can find out?”
“Good idea, Sally. Anything more from Ellis’s bank records?”
“Yes. That one thousand euro a month payment goes to a Nicola Byrne. I’m getting an address for her now,” O’Connor said.
“OK, good work. Sally, let me know when you’ve spoken to the Lloyds crowd – what was it again, TGNS?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Sally said.
* * *
The girl that answered the phone when Fahy called the number in London, which she had found on the web, spoke in a very posh, home counties English accent.
“Treadwell, Galbraith, Newton and Smythe, good morning, how may I help you?”
“Hello. I am Detective Fahy from the Irish police. I wonder if I could speak to one of the partners please?”
“Well, Gregg Newman is our managing agent. May I ask what it’s in connection with and I’ll see if he’s available?” the posh girl said.
“It’s a confidential police matter, so if you could just put me through please,” Fahy said in the most assertive tone she could muster. The line went dead, and for a moment she thought that she had been cut off, but a few seconds later a man answered.
“Newman,” he said in an equally up-market accent.
Fahy explained who she was.
“I wonder if you could tell me, Mr Newman, if your syndicate has any connection to a horse called Molly Boru?”
“My dear detective, we deal with over two thousand horses here. I can’t possibly remember them individually by name,” he said with more than a hint of petulance.
“Oh, sorry,
yes of course. Well does the name Jack Ashton ring any bells?” Fahy asked, determined not to be put off.
“Ashton. Oh, yes, I remember him all right. His yard is insured with us. He’s up Northampton way if I remember correctly,” Newman said.
“Yes. Brixworth or Spratton I think,” Fahy said.
“Look, detective, do you mind if I call you back in a few minutes? I’d just like my secretary to get out the file so that I know what I’m talking about.”
“That’s fine, thank you, Mr Newman, that would be very helpful,” Fahy said and gave the man her number.
It was twenty minutes later when Gregg Newman called her back.
“Thanks for calling back, Mr Newman. Did you get the Ashton’s file?” Fahy asked.
“Yes. I wanted to be sure we were talking about the right stable. Now, what is it that you’d like to know?”
“I was just wondering if there was anything unusual in your dealings with the Ashton’s yard, sir?”
“Well, I’m not sure if I should be telling you this, but yes there is. Ashton has put in large claims for three dead animals over the past four years. Of course, his insurance premiums have gone up, but he’s definitely on the right side of it for now. To be honest we are quite concerned, and we have employed our own firm of investigators to look into it. But all the deaths were properly certified by a qualified vet, so we had to pay out. May I ask what your interest is?” Newman said.
“We’re investigating a suspicious death over here and the Ashton’s name just came up during our enquiries, but there may be no connection. We’re just following up leads,” Fahy said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure how we can help.”
“Well what you have told me so far is very useful. Do you mind if I ask who your investigator is?”
“They’re a firm we use from time to time. They have good connections in racing and breeding. You can call Peter Hackett.” Newman went on to read out a very long UK mobile number that Sally Fahy took down carefully.
“Just before I go, may I ask how much you have paid out to the Ashtons?” Fahy said.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 9