“I’m sorry, detective, that’s strictly confidential, but I can say it has been well into six figures – so far,” Newman said.
When the call was finished, Fahy tried the UK number for Peter Hackett, but there was no answer, and it went through to voice-mail. She didn’t leave a message.
* * *
Hays had a message on his desk to call Superintendent Plunkett as soon as he got in. Plunkett’s secretary answered the phone and demanded Hays’ presence in the superintendent’s office.
“Come in, Mick, take the weight off. Did you see Oliver?”
“Yes. He’s a bit shook up, but there’s nothing broken other than his pride,” Hays said.
“Look, Mick, this is very awkward for me. I don’t want your people going around digging up all sorts on Weldon. He’s very well connected, and not without influence further up the food chain. Just see if you can catch the buggers that assaulted him and leave it at that, will ye?”
“Well, OK, sir, but I think you should know that there are a few aspects of his background that warrant looking into,” Hays said.
“Such as?”
“Such as he appears to have at least eight bank accounts, and there may be a connection to a UK breeder that we’re also looking at in connection with the Ellis murder,” Hays said.
Plunkett stirred his substantial frame restlessly in his seat.
“For fuck sake, Mick, eight bank accounts is hardly a crime, now is it? And of course he has connections to UK breeders. He’s doing business in the Middle East too, but that doesn’t mean he’s a card-carrying member of ISIS!”
The superintendent had gone even redder in the face than usual and was clearly very agitated.
“OK, sir, we’ll go easy, but if he’s mixed up in anything crooked, it will come out. These things have a habit of coming to the surface, you know,” Hays said.
“Ah sure, don’t you know the whole horse thing is just one big cess-pit – it’s as crooked as a ginnet’s prick! Just don’t embarrass me. I hear there’s a vacancy for a sergeant coming up on the Aran Islands and I wouldn’t like you to have to apply for it!” Plunkett said.
“You needn’t worry about my future,” Hays muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir. Is that all?”
“Yes, away with ye, and tell that girly of yours to keep her nose out as well now, do you hear?”
Back in the open plan, Hays signalled to Lyons that he wanted to see her in his office.
“Jesus, Plunkett’s going mad!” he said.
“What’s wrong with him? Did he find out that I’d been speeding in his car?”
“Worse than that. It’s Weldon – he’s a friend of his of course, wouldn’t you know.”
“Well, unhappily for the superintendent, it may not be that easy to leave his friend out of things,” Lyons said.
“How do you mean?”
“While he was in hospital, I got the Garda that was watching him to go through his stuff,” Lyons said.
“Jesus, Maureen. You do like living dangerously, don’t you!”
“Yeah, well, upstanding pillars of the community don’t usually end up in the bottom of a freshly dug grave, do they?”
“Fair point. What did you find out?” Hays asked.
“Well a second mobile phone for starters. I got the cop to note down the number, and I’ve pulled the phone records. Mr Goody-two-shoes Weldon has been calling Ashton’s yard regularly over the past year,” Lyons said.
“But that could be perfectly innocent, surely,” Hays said.
“It could. But Sally has found out that Ashton’s insurers have been investigating him in connection with the horse deaths you found out about. C’mon Mick – if it quacks like a duck…”
“Damn it, Maureen, if this goes pear shaped Plunkett will tear the arse out of both of us,” Hays said.
“Sure, what do you care? You’ll be away to your fancy new job in England, won’t ya?” she said and turned away, walking out and leaving Hays slightly dumbfounded.
“Maureen, Maureen, wait,” he called after her, but she kept going.
Chapter Seventeen
Out at Gurteen Bay, fluffy cotton wool clouds scampered across the sun leaving light and dark patches on the calm blue water. Sinéad Loughran had arrived with two more white-suited members of her team, and they were carefully inspecting the area where Oliver Weldon’s Mercedes had been found for clues to the identity of his abductors.
Jim Dolan had arrived in from Clifden too, and along with Flynn and two other uniformed Gardaí, they were searching among the long stringy grass in the field leading up to the graveyard.
They had been searching for an hour or more when an old man in a greasy grey suit buttoned in the middle of the jacket, wearing a cap over his tanned and weather-beaten head, came down the lane. His progress was aided by a long stick he had in his left hand, and he was accompanied by an unkempt black and white collie dog who held its head low, with a wild look in its eyes.
The man stopped alongside Loughran’s white 4x4, but said nothing. Sinéad wandered over casually.
“Hello there. We’re out looking for evidence of an assault that took place here a few days ago,” she said.
“Ye mean the fella in the big car?” the old man said.
“A Mercedes, yes. I don’t suppose you saw anything out of the ordinary that day, did you?” Loughran said.
“Ah, no, sure I don’t come around here much. Unless of course you mean the van,” he said.
“Van. You saw a van?”
“Aye. A big silvery grey thing with a yellow number plate at the back. It was here for about an hour,” he said.
“What time was this when you saw the van?” Loughran asked.
“I don’t bother too much about time, Mrs. My watch broke a few years back. But it was quite well on in the day,” he said.
“Could it have been the builder’s van?”
“Not at all. Sure isn’t their van white, or it would be if they ever washed it?” the man said, breaking into a smile revealing that he only had about four crooked yellow teeth in his mouth.
“Did you get a look at the occupants at all?” Loughran said.
“Aye, I did. Two fellas they were with woolly hats. A bit rough looking, so I stayed well clear.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the number of the van?” she said.
“Not a bit of it! Sure, why would I be bothered with that sort of thing?” he said.
“Oh well, thanks for your help in any case. I must get on,” she said.
And with that, the old timer continued on past them down to the beach, the dog trotting ahead of him to chase away a few seagulls from the water’s edge.
* * *
It was late afternoon when the team got together again for an update on the murder, and the assault on Oliver Weldon. Hays left it to Lyons to run the meeting, so she stood at the front of the room alongside the whiteboard adorned with photos of both of the victims and other miscellaneous information.
“Right, everyone. Let’s see what we’ve got then,” Lyons said, calling the meeting to order. “John, you first.”
“Thanks, Inspector. Well I’m afraid the USB key yielded very little, but I did get some more information from the bank. The monthly payment made by Ellis goes to a Nicola Byrne. I managed to find some records for a person of that name, and it looks as if she and David Ellis were married at some stage. There’s no record of a divorce, but Ms Byrne, her maiden name incidentally, has been living at her current address for a good few years now,” O’Connor said.
“I see,” said Lyons, “so the monthly payment is possibly alimony then.”
“Yes, in all probability,” O’Connor confirmed.
“Does Byrne live alone?” Fahy said.
“I haven’t got that far yet, Sally, but I have an address, so it should be easy enough to find out,” O’Connor said.
“Well stay on it, John. Let’s see if there’
s anything there, although I doubt it to be honest,” Lyons said.
“And you asked me to look at Weldon’s travel movements. I contacted both ferry companies operating between here and the UK. Weldon uses Stena Line, and they were able to give me details of several round trips over and back to Wales,” O’Connor said.
“And there’s more. They told me that if you’re crossing with a live horse in a horsebox, you have to book it as freight. They load those into a different area of the boat, where there’s a tap so you can give the horse a drink of water, and not much fumes. If the horsebox is empty, you just book it as a passenger car and trailer, and it goes in with all the others. Weldon went over several times with a horse in the trailer and came back a few days later with an empty horsebox,” O’Connor said.
“Well that’s hardly surprising, that’s the business he’s in after all,” Hays said.
“You’re right of course, but there’s something niggling me about it all the same. Don’t you have to register a change of ownership every time you buy or sell a thoroughbred?” Lyons said.
“Yes, you do. The authorities are very strict about it,” Hays said.
“John, tomorrow I’d like you to check out two things. Firstly, see if there is a change of ownership registration that coincides with each of those trips. And then get back onto the Lloyds syndicate, TGNS I think they’re called, and get the exact dates for the deaths of Ashton’s horses. See if there’s any correlation. Our man Ellis may have been trying to join the dots,” Lyons said.
“Eamon, have you anything from Gurteen?” she asked.
“Very little, boss. Sinéad found a few boot prints down at the building site, and the same ones up at the grave side in the freshly dug out soil, but they’re as common as muck,” Flynn said. A collective groan went around the team.
“There was a sighting of a van with a yellow rear number plate seen around at the time of the assault though,” Flynn went on, trying to redeem himself. “No index mark noted, and no other sightings in the area. The two occupants match Weldon’s description, such as it was, so it looks as if they were the assailants. I’ve put out a ‘stop and arrest’ bulletin for the van.”
“Is that it?” Lyons asked.
Then Hays spoke up, “Oliver Weldon is coming in tomorrow morning to make an official statement about what happened to him. I think we should use the opportunity wisely, don’t you, Maureen?”
“Definitely. Eamon will you and Sally take his statement, but make it more of an interview without looking obvious. He’ll probably be happy enough to talk about his achievements, so let him ramble on – see what you can pick up,” Lyons said.
Before they broke up, Lyons reminded them that the primary focus should be on whoever it was that killed David Ellis. Everything else was secondary, though it did look as if there could be some connection between the murder, the Weldons and the Ashtons.
When the meeting ended, Hays and Lyons headed off to Hays’ office.
“Hang on a minute, there’s something I forgot to do,” Lyons said, and went back to catch Sally Fahy before she left the office.
“Sally, did you get in touch with that investigator the Lloyds syndicate used – Hackett I think his name is?” Lyons said.
“I called the number, but there was no reply. I’ll try again now,” Fahy said.
Hays looked up as Lyons came back into his office.
“Home?” he said.
“No. Tonight, DCI Hays, I am going to treat you to a posh dinner in the Great Southern Hotel. We need to talk!”
Chapter Eighteen
The penthouse restaurant in the Galway Great Southern Hotel was well known for its haute cuisine and very impressive wine collection. It was expensive, and often not completely booked out, and Hays knew the head waiter well, so the pair were shown to a quiet table for two with panoramic views out across the city, looking tranquil in the fading autumn twilight.
They studied the extensive menu in silence, and in the end, let the head waiter order for them. It was simpler, and they both knew that they would not be disappointed by his choices. When they had settled into a fine 2015 Saint-Émilion, Hays asked, “Well then, what’s this in aid of, Maureen?”
“Guess?”
“OK. You’re pregnant.”
“Get lost, Hays. You know very well what this is about,” Lyons responded.
“Oh, you mean my UK job offer? Well to be honest I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Liar,” she said, but not aggressively.
“Well what do you think about it then?” Hays said.
“Oh no you don’t. This is your gig. You tell me.”
“Fair enough. Cards on the table. It’s a terrific offer. Look at things here, Maureen. Plunkett isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and by the time he does I’ll be too old for the Super’s job. They may expand our team a bit, but that’s about as far as it goes. The UK job is new and exciting. God knows where it could lead. The money’s great, and it’s something I’d like doing as well,” Hays said.
“So that’s it then. Game over for Galway,” she said.
“No, of course not, but the way I’m feeling just now, I’d need a pretty compelling reason to turn it down.”
“What about your partner?”
“Partner, what partner? Oh, you, you mean?”
“Yes, Mick. You know, the woman who shares your bed and whom you occasionally confide in,” Lyons said.
“Well, I’m assuming you’d come too. I’m sure I could get you a posting in the UK as at least a DI or maybe even DCI.”
“And how well do you really think that would go for me? An Irish woman parachuted into a senior position over the heads of blokes who had been thinking of little else other than promotion for God knows how many years? And another thing. Please don’t make assumptions about what I’m thinking. Talk to me – I don’t bite. Well, only occasionally,” she said.
“Would you not want to come with me?” Hays said.
“Mick, be in no mistake, I always want to be with you. Why, even over the last few days with you away on your course I’ve been like a lovesick schoolgirl. So, I’ll probably go with you if that’s what it takes, but I’m not sure if I could hack it. I’m a Galway girl, born and bred, and if I have a choice, I kinda want to stay that way.”
Just then the starter arrived, and the meal proceeded largely in an uneasy silence. They tried some meaningless small talk, but it didn’t really work. When they had finished their food, Maureen paid the bill and they drove home to Salthill.
Once indoors Maureen announced, “I’m going to sleep in the spare room tonight. I have some thinking to do.” Hays knew better than to argue.
Lying in the freshly made up bed in the smaller bedroom at the back of the house, Maureen Lyons lay awake pondering her fate. Her head wouldn’t settle. It was a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and feelings. When at last the dawn started to push the darkness of the night away, for the second night in a row, she silently cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
The two thugs that had thrown Oliver Weldon into the open grave believed that they had got clean away with it. They had stopped on a quiet stretch of road between Roundstone and Recess and removed the UK number plates from the Transit van, and put back the Donegal plates. They took their time driving back, stopping over on the outskirts of Sligo, lying low for a couple of days to let things settle before going home.
They were heading up the N15 between Sligo and Donegal making sure to keep within the 100kph speed limit when they rounded a bend and saw a police checkpoint straddling the road. They had no time to turn the van around, or take any other evasive action, so they pulled up at the blue and white “STOP. Garda Checkpoint” sign propped up at the side of the road. A young Garda approached and signalled the driver to open the window.
“Good morning, men. Where are you headed this morning?” the young Garda said.
“We’re on our way back to Donegal, Garda, we’ve been down in
Sligo doing a bit of work,” the driver said.
“Oh, right so. Do you know that your insurance is out of date?”
“What? Oh no, Garda, it’s been renewed, I just haven’t got round to putting the disc in the window yet. I have it at home.”
“Just pull the vehicle over to the side please, and we’ll sort it out,” the Garda said. They driver complied, and pulled the van onto the hard shoulder.
The Garda opened the door of the van to speak to the driver about the insurance, and noticed two yellow number plates sitting on the floor of the van between the two occupants. He said nothing about that, but asked them if the insurance had been renewed with the same company.
The driver assured him that it had. At this stage the young officer asked them to wait in the van while he checked something out. He took possession of the van’s keys as he walked away out of earshot.
He used his radio to contact his Garda station.
“This is Clancy here, sarge, I have a couple of lads stopped out here on the Donegal Road. They’re in a silver Transit reg number one zero Delta Lima three six nine four zero two. But there’s a set of UK plates on the floor of the van too. They are Golf November Zulu five two nine eight seven. And I don’t think they have insurance either. Can you look it up on the system for me?”
“Sure, Darragh, stand by,” the sergeant said.
A few minutes later Darragh Clancy’s radio crackled to like.
“Darragh, are you receiving?”
“Yes, go ahead, sarge.”
“You were right, the boys have no insurance, and those UK plates belong to a stolen Ford Mondeo lifted in Strabane a month ago. And Galway has a bulletin out looking for a couple of lads that sound like these two. I think you’d better bring them in for a chat.”
“Right, sarge. We’ll wrap up the checkpoint and bring them on in.”
Garda Darragh Clancy broke the news to the two thugs in the van who were not happy, but decided not to try and make a run for it. Clancy had two other Gardaí with him and it would have been a senseless gesture in any case, and only have made their situation worse.
“What happens to our van?” the driver said when he realised that he wouldn’t be driving it away.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 10