The Galway Homicides Box Set 2

by David Pearson

  “It will be driven into the station by one of us here, and it stays there until you can produce an insurance certificate and proof of ownership for it,” Clancy said.

  The two were driven away in the white Garda van that was standing by at the roadside for just such an occurrence. When they got to the Garda station, they were booked in and told they would be charged with driving without insurance and being in possession of stolen property at least, and that they would be held in a cell until further enquiries could be made.

  * * *

  “Galway,” Sergeant Flannery said, picking up the telephone. Why was it that it always rang just when he was about to enjoy a cup of tea and a few chocolate biscuits in the middle of his shift?

  “Sergeant Flannery. This is Sergeant Paul McQuaid from Sligo. You have a bulletin out for two lads driving a silver van, is that right?”

  “Hold on a second now, Paul, I’ll have a look for you. There’s so many of these blessed things these days, it’s hard to keep track. Do you have names?”

  “No, not yet, we’ve only just brought them in and they’re saying nothing. Got them at a roadside checkpoint for no insurance, but there seems to be a bit more to it,” Paul McQuaid said.

  “There usually is! Yes. Here we are, wanted in connection with an assault on a man out at Gurteen three days ago. Ye did well to collar them, Paul. Hold on I’ll put you through to the detectives and they’ll know what to do,” Flannery said.

  Eamon Flynn took the call from the front desk and wasted no time in bringing the news to Lyons who was seated at her desk bringing the paperwork on the case up to date.

  “That’s great news, Eamon. Will you take Sally and get on up to Sligo and sweat the buggers? Lay it on good and thick. Talk about attempted murder – life in prison – you know the drill, and tell them we have several witness statements that put them at the scene and hint at forensics too – see if you can frighten them into telling us what’s this all about,” Lyons said.

  * * *

  Sally Fahy enjoyed Eamon’s company, although there was no physical attraction there at all. Eamon was a good cop and had taught her a good few things in her first couple of years as a detective in the unit. He was a tenacious man, who never let anything rest until he had brought it to a conclusion, a trait that had served the unit well on a number of recent cases. At thirty-three he was just the right age for a detective sergeant, but he himself harboured ambition to get an inspector’s post if one ever became available. He had even contemplated a transfer to another area of the country to fulfil his ambition, though he had kept that little nugget of information to himself.

  “I think there may be trouble in paradise,” Fahy said out of the blue as they settled in for the two-hour journey between Galway and Sligo.

  “What? You mean the Mick and Maureen happy family show?” Flynn said.

  “Yes, the same. I overheard them having words yesterday when Mick got back from England, and she’s been a grumpy cow ever since he left for the course – and don’t you dare say anything about PMT!” Sally Fahy said.

  “What? Me, never. Could be though, couldn’t it?” Flynn said.

  Fahy whacked him as hard as she could on the leg, and he pretended to be mortally wounded.

  “The sooner women take over the entire force the better if you ask me,” Fahy said.

  “Are you sure? There’s one recent female appointment that didn’t turn out too well, did it?”

  “And what about the men that ‘didn’t turn out too well’?”

  “Strange, I never rated you as a flagrant feminist, Sally,” Flynn said.

  “Some detective you are, sure don’t you know Maureen and I have secret bra burning ceremonies at her place every weekend?”

  “Nice. Can I get a ticket – that would be worth seeing!”

  “Feck off Flynn, pervert,” she said, and they both laughed out loud.

  * * *

  When they got to Sligo, they introduced themselves to Sergeant Paul McQuaid who offered them refreshments. They had a cup of tea with him, and he explained how the sharp-eyed Garda Clancy had spotted the yellow plates on the floor of the van when he stopped it to check its insurance.

  “We get a fair bit of nonsense going on with cars and other vehicles being so near the border here. Fellas don’t want to pay the tax bringing Northern Ireland or UK cars into the Republic, and they’re inventing ever more ingenious ways of getting around it. Maybe Brexit will put an end to it. But Clancy is a good man, and he’s well up to them.”

  “That was handy. Be sure to thank him for us, it’s quite a breakthrough,” Fahy said.

  They went on to explain the assault on Weldon, and told the sergeant that they would be putting the fear of God into the two men in an effort to get them to tell what lay behind their adventure in Gurteen.

  “Do you need any help with that?” the sergeant asked.

  “Ah, no, you’re grand. We’re well used to the likes of them in Galway,” Flynn said.

  Eamon Flynn and Sally Fahy interviewed the two suspects for nearly three hours, but got absolutely nothing at all from them. It was clear that they were from that part of Donegal that borders the North of Ireland, and after the long session, the two detectives concluded that the boys may have been put up to their attack on Weldon by someone with subversive connections, and it would be more than their lives were worth to talk. They threatened, cajoled, played good-cop/bad-cop and used every other trick in their armoury, but still couldn’t get a word from either of the men.

  They were both wrung out after their long interrogation session, and eventually, Fahy phoned Lyons to put her in the picture.

  “OK, Sally. Don’t worry, I think you may be right about their connections in the North. Just have them charged with actual bodily harm and all the stuff to do with the van and the stolen plates, and leave it at that.”

  Lyons relayed the events of the day to Hays who went in search of the superintendent to tell him the good news – that they had two suspects in custody for the attack on his friend Oliver Weldon.

  “Excellent, Mick, well done. That’s a weight off my mind, I can tell you. I’ll tell Oliver the news and line him up to identify the scum-bags, so we can get a conviction. It should be good for two years or more in Mountjoy at least.”

  “But what about the motive for the attack, superintendent? We need to follow that up, surely.”

  “Ah, now listen, Mick. We have the two boys who assaulted him. Isn’t that good enough for you? We can’t go wasting time on stuff that might be going on in England or the North – that’s someone else’s problem. Let’s just see if we can wrap up the Ellis killing without starting World War Three and be done with it, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir, loud and clear. There are some ongoing threads to the investigation that I’d like to see completed, but I understand your position, sir,” Hays said.

  “Good man, Mick. That’s the spirit.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Oliver Weldon arrived at Mill Street Garda station bright and early the following day. At the front desk he asked for Senior Inspector Michael Hays. The desk sergeant used his desk phone for a moment, and then said to Weldon, “If you’d like to come with me, sir. Inspector Hays has been called out for something urgent, but detectives Flynn and Fahy will look after you,” he said, ushering the man into a small, rather dingy interview room.

  A few moments later, detectives Sally Fahy and Eamon Flynn entered the room. It took them a few minutes to put Weldon at his ease. They explained that all they needed was an account of what had happened the day he was assaulted. As he started to tell his story, with Flynn writing it all down meticulously, Fahy started to broaden out the discussion.

  “It must be a fascinating business you’re in, Mr Weldon. I suppose you get to travel all over?” she said.

  “Well, it’s mostly to the UK, though I have been further afield on occasion. We sold a couple of thoroughbreds to the Middle East last year, and I had to arrange air transpo
rt for them and fly down with them. They get treated better than first class passengers on those flights you know,” Weldon said.

  “I’m always seeing Aidan O’Brien and Dermot Weld on the telly,” Fahy said.

  Weldon laughed briefly.

  “We’re nothing like as big as either of those two of course, but we have had our moments.”

  “Didn’t you breed that two-year-old filly Molly Boru?” Fahy went on. She noticed Weldon flinch slightly at the mention of the horse’s name, but he recovered quickly.

  “Well not really. I sold her at a young age to a stables in England. But how do you know about Molly Boru?”

  “It’s just such a memorable name – a combination of Molly Bloom and Brian Boru. I suppose it’s difficult to think up original names for them all,” Fahy said.

  “Yes, it is, but we get a lot of help from Wetherby’s with that. They always have some good suggestions.”

  “I suppose they all have to be registered. Don’t they all have passports or something these days?” Fahy probed.

  “Yes, it’s all very sophisticated, and getting more so all the time. They’re even talking about a DNA database for thoroughbreds, but it’s a way off yet,” Weldon said.

  “Why would they need that, sir?”

  “Just for positive identification, like the police use for evidence.”

  “Yes, but your horses aren’t likely to commit any crimes, are they?”

  Everyone laughed.

  * * *

  Oliver Weldon finished the statement, read it through and signed it. It had been easier than he thought it would be, and the two detectives seemed nice enough, and very interested in his business. Once he was outside, and well clear of the Garda station, he took out his mobile phone and dialled one of his contacts.

  “It’s me. I’ve just come from the local police station. Look, we’ll have to lie low for a while. There’s a lot of attention on me at the moment, and I don’t like it. Let’s leave things for a month or two, OK?” he said.

  “Fine,” the female voice at the other end said. “Call me when you want to resume.”

  * * *

  Lyons was at her desk responding to emails when her phone rang. It was the switchboard. They had an insurance company on the line who wanted to speak to someone about the David Ellis death.

  “Sure. Put them through,” Lyons said.

  “Inspector Lyons, how can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Inspector. My name is Warner from Consolidated Life and General in Dublin. I understand that you’re the officer in charge of the investigation into the sudden death of Mr David Ellis,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s right. How can I help?”

  “We’ve had a claim in with regard to a life insurance policy we hold on Mr Ellis. It’s a bit of an odd one, so I just thought we should have a word,” Warner said.

  “I see. In what way is it odd, Mr Warner?”

  “Well, firstly, it’s paid up. That is, there are no further premiums being paid on the policy, but the cover is intact for another eight years,” he said.

  “I see. Is that all?” Lyons said.

  “No, it’s not. The claimant is a Ms Nicola Byrne. It seems she was married to Ellis at some stage, and they never actually divorced, so she says she has a legitimate right to claim.”

  “And how much is the policy worth, Mr Warner?”

  “It’s a hundred thousand euro, so you can see my concern.”

  “Yes, but why do you think this might be a police matter?” Lyons said.

  “I understand Ellis was murdered, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s a matter of public record.”

  “Well, as I’m sure you can guess, Inspector, my company doesn’t like paying out large amounts, and if there’s anything fishy about the claim we are entitled to hold off till the matter is resolved,” he said.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that the claimant had anything to do with the death of Mr Ellis, are you, Mr Warner?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Inspector. It’s just that this falls well outside the norms of our claims experience, that’s all. Have you any likely suspects for the murder?” he said.

  “I’m not in a position to discuss that, Mr Warner, it’s an ongoing investigation,” Lyons said.

  “Mmm, well I think we have enough to decline the claim, or at least delay the pay-out. We can always make a payment later when you have apprehended the guilty party. Perhaps you’d let us know when someone has been charged,” Warner said.

  “Perhaps.”

  When the call was over, Lyons went next door to tell Hays about it.

  “That’s a bit odd, I suppose. Maybe we should go and have a chat with Ms Byrne. What do you think?” Hays said.

  “We could always let the Dublin boys look after it,” Lyons suggested.

  “No. I think we should go ourselves, besides, we could both do with a night away from here – clear our heads.”

  * * *

  The team met again at lunchtime before Hays and Lyons set off east to Dublin. Fahy and Flynn brought them up to speed on the Weldon interview. Lyons was particularly interested in the information they had gleaned about animal passports. At the briefing O’Connor said that he had checked the change of ownership records against the travel days when Weldon had taken live horses to the UK.

  “He made twelve trips altogether in the past three years. There are changes of ownership showing from Weldon, mostly to Jack Ashton, but not exclusively. But for two of the trips, there’s nothing. So it looks like he took two horses out of the country, and, well, they disappeared!” O’Connor said.

  “What about Peter Hackett – did you contact him,” Lyons asked Fahy.

  “I left a message. He’s going to call me back later,” she said.

  * * *

  It was a fine autumn afternoon when Hays and Lyons set off east out of Galway on the N6 towards Dublin. Once they were well clear of the city, traffic was light enough, and they made good time. There were a number of lorries travelling back to Dublin having dropped their loads out west, and the inevitable collection of tourists driving their hired Hyundai and VW Polo cars rather precariously along at well below the speed limit. In the fine weather with just a few high, scattered clouds, and with the sun almost directly behind them, driving conditions were excellent.

  On the way to Dublin the conversation between them turned once again to the issue of Hays’ job offer to head up a digital crime unit in the UK.

  “I’m really sorry about last night,” he said.

  “That’s OK,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t. I spoiled a lovely meal, and I upset you as well, and that’s not OK. I’m sorry.”

  “So, what are your plans? When do you have to let them know?”

  “Listen, Maureen. I love you – very much indeed. And I can see that you don’t want to leave Galway, and I fully understand that. So, I’ll just put any thoughts of moving to the UK out of my head. You’re more important to me than that job,” he said, reaching over to take her hand in his as they drove along. Maureen was silent for a few minutes.

  “I’m not sure that will work, Mick. If you turn down this opportunity, you may regret it for a long time to come, and that regret could easily turn to resentment towards me. And it could even be justified,” she said.

  “That’s not me, Maureen. I don’t hold things up my nose, you know that. Let’s just let it go and carry on. I’ll tell them thanks, but no thanks. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”

  “I’m not sure, Mick. Don’t say anything to them for a few more days. Let me think the whole thing through a bit more. I’m serious now,” she said.

  “OK. We’ll park it for now then.” He squeezed her hand gently.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nicola Byrne lived in a small cottage in Ringsend. The house had once been occupied by workers from the vast Pembroke Estate. But the estate had been broken up many years ago, and now these small but substantia
lly built properties were all privately owned. Byrne’s cottage was in a long unbroken terrace of fourteen similar dwellings that had no front gardens, their entrances opening directly onto the footpath. But it was a quiet road, and when the two detectives arrived in the early evening, children were out playing football and chasing all along its length.

  Nicola Byrne answered the door of number eleven herself. She was a woman in her forties with a neat figure that fitted well into her blue jeans and grey T-shirt, and her long mousy coloured hair was tied in a single plait that fell down across her left shoulder. The detectives were invited into the single reception room, and sat down on the newish-looking brown leather sofa.

  “How can I help you?” Byrne asked after she had offered tea which they declined in unison.

  “I understand you were once married to a Mr David Ellis, Ms Byrne,” Lyons began.

  “Still am, as far as I know, although obviously we’re not living together any longer.”

  “Yes, of course. You’ll be aware that Mr Ellis was unfortunately found dead out in Clifden in suspicious circumstances,” Lyons went on.

  “Yes, yes it was terrible. I hope he didn’t suffer,” the woman said.

  “How long have you been apart?” Hays asked.

  “Let me see, it’s almost five years now, yes, that’s right, it will be five years in October.”

  “May I ask if it was an amicable separation?” Lyons said.

  “I suppose it was really, in the way these things go. But it wasn’t easy for either of us,” Byrne said.

  “No, of course not. I don’t wish to pry, but may I ask why you decided to split up?” Lyons said.

  “Nothing specific. Neither of us was having an affair or anything. We just lost interest in each other and neither of us wanted to go on living a lie,” Byrne said.

  “I see. I understand Mr Ellis had a life insurance policy,” Hays said.

  “Yes. David was always good at that sort of thing. He was insured for a hundred thousand euro, and was paying the mortgage on this place, bless him.”

  “And do you live alone now, Ms Byrne?” Lyons asked.