Sergeant Séan Mulholland – in charge of the Clifden Garda Station, and nearing retirement, Mulholland likes to take it easy, but can be very effective when things turn nasty.
Garda Jim Dolan – Mulholland’s right-hand man in Clifden.
Garda Pascal Brosnan – runs the little Garda station in Roundstone single-handedly. His firearms training comes in useful from time to time.
Garda Peadar Tobin – another of Mulholland’s men from the Clifden Station.
Inspector Jim Nicholson – works for the Garda’s Internal Affairs department where he seeks out deviations from proper procedure.
Paddy McKeever – a much liked postman who delivers mail between Galway and Clifden.
Breeda McKeever – Paddy McKeever’s wife.
Anselm Geraghty – a hardened criminal who seems to have a reckless streak.
Emmet Geraghty – Anselm’s young brother – an equally vicious thug.
Rollo – a near down and out who mixes among the seedier citizens of Galway.
Sheila Bourke – Maureen Lyons’ married sister who lives on what had been the family farm out near Athenry.
Séamus Bourke – Sheila’s husband.
Lionel Wallace – the manager of the luxurious Abbey Glen Hotel.
Bridget O’Toole – the elderly post mistress who has been running the Post Office in Clifden for many years.
Aoife O’Toole – the post mistress’s daughter who works in a nearby pharmacy.
Tadgh Deasy – an erstwhile car dealer and mechanic who is well known to the Gardaí.
Shay Deasy – Tadgh’s son.
Tommy McKeever – Paddy McKeever’s brother.
Ivan McKeever – Paddy McKeever’s nephew.
Jean – paramedic.
Dr Brady – the local medical man from Roundstone.
Agnes – Dr Brady’s nurse.
Mr Michael O’Flaherty – a competent surgeon based in Galway’s Regional Hospital.
MURDER
IN THE AIR
DAVID PEARSON
Chapter One
Gerald Fortune, known by all and sundry as just ‘Ger’, stood in the small portacabin that served as a briefing room and terminal for the airport on Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands off the coast of Galway. He was on the phone to Galway Airport, filing a flight plan for the journey back to the mainland.
“Take off from Inis Mór at eleven hundred hours, then a right turn out to Inverin not above 1500 feet, then on to Moycullen and Claregalway, expect a right-hand turn for Galway runway two-six at Claregalway. Call you at Moycullen, roger.”
“And can you just confirm the number of souls on board please?” the controller at Galway said.
“Three souls on board: my architect, Fionn Devaney, my daughter Emma Fortune, and myself.”
“Thanks, Mr Fortune. Once you are overhead Inverin, squawk 4420 on your transponder for radar identification. Have a good flight,” the controller said, signing off.
Ger noted the number down on the notepad that would be strapped to his knee during the flight, along with a map of the route to be followed.
He walked the short distance out to the Cessna 172 that stood on the apron of Inis Mór airport. The two passengers were already on board, and Ger called to them as he approached the plane.
“Just doing the final walk around to check that everything is in order. I’ll be with you in a minute. We have to take off at eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. It was 10:55. He walked slowly around the little blue and white plane, examining the tyres, the flaps, rudder and lights to see that everything was moving freely and in good condition, before climbing into the left-hand seat and closing the door.
Ger was one of the fifty-eight members of the Atlantic Flying Club based at Galway airport. The club owned three Cessna 172s, and any club member that was in possession of a valid private pilot’s license could hire one of the planes on a first-come, first-served basis for an hourly fee. Ger had been largely instrumental in building the club up to its current strength, and had ploughed quite a bit of his own money into the venture, so he tended to get preference when it came to getting a plane.
The three of them had flown out the previous day, and had spent the afternoon surveying the site of what Ger hoped would become a thirty-bedroomed hotel, once detailed plans were submitted to Galway County Council.
Ger Fortune had made his money initially in the north-west of England. He left Galway as soon as he had finished school, and had gone to stay with an uncle and aunt in Manchester, where he quickly found work in the building trade that was enjoying a resurgence after being in the doldrums for most of the 1980s.
He had started out like many Irishmen before him, carrying bricks, but he was a quick learner and it wasn’t long before he became a bricklayer and was earning more money than he ever thought possible at that trade. He was careful with his money too, avoiding the double pitfalls of gambling and excessive drink that had reduced many of his fellow countrymen to penury, and when he returned to Ireland in 2004, he quickly developed a nice little business building small strings of semi-detached houses which sold at substantial profit on the back of the now infamous Celtic Tiger.
By the time the recession came in 2008, Ger had amassed quite a large amount of money, but unlike many of his contemporaries, he sensed the arrival of the crash and got out of the business just in time.
With cash at hand, he was able to buy a number of sites at knock-down prices from bankrupt builders as the financial crisis deepened, so that when things began to improve again, he was ideally positioned to take best advantage.
These days, he no longer built houses himself. Instead, he partnered with builders: he provided the sites, and the builders actually constructed the properties. The proceeds of sale were split sixty-forty between the builder and Ger himself under this arrangement. It was an ingenious system, leaving Ger free to pursue other opportunities while not having to worry about direct labour or sub-contractors or any of the hundreds of daily problems that plague the building trade, while all along making good money from his earlier astute investments.
Now equipped with a large war chest, Ger was keen to embark upon his next business venture – the construction of a very luxurious small hotel on Inis Mór. The hotel would be sold as part of a package to overseas clients. The package would include an air taxi ride from Galway to the island, using the services of the flying club, spa treatment and haute cuisine at the hotel, and various excursions around the beautiful west coast of Ireland both by plane and road vehicle, all at a fairly hefty price.
Needless to say, there was considerable resistance to Ger’s plans from some of the locals on the island, though as was typical, opinion was divided. Some relished the additional employment that the venture would bring, while others detested the commercialization of the island believing the natural tranquillity and unspoilt beauty of the place would be destroyed forever.
Once seated inside the rather cramped cockpit of the little plane, Ger checked all the instruments to make sure everything was in order, and started the engine.
“Echo India X-ray Alpha Tango ready for taxi”, he said into the radio.
“Roger, Alpha Tango, clear to line up runway three-two,” the Inis Mór controller replied.
Ger released the parking brake, advanced the throttle and the plane moved gently forward. He lined it up on runway three-two as instructed, and moments later the controller called him again.
“Alpha Tango cleared take off runway three-two, right turn out to Inverin, wind two-eighty at ten knots.”
Ger blipped the radio again to signal that he had received the transmission.
“Emma, are you belted in?” Ger said.
“Yes, Dad, of course.”
“Good. Here we go then.”
He pushed the throttle to full power and the plane accelerated down the paved surface. As it gathered speed, Ger put in some rudder to keep it on the centre-line, and well before the end of the runway, he eased back
on the yoke and the Cessna lifted cleanly into the air, crabbing slightly against the force of the stiff breeze.
When the plane was at a couple of hundred feet, and Ger had commenced the right turn to bring the aircraft on course for Inverin, just ten minutes away, the radio crackled into life again.
“Alpha Tango, off at eleven-oh-two. When ready, contact Galway on one-one-eight decimal seven. Good day.”
“Thanks, Séan. Will do, one-one-eight decimal seven. Bye.”
With the wind now largely behind them, the Cessna made Inverin in just over twelve minutes. Ger rotated the dial on the transponder to 4420, and called Galway. He was asked to press the ‘ident’ button on the transponder, and the Galway controller confirmed that he had been identified on their radar.
“Alpha Tango, continue as cleared not above fifteen hundred feet. Call us at Claregalway for the approach,” the Galway controller said.
“Roger, call at Claregalway, Alpha Tango,” Ger repeated.
The two passengers were enjoying the scenery in the bright summer sky. Cotton wool clouds drifted by overhead, and the dappled sunshine created a light and dark patchwork pattern on the boggy ground beneath them.
They were about halfway between Inverin and Moycullen, flying along at fifteen hundred feet, being buffeted slightly by the breeze, when the engine stuttered to a halt.
“What’s happening, Ger?” Fionn said with considerable alarm in his voice.
“Dad, dad,” shrieked Emma from the back seat.
Ger checked all the instruments on the panel in front of him. The fuel gauge indicated there was plenty of fuel. The rev counter was at zero, and the plane began to pitch forward.
Ger attempted to start the engine again. Although the propeller rotated slowly under the input from the starter motor, the engine wouldn’t catch, and the angle of decent became steeper.
Ger pulled back on the yoke to try and bring the nose up. He might be able to glide the plane down to earth if he couldn’t get the engine going again.
He pressed the radio’s transmit button.
“Mayday, Mayday. Alpha Tango has lost its engine, descending rapidly.”
“Christ, do something Ger, for God’s sake!” Fionn shouted, now completely panicked.
Emma was crying in the rear seat.
“Dad, dad. What’s happening?” she sobbed.
“Start, ya bastard, start!” Ger shouted at the plane.
Ger Fortune tried again in vain to start the engine of the plane as the nose pitched forward again, despite the back pressure on the yoke. The airspeed was getting dangerously close to stall speed, and although the engine coughed as Ger operated the starter motor with the throttle advanced to the halfway point, it just wouldn’t fire up.
“We’re going in!” Ger shouted. “Brace, brace!”
The plane struck the bog nose first, and tumbled over sideways on its roof, ripping off the left-hand wing. Inside the cabin, Emma was thrown first against the side wall of the plane, and then her head was wrenched forward, striking the back of Fionn Devaney’s seat with such force that it snapped her neck. The two men in the front didn’t fare any better, and by the time the plane came to rest, all three occupants were dead.
A couple of lapwings that had been nesting in the bog took off, disturbed by the sudden drama. Then a terrible stillness descended on the scene, and aviation fuel seeped out onto the marshy ground.
Chapter Two
Senior Detective Inspector Maureen Lyons was at her desk in the office that had been allocated to her in the building close to Mill Street Garda Station in Galway. Things had changed considerably in recent months for the Galway Detective Unit. Lyons’ partner, Mick Hays, had been made up to Detective Superintendent, and now spent a lot of his time on administrative duties, attending meetings and filling out endless reports. He didn’t have a lot of interaction with the front-line officers, except that every two weeks there was a sort of team meeting which he attended if he was around, when progress on current cases – or lack of it – was discussed in detail.
Lyons had recently been joined by a new inspector – James Bolger. Bolger was an experiment. The Garda had been trying to modernise the force, and had looked to Europe for new ways of working. This had led them to allow entry at Inspector level to a few – very few – graduates of criminology, who had undergone a curtailed training programme in Garda procedure. The experiment was being carefully watched by senior management in the force, with a view to extending it if it was deemed to be successful.
Bolger had been careful to try and fit in. He had been parachuted into the Galway Detective Unit when Superintendent Plunkett had been given the go-ahead to expand the team. Bolger was inserted above Detective Sergeants Eamon Flynn and Sally Fahy, and under Maureen Lyons who now had Hays’ old job title of Senior Inspector. Flynn and Fahy had been well prepared for Bolger’s arrival, and had decided not to make any hasty decisions about the efficacy of the arrangement. A lot would depend on his attitude to them, though Flynn in particular couldn’t help but be a little bit put out. He was inclined to refer to Bolger when he was out of earshot as ‘the boy wonder’.
Lyons’ phone rang.
“Lyons,” she said.
“Hi, Inspector. We’ve had a call from Galway Mountain Rescue. It seems a plane has gone down somewhere out west. They’ve scrambled the helicopter, but they want someone from here to attend as well,” the desk sergeant said.
“Oh, OK. Have we got a precise location?” she asked.
“They said to call the airport. They’ll give you the low down,” he said.
“Thanks, we’ll call them now,” she said, hanging up.
Lyons summoned her new recruit from the open-plan. She explained to Bolger what she had been told, and asked him to call the airport to get as much information as he could about the incident. He was back in her office three minutes later.
“It’s a light aircraft with three people on board. It disappeared off the radar between Inverin and Moycullen. The helicopter is going out with a medical team, but it will be back at the airport in about half an hour, and they can give us a lift to the scene if you like,” Bolger said.
“Sounds OK. I haven’t been in a helicopter before. Are you up for it?”
“Sure. I’ll get a radio so we can talk to the air sea rescue folks as we travel. Ready in five,” Bolger said.
Lyons wasn’t particularly fond of the slick way Bolger spoke, but he was from Dublin after all, so maybe everyone up there talks that way these days, she thought to herself.
* * *
They arrived at Galway airport just as the big red and white coastguard helicopter was landing, having delivered a small team of first responders out to the crash site. Lyons strolled over to where the captain of the chopper was alighting and introduced herself.
“Good morning, Captain, I’m DI Lyons from the Galway Detective Unit, and this is my colleague, DI Bolger,” she said gesturing towards the effete figure of the younger man.
“Good morning, Inspector. My name is Brian O’Neill,” the pilot said extending his hand.
“What’s the scene like out at the crash?” Bolger asked, almost too quickly.
“Well it looks as if all three occupants have lost their lives, but that will need to be confirmed by the medics. The plane is a mess, and the site is virtually inaccessible except by helicopter, though you might just be able to get a good 4x4 to it if you were careful. There’s an untarred road about a mile away to the south.”
“Any idea why it crashed?” Lyons said.
“Not for me to say, Inspector. These light aircraft suffer a crazy failure rate, though in fairness, they are not always fatal, so the general public don’t usually get to hear about them. But we encounter it all the time,” O’Neill said.
“I see. The people here said you might be able to give us a lift out to the site, if that’s OK?” Lyons said.
“Yes, that’s fine. I’m just waiting for the Irish Aviation Authority Inspectors to get he
re. They’re on their way from Dublin. They should be here in a few minutes. As soon as they get here, we’ll get going. If you come into the office with us, we should be able to rustle up a cup of tea while we’re waiting.”
O’Neill, his co-pilot, and the two detectives made their way across to the coastguard building, which although rudimentary, seemed to have everything one would need for their particular kind of operation.
O’Neill’s co-pilot, Jane Wells, busied herself making tea and retrieving a packet of biscuits from the cupboard over the sink, along with four mugs. She waited for the kettle to boil and then made a large pot of strong tea which she placed on the table, saying, “Tea’s up. Help yourselves.”
As they set about the refreshments, the radio O’Neill was wearing on the front of his jacket crackled to life.
“Romeo Juliet short finals for two-six,” said the voice on the radio.
The Galway controller came back quickly, “Romeo Juliet clear to land runway two-six, wind two-eighty at twelve.”
The small white twin-engined jet came into sight approaching the runway with its wheels dangling beneath it, flared as it crossed the threshold, landed with a small puff of smoke from the tyres, and came to a crawl on the runway with the aid of a loud, reverse thrust from the engines. The little jet, which had no marking of any kind on it other than the registration stencilled in black letters on the rear fuselage, taxied to the apron and shut down. The door opened, and a man and a woman dressed in business clothes descended onto the concrete and walked towards the coastguard building.
“Ah, Fergal, welcome to Galway,” Brian O’Neill said as the two inspectors entered the building. “You’re just in time for tea. Good flight down?”
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 29