“A bit bumpy on the approach, but yes, no issues. This is Sandra Jameson,” the inspector said, introducing the second inspector to the small group.
When the introductions were complete, O’Neill turned to Lyons, “Fergal and I go way back. We trained together at Baldonnel years ago. He’s a much better flyer than I am, that’s why I’m flying helicopters nowadays, they’re easy compared to the stuff Fergal has to manage.”
“Not at all, Inspector, don’t mind him. Brian is the best pilot I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. And as for those damn machines with whirring blades, I wouldn’t touch one. Give me two wings and at least two engines, preferably more, and I’m happy out!” Fergal retorted.
When the new arrivals had been given tea and biscuits, Fergal asked O’Neill, “So, what have we got out here today, Brian?”
“A Cessna 172 nose-dived into the bog, it seems. Three souls on board, all lost. Conditions were good. A bit breezy, but fine, and excellent visibility. The plane belongs to the flying club based here at the airport. The pilot was very experienced, or so they say, so it’s a bit of a puzzle,” O’Neill said.
“And what exactly is our role?” interrupted Bolger rather curtly.
“I’m hoping you will help us to secure the scene. Keep curious onlookers away, record the comings and goings, that sort of thing. And if we find anything out of place, then we’ll need you to look into it, but I doubt that we will,” Fergal said.
Bolger wasn’t happy that he and his boss were to be reduced to crowd control, but Lyons managed to shoot him a stern look before he said any more, and he got the message.
“Well, boys and girls, let’s get moving and go and earn our money,” O’Neill said, putting down his empty mug on the table.
As the group walked out to the waiting helicopter, Lyons said to Bolger, “James, can you phone Sergeant Mulholland out in Clifden? See if he can organise a 4x4 and a couple of uniforms to get out to the crash site. Get the grid reference from the co-pilot and pass it on. I don’t fancy doing guard dog out here all bloody day.”
“Gotcha, boss, will do,” he said with a smile.
Chapter Three
Sergeant Séan Mulholland, the officer in charge of Clifden Garda station, was just settling down to his third cup of tea of the day when the phone rang. Mulholland was in his late fifties, and could have retired from the force some time ago. But being a confirmed bachelor, it suited him to remain on and keep active; he enjoyed the social aspects of his work, and the small amount of status that his position in the community bestowed upon him. After so many years in the Gardaí, he knew the ropes well, and managed to avoid quite a lot of the nonsense, as he saw it, that had recently come down from headquarters as part of the ‘An Garda Síochána – A Force for Change’ programme dreamt up by some daft consultants at enormous expense, no doubt.
Under Mulholland’s watch, his team of twelve dealt with petty crimes in the area, motor tax and insurance violations, licensing of shotguns, renewal of licenses for the various pubs in the town and the occasional serious matter, such as a murder in the vicinity, which seemed to come along with remarkable regularity every two years or so.
Mulholland treated the locals fairly, and gave them every opportunity to be compliant, and as a result didn’t have to issue many summonses, which suited him rightly given the amount of paperwork that was attached to each one.
“Clifden Gardaí,” he said as he answered the phone, thinking that it was typical that every time he stopped for a few minutes to have a cup of tea, the blessed thing interrupted him.
“Is that Sergeant Mulholland?” Bolger asked.
“It is. And who might this be?”
“It’s Inspector James Bolger from Galway.” He went on to explain the nature of his call, and the actions that he now wanted Mulholland to carry out.
“Oh, right, Inspector. Well, I’ll see what I can do. I think Ferris down at the garage has a Land Rover we might be able to borrow for a few hours, and I can send Jim Dolan and Peadar Tobin out in it. Will that do ye?” Mulholland said.
“Sounds OK. But make haste, Sergeant, make haste. This is a serious matter,” Bolger said and hung up.
“Make haste, indeed. Ye can damn well wait till I’ve finished my tea, jumped-up Johnny,” Mulholland said to himself. He didn’t like Bolger, or rather, he didn’t like the whole graduate entry concept which he saw as the Gardaí pandering to new-fangled ideas that took no account of local circumstances or the way policing was actually carried out across the country.
* * *
The journey out west in the helicopter was noisy and uncomfortable. Despite the obvious skill of Brian O’Neill and his equally capable co-pilot, Jane Wells, the big aircraft was buffeted about in the stiff breeze and the thermals coming up off the boggy ground now that the sun had got up properly.
The crash site had been given a name – Site Alpha – to assist in communications between the coastguard, the Galway control tower, other aircraft in the vicinity and the IAA folks, as well as the Gardaí and other groups of interested parties.
The helicopter descended to a few hundred feet above the site and circled in a wide arc, so that the downwash from the enormous rotors wouldn’t disturb the scene. O’Neill wasn’t happy to actually land the big machine on the marshy ground, so he hovered it two feet above the bog while the rest of the occupants scrambled out onto the spongy surface.
Speaking over the radio on account of the extraordinary amount of noise being generated by the hovering chopper, O’Neill said, “Call us on the radio if you need us to come back, otherwise we’ll be here at five o’clock to collect you. Over and out.” With that, the two pilots gave the universal thumbs up sign, and the helicopter rose into the air, banking steeply away back towards the city.
The paramedics had tried to erect a temporary white tent around the front of the doomed aircraft, but the stiff breeze had carried it away, and it now rested in shreds, tangled in a clutch of nearby gorse bushes.
Bolger was sent to cordon off the site with blue and white plastic crime scene tape, while Lyons squelched her way precariously over to the wreckage.
One of the paramedics, a girl, was just backing out of the little craft, and Lyons introduced herself.
“Looks grim in there. Are they all dead?” she said.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. They were very badly injured when the plane went down. I doubt if they were conscious at all after the impact,” she said.
“What will you record as the cause of death?” Lyons said.
“Multiple contusions to the head and body, and the pilot has almost been cut in half by his seat belt, as well as bashing his head on the dashboard.”
“Do we have any identification?” Lyons said.
“Well, we have the passenger list from the flight plan. The pilot is a Ger Fortune. The front passenger is Fionn Devaney, and the girl is Fortune’s daughter, Emma. Do you think it would be OK to get them out of here back to the morgue?” the paramedic said.
“Let me speak to the IAA guy, and we’ll let you know. Will you have to take them out by helicopter?” Lyons asked.
“Probably. I can’t see a land vehicle getting in here, to be honest,” she said.
“OK. Give me a few minutes.”
* * *
Fergal O’Dwyer and Sandra Jameson had started their investigation of the crippled aircraft. Sandra was checking all of the control surfaces – rudder, flaps, ailerons, elevators – to ascertain if there was any impediment or restrictions there, and apart from the obvious damage from the crash, she could find nothing amiss. She took several dozen photographs, including close-ups of the cables and hinges that were used to move the various parts of the plane during flight.
Fergal was concentrating on the front end of the plane. He observed that the propeller had not been turning at the point of impact, which meant almost certainly that there had been engine failure. He also noted that there was a good deal of fuel that had spilled out from the plane onto t
he ground surrounding the wreckage. He opened the engine cowling and started to examine the engine itself. After a few minutes, he called Lyons over to where he was standing beside the upturned plane.
“Inspector, have a look at this,” he said, pointing to the side of the engine.
“What am I looking at, Fergal?”
“This is very odd. The fuel line going from the pump to the carburettor is wrong. It’s clear plastic. It should be rubber with a wire braid covering it for heat insulation.”
“Sorry, Fergal, I don’t understand. What’s the issue?”
“Oh, sorry. Well, a clear plastic pipe will heat up a lot – it passes right by the exhaust manifold which is at a very high temperature. When it heats, it can close over, or even melt altogether, starving the engine of fuel. The correct pipe is insulated against the engine heat and doesn’t have that problem. No maintenance man in his right mind would fit a clear plastic pipe like that – it’s madness.”
“But didn’t this plane fly out to Inis Mór yesterday without a problem?” Lyons said.
“Yes, it did. So, that means either the fuel pipe was changed while it was out there, or maybe, due to the fact that it was flying into the wind yesterday, the heat didn’t build up so much. But today, with the wind behind it, more heat built up in the engine compartment and caused the problem. I don’t know to be honest,” O’Dwyer said.
“So, whichever is the case, you’re saying that the engine was tampered with? The plane didn’t just run out of fuel?” Lyons said.
“No. There’s lots of fuel spilled all around here. That’s what you can smell, so there’s no issue there. But we’ll have to check the maintenance records back at the flying club in Galway. Something’s not right, that’s for sure.”
“So, what happens now?” Lyons said.
“I have a good deal more checking to do, but if I may suggest that you start taking fingerprints from the engine cowling and round about just in case,” O’Dwyer said.
“I don’t have any of that kit with me, I’m afraid. But I can call Galway and get a forensic team out if you think that’s what’s needed?”
“I think, Inspector, that would be a very good idea.”
Chapter Four
Lyons could hardly believe her eyes when she looked up at the sound of a strange noise wafting across the bog on the breeze. An old red tractor – belching out pale blue smoke and towing a flat-bed trailer – was crawling its way towards them, driven by an old guy in a flat cap. Seated on the trailer, one on each side, with their legs dangling over the edge, were Garda Jim Dolan and Garda Peadar Tobin.
The old tractor wheezed up to where Lyons was standing, and the two Gardaí hopped down, scrambling through the wet bog to the front of the old vehicle.
“Thanks a million, Patsy. Can you hold on a few minutes here till we see if anyone needs a lift back to the track?” Dolan asked the old man.
“Sure, of course I can. I’ve nothing else to be doing anyway. Take your hour,” Patsy replied.
Patsy shut down the engine on the old tractor, which Lyons thought may have been a mistake as she wasn’t sure, by the look of it, that it could ever be got going again.
“Good morning, Inspector,” Dolan said, walking over to the drier patch on which Lyons was standing.
“Morning, Jim; Peadar. Is this your latest Garda vehicle out in these parts?” she said, unable to keep a wry smile off her face.
“Ah, no. We had Ferris’s Land Rover, but it got stuck in the bog as soon as we left the old cart track, so Patsy here came to our rescue. Do you want him to hang around in case we need to get stuff brought back to the road?” Dolan said.
“Yes, OK. Inspector Bolger has been onto Galway and we’re getting Sinéad Loughran out to do some forensic work on the plane. She may need a lift from the track. Is that OK?” Lyons said.
“Sure, he’s in no hurry. I’ll ask him to wait around for a while.”
“Then, can you and Peadar take over control of the perimeter? Although I don’t think we’ll be too bothered with onlookers here, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Inspector Bolger and I are going back to Galway with the IAA folks as soon as they’re finished. The inspector isn’t happy about something he’s found on the plane,” Lyons said.
“Oh, is foul play suspected, Inspector?” Dolan said.
“Perhaps. We’ll know more later. Get things set up here, will you? I have to try and call back to Mill Street, if I can get a signal.”
Lyons couldn’t get her phone to produce even one bar of signal. It was hardly surprising as they were essentially in the middle of nowhere with no sign of a mast anywhere in sight. Sandra Jameson, the IAA girl, saw that Lyons was having difficulty with her phone and walked over to her.
“Here, use this,” she said, extending a rather bulky device with a short stubby aerial sticking out at the top of it, towards Lyons. “It’s a satellite phone. Works anywhere,” she said.
“Great, thanks, Sandra.”
Lyons called Mill Street and got through to Detective Sergeant Sally Fahy. Fahy had been made up to sergeant as part of Superintendent Finbarr Plunkett’s plan for the detective unit. She had originally been a civilian worker with the Gardaí some years earlier, but had enjoyed the work so much that she joined the force properly, and had proven to be most useful on a number of difficult cases faced by the detectives over the past few years. She was a natural choice for promotion, and she had joined Eamon Flynn at the rank of Detective Sergeant earlier in the year.
“Hi Sally, it’s Maureen. I’m out at Site Alpha with this plane crash thing. I need you to find out where Ger Fortune lives and get out there to break the bad news to his wife. Mr Fortune and his daughter, Emma, have both been killed in the crash. Take someone with you who can stay with the family,” Lyons said.
“Oh, OK, boss. I guess it’s pretty grim out there. Do you need anything else?” Fahy said.
“Yes. There was another passenger in the aircraft that also lost his life, a Fionn Devaney. He’s an architect, I think. Can you find out where he lives and get Eamon to do the honours as well? We need to get to them before the news breaks. And I need you to call Sinéad Loughran. The aviation inspector wants a forensic examination of the aircraft carried out. I don’t know how she’ll get here, but get her to figure something out, and the sooner the better.”
“Right, we’re on it. That’s a funny number you’re calling from. Can I reach you back on it?” Fahy said.
“I know, it’s a satellite phone the aviation inspectors lent me, there’s no signal out here on any of our mobiles. Look, when you’ve been to the Fortunes, call me back on it, will you? I may need you to meet me at Galway airport to do some interviews,” Lyons said.
“Fine, no problem. I’d better get moving – this kind of news travels fast in these parts,” Fahy said.
“Right. Talk later.”
Lyons gave the phone back to Sandra Jameson, explaining that there might be a call coming in on it for her a bit later on.
“How are you getting on?” Lyons asked.
“There’s not much more we can do out here. Fergal wants to arrange to get the wreckage back to Galway. He thinks the coastguard helicopter may be able to carry it out to a road, and put it on a low loader for road transport back to the airport,” Jameson said.
“Really? Would the helicopter be able to lift it?” Lyons said in surprise.
“It should do. It’s only about seven hundred kilos, and that thing can lift three tonnes, but it will be a tricky manoeuvre. Fergal has already been talking to Captain O’Neill about it,” Jameson said.
“What about the bodies?” Lyons said.
“They’re going to be taken back in the helicopter. They’re bringing out three body bags shortly, and then they’ll be taken back to the regional hospital. There will be a post-mortem arranged. It’s more dignified than putting them on the back of the trailer and taking them by road. Can you get someone to stay here overnight? We don’t think we’ll be able to arran
ge the removal of the plane till tomorrow,” Jameson said.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. It’s pretty hostile terrain out here, and there’s no cover of any kind. If it starts raining, it could be pretty miserable. We can’t even get a vehicle here other than the old tractor. Do you think it’s important to have it guarded?”
“You’d be amazed how resourceful some souvenir hunters can be, Inspector. But I see what you mean about the locale. I’ll have a chat with Fergal – maybe it will be OK to leave it alone overnight, as long as you can get someone here early in the morning,” Jameson said.
* * *
The remainder of the afternoon went quickly. The inspectors from the Irish Aviation Authority finished making detailed notes and taking what seemed like hundreds of photographs of the stricken plane. The three bodies were removed in the helicopter, and Sinéad Loughran had caught a lift in it on the outward journey, arriving with one of her team to carry out a detailed forensic examination of the scene.
Under the direction of Fergal O’Dwyer, Loughran and her assistant took fingerprints from all around, and the piece of plastic pipe that was considered to be material to the investigation was removed from the aircraft carefully and bagged up.
“I’d like to know everything that there is to know about this piece of tubing, Ms Loughran,” O’Dwyer said.
“If you can find out who made it, where it was sourced, how old it is, who has handled it, what was used to cut it to this precise length, and anything you can get from the clips that were used to secure it, all the better,” he said in a sombre tone. “I’ll draw off a sample of the fuel too, and maybe you could have it analysed for impurities, especially water. You’d be surprised at how many amateur pilots don’t bother to check the tanks before take-off, and condensation can mix with the fuel and cause issues.”
“OK, sir. When we get back to the lab, I’ll sort all that out,” Loughran said.
“No need for formality, call me Fergal. And you are?” the inspector said.
“Sinéad, Sinéad Loughran. I’m the forensic team lead attached to the Detective Unit. Nice to meet you, Fergal,” Loughran said.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 30