Lyons and Walsh entered the office, and were greeted by the sole occupant.
“Good morning, officers. My name is Charlie Willis. I’m the manager of the club. Come in and take a seat,” the man said, gesturing to two office chairs placed in front of his wooden desk.
Willis was a shortish, slim man, standing at around five foot eight inches. He was dressed in a pilot’s sleeveless white shirt, with black epaulets bearing four gold stripes on a black background on each shoulder, dark trousers and well-polished black leather shoes. Lyons judged him to be in his early fifties, although his thinning hair and almost bald pate may have exaggerated his years. He spoke in a neutral British accent.
“We’re very sorry for your recent loss, Mr Willis. It’s very tragic. I’m sorry to bother you at this time, but we need to look into certain matters concerning the accident. Maybe you could start by telling us a little about the club here?” Lyons said.
Lyons was just marking time till O’Dwyer joined them, but she was interested in the background to the flying club too.
“As you know, Inspector, commercial flights to Galway have been stopped now for over a year. Apparently, they weren’t viable, and when the Public Service Obligation subsidy was cut by the government, the airlines on the route pulled out altogether. So now, it’s just us and the coastguard, and whatever other private aviation that comes and goes. It’s quite handy in some ways, because we have the place more or less to ourselves, and we get quite a bit of charter work too,” Willis said.
Outside, Lyons heard another car pulling up, and a moment later Fergal O’Dwyer and Sandra Jameson entered the small office. Introductions were made all around, and the two new arrivals sat down on the only two remaining chairs.
“We noticed, Mr Willis, that there is no security at the gate here, and that the place is more or less open to the four winds. Is that the way it normally is?” Liam Walsh asked when there was a brief lull in the conversation.
“Yes, that’s right, officer,” Willis said, “the club has very limited funds, and we can’t afford a security presence. We do have a company that patrols once or twice a night in a van, but that’s as much as we can manage. I’m the only fully paid person on the staff.”
“What about the maintenance people?” Fergal O’Dwyer asked.
“They are all volunteers. We have some very keen members – all properly certified, of course. Many of our members have had a long career in aviation in various roles. We have a number of retired airline pilots, and quite a few engineers too. It’s a very active club,” Willis said.
“I’ll need to get a list with names and addresses for all your members,” Lyons said, nodding to Liam Walsh.
“Of course. That’s not a problem,” Willis said.
“And what about the maintenance records for Alpha Tango, Mr Willis?” Sandra Jameson said.
Willis said nothing, but turned around in his seat and reached for a lever arch file with the letters EI-XAT written in broad black marker along its spine. He retrieved the heavy folder, and turned back to the audience.
“All in here, Ms Jameson, and all bang up to date. Alpha Tango was in top class condition, as are all of our aircraft. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Are you a certified engineer yourself, Mr Willis?” Jameson said.
“I am indeed. I’m ex-RAF. Served for fifteen years in Godalming, Surrey. I’ve worked on everything from Spitfires to European Fighter Jets and everything in between, in my time. And I’ve done some work for the British Air Accident Investigation Bureau too,” Willis said with obvious pride.
“How have you ended up here, Mr Willis?” Liam Walsh said.
“Ah, a familiar story, I’m afraid. I fell for the charms of an Irish civilian worker at the base, and she persuaded me to move back to her home country four years ago. We got married here in Galway, and I’ve never looked back since.”
Fergal O’Dwyer shuffled uneasily in his seat.
“Mr Willis, you’ll be familiar with the fuel supply system on the Cessna 172, then?” O’Dwyer said.
“Yes, of course, every inch of it.”
“So what type of fuel line would you expect to see running between the carburettor and the fuel pump on one of those?” O’Dwyer went on.
“FAA certified rubber hose with an overlay of braided aluminium for heat dissipation, crimped at both ends is what we use. That’s in accordance with the engine manufacturer’s specification,” Willis said.
“So, you wouldn’t expect to find clear plastic tubing held on by Jubilee clips in there then?” O’Dwyer pressed on.
“Certainly not. That would be very foolish indeed. Clear plastic tube heats up and could easily close over, or melt altogether, starving the engine of fuel, or causing a fire. Why do you ask?” Willis said indignantly.
“Would you mind if Sandra here went and had a look inside the engine bay of your other two machines?” O’Dwyer said, gesturing to the window through which the two Cessnas could clearly be seen.
“Of course not. Go ahead, Ms Jameson. You’ll find everything in order, I promise you.”
Sandra Jameson got up and left the portacabin to walk the short distance to where the two aircraft were parked. Liam Walsh, sensing an almost imperceptible signal from Lyons, joined her.
“So, who exactly would have been the last person to work on Alpha Tango, Mr Willis?” O’Dwyer asked.
“I’ll have to consult the log,” he said, opening the large black folder, and thumbing through the pages.
“Yes, here we are. That would have been Terry Normoyle. He did the one-hundred-hour engine service on her just over a week ago, and I inspected the work and signed it off when he had finished. Terry is an ex Aer Lingus engineer, now retired, and one of our most reliable volunteers,” Willis said.
“And is there anything in the record about changing a fuel line, Mr Willis?” O’Dwyer said.
Willis examined the two pages describing the work done.
“No, nothing. Engine oil changed, oil filter changed, spark plugs cleaned and adjusted, fuel filters blown out, electrics checked for correct voltage, battery inspected. That’s it. Look, check it yourself,” Willis said turning the folder around for O’Dwyer to examine. Fergal O’Dwyer studied the pages carefully, and nodded.
“Yes, that all seems to be in order, Mr Willis. I’ll need to take a copy of this entire folder away with me. Can you arrange that?” O’Dwyer said.
“Yes, of course, but it will take me an hour or two to do the copying. Our machine here isn’t that quick. May I ask what your interest in the fuel system of Alpha Tango is?” Willis asked.
O’Dwyer looked at Lyons, who nodded back at him.
“Mr Willis, preliminary examination of the engine bay of the crashed plane revealed that the fuel line between the carburettor and the fuel pump had been replaced with a clear plastic tube, and affixed with Jubilee clips at both ends. We believe that may have been the cause of the accident: as you say, the pipe may have heated up and closed over, starving the engine of fuel.”
Lyons watched carefully for the reaction that she knew would come from the Englishman.
“Good God. But how did that happen? It must have been done when the plane was parked out on Inis Mór overnight. No one here would ever fit that rubbish to one of our planes,” Willis said indignantly.
And as Lyons watched Charlie Willis, she saw the inevitable dawning of the consequences of the switch in the fuel line on his face.
“So… you think it may have been deliberate?” Willis said, noticeably paler.
Chapter Eight
James Bolger and Mary Costelloe had elected to take the ferry from Rossaville to Inis Mór. Neither of them was particularly keen on going by air, although the flight from Inverin to the island was only ten minutes long, and it was a commercial operation, so they assumed quite rightly that safety would be paramount. In any case, the longer ferry journey would give them a chance to discuss how they wanted to conduct the interviews once they got
to their destination.
It was a fine morning for the ferry ride. The boat, named “Grá na Farraige”, or “Love of the Sea” was a fine vessel that cut through the gentle swell that was ever present on the Atlantic coast. Catering on board, although limited, was surprisingly good, and the two Gardaí soon settled down with freshly brewed coffee and pastries in the interior lounge where it was peaceful, most of the other passengers having opted for the outdoor seating on the upper deck to take full advantage of the scenery.
“So, Mary, how long have you been a detective then?” Bolger asked by way of making conversation with the pretty young Garda with jet black hair and tantalising green eyes.
“I’m just transferring at the moment. I’ve been in uniform for three years, but when the chance to transfer to the detective unit came up, I grabbed it. The work is much more interesting. What about you, Inspector?” she said.
“You’d better call me James for the day. We don’t want to frighten the natives with too much police talk,” Bolger said, smiling a slightly cheesy smile.
“Very well, James, so what’s your story?”
“I’m one of these experiments, Mary. The Gardaí has to modernise you see. Catch up with the rest of Europe with new policing methods. So that means taking in recruits who have come through a different channel from the norm. I’m one of the first of several Graduate Entry Inspectors. I’ve never been in uniform, and I’ve never walked the beat, or had to answer to a grumpy old Sergeant, but neither have I seen much policing up close and personal. Does that horrify you?” he said.
“Well, it’s very different. If you compare it to Inspector Lyons. She started off in uniform. She apprehended a bank robber in Galway city centre one day when she was on the beat, almost by accident, and then went on to become Detective Sergeant and Inspector, before taking over Hays’ role as Senior Inspector. She has loads of experience with murder, kidnapping, robbery and all sorts. And she’s been shot at,” Mary Costelloe said, as if this was in her view the ultimate badge of honour for a member of the force.
“And does that make her a better cop than me?” Bolger said.
“Different anyway, I guess.” This was as far as Mary was prepared to go, although it didn’t truly reflect her true thoughts on the matter.
* * *
The ferry pulled up alongside the jetty at Inis Mór, and the skipper helped the passengers up the steps and back onto dry land. Mary Costelloe felt that they had missed an opportunity by not mixing with the rest of the people on the ferry as the journey unfolded. The plane crash would undoubtedly have been the main topic of conversation for some of the others on board at least, and they might have overheard something of value. Nevertheless, she kept her views to herself, not wanting to alienate the inspector so early on.
Making enquiries at the harbour, it wasn’t long before James Bolger and Mary Costelloe arranged a lift from the jetty out the one and a half kilometres to the small airport on the island.
“That was a fierce accident yesterday with that poor man and his daughter,” the driver said, keen to make conversation with the two strangers.
“Yes, indeed it was. There were three of them in the plane you know,” Costelloe said, anxious to make up for the earlier mistake of not communicating with the locals.
“I heard that, all right. That builder fellow, his daughter and the architect. I suppose that’ll put an end to the plans for a big hotel then,” the driver said.
“Well, maybe. We’ll see. Were you hoping it would go ahead?” Costelloe said.
“Ah sure, what does it matter to me? But there was a good few that were against it all the same. Too many tourists already out here, some would say,” he said, looking in the rear-view mirror to judge the reaction of his two passengers seated in the back of his old Toyota.
“So, there was a bit of opposition to the idea then?” Costelloe pressed on.
“Ah, mostly all hot air. There’s some folks always complaining about something, don’t ye know. So, what has you two out here anyways?” the driver asked, unable to get the information he sought indirectly.
Bolger was about to speak, but Mary Costelloe nudged him and said quickly, “We’re just out to see about a sightseeing trip around the islands. James here is interested in nature,” she said, but of course the driver didn’t believe her.
“Oh, right so, well here we are. Is this OK for you?”
“Fine thanks, how much do we owe you?” Costelloe asked.
“Ah, you’re grand, sure it’s only a short hop. But if you want to make a contribution for the diesel…”
Mary dug in her purse and produced a five euro note, handing it to the driver who took it gratefully and put it in his inside jacket pocket.
“Very generous, thank you ma’am,” he said.
The two Gardaí got out of the old car and walked over to the only building that occupied the airport on Inis Mór. It was surprisingly busy. The morning flight from Inverin, which went on to the other two islands in the trio that made up the Aran Islands, had just arrived, and passengers were alighting and embarking. The plane that was used on the short journeys between the islands and the mainland was a Britten Norman Islander – appropriately named in this case. It could carry nine passengers in all, along with some basic freight and baggage. It was a twin-engined machine, and performed its duties reliably and safely even in some of the very poor weather that nature could produce out there from time to time.
They hung around outside the building until all the passengers had dispersed, either onto the plane, or away about their business. Inside the building, the sole occupant was in radio contact with the aircraft about to depart, giving the pilot taxiing instructions and wind readings.
“Bravo Hotel, clear for take-off runway three-two, then a right turn out to Inis Maan. Slán.”
When the operator had finished on the radio, James Bolger approached him.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Inspector Bolger from the Galway Detective Unit, and this is my colleague Detective Costelloe,” he said gesturing towards Mary. “We’d like to talk to whoever was on duty yesterday when Mr Fortune’s plane took off from here to go to Galway,” Bolger said.
“That would be me,” replied the slim, tall man in a very neutral accent.
“And you are?” Bolger said.
“Station Manager Séan McCreedy.”
“Thank you, Mr McCreedy. Could you just go through the events leading up to the departure of the flight yesterday for us, please?”
“There’s nothing unusual to tell, officer. The plane had been parked here overnight. I think Mr Fortune and his party must have been staying at the hotel. They arrived out here mid-morning. Mr Fortune did a walk around check of the aircraft, boarded and departed. That’s about it,” McCreedy said.
“Except that it isn’t, is it? The plane got about fifteen minutes away, and crashed into the bog and three people died,” said Bolger.
McCreedy had no answer to that.
“So, tell us about the security here at the airport, Mr McCreedy,” Bolger continued, feeling that he had the upper hand at this point.
“There isn’t really any, to be honest, Inspector. Not much happens around here that requires security. We observe all the required checks for boarding passengers of course, baggage screening and so on, but that’s about it,” McCreedy said.
“What about at night? How do you secure the premises after all the flights have come and gone?” Bolger said.
“We don’t. There has never been any need to try and secure the place after hours. No one would come and interfere with anything here,” McCreedy said.
“So, anyone could simply walk onto the airport compound and do whatever they wanted to a plane that was parked here overnight, and no one would be any the wiser. Is that it?” Bolger said.
“But why would anyone want to do anything like that?” McCreedy said.
“That’s what we are here to try and find out, Mr McCreedy.”
Mary Costelloe was
n’t at all happy about the way the discussion was going. Bolger seemed to be locked into some kind of verbal battle with McCreedy, which was not the best way to get information, in her view. She managed to catch Bolger’s eye, and nod towards the door. At first, he didn’t get it, but when Mary repeated the gesture, he looked at her with a puzzled frown on his face, but then simply walked to the door and let himself out.
“Look, I’m sorry about the Inspector, Mr McCreedy. His heart is in the right place – he’s just trying to get to the bottom of what, so far, is a right old mystery. Can I ask, have you ever had any situations where a plane was interfered with overnight, when the airport was not attended?” she said.
“No, never. It’s just not that kind of place. Why, what happened to the plane?” McCreedy asked.
“Well, we’re not completely sure yet, but it may have been tampered with. But there’s nothing to say that it happened here. Has there been much opposition locally to Mr Fortune’s plans to build a luxury spa hotel on the island?” Mary asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, you know. There are some of the locals who don’t want change – any change – at any cost. They can be quite vocal, but they’re harmless. They’d never get involved in anything like that,” McCreedy said.
“Is there anyone in particular that has strong views about Fortune’s plans?”
“Well, I know Martin McGettigan isn’t too happy about it. He runs the only hotel currently on the island, and Fortune’s plans could threaten his business. But he’s a very decent man. I can’t see him actually doing anything about it other than grumble a bit to some of the locals in the bar.”
“OK, thanks, Mr McCreedy. Look, if I give you my card, can you get in touch with me if anything else comes to mind, or if there’s any gossip that might have a bearing on the case?” Costelloe said.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 32