“You want me to spy on the locals for you, is that it?”
“No, well not exactly, but we need all the help we can get on this one, and don’t forget, three people died in that plane crash, including a seventeen-year-old girl,” Costelloe said, tilting her head slightly to one side and flashing her bright green eyes at the man while extending her business card in his direction.
“Very well. Thanks. But you’d better keep the Rottweiler at home next time. I don’t want him in here again chucking his weight around.”
“Thank you, Mr McCreedy, you’ve been very helpful,” Costelloe said, and went outside to join the inspector.
Bolger was in a grumpy mood.
“Get anything?” he said tersely.
“Well, just that there’s a Martin McGettigan that runs the hotel here who wasn’t too happy about Ger Fortune’s plans, for obvious reasons.”
“Hmph. Right. Let’s go.”
Chapter Nine
Sandra Jameson inspected the two other Cessna 172 aircraft belonging to the club carefully. She was very used to this particular type of plane as it was the light aircraft favoured by flying clubs all over the country. As she walked around the aircraft, she pointed out the various parts to Liam Walsh who took it all in enthusiastically. Apart from the fact that the tyre on the nosewheel of one of the machines was wearing a bit thin, she could find nothing out of place on either of them. She wished that all the planes that she had inspected over her years with the IAA were in as good condition.
When she returned to the office of the flying club, Charlie Willis was busy feeding pages from Alpha Tango’s maintenance log slowly through the photocopier.
“Those aircraft seem to be in immaculate order, Mr Willis. I’m sure you know that the nosewheel on the one nearest to us will shortly be due for replacement, but other than that, they are in excellent condition,” Jameson said.
“Yes, Inspector, we have the new tyre in stock, and it will be replaced well within the serviceable hours, don’t worry,” Willis said.
“What’s happening with Alpha Tango?” Jameson said to O’Dwyer.
“I’ve just been on the phone making arrangements to have the Coastguard chopper lift it onto a lorry and bring it back here. Mr Willis has said we can put it in the maintenance hangar for now. Then we’ll see if we can re-construct its final moments using the instrumentation on board and the radio transcripts,” O’Dwyer said.
“Will you be going back out to Site Alpha to oversee the lift?” Lyons said.
“Yes, we will. We need to make sure any loose debris is collected up, and I want to look for more traces of the instance of impact, so I can judge the angle of approach, that sort of thing. Have you any news from the forensic people about the fuel pipe?” O’Dwyer said.
“Not yet. Liam, please go with Mr O’Dwyer and Ms Jameson when they go back out to the site, just to make sure all our evidence requirements are met, and our stuff is tidied away. One of the Clifden Garda should be there by now too,” Lyons said.
“Right, boss. Do you want me to stay out there?” Walsh said.
“Well, you can stay till the plane is on the lorry. Then maybe you should come back in with it, make sure no one meddles with it on route. If there was foul play, we don’t want anyone thinking they can cover their tracks at this stage. I’m going back to the station to follow up on the forensics. I’ll call you if I get anything, Mr O’Dwyer.” Lyons said.
“Thanks, Inspector. And thanks for your help,” O’Dwyer said.
* * *
Back at the office, Lyons called through to Sinéad Loughran.
“Hi Sinéad, it’s Maureen. Just wondering if you found anything out about the plane crash?”
“Oh, hi Maureen. Yes, we did. There was no joy on the fingerprints. We lifted a few sets from around the engine cowling, but I haven’t had a chance to check them with the people out at the flying club yet. None of them are known to us – there’s nothing in the database in any case. But I had a bit more luck with the piece of tubing,” Loughran said.
“Go on.”
“We were lucky there. It had a maker’s name printed along the side, so we contacted them and they told us that particular type is often sold into the home brewing and wine making industry. They could tell from the batch number that it was manufactured last year, but that’s all. They don’t know where it went – they deal with several distributors who take it,” Loughran said.
“Did you by any chance ask them if it was certified for use in connection with engine fuel supplies?” Lyons asked.
“Yes, I did. They say they do make a product that can be used in automotive fuel systems, but not this one. The product we pulled from the plane is certified for general, food and beverage use only,” Loughran said.
“OK, well, that’s useful information, Sinéad, thanks. Will you sort out the fingerprints with the folks out at the airport?”
“Yes, will do. What about the guy that runs the airfield out at Inis Mór?” Loughran asked.
“I’ll give Bolger a call and ask him to get them and bring them back to us for comparison,” Lyons said.
“Grand, let me know when you have them. Thanks, bye.”
* * *
James Bolger wasn’t too pleased that he had to return to the airport to collect fingerprints from McCreedy, so he decided to delegate that sensitive task to Mary Costelloe. Mary didn’t have a fingerprint kit with her, but she was well able to improvise for the purpose of elimination, by getting McCreedy to place his hand around a pint glass. Then Mary lifted his prints using Sellotape, and sticking it to a sheet of clear plastic that McCreedy had in his office. She knew that this wouldn’t stand up in court, but that was not what it was for. She doubted that McCreedy’s prints would be found on the plane, and if they were, they could return and use the proper evidence kit at a later date.
* * *
James Bolger made his way to the only hotel on the island. It was approaching lunchtime, and he was feeling peckish from all the fresh sea air, so he decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. He strolled into the lounge bar of the hotel, where several of the tourists that had been on the same ferry out to the island were seated tucking into bowls of homemade soup and brown bread.
Behind the bar, a small, rather plump woman with short grey curly hair was busy serving. Bolger waited his turn, and when she eventually got to him, he asked, “Is Mr McGettigan around?”
“He’s busy in the kitchen just now,” the woman replied in a strong Galway accent, “you’ll be the man from the police on the mainland then.”
Bolger wondered for a split second how his identity had been so readily spotted, but then realised that he probably stuck out like a sore thumb, and no doubt the locals had both he and Mary Costelloe pegged from the moment they stepped onto the ferry in Rosaville.
“Yes, that’s me. Could you ask him to pop out when he has a minute? I need a word. In the meantime, I’ll try some of your soup and a smoked salmon sandwich if I may?” he said.
“Right enough, but Marty will be a few minutes – it’s fierce busy back there at the moment, sir,” the woman said, turning her attention once more to the beer taps on the bar and pulling a frothy pint of something pale.
Bolger sat up at the bar on one of the plain wooden stools, and awaited his food.
“Will you be having a drink of something, sir?” Mrs McGettigan said.
“Oh, no thanks. Not for me. I’m on duty,” Bolger said. He regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth, but it was a reflexive response that he couldn’t help.
The soup and smoked salmon sandwich were exceptionally good, and James wasted no time in putting them away. As he finished the last tasty morsel, a man appeared behind the bar. He was tall, probably in his early fifties, with a full shock of greying hair and a ruddy face. He was a big man in every respect, with a sizeable paunch straining at the plain blue shirt and grey trousers that showed evidence of recent work in the kitchen.
�
�Detective,” he boomed, “I’m Marty McGettigan. How can I help you?” he said, extending his hand across the bar.
“Ah, hello Mr McGettigan. I wonder if there’s somewhere a bit quieter we could have a chat?” Bolger said.
“I’m afraid this will have to do ye. We’re very busy today, and I can’t leave Biddy on her own at lunchtime.”
“Oh, all right. I suppose you heard about the plane crash over on the mainland yesterday?” Bolger said.
“I did. Terrible business. That poor young girl – only sixteen, was she?”
“I believe they stayed here the previous night,” Bolger said.
“They did – all three of them.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to them for long, Mr McGettigan?”
“Sure, what would I want to be talking to those two for? Aren’t they planning to put me out of business?” McGettigan said.
“So, you weren’t in favour of their development plans then?”
“Do ye think turkeys vote for Christmas?” the man said bitterly.
“Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation at all?” Bolger said.
“Look. We don’t go around eavesdropping on our guests or gossiping about their business. I gave them bed and board for the night and they paid me in full, in cash. That’s about it. And as for their daft scheme to turn the island into some kind of mad holiday resort – well maybe it’s worked out for the best, sad and all as it is.” And with that, McGettigan turned away to serve another man who was queueing for drinks further along the bar.
Just as Bolger was trying to figure out how he could get more information from McGettigan, Mary Costelloe joined him.
“Oh hi, Mary. How did you get on?” he said.
“Fine. I’ll tell you later,” she said, not wanting to reveal that she had been collecting fingerprints to the entire population of the bar.
“What about you? Did you get anything much here?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just a confirmation that the Fortunes and Devaney stayed here overnight. But no one is talking.”
“Did you get McGettigan’s prints?”
“No, should I?”
Mary Costelloe rolled her eyes to heaven, wondering how on earth James Bolger had ever qualified for police work.
“Watch and learn, sir,” she said.
Mary ordered a soft drink with plenty of ice from Martin McGettigan, who obligingly presented her with it in a glass that he held in his left hand. When the opportunity arose, Mary took the drink and went with it to the bathroom where she repeated the exercise with the sticky tape to collect McGettigan’s prints. She poured the sickly-sweet orange liquid away.
Back at the bar, which was now thinning out, Mary managed to get Biddy McGettigan to herself for a few moments while Bolger was having another unsuccessful go at extracting information from the woman’s husband.
“Is there anyone, or any group in particular, Biddy, that you think might have had strong opposition to Fortune’s plans?” Mary asked.
“Apart from my husband, you mean? To be honest, girl, there were very few on the island who were in favour of it. Oh, when Fortune was out here, there were those who licked up to him in the hope of getting some bit of work perhaps, but as soon as he was gone, they’d all congregate in the bar here and complain loudly about the whole thing. There was even talk about organising a protest group, but that never got off the ground. Do you think the whole thing will die a death now, Mary?” Biddy McGettigan said, unaware of the irony.
“Probably. I can’t see anyone else likely to take it up, can you?”
“No, probably not. ’Tis a sad business, that’s for sure, but you know what they say about an ill wind.”
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Hays was looking forward to some operational work to get him away from the endless paperwork. He called James McMahon at his office as soon as he felt it was a respectable hour.
“James, it’s Mick Hays. How are you keeping?” Hays said.
“Oh, hello, Inspector, I’m good thanks, what can I do for you?” McMahon said.
Hays chose not to correct the man concerning his newly acquired more senior rank.
“Just wondering if you might be free for a sandwich later on? There’s something you might be able to help me with.”
“Hmm, let’s see, well, I have a meeting with a client here at twelve, but that shouldn’t take long. I could meet you in the Imperial at, say, one o’clock. Can you give me a clue what it’s all about?” McMahon said.
“Great, I’ll see you at one then. Thanks.” Hays hung up before he had to divulge any information.
Hays had come across James McMahon a few years back during an investigation into the murder of a Polish girl out on the old bog road west of Roundstone. McMahon had been seeing the girl, but wasn’t involved in the crime itself. Hays had come across the architect socially on a number of occasions since, and had found him to be affable and easy to get along with, so the two had become, if not good friends, at least close acquaintances.
Hays had no difficulty filling the rest of the morning completing reports on resource usage in the team and writing a submission in support of his chief’s proposal for further resources for the Western force.
At quarter to one he left the office and walked round to the Imperial Hotel on Eyre Square, bumping into his lunch date outside the hotel. The two men went in and made for the grill where they would have a more substantial meal than had been suggested in the earlier phone call.
As they ordered from the lunch menu, McMahon broke the silence, “Well, Mick. What can I do for you?”
“You’ll have heard about the plane crash out west that took the lives of Ger Fortune, his daughter and Fionn Devaney,” Hays said.
“Terrible business. I never liked those small planes. Give me a 737 any day, or better still, a four-engined jet,” McMahon said.
“I know what you mean. Did you know Ger Fortune at all?” Hays said.
“Yes, sure. He had been a pretty big cog in the Galway building scene recently. He started building park houses way back before the crash, but moved on to more exotic stuff,” McMahon said.
“Park houses?”
“Yes. House building falls into three main categories here in Galway. There are terraced houses, usually three-bedroomed starter homes built in blocks of four or six in fairly large quantities on estates. Then there are the park houses. Three- and four-bedroomed schemes of semi-detacheds with names like Cherry Tree park, Cherry Tree avenue, crescent, rise etc. These are of a better specification than the terraced houses, and have front and back gardens. Ideal for Mr and Mrs Average. The larger houses he’d been into recently have names like The Pines, Oakdene, Crofton Glade and so on. These are four- and five-bedroomed detached houses with a decent sized plot. They sell for up to seven hundred thousand euro these days, and I can tell you there is no shortage of buyers. We’ve done designs for some of them over the past few years,” McMahon said.
“We heard he was looking into some sort of hotel development out on Inis Mór. Have you heard anything about that?” Hays asked.
“That will have been Devaney’s idea. He always tried to punch above his weight. To be honest, I think it was a daft scheme, but Devaney had convinced Fortune that it was a great opportunity and would make them both a pile of money,” McMahon said.
“I see. Any idea how they were going to fund it?” Hays said.
“Fortune made a lot of money since the market bounced back in 2014. He was a clever man. He bought a lot of land on the cheap during the crash, and went into partnership with building contractors. I’m not sure of the details, but whatever arrangements he made were very lucrative for him. I’d say he was going to self-fund it, or maybe pre-lease it to a hotel operator like Hilton or Clayton,” McMahon said.
“Hmm. I see. Nice work if you can get it. Do you think he might have had any enemies?”
“Who? Devaney or Fortune?” McMahon said.
“Either.�
�
“Well, when the crash came, Fortune owed a lot of money to sub-contractors. I never heard the details, but the word was that he left a lot of them up the creek, and some of them took it very badly – hardly surprising. But that wasn’t unusual at that time. He even left us short of a few grand too, but then so did a lot of other builders,” McMahon said.
“Interesting. Any of them particularly vocal about Fortune?” Hays said.
“None you could name, but there’s probably a fair bit of resentment out there for him, especially as he came out of the whole thing smelling of roses. We’re not terribly comfortable with success in this city, as I’m sure you know. Anyway, why all the interest?” McMahon said.
“Ah, it’s probably nothing, but there are a few aspects of the accident that have us puzzled, that’s all. I can’t say more for now, but it’s not often that three of Galway’s finest citizens die on the one day, so we’re looking a bit closer at it.”
“I see, interesting. If you’re looking for people that might have had a grudge against Ger Fortune, it could be a long list. But surely you don’t think anyone could have caused the accident somehow?” McMahon said.
“I can’t say too much for now, let’s just say there are some aspects of the accident that we need to investigate a bit more. I’m not involved myself, Inspector Lyons is leading the enquiry,” Hays said.
“Ah, yes, I remember Ms Lyons. If there is someone behind it, God help them with Inspector Lyons on the case. How is she, anyway? Not that I am missing her or anything,” McMahon said.
“She’s fine. You know we are partners, don’t you? We live together out in Salthill.”
“I didn’t know – sorry no offence intended,” McMahon said.
“None taken. But you’re right, Maureen is a damn fine detective. If there’s anything iffy about any of this, she’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The waitress came and took away their empty plates, asking them if they were going to have a dessert.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 33