Neither man wanted it, so they just ordered coffee, and sat back, now replete, to await the beverage.
“So, what about you, James? What keeps you busy these days?” Hays asked.
“We’re up to our eyes with work. There’s an awful lot of new development and refurbishment going on in the city, and thankfully, we seem to be getting more than our fair share of it,” McMahon said.
“Excellent! Have you taken on more staff?”
“We’re looking into it. If it goes on like this we will have to, or maybe consider amalgamating with one of the other smaller firms in town. To be honest, it’s all getting a bit much for me just now – but it’s hard to turn away work, given the trouble we saw in the business just a few years ago,” McMahon said.
When the two men had finished their coffee, the conversation seemed to come to a natural end. As they got up to leave, McMahon said to Hays, “If you would like me to have a dig around, unofficially of course, amongst the trade, I could see if I could find out anything that might have been going on with Fortune, or Devaney.”
“Yes, thanks. But don’t go causing a stir. Just keep you ear to the ground. Let me know if anything jumps up at you,” Hays said.
“OK. And thanks for lunch,” McMahon said as they left the hotel and went their separate ways.
Chapter Eleven
The news of her husband’s death had reached Fionn Devaney’s wife, Ann, before Flynn had a chance to visit her. He had telephoned to make an arrangement to call on her, and it became clear at once that the woman was grieving. Her sister was with Ann at her home, and when he had conveyed his sympathy, Flynn asked if he could call around later in the day, after he had been to Emma’s school.
There was no reason why he should have insisted on seeing the woman, but Flynn was known for his thoroughness, and in cases like this where there was suspicion about the death of several people, he needed to ensure that every angle was covered.
* * *
Eamon Flynn turned his car in through the impressive gates of St Begnet’s Community Secondary School just off the Newcastle Road at the edge of the city.
The property had been acquired by the state in the early 1920s when the then owner – a British landlord – had fled, fearing for his safety in the turbulent times following the 1916 rising, the Irish Civil War and the other conflicts that eventually led to the foundation of the Irish Free State – the precursor to the current Irish Republic.
The state had gifted the manor house to a religious order, who established a school in the building to promote the Catholic ethos and provide much-needed education for the young citizens of Galway.
As Galway expanded, so did the school, and the old house was now surrounded by a series of random buildings that had appeared over the years, the latest additions being a set of six portacabins, stacked two high, and positioned to the rear of the old house.
Flynn had been surprised to find that the headmaster of the school where Emma Fortune had been a pupil, was still at work, despite the school holidays having started some two weeks earlier.
He pulled the car up on the expansive gravel patch in front of the rather austere looking main house, and got out. Donal O’Connell, the headmaster, had instructed Flynn to come right into the main house, the door of which would not be locked, and find his study that was situated behind the rather magnificent cantilevered staircase that swept around in a curve from the right-hand side of the hallway. Flynn found the polished solid mahogany door easily, knocked, and waited.
“Come,” commanded an authoritative voice from within.
Flynn turned the brass handle and entered the room, feeling every bit as if he was the errant student lining up for some dastardly punishment.
O’Connell quickly put the policeman at ease though. He was a tall, thin man with little hair, a long narrow face, and black framed glasses. He was dressed in the archetypal schoolmaster’s outfit of charcoal grey slacks, brown shoes and a tweed jacket, complete with leather elbow patches. His shirt, rather like the man himself, was somewhat creased with age.
“Good morning, Sergeant, come in, sit down. Nice morning, isn’t it?” O’Connell said.
“Thank you. Yes, it is. This is a nice place you have here. I like this room in particular,” Flynn said looking around at the shiny period furniture and rows of books in the gigantic bookcase behind the master’s desk.
“Perk of the job, Sergeant. I get the best room in the house, for my sins. Now, how can I help you?”
“It’s about Emma Fortune. I understand she was a pupil here.”
“She still is, although obviously on holiday at the moment,” O’Connell said.
“You haven’t heard then? I’m sorry to say that Emma Fortune was the victim of a fatal accident when her father’s plane crashed out near Inverin yesterday,” Flynn said.
“Good God, no I hadn’t heard, Sergeant. I’ve been too busy with end of term stuff here to listen to the news or read the papers. That’s awful. Poor Emma. She was a very promising student too,” O’Connell said.
“You knew her well then, sir?”
“Well, in a way, I suppose I did. She was in my Civics class. Very bright girl. But this is terrible. We haven’t lost a pupil in all the time I’ve been here. I’ll have to inform the rest of the staff of course, and the class too. They’ll be devastated. And there’s Mr Williams, Emma’s form teacher. Oh, God – he’s not here today, I’ll have to call him.”
“Was Emma a good student?” Flynn said.
O’Connell swivelled in his chair, and reached behind him where a number of old, dark green four-drawer filing cabinets stood. He opened a drawer labelled D-E-F and rooted amongst the files before withdrawing a single manila folder with Emma Fortune written in a neat hand on its cover.
O’Connell opened the folder, and read silently over a number of sheets of paper from the file.
“Yes, indeed she was, Sergeant. Some very promising examination results in her third year, and then for transition year she did a lot of voluntary work in the city, culminating in a fundraiser for the homeless that collected over a thousand euro which we gave to St Vincent de Paul. She was a model student as far as we were concerned. Her classmates will be distraught,” O’Connell said, closing the file.
“I don’t suppose you have a recent photograph of her in there by any chance?” Flynn asked.
“Yes, I have. We take them for the year book – she’s with the rest of the class, but you can see her quite clearly. Here, I’ll ring her face with red pen,” O’Connell said, retrieving the black and white print from the file, marking it up and handing it over.
“Thanks, headmaster. Well, I’d better let you get on then, Mr O’Connell. May I give you my card in case anything comes up that you feel might be important?” Flynn said.
“Well, yes, I suppose so, but like what?”
“Oh, just anything at all. You never know,” Flynn said, handing the other man his business card.
O’Connell stood up and walked the detective to the door.
“When do you think the funeral might be?” the headmaster said.
“I’m not sure, sir. It’s not up to me. We may have to keep the bodies for a few days. There are some things that need sorting out,” Flynn said.
“Is that usual in the case of an accident, Sergeant?” O’Connell said, holding the door to his study open.
“It’s not unusual, but it shouldn’t be too long anyway. Thanks for your help,” Flynn said, and left.
* * *
It was well into the afternoon by the time Eamon Flynn reached the impressive house that had been built by the deceased architect, Fionn Devaney, out on the Tuam Road. The house was unusual in several respects. It was essentially fashioned in the form of three large interconnected rectangular blocks, each of different heights, but all having enormous floor to ceiling windows framed in black aluminium, with flat rooves. The entrance was not evident from the driveway, and it took Flynn a few minutes to locate the front door,
which was in fact to the side of the property, hidden behind a faux wall that appeared to serve no other purpose than to conceal the door.
He rang the bell, and after a few minutes it was answered by a woman in her mid to late forties, smartly dressed, but looking drawn and upset. Before she got a chance to speak, Flynn introduced himself.
“Oh, you’d better come in. But please, Sergeant, don’t stay for more than a few minutes, my sister is very poorly,” the woman said.
“Of course. I’m sorry to have to call at all. I won’t keep you for long,” Flynn said.
In the lounge, Flynn was introduced to Ann Devaney, who was, as her sister had said, in a very bad way indeed. She sat on the edge of the sofa clutching a handkerchief that she continually used to dab at her tearful eyes.
Flynn sat down gingerly on one of the other armchairs.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Devaney. I know this is a bad time, I just need to check a few things with you, if that’s all right?”
Ann Devaney nodded almost slightly.
“What was your husband working on recently, Mrs Devaney?”
“He was spending almost every waking hour on that blasted hotel and resort that Ger Fortune wanted to build out on Inis Mór. He had one or two other small jobs on, but that thing seemed to take most of his time and energy. He was obsessed.”
“May I just ask how things were between your husband and Mr Fortune, Mrs Devaney?” Flynn said.
“Fine,” the woman replied in a trembling voice, “they were good friends as well as business partners. They got along well, but I never liked Fionn going up in that wretched plane.” She started to sob loudly again.
“I know this is difficult, Mrs Devaney, but did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who he had fallen out with lately?” Flynn asked.
“No, no. You didn’t know my husband, Sergeant. He was very well liked…”
“I’m sorry, yes of course. Look, I’ll leave you in peace now. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. If you think of anything over the next few days that might be of interest, perhaps you could call me,” Flynn said, extending another of his business cards to Mrs Devaney’s sister.
Neither of the women spoke, and he let himself out, unaided, from the house.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Lyons had arranged a briefing for the entire team. She had asked Sinéad Loughran to attend as well, in case there was any forensic evidence from the crash site that might be helpful to the detectives. Superintendent Mick Hays had dropped in too, as he had a contribution to make following his meeting with James McMahon. As a courtesy to his rank, she asked him to go first.
Hays outlined the discussion he had had with the architect over lunch the previous day. When he had finished, Lyons said, “Right. We need to find out who might have been holding a grudge against Ger Fortune then. I’ll hand out tasks at the end of the briefing.”
James Bolger gave an account of his trip to the Aran Islands with Mary Costelloe, claiming the credit for the fingerprints that Mary had collected for himself, and talking up his conversations with the publican and the airport manager.
“Sinéad – anything of interest from Site Alpha?” Lyons said.
“I got some good prints from the plane around the engine cover and on some of the engine parts themselves. Oh, and we collected mobile phones from all three occupants. Emma had a backpack too, and there was a small laptop in it, so I have that as well,” Sinéad said.
“Good. Well, give all that electronic stuff to John O’Connor and let him get busy with it. Mary, maybe you can help John with that. You know the drill. We’re looking for any negative emails or text messages, anything that could give us a clue about who might be behind this. It’s looking more and more like it was no accident,” Lyons said.
The group stirred uneasily in their seats, and a low murmur went around the room.
“Right. Thanks, Superintendent, for coming in. There’s no need to detain you if you need to go,” she said looking at her partner.
“I’ll be off then. Keep me posted, Maureen,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” she said, smiling warmly at him as he turned and left the room.
“Sally, you’re going to follow up on Mrs Fortune. Her behaviour seems a long way off the typical grieving widow. Do some digging, and no need to be too subtle about it. I want to know what’s going on there,” Lyons said.
“Right, boss,” Fahy said.
“Liam, can you take a couple of uniforms and get around to Fortune’s office? I want you to collect his diaries, especially ones from a few years back if they are available, and see if you can find out anything to do with his dealings with sub-contractors – correspondence and so on. It might be worth taking John O’Connor with you. He can have a root in the computers.”
“Are we OK to take things away, boss? Don’t we need a warrant?” Walsh said.
“No time for that nonsense, Liam. If you meet any resistance just say that we’re investigating a possible murder, but don’t say who we think was the victim. That usually shuts them up. Call me if anyone tries to block you.”
“Mmm, OK, Inspector,” Walsh said.
“Eamon, can you follow up with the school? Talk to Emma’s form teacher – Mr Williams, was it? Find out who Emma’s close friends were. Maybe you could even get to speak to one or two of them, but go gently with that,” she said.
“OK, Inspector. What will you be doing?” Flynn asked.
“I’m going back out to the airport with Inspector Bolger. We need to take prints from the manager out there and this Mr Normoyle who maintained the plane. I’d like to speak to him about the fuel line as well. James, can you call ahead and make sure they’ll both be there in an hour or so, and we’ll head on out?” Lyons said.
“Right, boss, will do,” Bolger replied.
The room cleared as the team went about their assigned tasks, except for Mary Costelloe who hung back, rearranging the chairs and generally tidying up.
“All right, Mary?” Lyons said.
“Could I have a word, Inspector?” the young Garda said, looking around tentatively to see that they were alone in the room.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but off the record,” she said hesitantly, “it’s just that yesterday out on Inis Mór was a bit of a shambles.”
“Oh? In what way?” Lyons said.
“Well, I know it’s not my place to say, but Inspector Bolger didn’t do too well, I thought. He rubbed everyone up the wrong way, and he didn’t get any of those fingerprints either – I did that. I just thought you should know, but please don’t let on I told you,” Mary said.
“Of course not. That’s interesting, Mary. Thanks for telling me, and mum’s the word!”
* * *
Lyons and Bolger drove out to Galway airport together in Lyons’ car.
“How did you get on yesterday?” Lyons asked.
“Oh, fine. You know what they’re like out there – they don’t give much away. But it’s fair to say Fortune didn’t have many fans on the island,” Bolger said.
“How did Mary get on? She’s quite new to all this. A bit like yourself really.”
“Yes, and it shows. She was a bit too direct for my liking. Her inexperience was very much in evidence, I’m afraid,” Bolger said.
“Well, never mind. At least you got the fingerprints,” Lyons said, hoping that Bolger would give Mary the credit for that at least, but he said nothing.
When they arrived at the airport, Charlie Willis, the manager from the flying club, and Fergal O’Dwyer, the IAA inspector, were supervising the unloading of the broken aeroplane from the low-loader in the hangar. Some sort of yellow mini crane had been arranged, and the Cessna was suspended in broad canvas straps as they inched it up, clear of the trailer, and swung it gently around, lowering it onto the floor where canvas sheets had been laid out to receive it. All the loose bits were removed from the lorry that h
ad brought the plane in, and placed alongside the fuselage on the canvas sheets.
As they stood and watched the unloading, a third man came into the hangar and walked across to Willis.
“Jesus, Charlie, what a mess,” the man said.
Willis introduced the new arrival as Terry Normoyle. Normoyle was a skinny man in his sixties, with thinning grey hair and a rather stooped posture, probably caused by his constant bending over engines as he had worked on them over the years.
“Ah, Mr Normoyle,” Lyons said, “I wonder if we could have a word in the office?” Lyons asked. Bolger made no move to go with the two of them, and Lyons was quite happy with that arrangement.
Lyons sat down with Terry Normoyle in the portacabin.
“I understand you were the last person to do work on Alpha Tango, Mr Normoyle?” Lyons said.
“Well, not quite the last, Inspector. I never fitted that bit of plastic rubbish to the engine, that’s for sure,” Normoyle said.
“So, how do you think it got there then?”
“Search me. We only use certified parts here. You can see from the maintenance records. I haven’t seen the tubing that you recovered from the plane, but Charlie tells me it was just some clear plastic shit,” Normoyle said.
“Yes, that’s correct. Do you have any of that kind of material here at all, for any other purpose?” Lyons said.
“No, not that I know of anyway. You might find some of it over at the old terminal building. They had a bar over there at one time. It could have been used for the beer or something, I don’t know,” Normoyle said.
“Does anyone from the club have access to the old terminal?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s all locked up now since the scheduled flights stopped.”
“Mr Normoyle, may I ask you if you ever make home brew at home, or wine, or anything like that?” Lyons asked.
“What? No, I don’t – oh, I see where you’re coming from.”
Normoyle leaned forward in his seat, and fixed Lyons earnestly with a stare as he spoke.
“Look Inspector, let’s be very clear here. I have not ever had anything whatever to do with clear plastic tubing. I have never ever installed anything like that into an aircraft’s engine, and I never will. What’s more, I love aeroplanes. If that sounds daft, I’ve been working on them for over forty years, and I would never do anything that might compromise the safety of a plane – ever. So, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I had anything to do with this terrible tragedy,” Normoyle said.
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 34