When O’Dwyer climbed in, he put on his headphones and called Charlie Willis on the radio.
“Clear to start and taxi to the threshold of runway two-six Fergal,” Willis said.
“Start and taxi to two-six,” O’Dwyer repeated.
The Cessna set off, making the short bumpy journey across the apron to the start of the runway, and lined up.
“Yankee Zulu, cleared take off runway two-six – wind two-ninety at five,” Willis’ voice said in their headsets.
“Cleared take off, runway two-six, rolling, roger,” O’Dwyer repeated.
O’Dwyer advanced the throttle, and the little plane lurched forward before settling down into a rapidly accelerating run along the tarmac. O’Dwyer eased back on the yoke, and the Cessna lifted obediently into the air, drifting slightly sideways against the wind.
Their route took them out past the city, over Moycullen, and then on towards Inverin, where O’Dwyer would start his experiment. With a bit of luck, when the engine cut out, even if he couldn’t get it started again, O’Dwyer could navigate to the runway at Inverin and land there, although he had several other options lined up in case that was not possible.
The Connemara bogland looked stunning in the morning sunlight, and they got a good view of the Twelve Pins off in the distance, looking every bit as blue as they did in a Paul Henry painting. The flight was largely smooth, though occasionally the little plane bumped along in response to a thermal current coming up off the warming land beneath, or a gust, as a cloud passed overhead.
O’Dwyer kept in touch with the flying club as they flew along, and as they neared the target area, he switched to Inverin tower, where the controllers had been fully briefed about the peculiarities of this specific flight.
They had been flying for almost an hour, and even James Bolger appeared to be settling down in the cramped quarters of the Cessna’s cabin.
“Right, here goes,” O’Dwyer said, and reached forward to turn the key on the dashboard to the “Off” position. The engine of the plane cut out immediately, and an eerie silence descended on them. The prop stopped turning, and the nose of the little plane fell away towards the ground.
O’Dwyer was on the radio immediately. “Inverin tower, this is Yankee Zulu, dead stick approximately two miles east of the field. Request immediate clearance to land,” he said calmly into his microphone.
“Roger, Yankee Zulu, cleared to land runway two-three, wind two-eight-zero at four knots, gusting to ten. Do you require assistance on landing?” the controller said.
“Negative, Inverin. Will advise further when landed,” O’Dwyer said.
“Aren’t you going to restart the engine?” Bolger said nervously.
“Only if I have to for safety reasons. I need to collect data all the way down to the ground if possible, but if it becomes dangerous, then I’ll get the engine going again. Don’t worry,” O’Dwyer said.
The Cessna 172 has an incredibly slow stall speed. Even fully laden, with flaps extended, the plane will still fly at forty knots, which makes it relatively easy to land without power. The key to success is to watch the airspeed like a hawk. Many pilots will try to keep the nose level by pulling back on the yoke. This feels better, but it’s all too easy to let the speed decay to dangerous levels by doing this, and inducing a stall. At low altitude, it is hard to recover, and it usually ends in disaster. O’Dwyer let the nose dip to maintain speed, and said to Bolger, who was now looking decidedly green beside him, “Keep your eyes fixed on this dial here – it’s the airspeed indicator. If it goes below fifty – shout, and don’t hang about.”
With an altitude of just under 1500 feet, and with two miles to go to the runway at Inverin, O’Dwyer calculated that they were easily within striking distance of the airport. Inside the small craft, Bolger was transfixed on the air speed indicator, willing it to stay above fifty, and Lyons was quite relaxed in the rear of the aircraft, keeping quiet, so as not to distract Fergal O’Dwyer from his delicate task.
As the plane descended, O’Dwyer gently nudged it around to the runway heading, and it wasn’t long before they could see the concrete strip dead ahead. The airport has no landing aids, so the approach was purely visual, and O’Dwyer seemed to be making a good job of it. But as the plane got closer to the ground, some buffeting occurred, causing James Bolger to emit a high-pitched squeal, and O’Dwyer to jerk the yoke around a bit to steady the approach. Inside the aircraft, the tension was palpable, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
A minute or so later, the Cessna’s wheels touched down, and O’Dwyer was able to use the residual momentum in the plane to steer it off the runway onto one of the taxiways. As it came to a halt, all three let out a collective sigh of relief, and Lyons said, “Well done Fergal, that was exhilarating, thanks.”
“Told ye it would be fine,” O’Dwyer said cheerfully.
Bolger opened the side door of the aircraft, stumbled out, and proceeded to vomit into the grass. When he straightened up, his face was whiter than the paint on the side of the plane.
“Never mind, James,” Lyons said, joining him on the taxiway, “just the return journey to look forward to now!”
“Why don’t you two go into the building and get a cup of tea. I’ll follow you in shortly, I need to record the readings from the instrumentation that I fitted yesterday,” O’Dwyer said.
“Did you get any useful data, Fergal?” Lyons said.
“I’ll have to study the recordings later, but yes, I’d say I did. It’s a bit early to tell, but I’d say Fortune just didn’t have enough experience to land the plane safely. It’s very easy to mess it up under pressure.”
The Inverin traffic controller had already telephoned Charlie Willis and Terry Normoyle back in Galway to advise them that Yankee Zulu had made a safe landing, much to the considerable relief of the two men.
Bolger and Lyons headed into the coffee bar inside the terminal building and Lyons ordered two coffees and a pastry apiece.
“Here. This will settle your stomach,” she said handing Bolger a plate with a shiny Danish pastry on it.
When they had seated themselves at a convenient table, Bolger said, “I’m not going back in that thing. I don’t care. I’ll get onto Clifden and get them to send a car for me to take me back to Galway. Do you want to come with me?”
“What, and miss out on my air miles – not likely! I take it you’ve had enough adventure for one day then?” she said.
“Enough for a lifetime. Anyway, how was that anything to do with our investigation?” Bolger said, still a little angry with his own performance.
“Fergal has been contacted by his head office. Someone up there put the idea in his head that it might have been suicide on the part of Ger Fortune, or that there might have been some kind of a scuffle in the cockpit when the engine cut out. He needed to collect data from a similar flight path and compare it to the information he found in Alpha Tango.”
“I see. Seems a bit unlikely, but surely O’Dwyer could just have restarted the engine again before we landed,” Bolger said.
“That wouldn’t have been a reconstruction, it would have been a simulation,” Lyons said.
“OK. Well, whatever. I’m off to get a lift organised. See you back later,” Bolger said, draining his coffee and getting up from the table.
* * *
Lyons enjoyed the flight back to Galway Airport with Fergal O’Dwyer. She was warming to the man. She liked his precision and thoroughness. She felt very relaxed in his company, and she was completely confident in his now well-proven flying skills. Lyons appreciated the beautiful scenery that stretched out beneath them as they flew along at 1500 feet. The air was stiller now, having settled down from the slight turbulence they had encountered in the morning as the land had started to warm up.
When they were about halfway through the thirty-minute journey, O’Dwyer asked Lyons if she would like to take the controls. He told her just to keep things steady, and showed her how to turn the plan
e left and right, easing back on the yoke to maintain height as the Cessna slipped into the gentle turns. He showed her how to use the throttle and the altimeter to descend to 1200 feet, and then climb again back to their cruising altitude. She loved it.
O’Dwyer took back control as they turned in over Claregalway and lined up for a straight in approach to Galway’s runway two-six.
Minutes later, they were back inside the office of the flying club with Charlie Willis and Terry Normoyle.
“Where’s your gentleman friend?” Normoyle said.
“Ah, we threw him out over the bog – he was getting a bit lippy,” Lyons said with a perfectly straight face.
“He decided to travel back by road,” corrected O’Dwyer, “he didn’t much like my piloting style.”
The other two looked at each other and shrugged.
“So, what now?” Lyons asked.
“I’ll collate the data from the plane, then I’m just about done here. I’ll write up a preliminary report later this week, and move on to the next thing,” O’Dwyer said.
“And we start the tiresome business of filing an insurance claim for the loss of Alpha Tango. I don’t suppose that will be an easy one,” Willis said, rolling his eyes to heaven.
“That will be two claims, Charlie,” said Terry Normoyle, “one for the plane and one for the hangar.”
“Don’t remind me, Terry. Can we call on you for evidence if we need it – for the fire I mean?” he said, turning to Lyons.
“Yes, sure, no problem. Thanks for your help everyone, I’ll be off then,” Lyons said, and left the airport.
* * *
Lyons got back to the station just after lunchtime, having stopped on the way for a bite to eat. She had really enjoyed the flight back with Fergal, and as she ate her sandwich at the service station and drank a strong coffee, she pondered taking a few lessons out at the flying club. She wondered what Mick would think of the idea.
“He has his beloved Folkboat, after all, and at least I’m not likely to get seasick up in the air,” she rationalized to herself.
Back at the station, she met Sally Fahy in the corridor and asked her how the interview with Barbara Fortune had gone.
“She’s a cool customer that one. She wanted to know how we knew about her affair in Dublin and the imminent divorce, but I didn’t rat out the cleaner. She got quite flustered. But she has an alibi for the day that Fortune flew out to the islands, and the following day too,” Fahy said.
“Where was she?” Lyons asked.
“Wouldn’t you know – tucked up in bed in a hotel on the Naas Road with her beloved solicitor. He’s married too, of course, so hence the hotel. You won’t believe it, but she even had the receipt for the room in her purse. Apparently, they pay for the room turn-about, and it was her turn this time.”
“Very modern, I’m sure. I must remember that when I find myself an eligible solicitor to have an affair with – NOT!” Lyons said.
Fahy laughed. The Gardaí in general didn’t like solicitors much, and Lyons in particular had had some very difficult experiences with them. She remembered the slimy individual they had to deal with when they arrested Ciaran O’Shaughnessy for the murder of his uncle out at Derrygimlagh a few years back.
“And you’re happy with the woman’s alibi, are you?” Lyons said.
“It looks sound enough, boss, and she doesn’t look like the type of person to go messing around with bits of plastic tubing either. I don’t think she’s our murderer,” Fahy said.
“Pity. Well, thanks anyway. Have you written it up in the system yet?” Lyons asked.
“Just on my way to do it now. How did your adventure go, and what have you done with the boy wonder?” Fahy asked.
Lyons laughed at the reference.
“Ah, don’t, will ye. We scared the shite out of him in the plane, and he’s sulking his way back by car. Should be here by about four,” Lyons said.
“Jeez, Maureen, you’re wicked. What will you tell the Super?”
“Fuck it, Sally, he’s an idiot. Not Mick – Bolger. He’ll need to sort himself out pretty bloody smartly unless he wants to spend a few weeks on car park duty down at the cattle market,” Lyons said.
“I’ve heard a few stories, OK. But don’t worry, what goes around comes around,” Fahy said, and set off down the corridor towards the evidence room.
* * *
Lyons was busy updating the Garda PULSE system with the new information that they had gathered as a result of the reconstruction, when Inspector Bolger eventually appeared back in the office.
“You made it then, boss,” he said to Lyons with a sheepish grin on his face.
“Apparently. And a darn sight quicker than you did too, by the looks of it. And I have a note to call Séan Mulholland out in Clifden. I hope you didn’t cause any trouble out there?”
“What, me – never! Oh, by the way, I came across that geezer you were asking about in some of Fortune’s papers before I was so abruptly removed from that task. Fallon, Tony Fallon it was.”
“Oh. What about him?” Lyons said.
“It goes back a few years, but he wrote to Fortune looking for payment of quite a large sum of money he was owed when the crash came. Then he followed up with a solicitor’s letter, and when that didn’t bring a result, he wrote again. Pretty angry stuff – making threats and so on. Fortune had kept the letters in his file.”
“OK. Well, dig them out and make copies. Has anyone managed to find the elusive Mr Fallon yet?” Lyons said.
“Not sure. I’ll check with Liam Walsh now, and see if he’s heard from him. And I think John O’Connor found something in Fortune’s emails too,” Bolger said.
“What sort of thing?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, can you get on and pull this together this afternoon? This Fallon character could be a suspect if he’s still around. And get someone to find him. You know, home address, regular haunts, that sort of thing,” Lyons said, trying not to show her frustration too much.
“Where would I get his address?”
“Phone book, tax office, voters’ register, driving license office, bank, credit card company, our own systems – take your pick.”
“Right. I’m on the case,” Bolger said and left her office.
“Idiot,” Lyons said to no one in particular.
Chapter Seventeen
When Lyons got home that evening, Mick Hays was already in the house, relaxing in the sunroom overlooking the garden at the back.
“God, I’ve had some day,” Lyons said as she flopped down on the wicker chair beside him.
“Do tell,” Hays said, looking up from the papers he had balanced on his knee.
Lyons recounted the events of the day, starting with the stimulating reconstruction in the Cessna.
“I see what you mean. That must have been scary for you. If I’d known exactly what you were up to, I would probably have tried to stop you,” Hays said.
“I’m glad you didn’t. We could have fallen out over that,” she said, taking his hand in hers and giving it a quick kiss.
“Hmm. Still, it’s at times like that when my two worlds collide. I’m caught between wanting to protect the woman I love and allowing a damn fine cop with brilliant instincts to just get on with it. But I’m a bit surprised about Bolger. I thought he was made of sterner stuff.”
Lyons, who was still holding Hays’ hand, squeezed it gently.
“Don’t get me started. To be truthful, he’s becoming a bit of a laughing stock around the station. That’s going to make things very difficult for him if he doesn’t change his ways – and quickly,” Lyons said.
“Do you think I should have a word with him?”
“It’s your call, Mick, but probably, yes, before he self-destructs altogether. Even young Mary is unimpressed, and she’s not exactly an old hand at this stuff.”
“Right. I’ll leave it for a little while till he gets over today’s embarrassments, then I’ll see if I can find
an appropriate moment. Do you think I should say anything to Plunkett? This graduate entry malarkey was part of his grand plan after all.”
“You had better forewarn him there’s trouble at the mill. You might even be able to pass the buck.”
“Not my style, Maureen, as you well know, but I see what you mean.”
“Anyway – what’s for dinner, I’m starving?” she said.
“There’s a vast menu on offer from the Chinese at the corner,” Hays said.
“No, let’s not do that. I want a real meal. Give me ten minutes to change into some proper clothes, and then you can take me out somewhere nice. Deal?”
“Deal!”
It took Lyons more like half an hour to change her clothes and do her makeup, but it was worth it. When she reappeared, she looked radiant with her shiny dark brown hair cascading down across her shoulders, and big sparkly brown eyes. She had put on a summer dress that finished just a little above her knees, and had finished the ensemble with a pair of open-toed, high-heeled shoes.
“I am a lucky bugger,” Hays said as she got to the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re not that lucky, Hays. You’re paying for dinner,” she said with an impish smile, slipping her arm into his as they left the house.
* * *
Over a relaxed meal in the exclusive Twelve restaurant out near Bearna, they discussed the case.
“So, where are you up to with this thing, Maureen?” Hays asked when they had finished their starters of pan-fried scallops.
“The problem is, there are almost too many suspects. Fortune wasn’t very popular in certain quarters, and some of the people he managed to upset aren’t from the top drawer, if you know what I mean. There’s quite a few that could have wished him harm.”
“Yes, but there’s a difference between disliking a guy, and murdering him along with his daughter and a colleague. That’s fairly mainstream as far as revenge goes,” Hays said.
“You’re right, of course. But what other motive could there have been?”
“Have you ruled out the wife? If he was playing away – hell hath no fury, and all that.”
“It looks as if she was the one that was playing away. She’s having an affair with a Dublin-based solicitor. They were going to get divorced – her and Fortune I mean.”
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 37