“Let me see,” said Watson, turning to the computer screen on his desk and tapping a few keys with two fingers. After a couple of moments of silence, he said to no one in particular, “The system is very slow today for some reason.” Moments turned to minutes, but at last he said, “Ah yes, we do appear to have an account in that name. Patrick O’Shaughnessy, yes I think that’s the one.”
“Mr Watson,” Lyons went on in a rather brusque tone. “May I ask you to positively confirm the fact? It’s important to our enquiries.”
“Yes, I can confirm,” he said.
“Thank you. May I ask what the current balance in Mr O’Shaughnessy’s account is?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly divulge that kind of information. I’m afraid we have very strict rules about customer confidentiality you know,” Watson said rather smugly.
While Lyons and Watson were locked in some kind of verbal duel, Hays had quietly repositioned his chair, and he could just about make out the figures on Watson’s screen. Lyons decided to take another tack.
“Very well. Could you tell me if there is a debit card connected to that account please?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, there is, issued last year and still in date.”
“Thank you. Now can you say when the card was last used to make an ATM withdrawal?” she persisted.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, the Data Protection Act does not permit me to divulge any information pertinent to the data subject’s financial affairs,” Watson said.
“Mr Watson, the Data Protection Act does not apply in the case of the deceased. All protection for a data subject expires at the moment of death, and I can assure you, Paddy O’Shaughnessy is most assuredly deceased.”
“Oh, my goodness. I didn’t know. When did he pass?”
“A few days ago, and we believe he was assisted in his passing, so we are conducting a murder investigation, and we would appreciate the cooperation of the bank.”
“Oh my gosh, well of course we must freeze the account immediately. We have to do that as soon as a death is notified to us, pending the issue of probate. May I ask how he died?”
“You can ask, but I’m not going to tell you,” said Lyons. “Now if I could just have the information that I asked for, please,” she said.
“Look, I’m not at all comfortable about this. I’ll have to consult head office before I can release any information. Could you come back tomorrow perhaps?” Watson asked.
Lyons remained silent for a moment. Hays recognized the signs and almost felt sorry for the man.
“Mr Watson, you have no legitimate reason not to supply the information that I have requested. Now if you insist on being obstructive, we will indeed return tomorrow. At that time, we will be accompanied by inspectors from both the Revenue Commissioners and the Central Bank of Ireland, and if they find one, just one, account belonging to a resident that is being held at this branch as a non-resident account for the purpose of avoiding tax, I will personally see that you are prosecuted for aiding and abetting a citizen, or citizens, to defraud the State, and if convicted, that charge carries a jail sentence.”
Watson started to protest, but before he could speak, Lyons went on, “You are already guilty of obstructing the Gardaí in the execution of their duty. True, a lesser crime, but a crime nonetheless. So, will you please stop pissing about before I get really angry!”
Magnificent, Hays thought. The colour had drained completely from Watson’s face. He took a moment to compose himself and then went on, “O’Shaughnessy has, or should I say ‘had’, €18,274.12 in his account. The ATM card was last used about three weeks ago to withdraw sixty euro.”
“And where did that withdrawal take place, Mr Watson?”
“I’ll have to check the reference number on the transaction,” he said turning back to the computer and navigating with the mouse before typing a few more characters with his two rather shaky index fingers.
“It appears to have been used in Clifden, at the AIB branch,” he said in a very subdued manner.
“Appears?” Lyons went back at him.
“No, it was used at the AIB branch in Clifden. I think it’s down at the bottom of the town near the junction with the Westport road,” he added, trying to get back on some sort of normal terms with Lyons.
“Thank you. Now before we leave, I’ll need copies of the statements from that account going back two years, and can you tell us if O’Shaughnessy had any other accounts here?”
Watson turned back to the computer to see if he could coax the requested information from it.
“It appears not,” he said after a short interval.
“Appears?” Lyons said.
“There are no other accounts,” he said. He lifted the phone and spoke to a girl called Gráinne and asked her to prepare the statements that the detective had requested.
An icy silence pervaded the manager’s office.
“Is that all?” he said nervously.
“That will do, for now, Mr Watson,” Lyons said.
“Then perhaps you could wait outside for the statements. Gráinne will have them ready for you in a few minutes.”
Hays and Lyons got up and left the room without another word.
Outside, in the public area, they waited for almost ten minutes before a chubby, short, dark haired girl with glasses approached them carrying a large white envelope.
“People usually print these at home, you know. We don’t really have facilities here for batch printing statements,” she said, clearly not happy with the break in the bank’s procedures that were designed to ensure maximum inconvenience and cost for its customers, and minimum cost and workload for the bank.
Lyons thought about it for a second and Hays braced himself for round two, but she just glared at the girl and took the envelope without a word.
Outside the bank, walking to the car Hays asked Lyons, “What raw meat did you have for breakfast then?”
“Sanctimonious prick. And did you see the state of his office? Our cells are in better condition.”
“Remind me never to cross you early in the morning,” he said.
“Oh, I can be just as vicious in the afternoon, I promise you,” she said.
“And what was all that bullshit about the DPA? Is that true?”
“Sort of. The DPA doesn’t actually refer to deceased subjects, so it can easily be argued that they are excluded by omission. The Freedom of Information Act is different. It restricts personal details to executors and next of kin.”
“So, who’s been swatting for their Inspector’s exam then?”
“I’m just looking at it to see what’s involved, that’s all,” she replied.
* * *
They set off back along the N84 to Galway taking them through Partry, Ballinrobe and on into Headford before the late morning traffic slowed them down as they approached the city.
“Why are you so set on this inspector thing, boss?” she asked.
“I don’t know if you’re fully in the picture, Maureen. Things are going to change a lot for the Gardaí in Galway over the next few years. The force will be expanded, and more responsibility will be devolved to an extended regional crime squad when we get the new headquarters,” Hays explained.
“I want to build a really strong team. I want us to be the ‘A’ team – the ‘go to’ team for serious crime. We’re doing pretty well so far. You’re a very good detective, and ballsy too. Flynn is coming along nicely. He’s a terrier. Never lets go of a situation till he’s got to the bottom of it. That’s very useful. O’Connor is a good lad too. He’s great with data and all that tech. That’s going to become more and more important as time goes by. And then there’s Sally. If we could get her into the team, even as a detective Garda it would be terrific.”
“But that leaves you short of a sergeant.”
“No, if you move up, Flynn gets that slot.”
“And what about you, boss?” she asked.
“Here’s where it gets clever. Plunkett h
as told me, off the record of course, that they are going to create a new unofficial rank of senior detective inspector. It’s not ‘Chief’ like they have in the UK, but there will be a pay scale for it. The new unofficial rank will assume full operational duties for crime, leaving the superintendent to focus on PR and administration.”
“I see. I’d better get my books out. Oh, and I’ll have another word with Sally – but don’t go getting any ideas just because she’s blonde now, do you hear?” she said, hitting his leg.
Chapter Fourteen
When they got back to Mill Street Station, the team had gone to lunch, all except for Sally Fahy who was still sitting at her desk.
Lyons gave her the envelope of bank statements and asked her to key them into a spreadsheet so that the transactions could be grouped and analysed.
“When John gets back from lunch, ask him to examine the details and do me a one-pager with the transactions sorted into ATM, bank transfers, lodgements and so on, by time, so we can see what’s going on,” Lyons said.
Sally agreed, and opened up Microsoft Excel on her PC.
“Oh, and while you were out, this came in from forensics for Inspector Hays,” she said, handing Lyons a sealed brown envelope.
“Anything more on our mysterious QFA, Mr Kelly?” Lyon asked.
“Yes, there is. Turns out he was de-listed for ‘conduct unbecoming of a professional financial advisor’. Roughly translated, it means he was conning old folks out of their savings.”
“Interesting. So, what’s he doing in these parts pretending to be a QFA then I wonder? Anything on Pulse?”
“No, not a thing. But I’m not finished yet. I’ll talk to the consumer complaints people, see if they have anything. And I’ve been on to Tesco. They’re trying to get an address for him, or perhaps his bank details so we can find out a bit more about him,” Sally said.
“Great. Let us know when you have anything.”
* * *
Lyons went into Hays’ office and handed the envelope to him.
“Good. It’ll be the information from the car. Let’s see what they found,” he said opening the envelope and taking out two sheets of densely printed paper.
“Ah, nice one, Sinéad,” he said as he read the information, “she’s managed to lift some excellent prints from the inside of the door handle, and the base of the gear stick.”
Handing the sheets to Lyons, Hays said, “Get these run through Print-Track will you, and see if we can identify them?”
Print-Track was a relatively new service that held a database of finger and palm prints of known offenders. It had recently been rolled out to all Garda Stations, so now prints could be scanned in and compared to thousands of samples held on file very quickly. In Dublin and Cork they even had it hooked up to mobile devices so that matches could be made if a suspect vehicle was stopped. It was planned ultimately to integrate the system with Interpol and Europol as well as the Police Service of Northern Ireland.
* * *
Lyons was back in twenty minutes with a big grin on her face.
“The clowns must have thought that the car would burn out completely. We’re looking at two low-lifes from Limerick. Two brothers, Jazz and Dingo Morrissey if you don’t mind.”
“Fabulous! Is Eamon back from lunch?” Hays asked.
“Yes, he’s at his desk. Will I ask him to come in?”
“Yes, please.”
Flynn joined Hays and Lyons in Hays’ office.
“What’s up, boss?” he asked.
“Eamon, the very man. We need to interview two charmers from Limerick. Jazz and Dingo Morrissey by name, and they’ll be well known to the Gardaí in Limerick I imagine. Can you get on to Henry Street? Ask for Inspector Pat Dineen, I know him pretty well. Get him to lift the two boys and bring them in. You can tell Pat what it’s all about but ask him to keep the master criminals in the dark till you get there. When he tells you he has them, can you go down and frighten the shite out of them? Pat will give you another detective to help you out.”
“OK, boss. Do you think they murdered the old guy?” Flynn asked.
“No, but I think there’s a good chance they torched the house. I want to know why, and more particularly, who put them up to it. From their sheet it looks like they’re probably small time, and quite stupid too. If you tell them that they’re implicated in a murder, they’ll probably sing like a couple of canaries.”
When Eamon Flynn had left the office, John O’Connor knocked and came in.
“We’ve done a quick analysis of O’Shaughnessy’s bank account. Here’s a breakdown,” O’Connor said, handing Hays a sheet of paper.
“We’ve broken it down as best we can. It looks as if he was receiving two pensions. One from here at the usual non-contributory rate. You can see that going in every Friday in euro. Then there’s a pension from the UK in sterling. That goes in every four weeks. It’s a lot less, but worth having all the same. It’s about sixty euro a week, presumably because he didn’t work there all his life,” O’Connor reported.
“Then there’s the outgoings. Simple enough. Electricity, property tax, both paid by direct debit monthly, and his cash withdrawals of about a hundred euro a week on average. He paid the chemist too, normally around a hundred a month. It’s no wonder he had accumulated quite a bit.”
O’Connor went on, “Oh, and Sally found something else too. Every three months there’s a US dollar credit to the account. The amount varies a bit, but it’s usually around three hundred dollars. There’s a reference number, but I can’t make any sense of it. Sally is looking into it now to see if she can find out what it’s all about.”
“Great. That’s good work. Thanks, John. Let us know if you can trace the American payments.”
When John O’Connor had left the room, Lyons asked Hays if she thought that Flynn could handle the Limerick interviews on his own.
“I’m sure he can. Anyway, Pat will keep an eye on him. He needs this if he’s to develop his skills, and anyway I doubt if our two heroes are exactly the Kray twins.”
“Oh, and Sally found out a bit more about the elusive Mr Jerome Kelly.” Lyons went on to relate the information that had been gleaned by the young civilian.
“Wow. OK, let her at it a bit longer, then I think we need to have a word with the ex-QFA, don’t you?”
“Definitely,” she said.
Chapter Fifteen
Eamon Flynn drove the journey to Limerick in just over an hour and a half. He arrived at Henry Street Station before six and asked to see Inspector Pat Dineen.
After a short wait, a tall thin man in his late forties or early fifties entered the public area of the station where Flynn was sat waiting. The man wore a well-fitting navy suit with a pale blue shirt and a two-tone blue striped tie. His shoes were highly polished, and his neatly trimmed grey hair completed the picture of someone who not only cares about his appearance but minds himself well in an overall sense.
He made straight for Flynn with his hand extended and a welcoming smile on his face.
“Detective Flynn, I’m Pat Dineen. Welcome to Limerick,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” Flynn said, shaking the other’s hand, and noting that Pat Dineen had a firm and confident grip.
“You must be hungry after your drive. Why don’t we go around to the Glentworth and get a bite to eat? Our two clients won’t miss us for half an hour, and I can bring you up to speed. And by the way, it’s Pat – we don’t stand on ceremony here,” the inspector said.
“Oh, right. Thanks. Yes, I’m famished actually, and I’m Eamon.”
Dineen told the desk sergeant where they were off to and said they would be back before seven, and if anything arose, he could be contacted by phone.
“The Glentworth isn’t great, but they’re used to us dropping in at all hours, and they’ll be able to fix us up with something tasty.”
The two men headed out of the station and walked across the road up Glentworth Street to the hotel.
“So, how long have you been working with Mick?” Dineen asked.
“Nearly four years now. Ever since I started wearing my own clothes.” This was how detectives normally described their transition from uniformed Garda to detective.
“You’ll know him well. I’ve known him since Templemore. We trained together. He’s one of the good guys. You’re lucky,” Dineen said.
“Yes, he’s very good to work with. Tell me, was he ever married? None of us can find out.”
“No, never married. He had a long-term girlfriend for about ten years up to three years ago or so, but for some reason they never tied the knot. I think she finally got fed up with the crazy hours and moved on.”
At the Glentworth the two settled into easy chairs in the lounge with a low brown coffee table between them. Almost at once a waitress with dyed blonde hair and a chubby, happy face appeared carrying a metal tray.
“Good evening, Mr Dineen,” she said, “what can I get you then?”
“It could be a long night, Sheila. How about two of your best mixed grills with loads of brown bread and a big pot of tea?” And, turning to Flynn, he said, “Would that be OK with you, Eamon?”
“Terrific, thanks,” he replied, not at all used to this kind of hospitality.
“So, what’s the crack with these two clowns then, Eamon?” Dineen asked.
Flynn went on to explain the reason for their interest in the two Limerick thugs, and that his main concern at this stage was to establish who had set them up to burn down Paddy O’Shaughnessy’s house, and why.
“Inspector Hays said you might be able to give me a detective to help with the interview. Someone who knows these guys and their form.”
“You’re looking at him,” Dineen said. “I’ve met these two lads a few times now and charged them more than once. I know their form, and how to get them to talk. They think they’re clever, but they’re not. They think because they know the procedure they can outwit us, or bamboozle us with ‘no comment’, but so far, it’s Morrisseys nil, Gardaí three. They have both been inside a few times for burglary, car theft and robbery with intent. I’ll be your wingman on this one.”
The Galway Homicides Box Set Page 18