The Galway Homicides Box Set

by David Pearson

  “Good God! Why didn’t you tell us this earlier, Mr Watson, the day we called to your office?” she barked down the phone, struggling to keep her temper.

  “We have certain procedures that must be followed, Sergeant. We can’t go giving out customers’ property to just anyone, you know.”

  “Mr Watson, your customer was murdered, and not in a very pleasant way may I remind you. We are trying to bring his killer to justice, so can I ask you to open Mr O’Shaughnessy’s envelope and tell me what it contains?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s totally out of the question. Head office have said that I may hand the envelope to a senior officer provided I get a receipt, but I’ll not open it, it would be more than my job is worth.”

  Jobsworth is right, thought Lyons.

  “Very well, Mr Watson, we will have it collected as soon as it can be arranged. Goodbye.” Lyons slammed the phone down.

  * * *

  When the team met back at five o’clock on the Friday evening, there was a good deal to report. Sally Fahy had made some progress with the dollar payments into O’Shaughnessy’s account. With the help of Gardaí in the fraud squad in Dublin, she had been able to trace the payments back as far as a brokerage in Boston called ‘Irish Catholic Investments’ and a quick web search revealed that they specialized in investing money for American Irish who had done well.

  Hays said, “On Monday afternoon give them a call and see what you can get from them.”

  Lyons recounted her fractious phone call with the manager of the bank out in Westport and added a certain word that rhymed with ‘banker’ to show her frustration.

  “Nevertheless,” Hays said, “we’ve moved it all along nicely now. We’re getting somewhere. I have a feeling the motive lies in and around those US payments, and of course the contents of the envelope,” he added.

  “Now, I need a drink. Why don’t we go across to Doherty’s – the first round is on me.”

  * * *

  Over at Doherty’s Pub, the nearest decent public house, Hays and Lyons were standing at the bar organizing drinks for the team.

  “Do you want me to get Westport to pick up the envelope on Monday?” Lyons asked.

  “I was thinking, if you’re not busy, maybe we could drive out on Sunday and stay over. Then we could get it first thing on Monday when the bank opens, and be back here by noon.”

  “You’re on, boss,” Lyons said as she looked at him with a slight grin.

  “Pick me up around eleven on Sunday.”

  As the evening in the pub wore on, Maureen and Sally sat together and chatted. It turned out that they both had plans to do some clothes shopping in Galway on the following day, and they arranged to meet up in the shopping centre off Williamsgate Street at twelve o’clock, at the Café Express coffee shop.

  As the evening went on, the team began to drift away, so by half past ten just Hays was left. A good week, he thought to himself as he strolled out into the cool night air and hailed a taxi to take him back home to Salthill.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Maureen Lyons was sitting enjoying a cappuccino in the noisy little café when Sally Fahy arrived at just after twelve. Sally was dressed in well-cut denim jeans, a pink cotton top, and a grey knitted cardigan. Her hair was not in the usual ponytail, but hung loose down to her shoulders. She had just the right amount of makeup on, and Maureen thought she looked terrific.

  I’ll have to keep an eye on her, she thought to herself, we don’t need any more complications on the team than we have already!

  They chatted as they drank their coffee, and then set off around the shops to see what was on offer. By three o’clock they had accumulated six large paper carrier bags between them, emblazoned with the logos of the more expensive shops in the centre.

  “I’m exhausted,” complained Maureen. “Why don’t we get out of here and go and get some lunch?”

  “Fancy O’Connaires? I hear it’s good on a Saturday.” Sally said.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Seated upstairs in O’Connaires, at a table by the window looking out over the docks, Maureen decided to broach the subject of careers for women in An Garda Siochána.

  “Have you thought any more about joining up, Sally?” she asked.

  “I have indeed. It’s been on my mind constantly to be honest, but I’m not sure what to do,” she said.

  “Well I’ve been in for five years now, so I can answer any questions for you, just ask.”

  “Thanks. I was wondering what it’s like, you know, at first.”

  “Pretty tricky, to be honest. Most of the men don’t take girls seriously at all yet, and they can be very dismissive. When I’d finished in Templemore I came here and at first I thought I’d made a mistake,” Lyons said.

  “How so?”

  “There was a crusty old bugger of a sergeant here at the time. He insisted on calling me the tea girl, presumably a hilarious play on my surname in his view. He was always sidling up to me saying, ‘go on love, get’s a cup of tea, will ya?’ It wasn’t just that either. There were loads of sexist remarks, some of it quite nasty.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “If you were a bit grumpy, it was your ‘time of the month’ and they’d say, ‘forgot your knitting again Lyons?’ that sort of thing. It can get to you after a while.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was fed up with this sergeant, so one day when the office was crowded, and he came over to me with his usual request for tea, I stood up and said very loudly, ‘I’m not your love, Sergeant, and I’m not the bloody tea girl either. Get your own fucking tea, and while you’re at it, mine’s a little milk and no sugar!”

  “Jesus. And you survived?” Sally asked.

  “Not only that, but the following day I was at my desk and the same old devil comes sidling over and puts a mug of tea down beside me and slinks off without a word.”

  “Christ! Well done you. Did things change after that?”

  “A bit, but it wasn’t until I snagged the armed robber on Eyre Square that I really got some respect. Things changed a lot after that, and then they made me up to sergeant, and I never looked back.”

  “I’ve noticed you don’t talk down to John or Eamon, or even me, at all.”

  “Why should I? You guys are just good cops who haven’t been promoted yet. Everyone does their job, and everyone contributes. That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t give out a good bollocking if someone screws up, but I wouldn’t hold onto it. Mick wouldn’t tolerate any skivers on the team. He’s seen more than one or two of them off in his time.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They’ll be on night shift in Dingle or Buncrana for the rest of their lives,” she said, and they both laughed out loud.

  “Do you think you might go for it?” Maureen asked as they tucked into fruit crumble and ice cream.

  “Yeah, I think I will. Sure I can always drop out if it’s too horrible, but you seem to have made a go of it, so why shouldn’t I?”

  “Things are changing too. Slowly, but they are changing. Lots of girls have done really well in the force. We have quite a few inspectors that are women now, and even a few superintendents. And of course, you have your pick of hunky guys with fairly good prospects,” Maureen said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “I haven’t seen too many of those yet!” she said, grimacing.

  “John’s a nice guy. Maybe not exactly Brad Pitt, but he’s OK don’t ya think?”

  “Not my type, I’m afraid. Sure, nice enough, maybe too nice,” Sally said.

  “Talking of which, is there something going on between you and the boss?”

  “What makes you say that? Has anyone said anything?”

  “No, not a word. But if I’m going to be a detective…”

  “Don’t go there, hun,” Maureen said, “that’s private stuff.”

  Maureen paid the bill for the two of them, and back out on the street, both being shopped out, as
it were, they parted company. They both agreed that they had enjoyed the day, and vowed to do it again soon. “But the next time,” Sally insisted, “it’s my treat.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hays collected Maureen at quarter past eleven on Sunday, as arranged, for their drive to Westport. Maureen was togged out in some of the new clothes that she had bought with Sally and looked really good. He told her so when she got into the car, and was rewarded with a soft lingering kiss that set the mood for the trip ahead.

  It was a bright spring morning as they drove out on the Headford road with the sun high in the sky and just a few cotton wool clouds. When they reached Headford, Hays decided to cut left towards Cong and Clonbur, skirting the shores of Lough Mask, glistening with the reflection of the sun on its calm waters. From there, they tracked across the narrow winding road to Finny, finally making their way to Leenaun. By this time the pair were decidedly peckish, and stopped at the Blackberry Restaurant where the road meets the main N59, for lunch.

  When they had ordered their meal, Hays asked Maureen how she had got on with Sally on their shopping trip.

  “I think she might be up for joining the force. She has some misgivings, and I didn’t hold back on some of the issues she could face as a pretty young girl when she starts out.”

  “I bet you didn’t,” Hays said smiling, “but you didn’t manage to put her off?”

  “No, not at all. I think she’s quite keen. Would you be able to help her if she did decide to go for it?”

  “I don’t think I could do much for her as far as Templemore is concerned, though you could drop in on her from time to time to see how she’s getting on,” he said.

  “Oh right, so she’s my charge now then, is she?” Maureen replied rather snappily.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that getting a visit from a crusty old inspector when she’s being trained might not do her career a lot of good.”

  “You’re right there,” Maureen said, softening, “I’m sure I could keep in touch. What about after Templemore?”

  “That’s easier. I can line up a slot for her in Mill Street. She’d be uniformed for a year or two, but after that we could probably convert her to her own clothes.”

  “Do you fancy her?” Maureen asked, looking intently at her boss for a reaction on his face or in his eyes.

  Hays put his hand over Maureen’s on the table. “She’s a pretty girl, no mistake, but I think one sassy little female detective is enough to keep me fully occupied, don’t you?”

  “That’s not an answer,” she said, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, “but I suppose it’s as much as I’m going to get.”

  “For now,” he said.

  * * *

  After lunch they set off again towards Westport, choosing the scenic route that took them through the hills to Louisburgh. The scenery was breath-taking, and there was almost no traffic, which was just as well because the road narrowed to a single car’s width in places. When they reached Louisburgh, they turned right through Lecanvy along the rugged Atlantic coast into Westport.

  Westport had benefitted from the construction of several new hotels during the Celtic Tiger years. Although some of them had got into severe difficulty after the financial crash of 2008, they had managed to stay open. Now, in steadier times, they offered good value and excellent facilities to the tired traveller.

  The Knockranny House Hotel was one such establishment. Maureen had secured a good dinner, bed and breakfast deal, and when they checked in, they were delighted to be allocated a superior room with a gorgeous view of the mountains.

  The dinner exceeded both their expectations. “A good choice,” Maureen said to herself as she polished off a rather large portion of pavlova.

  They spent a close and exquisite night in the huge king-sized bed, all thoughts of Sally Fahy and the case they were working on banished from their minds.

  They rose at eight o’clock and enjoyed a hearty breakfast before checking out and making their way back to the town centre which seemed to be largely still asleep at that early hour on a Monday morning. At half past nine they rang the doorbell at the bank, hoping that Mr Watson would be at work thirty minutes before the bank’s official opening time. After a few minutes the door was opened a few inches by a dark-haired girl in a bank uniform, who peeped out and said, “The bank isn’t open yet. Come back after ten.”

  Hays held up his warrant card in front of the girl’s face and said, “We’re here to see Mr Watson on official business, may we come in please?” The door opened another few inches and the girl looked out to the street nervously.

  “You’d better come in then,” she said, admitting Hays and Lyons, and closing the door quickly behind them, and resetting several locks.

  Neville Watson was in the same dingy little office wearing the same drab suit as he had been during their previous visit.

  “See you’ve brought the heavy mob with you today,” he said, instantly provoking Hays who was not well disposed towards the man in any case, based on their previous encounter.

  “I hope there’ll be no need for that,” said Hays, “we are just here to collect Paddy O’Shaughnessy’s envelope, Mr Watson. I presume you have it here?”

  “It’s in the safe, Inspector, which is just about to be opened right now,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s on a time lock you see, and it gets released fifteen minutes before opening time to allow us to stock the cashiers.”

  “If you could just get the envelope for us please, Mr Watson,” Lyons said.

  The manager rose from his chair and navigated past the two seated detectives, leaving the room without a word. When he was gone, Lyons looked at Hays.

  “What a miserable little prick!”

  Hays frowned and made a hush gesture with his finger. He had the feeling the room might have had a listening device.

  Watson re-entered the room carrying a large white envelope. When he was seated again behind the scruffy desk, he slid the envelope across to Hays.

  “I shall need a receipt for that – head office were most insistent,” he said.

  Hays produced a large plastic evidence bag from his coat pocket and inserted the envelope carefully into it.

  Lyons had already made out a ‘Receipt of Goods’ sheet and unfolded it, placing it on the desk in front of Watson. He studied it briefly.

  “That seems to be in order,” he said, and then looking at what Hays was doing, he asked, “aren’t you going to open it then?”

  “Indeed we are, Mr Watson. We’ll open it when we get back to Galway and our forensic team have gone over it carefully. This may be evidence in a murder enquiry. How long have you had it?”

  “A few years I think, but I can’t remember every item that we are given for safe keeping individually.”

  “Of course not. But I’m sure you issued Mr O’Shaughnessy with a receipt when he deposited it. I’d like to have a copy please,” Hays said, looking the startled manager dead in the eye.

  “Well, yes, I suppose we did, but that could be years ago.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m sure head office would like to know that you keep impeccable records. Would you mind getting me a copy of the receipt now please?”

  “That’s out of the question. It could take days to locate it, and we’re short staffed this week as it is,” Watson blustered.

  “I like to be reasonable, Mr Watson. Let’s say you have the receipt delivered to me at Mill Street Garda station in Galway by five o’clock on Wednesday of this week, shall we?” Watson said nothing, so Hays went on, “otherwise we’ll have to take it up with your head office.”

  Hays and Lyons stood up and left the room.

  When they got back to Hays’ car, parked a little way along the South Mall, Lyons burst out laughing.

  “You bastard, Mick Hays!”

  “Well he’s an annoying little shit, you have to agree.”

  “I could hardly keep a straight face. He was squirming like an eel!”

 
; “Good enough for him. For God’s sake don’t let me forget to look for the receipt on Wednesday.”

  “Do we really need it?”

  “No, of course not. We have the envelope, that’s all that counts. We don’t need the receipt at all.”

  More laughter.

  “Let’s see what’s in it then,” Hays said, handing the evidence bag to Lyons.

  “What? Now!” she asked.

  “Don’t tell me you believed all that bullshit about forensics. But I’m damn sure I wasn’t going to give Watson the satisfaction of knowing what was in there.”

  “You’re bad, Mick Hays, very bad,” she said, opening the envelope and withdrawing the single sheet of cream paper it contained.

  “It’s a shares certificate in Paddy’s name. The Coca Cola Company, 3,700 ordinary shares, issued in October 1967.”

  “There you are. There’s your motive for the killing. Now all we need to do is find the killer.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was approaching a quarter to twelve when Hays and Lyons got back to the Garda station, and Hays asked Sally to arrange a briefing for half past twelve.

  When the team was assembled, Hays started with their visit to the bank in Westport. He showed them the shares certificate that Watson had reluctantly handed over.

  “Sally, can you look up today’s share price for Coca Cola and see what 3,700 shares are worth in today’s money? A pretty penny, I dare say.”

  “Now,” he said, “have we any information on Paddy’s brother’s will?”

  “I’m getting a copy of the file emailed to me this morning from the probate office in Dublin, boss,” said John O’Connor. “They were pretty helpful. There were just two beneficiaries, his son and daughter. Their addresses will be in the file, but it looks like the daughter lives in Scotland.”

  “What was the entire estate worth?” Lyons asked.

  “Just over 400,000 it seems,” O’Connor said.

  “So, after taxes, Donal’s kids would have got, let’s see, about a 150,000 each. Not bad. Do we know how it was made up?” she asked.