“Well, you know the business he’s in, that I.T. stuff that no one understands, right? It seems that when he gets a new contract, say, for five years to supply servers and all that stuff, there’s a huge up-front cost. I’m told it can be between seventy and a hundred grand to buy and install the equipment. Then with that up-front cost, you don’t make any money till year three of the contract, then it’s gravy for a couple of years, and if you do it right the contract will roll over for another five years, and that’s when you really start coining it.”
“So, how is he funding these up-front costs? Surely you can lease this stuff?” Hays asked.
“Sometimes. But the depreciation on I.T. gear is so steep that the rates are almost impossible to meet, and you need a squeaky-clean credit history before anyone will touch it. Apparently one year old servers are worth about as much as a one year old pint of Guinness,” Dineen said.
“So, where’s he getting the dough?”
“Well, he owes the bank a right old wedge from the time of the financial crisis, so they won’t lend him a penny till all that is cleared up. Looks like he’s been pushed into the hands of the moneylenders. There’s a guy called McInerney who launders a lot of drug money down here, and seemingly he likes to lend to businesses. His rates are surprisingly modest. He’s more interested in getting clean money back. As long as you keep up the payments everything is fine, but if you fall behind, well that’s another matter entirely.”
“I can guess. Well, that certainly gives our man a motive. That’s very useful, Pat. I presume all this is off the record?” Hays said.
“Need you ask? I want to keep my ten fingers, Mick.”
“Well look, Pat, that’s terrific information. Thanks a million, I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll collect at some stage. Good luck with it. Oh, and by the way, that solicitor he uses, what’s his name, Murphy. He’s as bent as a two pound note. The boys in Cork would love to see him come unstuck. If you can manage that, you’d be a hero.”
“Jaysus, Pat, that’s all I need. Thanks for the tip anyway. Needless to say, no one from Cork told us that. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Hays called Maureen Lyons into his office and relayed the new information that he had received from Limerick.
“So, if O’Shaughnessy was being pressured by McInerney for payment of past due instalments, that would explain the urgency in getting hold of the old man’s shares,” Hays said.
“It’s beginning to fall into place at last,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the fingerprints on the coin?”
“Well, Sergeant Lyons, any news on the fingerprints on the coin?” he asked, smiling.
“Yes, there is, sir,” she replied.
“May I ask what the news is, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir, you may,” she said.
“Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“For fuck’s sake, what is the news on the fingerprint on the coin that we sent to the UK at enormous expense?”
“Oh that. Well it’s a match for O’Shaughnessy’s left thumb,” she said.
“Nice one, Sergeant, nice one. What degree of certainty?” he asked.
“The prof in Leicester says about eighty-five per cent which would get them a positive ID in a UK court.”
“Excellent. When you get a moment, can you get back on to him and ask him to send some case histories where this technique has been used and where it has led to a successful conviction. I’m going to brief the Super then we’ll have a team briefing at, say, four-thirty.”
* * *
Hays was lucky to find the superintendent in his office. He explained the results that they had got back from the UK, and he outlined the conversation that he had had with Pat Dineen about their prime suspect.
“Christ, Mick, do you think that coin thing is enough to place him at the scene? All sounds a bit sci-fi to me. Is that all you’ve got?”
“That, and the tie wraps, and the CCTV from the garage. That’s about it.”
“I’m not convinced, Mick. A decent brief would drive a donkey and cart through that fingerprint evidence. Can you not get something more to put him at the scene?”
“I’ll see what I can do. But we’re getting case files from the UK where they have used it to get convictions. There’s not much hope of getting anything more from the cottage, if you remember, it was torched,” Hays said.
“So, what are you planning?”
“I want to lift him and bring him up here and charge him, boss.”
“Jaysus, Mick. I’m not sure. I’d like to see some hard evidence before we do that. But it’s your shout. Just remember if it all goes wrong, it could be bad for all of us.”
“I’m meeting the team shortly, boss. We’ll put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”
“OK, do that, and let’s hope for something a bit more positive.”
* * *
Hays brought the team together and updated them. He also told them about the superintendent’s misgivings and asked them all to rack their brains to see if they could come up with anything to get more evidence. Before the meeting finished, Lyons asked if anyone had heard from Flynn that day. Sally said that she had tried to call him on his mobile, but wherever he was, there must have been no signal, because it went straight to voicemail.
“OK, Sally, well can you try again, and leave a message for him to call in when he gets it? It wouldn’t look good if we lost one of our own team out on the bog.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Maureen Lyons was at home that evening feeling a bit sorry for herself. She had eaten a frozen ready meal and was sipping a glass of rather good Chilean red wine in front of the telly with her feet up on the sofa.
The reason for her discontent was of course Inspector Mick Hays. She really wasn’t sure where she stood with him, and it was getting her down. To be truthful, she didn’t quite know what she wanted herself, but she knew that this wasn’t it. She missed the physical contact with him. They were good together, but she couldn’t figure out what it was that he wanted, or how much closer he was willing to get to her. And because of their working relationship, she knew she had to tread very carefully, or she would find herself reassigned to some backwater miles from anywhere.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her mobile phone just as she was topping up her glass. She looked at the screen hoping it was Hays, but was disappointed to see that it was Eamon Flynn calling.
“Hi Eamon. Good to hear from you. Where are you?”
“I’m in Clifden now. Jesus, Sarge, what a day! Sorry I couldn’t call in earlier, but there’s no damn signal out here.”
“No worries, Eamon. It’s fine. Did you get anything?”
“I think I did. I’ve been calling to every house all around the O’Shaughnessy place. Most of them are lock up and leave holiday cottages, but there’s a few that are occupied all year round. There was one on the main road about half a mile closer to Clifden where an old couple are living. They told me that on the day O’Shaughnessy was killed, a man called to their house looking for directions to Paddy O’Shaughnessy’s house. They said he was driving a blue car, but couldn’t be specific about the make or year. They remember the day, because it was their son’s birthday. He doesn’t live there anymore, but they had a phone call with him in Dublin that evening.”
“For fuck’s sake, Eamon. That could clinch it. Did they identify Ciaran O’Shaughnessy?”
“I didn’t have a photo on me, so no. But I can go back when I have one, and they say they’ll give us a statement if we need it. I think they were quite taken with the excitement of it all, and of course they knew the old guy – not well, but they still knew him.”
“God, that’s terrific, Eamon. What do you want to do? Are you coming back in, or do you want us to send someone out with the photo tomorrow?”
“Any chance you could send someone out, Sarge? I’m staying in the Alcock and Brown tonigh
t, and as you can see the phone works fine here.”
“OK. I’ll get someone out early to you. Expect them around ten, and then you can both go and hopefully get an ID and a statement. Oh, and Eamon, keep Mulholland in the loop, won’t you?”
When they had hung up, Eamon’s call gave her the perfect excuse to phone Mick Hays. He always insisted on being brought up to date as soon as new information became available. When she had relayed the news that Eamon had discovered out near O’Shaughnessy’s cottage, he asked her, “How are you doing, Maureen?”
“Oh, you know,” she said. There was a moment’s silence. “Well to be honest, I’m missing you quite a bit. Is that shocking?” she said.
“No. I’m missing you too. Would you like me to come over?” he said.
“Sounds good. Do you mind?”
“You’re silly. See you soon,” he said and hung up.
Maureen’s next call was to Sally Fahy. She asked Sally to go into the station the following morning early and print out a photograph of Ciaran O’Shaughnessy from his LinkedIn profile, and then drive out to Clifden and meet up with Eamon Flynn at the Alcock and Brown.
“If you’re lucky, he might even buy you breakfast!”
Sally was pleased to be asked to do what she thought of as real police work.
“Do you want me to stay with him while he does the ID and gets a statement?” she asked.
“Yes, please, that would be helpful. Thanks, Sally. I’ve got to go now. Goodnight,” she said, as she heard Mick’s car pulling up outside her flat.
She was feeling better already.
Chapter Thirty-seven
When Superintendent Plunkett heard the news about what Flynn had discovered out west, he was a lot happier.
“It sounds like you should bring him in then. How are you going to play it?” Plunkett asked.
“I want him here, not in Cork. The Cork boys were a little bit careful about what they told us, especially about his solicitor. I want him out of there, and not just so he’ll feel less comfortable.”
“You’d better get him up here, tomorrow maybe?”
“Yes, I think we’ll disturb his beauty sleep at around 6 a.m.”
“I’d better give Cork a call and square it with them. Do you want him delivered, or will you go and collect him?” Plunkett asked.
“Delivered would be a lot handier for us, boss.”
“Consider it done. He’ll be here by nine in the morning.”
* * *
When Hays got back to the incident room, he was surprised to see the secure courier girl back in the room. He wandered over.
“Hello Angela, if it is ‘Angela’ today?”
“Oh yes, Angela today, tomorrow I’ll be Samantha on my way to Australia,” she said.
“Wow, what takes you there?”
“Just the usual. Evidence from the time that Irish girl was murdered on the street in Sydney. It’s just a turnaround, out and straight back with whatever is in the bag.”
“Crazy!” he said.
“It’s a job, and somebody has to do it!”
“Do you ever get confused about who you are supposed to be?” he asked.
“Never. Can’t afford to, that could be fatal in my job.”
“Oh well, bon voyage, as they say.” He headed for his office where Lyons joined him a few minutes later.
“What did goldilocks want?” she asked.
“She was just bringing back the coin and a few case files for us to use if we need them. She’s mad, you know, totally mad.”
“Yes, maybe, but she’s gorgeous too,” Lyons said.
Hays moved the conversation on quickly. “O’Shaughnessy will be here tomorrow at about nine. Plunkett is arranging for the Cork boys to lift him at around six in the morning from home. We’d better spend the rest of the day getting things in order. We need to be watertight on this one. I’m sure that little weasel of a lawyer will be onto every little detail.”
“You leave him to me, boss. I don’t think he likes gutsy women at all. I’ll be able to shut him up. How do you want to play it?” she asked.
“Just the usual. It will be just you and me at first, and we should prepare ourselves for an extension to the detention period too in case he’s holding out on us. Can you have a word upstairs?”
“Yes, sure. So, you don’t think he’ll roll over for us?”
“Who knows? But it’s best to be prepared, isn’t it?”
They spent the rest of the day getting all the evidence that they had accumulated filed neatly in plastic folders, and putting them in sequence. Hays wanted to keep the coin evidence till last and try to use it to trump anything the sleazy solicitor could come up with.
By the end of the day, they felt that they were as prepared as they could be, and they left the station with a sense of anticipation for the next day, wondering if they could close out the murder of Paddy O’Shaughnessy.
But the next day was one of those days that you wanted to be done with as soon as it started. It was raining heavily in Galway, and overhead, thick grey clouds showed no sign of yielding to anything better. At ten past nine Hays took a call from the squad car that had O’Shaughnessy on board. There had been a bad accident on the Gort Road, and they were delayed, now estimating arrival at around ten o’clock or soon after. Hays asked if their client had been in touch with his lawyer. He was told that he had, and that Murphy was on the road about fifteen minutes behind them.
“Let’s hope he gets pinged for speeding,” Hays said to the Cork Garda before letting him go.
* * *
O’Shaughnessy arrived full of bluster, claiming police harassment, and promising to lodge a stern complaint with the Garda Ombudsman over his grossly unfair treatment. He was put in an interview room to calm down, and offered coffee and water, both of which he readily accepted.
Hays had already refreshed the team on the rules of the interview. It would of course be taped, but they still had to write everything that was said down as well, and there could be no more than four Gardaí in the room at any one time. A mandatory break after four hours was also required, if it went on that long.
Twenty minutes later Daniel Murphy arrived all hot and bothered, spluttering about Garda harassment too, and his client being an important businessman with more to be doing than amusing the Gardaí, and so on.
Hays bundled him into the same interview room, telling him that he was sure the solicitor needed a few minutes to consult with his client before the interview started. They agreed to commence proceedings in fifteen minutes.
When Hays and Lyons were seated opposite the other two, Murphy began his tirade again. Lyons let him vent for about three minutes, and then cut in.
“Mr Murphy, your client is here to answer questions about the brutal torture and murder of his uncle. No amount of huff and puff on your part is going to stop us asking him the questions that we need answered, so you may as well pipe down and let us get on with it.”
“You can’t speak to me like that. I’m a solicitor!”
“Mr Murphy, if you persist along these lines for much longer, I will have you arrested for obstructing the Gardaí with our enquiries. Do I make myself clear?”
“I don’t like your attitude one bit, Sergeant Lyons,” he retorted, recognising that he had once again been defeated.
“Well, if you’d stop playing silly buggers, I might be able to change,” she said, smiling at him sweetly. It was time for Hays to intervene.
“Mr O’Shaughnessy, last time we interviewed you, you said that on the day your uncle was killed, you had a business meeting in Limerick, and that when that meeting was over, you drove back to your business premises in Cork. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I have told you already,” he said.
Hays saw Murphy getting ready to speak, so he put his hand up to silence him.
“So, how do you account for the fact that your car was photographed by a speed camera van travelling north towards Galway at almost 130 kilometres
per hour on that afternoon?”
O’Shaughnessy didn’t miss a beat. Hays thought that he might have got the fine in the post already and was therefore prepared for the question.
“There’s obviously been a mistake. Those things are notoriously unreliable. I’ll be contesting it. I told you, I was on my way back to Cork.”
“So, just to be completely clear then, you’re saying that you didn’t drive north from Limerick on that day, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
This time Murphy couldn’t contain himself.
“Sergeant,” he said, addressing Hays, “my client has already answered your question a number of times, now can we move on, please?”
“It’s Inspector, Mr Murphy, not Sergeant, and your client has lied to me on this issue more than once, so I’ll continue with this line of questioning until I get the truth.”
Hays brought out the next folder and placed it in front of the two men.
“This is a still photograph taken from CCTV footage at the petrol station in Clifden on the afternoon that your uncle was murdered. It clearly shows your vehicle, and you yourself. As you can see it is date and time stamped. You purchased fifty odd euros worth of petrol and paid in cash. Ring any bells?”
“No comment,” came the reply, although O’Shaughnessy had gone noticeably paler.
Hays took the next piece of paper out of its plastic pocket, but this time, he didn’t show it to the suspect, or his solicitor.
“This is a statement from a couple who live down the road from your uncle’s house. In it they state that on the afternoon in question, a man who they have identified as you from your LinkedIn profile photograph, called to their house asking for directions to Paddy O’Shaughnessy’s place. They say this man was driving a blue car.”
“That’s nonsense. They’re old, and probably confused. They haven’t seen so much excitement in years, so they’ll say anything you tell them to say. Busy bodies!”
Lyons was onto it in a flash.
“How do you know they are old? No one said anything about their age.”
“Well, everyone living out there is old, aren’t they? All the young people have moved to the cities,” he said, recovering somewhat.
The Galway Homicides Box Set Page 27