The Galway Homicides Box Set

by David Pearson

  Tadgh Deasy ran a garage of sorts a few miles out beyond Roundstone on the Recess road. He dabbled in tractors, trailers, vans and he even bought and sold the occasional second-hand car. He had an uneasy but relatively peaceful relationship with the Gardaí. They were suspicious about the provenance of some of Deasy’s stock, but they also relied on him to help out in situations like this, so they didn’t examine his operation too closely, unless a complaint was made.

  Tadgh Deasy was only just up when he got the call from Pascal Brosnan. He told the Garda he would be along in about half an hour, and he’d be bringing his son Shay to lend a hand.

  Garda Brosnan thanked Paddy for his help and sent him on his way, saying that he might be required to come into the Garda station over the next few days to make a statement, depending on what more was discovered. Paddy got back into his van and drove on towards Ballyconneely and then into Clifden where he would spend an hour or two chatting to the locals, and maybe get a spot of early lunch, before reversing his morning route back into the city. He normally got back to Galway around two, having collected any outgoing post at Frawley’s in Roundstone, and emptied the post boxes in Oughterard and Moycullen. From two o’clock onwards the day was his own, which suited him well – leaving him free to do a few jobs as a painter and odd-job man which supplemented his modest income from An Post.

  Garda Brosnan could hear Deasy’s noisy old truck coming from a good way off. Deasy stopped the machine with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of blue smoke and hopped down onto the roadside.

  “Jaysus, Pascal, that’s a right mess. It wasn’t much of a car before, but it’s just scrap metal now!”

  “Well can you get it outta here for us? You’d better leave it round the back of the station since there were injuries involved. Do you need a hand to load it?” the Garda asked.

  “Na, you’re grand. Shay here will help me to hook it up.”

  Tadgh and Shay Deasy busied themselves positioning the truck alongside the upturned car. They extended hydraulic steady bars out to the side of the tow truck and wrapped strong canvas straps around the underside of the old Toyota, before connecting them to a hook on the on-board crane.

  Then Tadgh started working the levers at the back of the cab, and with a lot of groaning and creaking, the smashed car slowly released itself from the road and ditch and rose precariously into the air. When the car was dangling alongside and above the load area of the truck, Deasy swung it across until it was positioned directly over the flat back.

  The controls Deasy was using to manoeuvre the wreck were greasy and as he went to lower the car onto the load area, his hand slipped on the lever, and the old Toyota fell, still upside down, with a heavy thud, a full three feet onto the back of the old tow truck.

  At this point, three things happened at once.

  Deasy shouted, “Fuck! Stand clear,” hoping that the car wouldn’t roll sideways and end up back on the road. The second thing that happened was that the boot of the old Toyota sprang open, dislodged by the sudden bang the car had sustained when Deasy dropped it. Thirdly, Jeremy Craigue’s body fell out, firstly onto the very back edge of the old lorry, and then rolling over and falling further onto the road, landing with a sickening slap on the cold tarmac.

  “Good Jesus,” shouted Brosnan. “Stand back. Christ!” He rushed towards the gagged and bound body of the young man. He felt the side of the boy’s neck for a pulse, but the cold clammy feel of the lad’s skin told the Garda that life had left this person some time ago.

  Chapter Seven

  Mick Hays was putting the last of his equipment and provisions into his jeep. He had booked a couple of days off work and was looking forward to spending time on his old Windermere Folkboat that he kept moored at the Galway Sea Sailing Club in Renville.

  Hays had a long history with boats. When he was a young lad, his father would drive him out to Carraroe in their old Ford Escort to the little jetty where Hays’ uncle Pat kept a Galway hooker. Pat’s was a “leath bád” – a “half-boat” – although in truth it was a good bit bigger than half the size of the “bád mór”, the full-size vessel. The Galway hooker came in three sizes, none precisely measured, but well known by the locals as the bád mór, the leath bád and the much smaller “pucán”. The boats were constructed with a wide beam and a shallow draft, to allow for the tides along the shoreline of Galway Bay where they were often used for prawn fishing or seaweed harvesting. The hookers typically had a black hull, reflecting the pitch that the originals were covered in some hundred years ago, and they were equipped with a single mast and three sails – a massive main sail, and two foresails, all made of rust-coloured canvas. To compensate for the over-canvassing of the boat, ballast was carried in the form of large rocks, some weighting up to fifty pounds, in the bilges. In a heavy sea, when the boat was on a beat, or heeled over, the crew would move the ballast to the high side in order to bring the boat back onto an even keel. Going about had to be timed with some precision, as otherwise the boat could easily capsize if the ballast was piled up on the leeward side, and several of the boats had been lost due to inexperienced handling by less than competent boat men. But if you knew what you were doing, the hooker was a useful and very manageable vessel.

  As a young boy, Hays would tie a string of hooks with coloured feathers, and dangle them over the side of the boat, and he often caught as many as fifty or sixty mackerel in an afternoon in July or August when the sea had warmed up enough for the fish to rise to near the surface to feed on minnows and sticklebacks. When they got back to the city in the early evening, Hays would go from door to door near his home, selling the fresh mackerel for a penny a piece, having left an adequate ration with his mother who would gut them, and fry them on a dry pan smeared in mustard for supper.

  These early seafaring adventures with his father and his uncle gave the young man both a love of, and a healthy respect for the seas around Galway Bay. If the sea was “up” as his uncle would say, it was Hays’ job to operate the little yellow plastic pump to expel the sea water that had sloshed over the side of the hooker when she was being sailed too hard into the wind, but his uncle Pat knew the limitations of the boat and his crew, and never put them in any real danger.

  Hays had bought the Folkboat from an older man three years previously. The owner was no longer able to keep up the maintenance on the wooden vessel, nor was he any longer fit enough to sail her comfortably.

  Hays had put a lot of work into the boat over the three winters that he had owned it and she was now a splendid example of the class. He had re-done all the rigging, bringing the lanyards and sheets back into the cockpit so he could easily manage the boat on his own, if required. Detective Hays was a tall, muscular and slim man, and kept in shape with as much regular exercise as his job would permit. He was proud of his physique, which was also much admired by Maureen Lyons, his partner. He ate well too, but sparingly, and although he enjoyed a glass or two of red wine with Maureen in the evenings, he was a modest drinker.

  Unfortunately, Maureen was hopeless on the boat. She had tried to go sailing with him on several occasions, but it just didn’t work out. She got thoroughly seasick, which was no fun for either of them, so when Hays went sailing, she stayed on dry land.

  He was just locking up the house when his mobile rang.

  “Mick, it’s me,” Lyons said. “I’ve had a call from Séan Mulholland. There’s something going down out at Dog’s Bay. Looks like they have found a body. It’s all a bit unclear, but I’m heading out there anyway to see what’s going on. I thought you should know.”

  “Oh, OK, thanks. Do you need me to attend?” he asked.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll take Eamon out with me. I just thought you should know. I’ll give you a call when I find out what’s happening. Will you be reachable?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’ll stay close to the shore, there’s always a signal there,” he said.

  “OK, talk soon,” she said.

  Hays was relieved to find th
at he could continue with his planned day off on the boat. God knows, it didn’t happen very often, so every day snatched away from the toil of fighting crime was to be treasured.

  With the fine weather and a calm sea, he would enjoy sailing the boat out into Galway Bay, past the golf resort and on out to Cregcarragh. Maybe he would get as far as Ballymanagh where he could drop anchor and have his lunch.

  Hays took the box of basic provisions he had put together earlier on board the Folkboat. He had packed four litres of drinking water, some sandwiches and a few biscuits. The boat had a tiny galley just inside the hatch, with a two-ring gas burner, gimballed, so it could be used when the vessel was heeled over without spilling the contents of the kettle or saucepan.

  He cast off from the jetty and motored out into the middle of the inlet before hauling up the mainsail. When he had it set, it filled with the gentle breeze, and he set off in a westerly direction, heading for the open sea of Galway Bay. Once underway, he unfurled the genoa too, so that he could take best advantage of the little wind there was. The Folkboat made a pretty sight, its sails full and gently heeled over, cutting its way through the blue waters of Galway Bay in the sunshine.

  * * *

  On the drive out to Roundstone, Detective Sergeant Eamon Flynn called ahead to see if they could get any further information from the scene. Flynn had been made up to sergeant soon after Maureen Lyons had successfully completed her inspector’s exams. He deserved the promotion, and happily took on the added responsibility. Although he was in his early thirties, he had no steady girlfriend or partner as yet, which was a bit surprising, given that he was an attractive man, and a good prospect for any eligible young woman who sought the security of a husband in the force. He liked Sally Fahy, and he believed that she liked him too, but she already had a boyfriend, and in any case, he thought that one pair of partners on the team was probably as much as the superintendent would tolerate.

  He managed to get Pascal Brosnan on his mobile, though the signal wasn’t good, and the conversation was stilted as a result. He did however ascertain the basics, and when he relayed the information to Lyons who was driving, she had no hesitation in issuing instructions.

  “OK, Eamon. You’d better call the lovely Dr Dodd and get him and a few of his white suits out here pronto. And I’m not happy about the driver and passenger of the car either. Let’s wait till we get there and see what we can find.”

  Dr Julian Dodd was the pathologist who worked for the Western Region Detective Unit, based out of Mill Street in Galway. He himself had a laboratory at the Regional Hospital where he performed post-mortems on any suspicious deaths and generally helped the Gardaí with DNA and blood evidence, as well as some of the less savoury material that they encountered from time to time.

  While he had a superior and rather pompous air about him, possibly due to his diminutive stature – he stood a mere five foot six inches tall - he was a damn fine doctor and had helped the team to untangle some very tricky cases over the years. Although they would never admit it to his face, the detectives had more than a healthy respect for the man and his investigative powers.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Flynn,” the doctor answered, seeing Flynn’s name come up on his phone, “and what can I do for you this fine summer morning?”

  Flynn, who was well aware of the doctor’s acerbic temperament, explained the reason for the call and was surprised not to be met with a tirade of protest from the man.

  “Excellent,” he said, “you’ve saved me from a gaggle of spotty youths over at the University. I was due to give a lecture to them this morning. I’ll be out in about an hour, and for heaven’s sake try and keep all and sundry from touching anything and contaminating the evidence till I get there.”

  “Will do, Doc. Thanks. See you soon.”

  * * *

  When they arrived at the scene they found Pascal Brosnan chatting to Garda Jim Dolan who had arrived in from Clifden. Dolan had stopped his car across the road with its blue lights flashing so that passing vehicles could be directed around Deasy’s tow truck and the prone remains of Jeremy Craigue, now covered with a rug, lying in the road.

  “For fuck sake,” Lyons said before they got out of the car. She was not at all happy at the casual way the scene was being managed.

  The two Gardaí stood up straight as Lyons approached.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” they said in unison.

  “Morning men. What’s the story?” she replied.

  Pascal Brosnan filled Lyons and Flynn in on how Paddy the postman had found the upturned car and how the body had fallen out on the road when it was being lifted onto the truck.

  “Where’s the postman now?” she asked.

  “We sent him off. He has deliveries to make,” Brosnan replied.

  “Did you get a statement from him?” Lyons said.

  “No, but we can get that later – I know his route. He won’t be hard to find,” Brosnan replied.

  “Do we know who the boy is?” she continued.

  “No. I don’t think he’s local though,” Garda Brosnan replied, “I don’t recognise him.”

  Lyons donned a pair of blue vinyl gloves and blue plastic overshoes. She approached the body carefully and felt in the pockets with her fingers, fishing out a brown leather wallet from the back of his jeans. Inside she found some euro notes, forty pounds in sterling and a UK driving license with a photo of the dead man bearing the name Jeremy Craigue.

  “Does the name Craigue ring a bell with anyone?” Lyons enquired.

  “Oh yes, I know them,” piped up Jim Dolan. “They are an English family and they have a house out at Ballyconneely. It’s a lovely place right there overlooking the strand on the other side of the road from the beach.”

  “OK. Thanks Jim. Now gather round everyone, here’s the plan.”

  * * *

  Maureen Lyons was still settling into the role of detective inspector. She had been made up the previous year following the successful outcome of a particularly nasty murder of an old man in his cottage out near Clifden. Both Hays and the detective unit’s superintendent, Finbarr Plunkett, felt she was ready for the promotion, but Maureen herself wasn’t so sure. She relied heavily on Hays and wondered if without his guiding hand she could cut it at the senior rank.

  “From the look of things, the boy was being taken against his will in the boot of the car. So that’s clearly an abduction, or kidnap. I’m concerned about the driver and passenger too. They’re obviously injured, and God knows where they are by now. So, Jim, I want you to drive out the far side of Roundstone and set up a roadblock. It may be too late, but you’re looking for two people who may well look a bit bashed up. And we need to stay in touch, so call me on my phone when you get it set up.”

  “Right so,” Dolan said, heading for his car.

  “Eamon, can you call into Galway and see if Joe Mason and his dog can come out? The kidnappers may still be holed up around here somewhere, and if so, Brutus will find them. There’s too many places for us to cover on our own,” Lyons instructed.

  Brutus, a beautiful black and sable four-year-old German Shepherd was famous in the force for tracking and being able to find almost anything even from the flimsiest trace. The dog had the added advantage that if he found a suspect, he could put the fear of God into them with just a snarl of his sharp white teeth and a bark or two. Joe and Brutus worked as a team as if they were mentally connected, for anyone observing would swear that each knew what the other was thinking. Between them they had helped in the capture of countless villains around the country, and Brutus had earned the respect and admiration of everyone with whom he had worked.

  “Right, boss, what are you going to do?” Flynn asked her.

  “I’d better go out and call on the Craigues before they hear the news from someone else. You wait here with Pascal and look after the good doctor when he gets here.”

  “What about Deasy and the wrecked car?”

  “He’ll have to wait here till the
doctor has given the all clear to move the body. Then ask him to drop the car at the back of the Garda station in Roundstone – preferably the right way up! Forensics can do their thing there,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  Lorcan shook himself awake. After he had found Sheila dead, all the energy and fight went out of him. He had laid down beside the dead girl, sobbing silently, and fallen into an uneasy sleep. His slumber was punctuated with terrifying dreams and when he awoke, he soon realised that the reality of his position was even worse than the nightmares.

  He knew he had to get out of there, and soon. He covered Sheila’s face with an old musty sack that he found in the house, left the property by the back door, and headed back across the graveyard to Gurteen where he had left the stolen van. He approached it carefully, but there seemed to be no one taking any notice of him. The few campers in the caravan site were just going about their normal routines, so he got back into the van, started it, and headed out towards Roundstone.

  He got clear of the village and hadn’t travelled far when he came across Garda Dolan’s car, parked sideways across the road. Dolan was standing by the car, and seeing the old van coming, stepped into the road and held up his hand.

  Lorcan brought the van to a stop and wound down the window.

  “Good morning Garda,” McFadden said, trying to hide his nervousness.

  “Good morning. May I have your name please?” Dolan said, bending down to look into the van through the driver’s window.

  “Tommy, Tommy Nevin,” Lorcan said, keeping his hand over the ignition switch so that the Garda wouldn’t see that there was no key in it.

  “Well Tommy, where are you heading this morning?”

  “I’m going into work in Galway.”

  “Oh right, what do you work at then?” Dolan asked.

  “I’m a maintenance man in a factory down on the docks. I keep the machines running and run errands, that sort of thing,” Lorcan replied.