The Galway Homicides Box Set

by David Pearson

  “Yo, Séamus,” Lorcan said, lowering the window of the stolen car. “Can you shut that bloody dog up. Jesus, it has teeth any shark would be proud of.”

  Séamus uttered a few stern words in the direction of the dog and it lay down on the wet, greasy gravel and whimpered softly.

  “Ah, ‘tis yourself Lorcan. What about ye?” Séamus said.

  “Is it safe to get out?” Lorcan asked, looking nervously at the dog who still had him fixed with a suspicious stare.

  “Aye, you’re grand. He won’t touch you.”

  Lorcan got out of the car rather cautiously and stepped well out of reach of the beast.

  “I need some Northern Ireland plates on this one Séamus, and a matching tax disc if you have it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do for you, lad, but it will cost you fifty quid, no messing,” Séamus said, stepping down from the old caravan.

  “Aw, fuck it Séamus, I’m skint. Will twenty euro not do you?”

  “Is that all you’ve got? Aw c’mon, I’ll do you a favour just this once, but you’ll owe me, OK?”

  “Thanks, Séamus, you’re a star. I’ll bring you something tasty next time I’m in these parts, I promise,” Lorcan said.

  “Where did you snag this nice little motor then?” Séamus said.

  “Ah, you don’t want to know Séamus, but it’s a tidy one all right.”

  Séamus disappeared behind a pile of broken cars stacked on top of each other, and emerged a few minutes later carrying a pair of Northern Ireland registration plates.

  “These are from a Focus just like yours,” he said, “it’s even the same colour. And you’re in luck, I have the disc too.”

  Séamus took just a few minutes to swap the plates on the car, and then went back into the caravan, appearing a couple of moments later with the small round tax disc in his grubby hands. He fitted it to the windscreen with a plastic holder, removing the Irish tax and insurance discs so that the car would look authentic.

  Lorcan drove back out of the yard. The Focus had been transformed into a Northern Ireland car of the same make and colour and had the matching tax disc on display in the windscreen. For the first time since the accident, Lorcan began to relax. When I get to Belfast, he mused, I might just take the ferry to Scotland and get away from the horror of the last twenty-four hours. He doubted that the man would be looking for him, he would have enough to worry about – not getting the ransom and all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hays was still sitting at Pascal Brosnan’s desk, deep in thought, when Sinéad – the pretty blonde forensic team leader – appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a white scene-of-crime suit, with blue plastic gloves and overshoes.

  “Penny for them, sir?” she said, knocking gently on the office door.

  “Oh, sorry Sinéad, I was miles away. Come in. What have you got?” Hays said.

  “Fingerprints,” Sinéad said.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Yes, from the car. Steering wheel, B posts, boot lid, door frames – in fact all over.”

  “OK. Good. Now all we need to know is whom they belong to,” Hays said.

  “Already done, sir. We have this new kit that allows me to transmit the prints back to Galway where they can look it up on the database. John O’Connor found a match almost immediately,” Sinéad said.

  “Clev-er. So?”

  “So. The driver is one Lorcan McFadden. Small time criminal. He’s done a few short stretches for car theft. Nothing heavy. Nothing like this,” Sinéad said.

  “That figures. And the girl?”

  “Sheila. Sheila O’Rourke. Even smaller time petty thief. Done a few times for shoplifting, but never been inside. Got off with cautions mostly,” Sinéad said.

  “Doesn’t sound like either of these master criminals set this lot up, does it? I don’t suppose your new-fangled gadget can tell us where McFadden is now?”

  “No sir, although I think we’re getting that one next month!” she said, smiling.

  “What about the car?” Hays said.

  “Well I don’t think it’s going to pass its NCT test this year I’m afraid. But here’s the odd thing. It’s not stolen, but it’s not legit either. It’s been through lots of pairs of hands recently, but not nicked.”

  “OK. Well, see what else you can find out, if anything. And make sure we capture the DNA samples and all that other funky stuff you’re so fond of,” Hays said.

  “Yes sir, of course,” Sinéad said.

  She was about to leave the office when she turned and said to Hays, “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Well, Sinéad, two dead bodies and an escaped kidnapper. A demand for a hundred thousand euro in used notes, and a sting to set up. What do you think?”

  “Sorry sir, it’s just …”

  “Yes, I know, I’m not my usual bouncy self. It’s just that in two minutes I have to phone Superintendent Plunkett and give him the good news. I’m really looking forward to that one. Anyway, don’t mind me. I’ll be fine. If you see Inspector Lyons outside there, ask her to come in, will you? Oh, and Sinéad, thanks, that’s good work.”

  Lyons returned to the office just as Hays was finishing his call with the superintendent.

  “Yes sir. Of course, sir. No, sir, I won’t allow that to happen. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. At once, sir.”

  “Jesus, Mick, he sounds in good form,” Lyons said.

  “Well you can’t really blame him. So far, it’s a giant cock up. But I promised him we’d nick the bagman tonight, so let’s get started. Can you get the troops back in for six o’clock? And get some food in, I’m starving,” he said.

  Lyons knew better than to challenge Hays when he was in this humour, but she wasn’t happy. It was clear that he felt that if he’d been running the show, things would be working out differently, and a good deal better at that. She felt that was unfair, but this wasn’t the time to bring it up. She got on the radios and asked the team to head back to the station, and to bring back some sandwiches, crisps and chocolate biscuits for an improvised meal.

  * * *

  Hays stood at the front of the group this time. He was still dressed in the casual clothes he had been wearing for the boat. His pale chinos, light blue cable stitch jumper and docksiders made him look several years younger than he usually did at work where he normally wore a sombre suit. Although she was a bit miffed that he had clearly taken charge, Lyons knew why she found him so irresistible. Lyons was both relieved and upset. Things were definitely not going well, but she couldn’t see how she was to blame, or indeed how she could have done things any differently. For now though, the important thing was to try to salvage something from the mess and if Hays could manage that somehow, then things would improve for all of them.

  “Right, listen up everyone,” Hays said, rubbing a few remaining crumbs from the front of his pullover.

  “I think it’s fair to assume that after the crash last night, the driver and his accomplice took off without too much thought about the original plan, nor indeed the welfare of their victim. I’m guessing they were supposed to take him to a hideout somewhere, and Lorcan was probably going to pick up the ransom tonight.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, boss?” said Flynn.

  “Well maybe it is Eamon. But John O’Connor has confirmed that the call to the Craigues with instructions for the drop came from a pay-as-you-go mobile in West Dublin. So, as I suspected all along, someone other than Lorcan and his girlfriend is behind this, and whoever it is, he was hardly planning to dash across the country when he had a runner here to do his dirty work,” Hays said.

  “Oh, right. But why is he apparently going ahead trying to collect the money with the kid dead?”

  “That’s just it,” Lyons interjected, “we reckon he doesn’t know. We think Lorcan hasn’t been in touch. Our man probably thinks that Lorcan and the boy are stashed in the safe house, and that there isn’t a signal or something, if he’s in Dublin. If that’s the c
ase, he has no way of knowing that it’s gone pear-shaped – after all, we have at least managed to keep it off the news.”

  Hays went on. “So, this is the plan. Sally will be back out here with the Craigues car in about half an hour. Eamon, you’re going to take it back out to their house and pretend to be Bernard Craigue. You’re a good deal taller than Craigue, but if you hunch down in the car, you should be able to fool them, and it’ll be dark by the time you set off from the house to the pick-up point in the car, so anyone watching won’t know the difference. When you get to the house, fill a supermarket bag with torn up newspaper to look like cash.”

  “OK, boss. What time do I drop the ransom?”

  “He said eleven-thirty. So leave at twenty past. Drive to the old seaweed factory and leave the bag inside the main door, and then drive off back towards the house. Stop in one of the little dirt tracks out of sight of the road, but near where the track from Mannin joins the main road in case we need you in a hurry.”

  “Now, Pascal; Jim. Will you head out to Tadgh Deasy’s place now and get him to lend you an old rusty van – a Transit or something. Don’t worry about tax or a DOE ‘cert, just as long as it’s good and beaten up looking, and it goes. Bring it back here as soon as you can,” Hays said.

  “Righto, boss. We’ll be about half an hour,” Brosnan said.

  “Grand. Off you go then,” Hays said.

  When the team had dispersed in their various directions, Lyons asked Hays, “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re going to arrest the bagman. You and Jim will hide in Deasy’s van parked beside one of the old empty cottages near the seaweed factory. We’ll position Pascal down at the end of the track, just where it joins the main Clifden road. There’s a house there with an overgrown garden where he can conceal himself. When our man turns up, we’ll catch him red handed carrying the bag. The others will be backup in case he makes a run for it, and as a final backstop, we’ll have Eamon out on the road. Then we should be able to find out what all this is about.”

  “Sounds OK, Mick. I’d be happier if we could have a bit more backup, maybe a couple of Armed Response Unit guys just in case this turkey has a gun,” she said.

  “So would I, but Plunkett wouldn’t hear of it. He’s convinced we’re dealing with a bunch of amateurs.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Lyons said.

  * * *

  The man had tried several times to make contact with Lorcan McFadden during the day. He had no luck.

  “Damn the little shit,” he said to himself. “I suppose he’s cuddled up with that little slag of his in the cottage with his phone off. Or maybe there’s no signal. I’ll just have to go and get the money myself.”

  He set off from Clondalkin in the west of Dublin at five o’clock in his hired Volkswagen Golf. The rush hour traffic on the Naas Road was heavy, which he didn’t mind at all, as it guaranteed his anonymity. He fiddled with the sat nav until he finally got it pointed towards Roundstone, and the device informed him that he would be there at just after nine.

  Excellent, he thought, that will give me time to stop for some food and do a recce on the drop site before it gets fully dark.

  The man’s plan was to lift the cash, then drive back to Dublin airport in time for the first flight out to London at seven o’clock the following morning. He would hand over the cash in London later that day. He was supposed to give Lorcan a slice of course, but he could go to hell.

  * * *

  Garda Pascal Brosnan pulled up beside the freshly painted Garda Station in Roundstone in a battered old Ford Transit. The van wheezed and creaked as he brought it to a halt, and he struggled with the lock on the driver’s door to let himself out. The van had once been red, but now the paint was a dull and faded ruddy brown colour, and rust patches had broken out all over the body work. The windscreen had a nasty crack running all the way from corner to corner and there was no sign of a tax disc anywhere to be seen. Brosnan noticed that only one headlight appeared to be working. As he climbed down onto the tarmac, Jim Dolan came over.

  “Jesus, Pascal. I hope that old crate will get us as far as Ballyconneely. Is there much fuel in her?” Dolan said.

  “Deasy said it’s about half full. The gauge isn’t working, but I’ll take his word for it.”

  “Well anyway, it’s what the boss wanted, so I hope he’s happy with it.”

  The two Gardaí went inside to update Hays on their acquisition.

  * * *

  The Craigues identified the body of their only son in the morgue at the Regional Hospital, with Sally Fahy and Dr Dodd standing by. Mrs Craigue was completely distraught, and at one stage they thought she would collapse altogether. Bernard Craigue was a bit more composed, but it was very clear that the loss of their only son was something they would never get over. Eventually, when there was no more to be said or done, Sally ushered the two grieving parents away, and took them back into the city where they checked in at the Imperial Hotel on Eyre Square. Sally stayed with them for half an hour or so to see if there was anything further that she could do for them, but they were simply inconsolable, so she left them to it.

  Sally Fahy enjoyed the drive back out to Roundstone in Bernard Craigue’s big Jaguar. She was a little nervous navigating the narrow twisty streets around the city centre and down by the docks, but once she got onto the open road, she relaxed and began to enjoy the luxury of the big machine greatly. The Jaguar seemed to soak up all the bumps and dips in the road that her own little car felt so much, and at times it was as if she was gliding along on air. The stereo was fantastic, and she tuned in to Galway Bay FM where the afternoon show was filled with relaxing music – just right for the journey she was on after what she had seen in Galway. She had to watch her speed though – the car had a habit of going well over the limit with remarkable ease.

  In the late afternoon, the seemingly endless sunshine had given way to patchy cotton wool clouds, and out on the bog beyond Oughterard there was a dappled effect of light and dark on the heathland and the mountains in the distance. There was still quite a bit of traffic about – mostly hire cars with their Europcar or Avis stickers in the rear windows – all travelling at a sedate pace through the scenic landscape. “I could get used to this,” Sally thought as the driver of a hired Polo waved her on where the road widened out at Maam Cross. She pressed gently on the accelerator and the big car lunged forward and shot past the little Volkswagen as if it had been released from a cage.

  When she got back to the Garda station in Roundstone, Hays was about to start the evening briefing for the operation that lay ahead.

  “OK everyone. We leave at nine o’clock. I want us all in position well before the pick-up time. Maureen, you can drive the van. When we get to the road leading down to Mannin we’ll let Pascal out, and he can find a comfortable spot, well out of sight, in the garden of the house there. Then we’ll drive on down and reverse the van up beside the empty house opposite the factory. I’ll go into the old ruin and see if I can find a spot where I can keep an eye on the main entrance without being seen. Maureen and Jim, stay in the van keeping a low profile. As soon as our man has picked up the bag, I’ll call you in on the radio and we should be able to nab him easily enough. Just in case he makes a run for it, Pascal can intercept him up at the road, and Eamon won’t be too far away if things go really pear-shaped. Any questions?” Hays said.

  “Yes, boss. We can assume he’ll have a car. What if he manages to get to it somehow and drives off? Deasy’s van won’t be much use in a pursuit situation,” Lyons said to a murmur of laughter around the room.

  “Good point, Maureen. Jim, can you get Sergeant Mulholland out to lend a hand. Get him to park up on the Clifden side of the main road but stay out of sight till he hears from us. We don’t want to spook the bagman if he’s coming out that way from Clifden to collect the money. Tell Mulholland to be prepared to stop our man if he turns back on himself. Tell him not to make any mistake about it this time. Ram his car if necessary – we ne
ed to be certain about this. We’ll get very little sympathy if this goes wrong, believe me. Oh, and we need to make sure we have good radio contact. We’ll do a radio check when everyone is in position. Now you can all relax till nine o’clock,” Hays said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lorcan McFadden was quite relaxed as he drove the stolen Ford along the road towards Belfast. He was very tired, not having had much sleep the previous night, and as he came down the steep hill leading into Dungannon the tiredness overcame him and he dozed off for a moment. He came to with a start, and of course the first thing he did was to stand on the brakes, locking up all four wheels, and making control even more difficult. The little car pirouetted around and finally came to rest buried in the side of a Volkswagen van which had been coming the other way. Once again, Lorcan’s driving skills had let him down.

  Neither driver was hurt, but whatever way Lorcan’s car had caught the van, its front wheel on the driver’s side had broken off, and the door mirror hung down, suspended by electrical wires. The Focus was bashed all along the left-hand side, and the large plastic front bumper was hanging off one side of the car and resting on the road.

  Lorcan got out of the car, as did the other driver who was none too pleased at the encounter.

  “For God’s sake man, what the hell were you doing?” he shouted in a raised voice. “I’ve got three more deliveries to make this evening and you’ve gone and put me off the road.”

  “I’m sorry mate, I don’t know what happened. It just started spinning.” Whilst the two continued to exchange pleasantries, they didn’t notice a white Vauxhall Astra with two PSNI officers inside on the roundabout at the bottom of the road. Seeing the two vehicles embedded in each other, the police made their way up the hill and stopped at the scene.