The two officers got out of their vehicle. They took one driver apiece and moved them apart so that neither could hear the story the other was telling. After a few minutes of careful note taking, the two officers returned to the front of their patrol car.
Constable Alan McCloskey was first to speak.
“What do you make of it?” he said to the other.
“Just an expensive bit of nonsense. Looks like the Focus lost control coming down the hill. I’ve seen it here before. The road must be a bit slippery. We better get the tow truck out. They’re both going nowhere.”
McCloskey walked back over to the Focus and was looking intently at the vehicle.
“Hey, Simon. Come here a minute.”
The two officers stood in front of the crumpled Ford.
“There’s something not right here,” McCloskey said. “The number plate on this car is from 2011, but it’s a 2013 model. They changed the rear light cluster and the front grille in 2012, and this is definitely the newer one.”
“Hmm, OK. You’d better call it in then, see what’s on the computer.”
Constable Alan McCloskey used the radio on his coat to call in to the station. He discovered that the plates belonged to a Ford Focus, but that it had been totally wrecked and burnt out a few months previously.
“I think we’d better bring laddy boy in for a while till we sort this out. Can you get a photo of the VIN number off the windscreen on your phone while I talk to the driver?” Wilson said.
“I’m sorry officer, but I really need to keep moving,” Lorcan said as the officer approached.
“Any chance of a lift to the station?” he added.
“Oh, I think we can manage that OK. Why don’t you sit into the back of the patrol car there? We’ll be with you in a minute or two,” McCloskey said.
When all three were seated inside the car, McCloskey asked Lorcan where he was headed.
“I’m going to Belfast to meet some mates. Are the trains frequent enough from here?” he asked.
“Oh, aye, they go every half an hour or so.” The officer gave his colleague a knowing look.
The patrol car drove around the roundabout and on towards the centre of Dungannon. Lorcan was reassured by the Northern Ireland Railways sign pointing to the station that they passed. He couldn’t believe his luck – he was only getting a police escort after all that had happened!
Before they reached the town centre, McCloskey turned the patrol car in between two enormous grey metal gates that must have been thirty feet high. The gates formed part of some serious fortification, presumably left over from the Troubles in the 1970s. There was a tower that overlooked the entire compound and the road outside, and an amount of razor wire, and multiple CCTV cameras were perched on top of the high wall completing the picture of a high security establishment.
“This isn’t the train station,” Lorcan said, his voice now full of alarm.
“That’s right laddie, it’s the police station,” Wilson said.
“But you said you’d give me a lift to the station!”
“Aye, and we did. We never mentioned the train station though, did we, Alan?”
“No. We just said we’d give you a lift to the station, and here we are,” the other officer confirmed.
At the police station, which looked a lot less dismal inside than it did from the outside, McCloskey introduced Lorcan McFadden to the desk sergeant.
“Sergeant, can you find somewhere nice and comfy for our new friend here? We just need to check a few things out, we shouldn’t be too long,” McCloskey said.
“Sure, I know just the place. Come along with me son, and we’ll see if we can find you a cup of tea,” the wily old sergeant replied.
Lorcan was ushered down a short, brightly lit corridor and shown into a cell, the strong steel door closing with a distinct thud behind him.
Wilson and McCloskey got to work digging up information on Lorcan’s car. Using the VIN number, they were able to establish that it had been allocated to a dealer in Cavan in 2013. They reckoned Lorcan had probably stolen it in the South, and somehow managed to get new plates once he crossed the border. They phoned Cavan Garda Station and told the nature of their enquiry to the young Garda that answered the phone. He said that they needed to talk to the sergeant, and after what seemed like an age, the older man came on the line.
“We have reports of a vehicle matching that description having been stolen from a shopping centre car park in Manorhamilton at around lunchtime. Poor Mrs McGroarty is beside herself it seems. Is the car driveable?” he said.
“I’m afraid Mrs McGroarty is going to have to claim on her insurance, Sergeant. Her car has been involved in an RTA up here in Dungannon, and it’s off the road,” the PSNI officer said.
“Right so. I’ll pass on the good news to the poor woman.” The officers in the two jurisdictions exchanged more information about the car, and where it was being taken.
Before hanging up, McCloskey said to the Garda sergeant, “Oh, and while you’re there, Sergeant, can you have a look and see if there’s anything on a Lorcan McFadden? It was he who was driving Mrs McGroarty’s car.”
“OK, Constable, but I’ll have to call you back. Our system is down at the minute. Will you be there for a while?” said the Garda Sergeant, beginning to feel that North-South co-operation was perhaps reaching its limits.
“Yes, sure. We’re on till ten tonight. Do you think it will be back by then?”
“Oh, wait, hang on a second. It’s just coming back on now. What did you say that name was?”
“McFadden. Lorcan McFadden,” the PSNI officer said.
“McFadden, McFadden, eh let’s see. Oh, by Jove yes. Seems our colleagues in Galway are anxious to speak to a Lorcan McFadden. Have you got him there?”
“We have. Best if we make him comfortable for the night, I think. We can sort it out tomorrow. Will you let your folks in Galway know we have him safe and secure here in Dungannon?”
* * *
When the sergeant in Cavan had finished his tea, he phoned through to Mill Street Garda station and was put through to John O’Connor. He explained what had transpired, and that Lorcan McFadden was now a guest of Her Majesty in Dungannon police station.
O’Connor wasted no time in calling Hays out in Roundstone to give him the news.
“Good stuff, John. Now can you get back onto Dungannon and ask them to send a photo of the prisoner to you, and then send it on to my phone. I’d like Jim Dolan to confirm the identification before we go creating an international incident,” Hays said.
“Sure, will do, boss,” O’Connor said and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Hays’ phone pinged, and the photo of McFadden arrived on the screen. Hays showed the mug shot to Jim Dolan, who had no trouble in identifying him as the man who had gone through the roadblock earlier in the day.
“Yes, that’s him, the little toe-rag. Of course he gave me a different name, but that’s definitely him all the same. What are we going to do now?” Dolan said.
“I’ll try and sort something out, Jim. Maureen, can you come with me for a minute?” The two senior officers walked out to Hays’ car and got inside.
“OK. This is what we’ll do. Will you call Superintendent Plunkett and bring him up to date? He’ll be pleased that the driver of the kidnap vehicle is in custody, even if it’s in the North. Ask him if he can help us to get McFadden back here without too many formalities. I have a feeling he has connections with someone senior in the PSNI up near the border. He might just be able to swing it,” Hays said.
“OK. No problem, but why don’t you call him? You’re more senior than I am,” she said.
“No. It will be better coming from you. Plunkett sees you as a rising star in the force just now, and anyway, this is supposed to be your party. I’m on leave remember. He’ll be more inclined to put himself out for you – trust me.”
“And you mean to say you’re not the blue-eyed boy, Mick?” Lyons said in surprise.
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“I thought I was, but I hear otherwise. So, you’ll call him, will you?”
“OK. I will. Do you want to listen in?”
“No. You’re grand. You can tell me after.”
Lyons put the call through to Superintendent Plunkett. He was glad to hear that they had the driver in captivity but wasn’t sure if he could do much to help. He did know the Assistant Chief Constable of the PSNI though. They had worked together during the Troubles on some very delicate cases, and although they were from completely different backgrounds, they got along pretty well, and had a healthy respect for each other’s professionalism. At the end of the call, he agreed to contact the man and see if he could call in a favour. He told Lyons to keep her phone on, and he’d call her back if he could reach the ACC.
* * *
At fifty-four, Finbarr Plunkett had seen most of what life in the Garda Síochana could throw at a person. He had developed strong instincts and a good sense of what would work and what wouldn’t when it came to solving crime. His role as Detective Superintendent of the Western Crime Division had changed a lot in the past five years. When he first got the job, you could do more or less whatever was needed to mete out justice, as long as a reasonable result was achieved. But these days with social media in the ascendant and those pesky smart phones with their ever-present cameras, things were very different. Still, Plunkett’s sense of fair play persisted, and he was usually able to navigate a safe course between the many, sometimes vicious, criminals that the Gardaí came across and the do-gooders who seemed to be more keen on the criminals’ human rights than those of the hapless victims. This meant that he was given a free hand by Garda senior management and he had used this freedom to good effect, building some excellent crime fighting teams that operated out of Galway. Crime statistics in the region were contained, if not reducing, while in other areas of the country the figures seemed to be going relentlessly in the wrong direction. As a result, Plunkett was held in high regard.
* * *
Lyons went back into the Garda station but didn’t have to wait long for Plunkett’s call.
“Lyons,” she answered.
“Ah, Inspector. Yes, I managed to catch the ACC just as he was on his way out to dinner. He made a quick call to Dungannon to see what crimes, if any, McFadden had actually committed in Northern Ireland. It seems the lad hasn’t done much there that they can pin on him other than driving carelessly, and they’re not too bothered about that. He says you can drive up and collect him tomorrow morning in an unmarked car, with no uniforms on view, and you can have him. But it’s important to be discreet. Keep it well below the radar. He’s doing us a big favour,” Plunkett said.
“Understood, sir, and thank you, that should make things a whole lot simpler for us,” Lyons said.
“Glad to help, Inspector. Be sure to keep me updated.”
Chapter Sixteen
At a quarter to nine that evening, the full team was assembled in the rather crowded Garda Station in Roundstone. Sally Fahy had arrived back with Bernard Craigue’s car, and she confirmed that the Craigues were now in residence at the Imperial Hotel for the night.
Lyons went over the plan once more with everyone before they set out. They sent Eamon Flynn out to the Craigue’s house in the Jaguar. He had a supermarket bag stuffed with torn up newspapers beside him, and his instructions were to drive to the old seaweed factory to be there at half past eleven, drop the bag inside the door, and then drive away, back towards Ballyconneely and stay off the road out of sight, but nearby in case he was needed.
The rest of the team piled into the old rusty Transit donated by Tadgh Deasy. The van was disgusting. It stank of oil and diesel and was strewn with old papers and dirty rags with some dreadful greasy gunge on the floor in the load area. The seats were torn, with dirty orange sponge leaking out between the cracks, and the windscreen was covered in a bluish haze on the inside. Deasy had excelled himself. Lyons drove the van, which wheezed and spluttered through the evening mist across the old bog road, out towards the Mannin peninsula, leaving clouds of pungent blue smoke in their wake. Fortunately, it was still dusk, so the fact that one headlight was out didn’t really matter.
They let Pascal Brosnan out as agreed at the junction, and he made off into the overgrown garden of the house at the crossroads and vanished from sight. The rest of the team drove on out to the old seaweed factory.
Lyons had great difficulty engaging reverse gear in the old wreck, but she managed it eventually with much grinding from the ancient gearbox, and with a lot of revving of the tired engine and even more smoke, she reversed the old heap up beside an empty cottage just off the road and nearly opposite their target.
With the van’s engine turned off, Lyons checked radio contact with the rest of the team. They had given the stake out the code name ‘sea hawk’ so that anyone listening in to their conversation would believe it was a fishing boat out off the coast. The van was to be referred to as ‘captain’ and Brosnan as ‘bosun’. It wasn’t much of a subterfuge, but it was all they could think of at short notice.
Hays got out of the van by the rear doors and crossed the road to the old building where he found a good vantage point allowing him to see the entrance easily. The building was dirty inside, littered with empty beer cans and old fast food boxes, where the local youth had used it as a shelter for their underage drinks parties. The evening began to turn to night, and the mist got a little thicker, making the old factory look very eerie in the strange half-light, but the Gardaí waited patiently, if a little uneasily for something to happen.
At almost exactly half past eleven, Eamon Flynn arrived in Craigue’s car and stopped outside the old ruin. He got out, and nimbly trotted across to the entrance, clutching the bag of paper in his right hand. He left the bag by the door as instructed and made his way briskly back to the car, and drove off back the way he had come. He avoided looking at the old van parked opposite or making any other gesture that might give their plan away.
A few minutes later, Lyons’ radio crackled to life.
“Bosun to captain. A grey VW Golf has just passed the end of the road, turned and come back again this way. Now heading in your direction,” Pascal Brosnan said.
“Roger,” Lyons said into the radio.
The Golf pulled up on the road just opposite where the van was parked, and its lights went out. The occupant sat in the car for a couple of minutes having a good look round. He then got out of the car. He was a portly man with a round ruddy face, dressed largely in black, with black town shoes and a woolly hat pulled down to just above his eyes.
He made his way cautiously to the front entrance of the old factory, which was now just a rectangular hole in the wall of the building, the door itself having been removed by the elements some time ago. The man found the bag easily and started back towards the road without checking the contents.
“Go!” shouted Lyons, and the two front doors of the old van creaked open. The interior light in the van’s cab, which hadn’t worked for years, decided at this moment to return to service, and the front windscreen of the van lit up like a lighthouse in the fog.
The man saw the light at once, and a second later he was able to make out the dark shapes of the Gardaí heading in his direction. He took flight immediately. Grasping the bag close to his chest he ran across the rough ground parallel to the road towards the only escape route afforded by the geography of the place.
“Captain to bosun. He’s coming in your direction. Single male on foot. Don’t let him get away,” Lyons wheezed into the radio, out of breath from the sudden chase.
“Roger,” came the reassuring reply.
Brosnan, who was used to playing Gaelic games, waited until his quarry was in sight. The man was now clearly running out of breath, but he still progressed quite steadily towards the open road. That is until Brosnan sprang at him from the cover of the hedge and tackled him firmly to the ground.
“Gotcha!” he exclaimed, and Lyons and the rest of them
quickly caught up.
“Ah, Eddie we meet again. Small world, eh?” Lyons said.
The man was then handcuffed, still clinging possessively to his bag of old newspaper.
With the pursuit over, Mulholland and Fahy returned with their cars, and everyone but Pascal Brosnan piled in along with the bagman to drive back to Roundstone Garda station. Brosnan was given the unenviable task of returning the van to Deasy with instructions that it was not to be seen on the road again.
Back at the Garda station, Flynn and Fahy were told to take the prisoner back to Galway and put him in the cells for the night.
“What will we charge him with, boss?” Flynn said.
“Nothing”, said Lyons, “he’s just helping us with our enquiries for now,” she said, much to Flynn’s surprise.
“Then you get off home, both of you. We’ll need you in early tomorrow.”
* * *
On the way back to Galway, with the drama out at Roundstone over, for the moment at least, Hays discussed the case with his partner. The two were now living together in his house in Salthill. Lyons had moved in soon after she had been made up to inspector. Although it was an unusual arrangement, the superintendent had said he was willing to turn a blind eye as long as it didn’t get in the way of their work. They had made a pact to leave the job at the front door, which sometimes led to a late-night conversation in the front garden, or sitting in one of their cars in the driveway, but they had stuck to it, and so far at least it had served them well. They had discovered that they were physically very compatible on a visit to Poland two years ago when they were working on the Lisa Palowski murder case, and they had grown a lot closer since. Both were strongly independent, with Maureen doing her own hobbies and Mick Hays quite involved with the sailing in his beloved Folkboat. Lyons had even held on to the little flat in the city and sub-let it to a rookie uniformed Garda fresh out of Templemore.
“I’ll have it when you get fed up with me and kick me out,” she would tease Hays.
The Galway Homicides Box Set Page 35