The Galway Homicides Box Set

by David Pearson

  “No, never. Our speciality was full colour litho printing – brochures, mags, catalogues – that kind of thing. We did work for some of the fashion houses, but that’s as close as we got to cosmetics. Fussy buggers they were too. Give me Woman’s Way any day,” he said, reminiscing.

  “Do you know what became of Chapman’s company after you left?” Hays said.

  “Not really. I heard in the trade that it had gone down hill quite a bit, and there were rumours that he had got into some dodgy stuff lately, but I didn’t pay it much heed to be honest. It’s probably down to the son. That’s why I sold up, you know. Second generations always make a mess of the father’s business. I didn’t want Jeremy to do that, and he didn’t want it either,” Craigue said.

  Bernard Craigue’s eyes filled with tears as the memory of his son came back to him. The two detectives sensed that it was the right time to leave.

  Outside in the car, Hays said, “Let’s head into Clifden and get some lunch. I want to phone John O’Connor in any case, and there’s no signal out here.”

  They stopped at the Garda station in Clifden and found Jim Dolan alone behind the desk. Hays used the station’s phone to call back to Mill Street. John O’Connor was at lunch, but he got speaking to Sally Fahy who never seemed to eat anything at all in the middle of the day.

  “Sally, do we still have access to that UK database?” he said.

  “Hold on sir, I’ll check on my PC.”

  Hays could hear the keyboard clicking in the background.

  “Sorry, sir. It looks like the password has been changed. I can’t log on,” she said.

  “Damn. OK. Could you put a call in to DCI Russell for me? Use your Irish charm to ask her to look up one Peter Chapman and send over anything she can find. Tell her it’s the last favour we will ask of her.”

  They drove back into the centre of Clifden and decided to have lunch at Foyle’s Hotel. Luckily, they got a parking spot just outside, for the heavy shower hadn’t let up, and the accompanying breeze made it feel a lot colder than the eighteen degrees reported on the car’s outside temperature gauge.

  They finished the delicious seafood chowder, and while they were waiting for the roast lamb main course, Lyons asked Hays, “Are you sure you and Irene Russell weren’t an item at one stage then?”

  “No, not at all. We had a few boozy nights out in London together, but that was it. I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly sure Irene is on the other bus.”

  “Seriously! Jesus, that’s gas. And here was me ready to do the jealous girlfriend act.”

  “Have you seen her photo? Very short boy-cut hair, broad shoulders, not much on top and big hips. Don’t get me wrong, she’s very nice, and a damn fine cop, but I don’t think she’s into men,” Hays said.

  “I won’t be getting my hair cut short anytime soon then,” Lyons said, smirking.

  “Ah, go on. I thought you and Sally would make a lovely couple. I can just imagine …”

  “Fuck off, Mick, you pervert.” They both laughed out loud.

  * * *

  Fahy had persuaded DCI Russell to look into Peter Chapman, and when Hays and Lyons returned to the station, an A4 sheet about the man was on Hays’ desk.

  “Well now, young Peter has been a naughty boy,” Hays said.

  There were a series of minor crimes listed on the sheet that Hays had in front of him. But more importantly, at the end of the page, under ‘Notes’, someone had added:

  “Suspected of involvement with a number of known criminals in London. Insufficient evidence to pursue at this time.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  On the way into work the following morning in Hays’ car, Lyons said, “I was thinking about Eddie and the Chapmans last night. I have an idea.”

  “Oh-oh. God help them now. So, what’s your idea?” Hays said.

  “How would you like to snag Peter for this whole thing? He’d get a good few years, and Irene would love you forever, regardless,” she said.

  “Are you going to share your brainwave with me?”

  “Not just yet, but you’ll like it, don’t fret.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Is it at least legal?” Hays said.

  “Of course! Well, sort of.”

  * * *

  Eddie Turner was brought back to the interview room as soon as they got to the Garda station. Hays had asked Lyons to conduct the interview with Eamon Flynn. Hays wanted to stay in the background for this one in case it all fell apart. This way, he could possibly rescue the situation and provide some cover for Maureen.

  “Right, Eddie, we just wanted to bring you up to date with what’s been happening,” Lyons said.

  “We’ve been speaking to the superintendent, and he wants the whole thing wrapped up as soon as possible. He’s told us to charge you with everything we can think of and get you in front of a judge tomorrow morning.”

  “So, what are the charges then?” Eddie said, looking apprehensive.

  “Eamon, what have we got so far?” Lyons said.

  “Let’s see,” Flynn said, turning over a few pages in his notebook for effect, “There’s kidnap of course, and extortion, then we have conspiracy to murder and perverting the course of justice, and the Super wants us to include a few ‘Offences against the State’ for good measure. That always gets the judges going, especially seeing as you’re English.”

  “This is bollocks, and you know it. I ain’t done half of that stuff. You’re fitting me up,” Turner protested.

  “Well, I see what you mean, Eddie. But we have two dead bodies. We’ve got to make it look good in front of the judge, don’t we? Of course, if you were to co-operate with us now, we might be able to see about reducing the charges, maybe even make some of it go away,” Lyons said.

  “How can I? I told you, I’d be signing my own death warrant. You can piss off. I’ll face the music.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that, Eddie. What if I was to give you a way out of this with your arse intact? No repercussions. At least hear what I have to say before you reject it,” Lyons said.

  She looked Turner coldly in the eye and saw his pupils flare.

  “Gotcha!” she said to herself.

  * * *

  “Is that you, Mr Chapman? It’s Eddie, Eddie Turner.”

  Peter Chapman was in his Porsche on the M25 heading for Gatwick when the call came through. He was on his way to collect some merchandise from the cargo terminal there.

  “Jesus, Eddie, where the fuck are you? And where’s my money?”

  “I’m in the fucking west of Ireland. The whole caper went tits up. The driver crashed the getaway car and the lad died. Total cluster fuck. But it’s not all bad. The money’s safe.” Eddie said.

  “Well that’s something. When can you get back here with it?”

  “That’s just it, I can’t. The whole place was swarming with cops when I went to pick it up. I had to hide the cash and make a run for it. I got away, but they’re closing in on me now. I’m going to get lifted any second,” Eddie said.

  “Fuck, Eddie, you stupid bastard. So why are you calling me?” Chapman said.

  “That’s just it, Mr Chapman, I can’t go back and collect the loot ‘cos I’ll be banged up. But you could come and get it,” Eddie said.

  “Jesus, Eddie, why have a dog and bark yourself?”

  “No, it’s not like that. The money is safe. But I’m not telling the cops where it is, and I’m not telling no other bugger either.”

  The traffic on the M25 slowed to a crawl, and Chapman was just inching along. He thought about the money, and how much ‘stock’ he could buy with it.

  “Right, well here’s what to do. Text me the location of wherever you stashed the cash. Then for fuck sake destroy that phone – and I mean completely destroy it. And if I can collect the money without incident, I might just spare your sorry ass – just maybe!” With that, he hung up.

  “Well done, Eddie,” Lyons said, “now give me the phone. When we have sen
t on the location, I’m going to cut up the SIM card in case he calls back.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “John, that phone call that we just made to the UK, where did it end up?” Lyons asked.

  “Hold on, boss. I’ll have it in a few minutes. Yes, here it is, just coming in now. It came from a mast alongside the M25. Then it switched to another mast, further south, just past Heathrow.

  “My guess is he’ll wait till tomorrow to come over,” Lyons said to Flynn and O’Connor. “But we need to be ready for him. It’s really important, John, that you stay on top of his phone. We’ll use that to track his movements, and if there’s any sign of him getting here any earlier, let me know at once.”

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Flynn said.

  “The co-ordinates Eddie gave him are for an old abandoned cottage out near Murvey on the sea side of the road down by the shore. We had to direct him out near the original pick up point to make it realistic. There’s only one single narrow track down to the place, so it should be easy enough to grab him. We’ll need to do it just as he collects the bag though, so Sally, can you get on to Sergeant Mulholland in Clifden and get him to place a realistic looking bag down at the house. And get him to do it today,” Lyons said.

  “Sure, I’ll do it now,” the junior officer said.

  “John, as soon as Chapman’s phone goes near an airport, I want to know about it,” Lyons said.

  “OK, boss.”

  “Eamon, you come with me. We’d better tell Mick what’s going on, he may need to brief the Super.”

  On the way to Hays’ office, Flynn asked, “Do you think he will be armed?”

  “I doubt it. He won’t risk trying to smuggle a weapon on board an aircraft, and he’d hardly know where to get his hands on one over here. Besides, I doubt he perceives a threat. Eddie was quite convincing,” Lyons said.

  They brought Senior Inspector Mick Hays fully up to date with the new developments.

  “Christ, Maureen. What did you have to promise Turner to get him to do that?” Hays asked.

  “Nothing. It’s what I promised him if he didn’t do it that motivated him,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Eamon, you’d better draw up a list of all the flights from the London area to Ireland between now and tomorrow night. Then get onto the airlines. Speak to their head of security. Reassure them that there’s no risk for them, we just want information quickly when we need it,” Hays said.

  “Right, sir. Anything else?” Flynn said.

  “No. Not for now. Just make sure everyone knows we’re all on call till this thing is over,” he said.

  Flynn left to set things up, and Hays said to Lyons, “What’s your plan for when he turns up? Deasy’s old red van again?” Hays said.

  “Not on your life. This time we go mob handed. ARU, dogs, the lot.”

  * * *

  Lyons’ mobile phone rang.

  “Inspector, it’s John. Our target’s phone has just been pinged on a mast at the edge of Gatwick airport. Maybe he’s coming our way sooner than we thought.”

  “Shit. OK, quick. Get everyone together at once. I’ll be down immediately,” she said.

  “What’s up?” Hays said.

  “He’s only bloody well arrived at Gatwick already. C’mon, let’s go,” she said.

  When they got to the incident room, John met them at the door.

  “Sorry, boss, it could be a false alarm. His phone has logged onto another mast at the back of the airport in the village of Charlwood.”

  O’Connor brought up a map of the area on the big screen and pointed to a small village just past the end of the main runway at Gatwick.

  “Eamon, have you got a list of flights from Gatwick to Dublin this evening?” Lyons asked.

  “Yes, boss. There isn’t one for four hours or so, and then that’s the last one for the night.”

  * * *

  Peter Chapman drove the Porsche around the back of the Dog and Pheasant in Charlwood. He parked beside the bins and got out of the car. He checked to see that there was no one about and walked casually over to the large blue wheelie bin. He found the package easily enough under the bin. It felt about right, and Andrei, the loader from the airport, was very reliable. He popped the plastic zip-lock bag containing five hundred pounds well under the bin, got back into his car and drove off towards London.

  The package Peter had collected contained a set of printing plates. Following the introduction of euro notes in 2002, the EU hadn’t changed them at all, while at the same time printing technology had advanced considerably. It was now relatively easy to forge good quality fifty euro notes, and that’s exactly what Peter Chapman intended to do.

  The plates he had collected originated in North Korea, with the payment to the loader at Gatwick just the last in a very long chain of arrangements made to get them safely and undiscovered into his hands. It’s amazing how many nooks and crannies there are on an aircraft where small items can easily be hidden away, provided you know where to look.

  The Koreans were well known for their prowess in producing fake currency. Some would even say that their ‘Super Dollars’ were better than the real thing. The euro plates had cost Chapman a great deal of money, but he reckoned it was well spent, as it was the only currency used in so many different countries, and hence it was quite easy to pass forgeries into circulation without arousing suspicion. Anyway, he had a pretty sum due to him from the Irish caper in the near future, so in his view, it was an investment worth making.

  As he drove back through the evening traffic, he thought about the team of runners that would soon be dispatched to the resorts of the Mediterranean and Aegean with their pockets stuffed full of bogus currency to be washed clean and returned to him – less expenses, of course.

  * * *

  Lyons studied the list of flights that Eamon had printed out. The earliest was 06:50 from Luton, followed quickly by departures from Stansted, Heathrow and Gatwick, all bound for Dublin. They had asked both the Ryanair, British Airways and Aer Lingus staff to let them know if anyone called Chapman purchased a ticket or boarded a flight for Ireland. At seven o’clock in the morning, John O’Connor got a call from the Ryanair supervisor at Gatwick.

  “Mr Chapman has just purchased a ticket on our nine-thirty service to Knock Airport,” she said. “He’ll be boarding in twenty minutes.”

  When O’Connor relayed the message to Lyons who was still at home, she was not best pleased.

  “Damn. Knock is only two hours away from Roundstone. Thanks, John, we’d better get a move on,” she said.

  On the way into Mill Street Garda station, Lyons called Eamon Flynn.

  “Eamon, can you get onto Claremorris Gardaí? Send them over the photo of Chapman we got from the web yesterday. Tell them to get out there and watch for him. Don’t let them arouse his suspicion. Ask them to confirm his arrival from Gatwick and tell us what he does next. Chances are he’ll hire a car. I want the make, colour and registration number of the vehicle, but ask them not to follow him. We know where he’s headed anyway, and they might get spotted,” Lyons said.

  When she arrived into work, Lyons gathered the team together.

  “We have about two hours to get into position, and we have to do it without being seen. So civilian cars only. Sally, can you see if you can find Joe Mason. Take him and his dog out in your car. Park out of sight on the main road and hike down to the old house. There’s an old shed beside the cottage itself. Get in there and stay out of sight,” Lyons said.

  “Eamon, you need to hook up with Mulholland and Dolan out in Clifden. Position yourselves before and after the track down to the sea at Murvey. Again, stay well out of sight, and make sure your radios are working.”

  Next, she went into Hays’ office to bring him up to speed.

  “Are you going to come out with us, Mick?”

  “No. I’ll stay here and monitor things as they develop. Why don’t you get Pascal Brosnan to sit outside the Rounds
tone station reading the paper, and he can let you know when Chapman drives past?” Hays said.

  “Good idea. I’ll call him now,” Lyons said.

  She wondered if Hays was staying well clear so that if it all went wrong, he would be nowhere near it, and she would take the blame. It was an unsettling thought.

  * * *

  The Ryanair flight arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule at Knock airport in the west of Ireland. The flight was almost full, much to the amazement of Peter Chapman. There was only one car hire desk at the airport, and he had to wait in line for two other passengers to get their cars before he was served. After a few minutes, he got to the top of the queue, handed over his driving license, passport and credit card and was given the keys to a brand-new silver Ford Fiesta. He didn’t notice the plain clothes Garda sitting innocently opposite the car hire desk reading the morning paper.

  When Chapman left the building to find his car, which was parked just opposite the terminal building, the Garda went to the desk and got the number and colour of the car that Chapman had been given from the agent. He phoned the details through to Inspector Lyons in Galway.

  The Fiesta had a sat nav, which was handy, and before setting off Chapman input the details that would get him to Roundstone village. The device informed him that it would take him an hour and fifty minutes to arrive at his destination. He had spent the previous night studying maps of the area carefully. He had found the location that the Gardaí had sent him pretending to be Eddie Turner and saw that it was at the end of a very narrow track that led down to the coast, just off the N341 between Roundstone and Clifden. But instead of going directly there, he stopped in Roundstone outside O’Dowd’s Bar near the harbour.

  * * *

  The detectives were in position by early afternoon. The weather was closing in, with the breeze strengthening, and ominous heavy grey clouds amassing in the west. But for the moment at least, the sun was still shining, although it had become noticeably cooler. They had been unable to secure the services of the Armed Response Unit at such short notice – the unit was otherwise occupied with a high priority assignment, and couldn’t be diverted to assist them.