Murder at the Holiday Home

by David Pearson

  “But why isn’t the theft of the gold reported to us?” Flynn said.

  “If it is being bought with hot money, then it can’t be reported for obvious reasons, Eamon,” Lyons said.

  “Exactly. But the thieves need a way to get the gold back to where it came from. So, they are using couriers who act as collection agents. These couriers have to be very clever to get through customs without the stolen gold being discovered. We believe Maria Geller was one such,” Janssen said.

  “And how exactly does the courier smuggle it out?” Flynn asked.

  “As you have seen, gold is very small. Some of the bars are the same size as a battery for a mobile phone. Some others can fit inside a laptop computer, and go undetected as the x-ray machine just thinks they are part of the device. If there is jewellery involved, the courier can simply wear it and say it is her own.”

  “Do they only use women?” Flynn said.

  “Yes, mostly, although it depends on where they are travelling to. In Europe, women attract less suspicion at customs, and it’s natural for them to have gold jewellery too.”

  “So, who is making what money from all of this?” Lyons said.

  “Well, the original sale of the gold bars is at market value, with sometimes a slight discount to make the deal attractive. The thieves who steal it back, we think, get about 25% of the true value and the courier gets another 10%. Then organised crime steps in and grabs the rest. It’s very profitable for them.”

  “And can you not just close down their web sites?” Lyons said.

  “We have tried, believe me. But they keep the web pages the same and move the hosting around the world every few days. Recently, they have established hosting in Venezuela and Paraguay, and you can imagine that the authorities in these countries are not really interested in following it up.”

  “Hmmm, but what’s to stop the burglars from selling the gold themselves and keeping all of the money?” Flynn said.

  “Firstly, the thieves wouldn’t know who has gold in their homes, and who has not. So they would be working blind, and could easily get caught by the police. Secondly, if the gang got to hear of it – and they would, because the stolen gold would not end up back at the source – they would simply exterminate those concerned in the most brutal fashion. Which prompts me to ask how Maria Geller was murdered?” Janssen said.

  “There was something very odd about her killing. She was stabbed through the chest with a kitchen knife. That almost certainly killed her instantly. But then it appears she was strangled, post-mortem, or so our pathologist has told us. We’ve never seen anything like that before in these parts,” Lyons said.

  “That is the trade mark of this particular gang. They do this so that their foot-soldiers will get a clear message, and stay in-line. I’m afraid to say, you may have one or more of these disgusting villains in your midst. Inspector Lyons, do you think it would be possible for me to see the body of the dead woman?” Janssen said.

  “Yes, I suppose we could arrange that, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “I’m sure I have seen worse, but thank you.”

  “Eamon, can you get someone to take Inspector Janssen over to the mortuary? We’ll meet up later, if that’s OK with you, inspector?” Lyons said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  When Flynn and Janssen had left her office, Lyons sat quietly for a few minutes organising her thoughts. While all that stuff about couriers and organised crime based in Utrecht was fascinating, her job was to see if she could bring the killer of Maria Geller to justice. And so far, they were nowhere near any kind of result on that front. She realised that with Janssen here, and all that other stuff rattling around in people’s heads, it was going to be difficult for everyone to stay focussed. She believed that if they could apprehend a few burglars and help to break up a sophisticated organised crime scam along the way, that would be useful, but she doubted that the Gardaí would get any of the credit for it, and her own superiors might easily think she had lost the run of herself, wasting valuable resources on such flights of fancy. She would have to proceed very carefully on this one.

  With that in mind, she called Superintendent Mick Hays.

  “Hi, Mick, it’s me.”

  “Hello you, what’s up?”

  “Just wondering if your superintendentness is free for a bite to eat at lunch? I want to run something past you,” Lyons said.

  “Oh, I guess I could just about tear myself away to meet up with a pretty junior officer. Where do you want to go?”

  “Cheeky! Let’s meet at The Brasserie at 12:45. I’ll book a table, OK?” she said.

  “Yes, fine. I’ll have a rolled-up newspaper under my arm in case you don’t recognise me!”

  “God give me strength!” Lyons said laughing down the phone, “go on – I’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary Costelloe phoned the number on the ClassicClassifieds website for the second time.

  “Ja, Matis.”

  “Hi. My name is Mary, I was on to you earlier about the iPhone. I’d like to buy it, but I was wondering if you could do a little better on the price? I don’t have much money just now,” Mary said in her best pleading voice.

  “For cash, maybe I’ll do €275, OK?” Matis said.

  “Oh, thank you, that’s good of you. I’ll take it. Where can I come to collect it?”

  “We meet outside in public place. Four o’clock, café in Williamsgate Centre, upstairs, OK?”

  “Yes, yes, OK. I’ll have my boyfriend with me. How will you recognise me?” Mary said.

  “Don’t worry, I find you.” With that he was gone.

  “OK, so far so good, Liam. Now let’s get the cash organised. I think we should get there around three thirty and do some window shopping just in case he’s keeping watch. I don’t like the fact that he says he can identify us even though he has never met either of us,” Costelloe said.

  “Good idea. Can you organise the cash? We’ll head out at around three,” Walsh said.

  “Great. See you later.”

  Getting cash from the force to purchase stolen property was a well proven but cumbersome procedure involving the completion of several forms, each of which had to be countersigned by a senior officer. Below €500, an Inspector would suffice – beyond that, it was upstairs to find a superintendent who would be willing to underwrite the transaction. Then you had to find the desk sergeant who had the keys to the station’s safe, and treated the money as if it were his own. The cash would be counted out twice in front of you, and of course it had to be signed for again at this point.

  Mary found Eamon Flynn at his desk and presented him with the completed forms.

  “OK, Mary. What’s the plan?” he said as he scribbled his signature on the documents.

  “We were thinking once we’ve bought the phone, we could ask him about the laptop that he advertised too. See if we can get back to his place to have a look at it. Then we’d say that we wanted it, but don’t have the cash to buy it just then, and arrange to go back tomorrow. That would give forensics time to see if the phone belonged to Geller. What do you think?”

  “Excellent. Sounds like a runner, but be sure not to handle the phone too much. It will already have been wiped clean, but there may be traces caught in around the edges, or in the sim card tray, so get it into a sterile evidence bag as soon as you can,” Flynn said.

  “Yes, OK, boss. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Costelloe and Walsh got to the shopping centre at just after half past three. They wandered around aimlessly looking in the windows of the brightly lit shops, and Mary even managed to drag her colleague and pretend boyfriend into one of the shoe shops for a closer look at some of the merchandise. All the while, they kept a close look out to see that they weren’t being observed, using the reflections in the polished glass of the glitzy shops as a cover. But they could detect nothing, and as four o’clock approached, they made their way to the café and sat down on opp
osite sides of a three-seater table near the door, with Liam Walsh facing outwards.

  “Let’s hope he arrives on time,” Costelloe said. It was warm in the shopping centre, so she removed her jacket and put it on the back of her chair. She was wearing a snug fitting white blouse underneath her coat that went well with her equally well-fitting denim jeans, and as she sat down again, she opened a button at the top of her blouse to show a little more skin.

  “So, that’s your game,” Walsh said, smirking.

  “Well, you know what they say, Liam, ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it’.”

  They were just starting into their coffee when a man sat down in the third chair at the table. He was quite a short, thin person, with a shaved head and a mean look about his face. He was dressed in a black polo shirt with some sort of logo on the front that neither of the Gardaí recognized, black jeans and black ankle boots. Liam Walsh guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, though it was quite hard to tell.

  When he was seated at the table between the two Gardaí, he said simply, “Matis.”

  Mary Costelloe tried to engage the man in conversation.

  “Hi Matis. I’m Mary and this is my boyfriend, Liam. Nice to meet you. Would you like a coffee?”

  “No coffee. Just phone. Have you brought the cash?”

  “Yes, of course. May I see the phone please?” she said.

  Matis reached beneath the table and produced an iPhone. Mary wished she could put on vinyl gloves before picking it up, but that was clearly out of the question. Being careful not to handle the device any more than absolutely necessary, she switched it on and waited for the Apple logo to appear, and then disappear again to be replaced by the word, ‘Hello’. So far so good.

  “Hmm, that looks OK, Matis. It’s in good condition. Why are you selling it?” Liam asked.

  Matis looked a little confused for a moment, but recovered quickly.

  “Upgrade. I have a new phone,” he said.

  “Ah, nice. Is this one unlocked?” Mary said.

  “Yes, of course. I took to Chinese shop. They unlock it. Now can I have money please?” Matis said. He looked around the café nervously, and Mary noticed that his fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and he was fidgeting a lot.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Liam, can you give Matis the cash? Oh, and I think I saw that you had a laptop computer for sale as well. I would be interested in that too, Matis. Mine got stolen.”

  Liam counted out the €275 that they had agreed on the telephone, and Matis didn’t take his eyes off the money as he replied to Mary.

  “Yes, I have laptop too. Its €300,” Matis said. He reached out and lifted the folded notes off the table and they disappeared quickly into his jeans pocket.

  Mary leaned in towards the man as she spoke, giving him a whiff of her perfume and a glimpse of cleavage. “Do you think you could do it a little bit cheaper? Sort of a bundle price as we have already bought the phone?” Mary said.

  “Maybe. I don’t have here. It’s back at my flat. Will I go and get?”

  “Well, I’d like to see it. Why don’t we come with you to your place and save you a journey? Then if it’s all OK, we can go and get the cash for you,” Mary said.

  “OK. Let’s go.”

  On the way to Matis’ flat, the two detectives tried their best to get as much information as possible from Matis without much success. They did learn that he was originally from Lithuania, and had come to Ireland for work, although he didn’t tell them what particular enterprise it was in which he was currently engaged.

  Mary Costelloe walked beside Matis as they made their way through the narrow lanes off Shop Street and Liam walked behind, as there was only room on the footpaths for two people side by side. Several times as they encountered street furniture and other pedestrians, Mary brushed up against Matis in a slightly provocative manner.

  They turned into Buttermilk Walk, and Matis stopped at a rather weather-beaten red door, sandwiched between a chemist’s and an organic food outlet. He opened the door to reveal a wooden staircase that had at one time been carpeted, the sides of the steps still showing traces of cream coloured paint. But the stairs were now bare wood, and the spindles running up the side of it were badly chipped. A single low wattage light bulb was doing its best to illuminate the dreary hallway where several items of junk mail were scattered on the floor.

  Matis climbed the stairs quickly, and at the first landing, let himself in to a room on the left-hand side, which Costelloe and Walsh calculated must have been over the organic food shop.

  They followed Matis into the room, which was gloomy as the tattered curtains were still pulled across the window. The room smelled stale and unaired, and although it was relatively tidy, everything in it had seen better days. The bed was made, and at the other side of the room, some very basic cooking and washing arrangements stood against the wall. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, but three plates and two cups were stacked on the draining board where they had been left to dry.

  Matis pulled back the curtains to admit a modicum of light through the dirty windows. The only seating available in the room was a moth-eaten easy chair that was upholstered in ghastly green damask, so the two detectives remained standing while Matis got down on all fours and retrieved the laptop from a box under the bed. He handed it to Liam.

  Walsh opened the laptop, which looked a good deal fresher than anything else in the room, and pressed the power button. The machine came alive, and presented a familiar Windows welcome screen. He noticed that the computer’s battery was registering less than 20% and asked, “Do you have the charger?”

  “No. But you get easily in Chinese shop for ten euro. Sorry.”

  Walsh played with the laptop for a few minutes, bringing up the system specification display, but not venturing into the file system for fear of arousing suspicion.

  “Do you think it’s any good, Hun?” Costelloe asked looking over his shoulder as he tapped the keys and moved the cursor around the screen using the touchpad.

  “Yeah, it’s not bad. Would do nicely for your student work, but it’s a pity about the charger. Have you got the paperwork, Matis?”

  “Paperwork – what paperwork?”

  “Oh, you know, the guarantee, the receipt, that sort of thing in case anything goes wrong with it?”

  “No, sorry. It was my brother’s, and he has gone now, back home. But it’s good value and nearly new. You won’t have need for guarantee.”

  “What do you think, Mary?” Walsh said.

  Mary looked at Matis, again tilting her head and looking as plaintive as she could manage, “I like it, but what is your very best price for a poor student, Matis?”

  “I give you for €250. Last offer. OK?”

  “Thanks, Matis. We’ll take it. But I need to get the cash from home. Can we come by tomorrow morning and collect it and give you the cash then?” Mary said.

  “Not today?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I’ll have to get my father to transfer the money to my account and then withdraw it tomorrow at an ATM. But I can give you €20 deposit to hold it, and I’ll come back tomorrow at eleven o’clock with the balance.”

  “OK, OK, tomorrow eleven o’clock. Doorbell doesn’t work, so call me from outside.”

  Mary Costelloe took one of her own €20 notes from her jeans pocket and handed it over.

  Walsh had turned the laptop over and was making a note of the model number and serial number on a scrap of paper.

  “What you doing?” Matis said, his voice a little louder, and a frightened look on his face.

  “I need to take a note of the model and serial number so I can get a power pack from the shop for it. The battery is almost out.”

  The Lithuanian seemed happy with the explanation, much to Walsh’s relief.

  Without further ado, the two detectives let themselves out onto the street and started walking back in the direction of the Garda Station at Mill Street. Costelloe took the phone out of her pocke
t carefully, and placed it in a plastic evidence bag.

  “Let’s not go straight back,” Costelloe said, linking arms with her colleague. “Just in case he’s following us. Let’s go back to the shopping centre and make sure we’re on our own.”

  “Good idea. I thought we were busted when he saw me taking down the serial number,” Walsh said.

  “Excellent improvisation, Detective. I couldn’t have done better myself,” said Mary, squeezing his arm affectionately.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lyons and Hays found each other easily at The Brasserie, without the aid of a rolled-up newspaper. The place was filling up, and there was a nice buzz in the air along with delicious aromas of freshly prepared food.

  They sat at the table that they often occupied at lunchtime, near the back of the restaurant where it was just a little quieter than the rest of the place. When they had ordered, Hays said to Lyons, “Well then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine bright spring day, Ms Lyons?”

  Lyons gave her partner an update on where they were with the case, which in fairness didn’t amount to much. She also told him that she was feeling quite frustrated with the whole thing, and was hoping that he might be able to give her a few ideas on how best to proceed.

  “What’s the Dutchman like?” Hays said.

  “He’s OK. Seems nice enough, but I’m not under any illusion as to why he’s here,” Lyons said.

  “And that would be?”

  “He wants to crack this organised crime gang that are up to no good with all this gold. But frankly, I couldn’t give a damn about what the Lithuanians are up to in the Netherlands. All I want is to solve this murder case.”

  “I see what you mean, but maybe as the two could be connected, you could help each other to sort both things out?”

  “Maybe. But let’s focus on the murder for a minute. I don’t think the answer lies in Utrecht. Sure, there may be a connection, but the killing happened here. So who’s behind it? We can see the motive clearly enough – obviously the gold. The means is not in dispute, it’s just the ‘who’ that we need to get to.”