Scalpel (15 page)

'So did Crippen,' somebody muttered. There were a few laughs, then it was back to business.

'Well, anyway he was on his own in his house in Donny-brook, number four Angelsea Terrace. Lives there with his two small children.'

'No wife?' asked McGrath.

'Died three years ago from cancer.'

'Shit,' somebody groaned, and heads shook in sympathy.

'So what about the kids. Were they with him?'

'No. They were at a slumber party with friends in Black-rock,' replied Hamilton flicking at the pages of her notebook. 'He had the night to himself.'

'Check him again,' ordered McGrath.

One by one the remainder of the non-alibi males were discussed. One of the kitchen chefs seemed a bit flaky to the questioning detective and was marked for further attention. Half of the detectives were assigned to ringing around to confirm alibis, the other half divided up the non-alibis for further checking. They were breaking up when McGrath's mobile phone rang.

'Jack, it's Mike Loughry here. How's that investigation going?'

McGrath's defences went up immediately. Chief Superintendent Loughry rarely called in unless there was trouble.

'Very good. We've finally had some cooperation here.'

'Good. Jack I'd like to talk with you about the case.'

'Okay.' McGrath's defences were up. What's he really want? 'When?'

'How about tomorrow. I know it's Saturday, but there's one or two things I want to run over with you. How about ten o'clock at my office?'

'Fine.'

'Good. See you then.'

The mobile went dead at the other end. McGrath stroked his moustache. Something's up, he thought. Something's up.

Lynch waited for an hour before slipping into the library and recovering the tapes. Fresh batteries and microcassettes were inserted, the books replaced and checked again.

24

10.07 pm

Beechill, the O'Brien residence, nr

Roundwood, Co. Wicklow

Beechill, a Victorian mansion, had been owned for generations by an Anglo-Irish family, the Burges. Some of the most extravagant and lavish social parties ever seen in County Wicklow had been thrown there over the years. Apart from the imposing house itself, there were twelve acres of land, some near the house laid out in formal gardens, the rest natural woodland. For years the St Steven's Day hunt had begun at the front door and ended with the annual hunt ball when socialites from all over Ireland (and some from abroad) converged on the tiny picturesque Wicklow village for an evening of drinking in the local pubs before dancing the night away in a large room at the back of the house. The tradition of the St Steven's Day hunt and ball ended in 1991, the year of the crash, the year Harry O'Brien lost his entire family.

Now, sitting in his study, watching flurries of snow threaten the ground outside, Harry O'Brien decided he would reinstigate the tradition of the hunt ball. It was time for a new beginning.

Never a man to dwell on the past, Harry O'Brien was content again, at peace with the world at last. The dark days of heavy drinking and self-pity were over, the blackness and despair had lifted. Life must go on.

His son had just been fed and was sleeping peacefully in the nursery, images of Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore and
Piglet peering down at him from the wallpaper. His beautiful young wife was asleep in the adjoining room, the painkillers to ease the long scar of the emergency Caesarean section also making her overly drowsy. She had never looked more radiant and Harry had never felt more love for her as when he had peeked in earlier and found her sleeping peacefully, her long blonde hair loose on the pillows.

Then he had gone into the nursery and stood over the cot admiring his son, wondering at the mystery of life. He couldn't remember being so interested, so involved, so intensely caring even with his first family. He was too busy building up the O'Brien Corporation then. Well not this time, he promised the tiny bundle, not this time. This time we'll get to know each other real early. We'll have so much fun together.

He reached down and pulled back a corner of the blanket covering part of the baby's face. For a moment he feared he'd actually woken the baby up and pulled his hand back quickly. Then, as he grew more confident, he reached down and kissed his son's forehead. He recognised immediately the unmistakable smell of babyhood and had to withdraw, a lump forming in his throat as he remembered the last time he had smelt that peculiar smell.

This time, Gordon, we'll go fishing and horse riding and cycling. Hell, we'll have so much fun together. Just you wait and see. So you better eat up all your veggies and grow up big and strong. He brushed a finger along a wisp of hair sticking up. God'll protect you, Gordon. God'll protect you. There'll be no more car accidents, I'll see to that. God and your daddy will protect you.

Harry O'Brien had turned to religion only recently, shortly after the pregnancy had been confirmed and he realised he was going to have a family again. He felt God had given him a second chance, that God would not allow him to be tortured again. No one had suffered the way he had in the past, he had been to Hell and back. It was time to start again, time to live again for he again had a child to live for. God would protect him and his family.

He was wrong.

Tommy Malone didn't believe in God.

The A-team decided to strike well before midnight.

The weather forecast threatened snow over high grounds which meant the Wicklow hills would almost certainly be covered. It also meant their narrow country road escape route might be dangerous. Malone brought the whole operation forward.

Moonface drove the Volvo to the car park of the Stand Hotel at the Curragh, just outside Newbridge in County Kildare. He fastened two large heavy chains to the steering wheel, connecting them to a bar under the driver's seat. He also took the spark plugs from the engine and slipped them into his pocket. Too many car thieves in Kildare.

Finished, he climbed inside the Cherokee jeep, heater full on against the bitter cold outside. Sam Collins drove with Malone in the passenger seat and Peggy Ryan in the back with Moonface. Peggy's heart was racing with a mixture of excitement and fear. Behind them in the spacious luggage area lay a sledge hammer, guns, ammunition, various electronic equipment for by-passing burglar alarms, leather gloves, balaclavas and a baby's travelling cot. Inside the cot rested one pound of Semtex explosive.

'Just as well we went for a four-wheel drive,' muttered Collins as he watched the windscreen wipers flick snow away. The roads looked black but the edges were starting to turn white, as were hedges and fields.

'Aye,' agreed Malone. 'We'll be there soon enough, though.'

Tommy Malone was worried. Not about the weather, but about the job itself. For a man who had involved himself in every criminal activity over years, including murder, extortion and kidnapping, this particular job was beginning to trouble him. It would be easy to carry out, he had no fear of that. But what really concerned Malone most was the target. A newborn baby.

He repeated to himself all the good reasons why a baby was an ideal kidnap target.

We'll get the baby, no sweat, he reasoned. We'll get the money too, I'm sure of that. Big Harry'll cough up. But what'll the reaction be? That's what was worrying him.

No one had ever kidnapped a baby before. Businessmen, bankers, industrialists, wives of wealthy bankers, even a dentist, they'd all been targets before. But never a baby.

He steeled himself as the jeep finally entered Roundwood at 11.05 pm.

There's a first time for everything and this'll be no exception. When the money's paid over and the child returned the fuss'll die down.

The A-team drove to Beechill from Newbridge along back roads over the Wicklow gap. Nobody spoke, each to then-own thoughts.

The plan had been rehearsed many times in the cottage, maps of Wicklow and an outline of the house drawn up by Malone pored over for hours. Timing and staging had been discussed and finally agreed — who would do what and when and why, worked out to the last detail. They were ready to strike.

As they drove into Roundwood from Annamoe a four-wheel drive Mitsubishi slowed to let the Cherokee past. It was the only other vehicle they saw all night. The Cherokee was the only other vehicle the driver of the Mitsubishi saw either.

Sam Collins stopped the jeep briefly again at the wrought iron gates and checked the locking mechanism. He squinted through the bars at the driveway then slowly withdrew.

'Any problems?' asked Malone anxiously.

'Nah. Piece of cake. Just don't want the gates blowing onto the driveway and blocking it. No sweat, Tommy. No sweat.'

In the back seat Moonface was picking at his nose and wondering if he'd get a chance to use the handgun Collins had given him. He was itching to shoot somebody, anybody. Just for the experience.

Beside him Peggy Ryan shivered inside a heavy overcoat from cold and anticipation. Even though her husband had been involved in crime from the first day she'd ever met him, this was her first 'job'. As the jeep turned down the dirt track at the end of the front granite wall, Ryan could feel her knees shake.

'Okay, Martin, ye stay here with Peggy till we give ye the word.' Malone and Collins were out of the jeep, hauling equipment from the boot. Moonface nodded and Peggy Ryan snuggled deeper inside her overcoat. 'When youse come make sure youse have gloves and the balas on, righ'?'

'Righ',' agreed Moonface, watching as the two shadowy figures disappeared along the track and out of sight. 'Are ye all righ'?' he turned to Peggy. She just nodded her head in the dark.

The rusting hinges on the wooden gate came away easily with three thumps from Sam Collins' sledge hammer at 11.17 pm on Friday, 14th February 1997. A minute later Tommy Malone was standing inside the perimeter wall of Beechill. He was wearing black leather gloves and a balaclava and carried a fully loaded .38 Smith
&
Wesson handgun. Behind him, also gloved and masked, came Sam Collins armed with an AK47 sub-machine-gun and carrying a bag. Inside was his selection of electronics and burgling equipment.

11.21 pm

Harry O'Brien turned the lights off in his study, stretched and yawned and looked out of the window at the whitening lawns. He did not see the shadowy figures moving between the trees towards the conservatory.

Sam Collins first put two sealing cups on one of the large conservatory windows. Looking like door handles they stuck firmly to the glass. Using a small, portable oxy-acetylene welder, he melted the PVC surround until the whole window first loosened, then came away. It did not disturb the burglar
alarm. There were no sensors on that window. The security company had sensors only on moveable windows and they hadn't reckoned on that particular window moving. They hadn't reckoned on Tommy Malone.

11.32 pm

Malone and Collins were ready to move in. Using a two-way radio Malone informed Moonface and he acknowledged.

11.43 pm

Despite the bitter cold Moonface was sweating inside his balaclava by the time he reached the conservatory. He had stuck his handgun firmly inside the belt of his trousers and was carrying a sawn-off shotgun which he passed to Malone. Nodding to each other the three entered the house. Collins had by now by-passed the alarm system. The phone line was cut. As Collins snipped the wires Harry O'Brien heard a short jingling noise on the phone in the study. He was so tired he ignored it.

They moved as planned, Collins and Malone together on the lower levels where they had seen lights, Moonface upstairs where only one light glowed.

'Make wan fuckin' sound and yer brains are over the wall.'

Harry O'Brien's heavy footsteps along the corridor as he made his way to bed had alerted Malone and Collins. He walked round a corner into both barrels of a sawn-off twelve-bore shotgun and Malone forced him back into his study where he was first gagged and then strapped to the legs and arms of a chair.

Tommy Malone always used this trick next, he felt it stamped his authority from the beginning and cowed the victim into submission.

Standing in front of O'Brien, both feet splayed for effect,
a
rms outstretched and holding the gun very steadily, he deliberately cocked his .38 Smith & Wesson, pressed the front of the barrel against O'Brien's mid-forehead and slowly squeezed the trigger. The wild eyes watching squinted closed.

Click. The hammer hit against an empty chamber.

'The next wan's for real, Harry,' menaced Malone as O'Brien's eyes slowly opened. 'And so are the rest. No heroics or ye'll find out.' Harry O'Brien could barely see the eyes that flitted behind the balaclava.

Theo Dempsey was woken by the cold steel and pressure of another Smith & Wesson as it pushed against the side of his head. Collins quickly moved him downstairs where he joined his boss. They were strapped back to back in separate chairs.

June Morrison was in a half-sleep when Moonface and Collins burst into her bedroom. She started a scream but found it stifled by hands clamped across her face. Other hands lifted her out of bed, pulling her to a chair. Within one minute both feet and both hands were strapped together, a separate strapping covering her mouth. They left her struggling, trying desperately to get enough air through her nose.

It was Malone's decision not to force Sandra O'Brien. The three stood over her and started their routine but found her unresponsive. She swatted at the gun barrel pressing against her ear as if it were an irritating fly. Malone shook her, gently at first and then aggressively. She pushed him back, turned over and started snoring.

'Leave her,' he ordered.

Gordon O'Brien was still asleep when Moonface's rough hands lifted him from the cot. He stirred slightly, both arms flying out and he whimpered. But he didn't wake up.

Harry O'Brien heard the short 'whoomph' as Sam Collins triggered the Semtex attached to the gates. The windows rattled and shook. Moonface darted from room to room, checking. As soon as he heard the Semtex go off he sprinted back to where Sandra O'Brien lay. She hadn't moved.

From where he was positioned Theo Dempsey could see
the Cherokee race up the driveway to the house and screech to a halt. He heard the front door open, its heavy bolts and chains drawn back from inside.

Then the four balaclava'd conspirators were inside the room.

Dempsey felt his boss stiffen in the chair behind him. He strained his head around in time to see the baby being passed from Moonface to Peggy Ryan.

They stood in front of Harry O'Brien and paused to let him take in the full effect. He looked desperately from one to the other finally stopping at his newborn son. His eyes said it all.

Despair.

Despair.

My child!

It was Tommy Malone's policy to keep all exchanges to a minimum, nods rather than words. The four stood silently but menacingly, masked, their guns pointing directly at O'Brien as Malone reached inside his black windcheater and pulled out an A4-size brown envelope.

'It's all in there Harry. Ye won't hear from us again till the money's paid over.' He waved the .38 at the sleeping baby. 'It's all very simple too, Harry. The sooner we get the money the sooner ye get the baby back.'