Scalpel (18 page)

When the rambling and demented looking Harry O'Brien was finally brought back to Beechill it was Theo Dempsey who'd dealt with him and was eventually able to settle him and persuade him to put on warm clothes. He had never seen his boss as agitated, as distraught, as disturbed as he was when he was brought back inside the house. Even in the darkest of the dark drinking days, Big Harry had kept some semblance of sanity. But not now. The local doctor had become so concerned that he injected a strong, long-acting sedative and ordered him to bed. Sandra O'Brien was finally persuaded to go back to bed an hour later after the Gardai had gleaned as much useful information as they felt they would get.

Jack McGrath paced the floor of the study as he listened to Theo Dempsey recount the night's events yet again. Dempsey had lost count of how many times he'd told the story.

'There were four. Two tall, one medium and one small. You're sure the small one was a woman?' asked McGrath.

'I could see her stockings, pudgy ankles and flat shoes. The feet were too small to be a man's. I know it's not much but it's as much as I can tell you.'

'The smaller man seemed to be the one in charge.' McGrath was going over Dempsey's first statement.

'Yeah, but they hardly spoke. Most of the communication was done by nods when they were in the room with us but the small man was the one who did all the talking at the end.'

'Dublin accent?'

'Definitely. Strong Dublin accent.'

'But you did hear one of the others and he spoke with a Northern accent. You're certain about that?'

'Yeah. I've been up North a lot with Mr O'Brien on business and I know a Northern accent when I hear one. He definitely had a Northern accent, a distinct Northern accent.'

McGrath wasn't surprised at this, he'd suspected as much when he had inspected the gates. Semtex had been used, strongly suggesting ex-IRA involvement. Fits in with the Northern accent, he thought. Do a little homework on that. Not too many of that crowd we don't know about.

'Anything else?'

'Not a lot. It was all over so quickly.'

Dempsey looked haggard. His crew cut hair glistened with sweat and his usual upright army stance had deserted him. He hadn't slept, hadn't washed, hadn't shaved and hadn't eaten. He had never seen big Harry so bad. He was very worried about him.

McGrath sat down heavily on the chair behind Harry O'Brien's desk. Resting on the top was a clean A4 sheet of paper. Pasted across the sheet were various letters and clippings from a newspaper. HARRY'S BOY… £3M… OR DEAD HARRY'S BOY MOVE SOON… OR DEAD BABY.

'Are you sure this is all that they left? No mention of a contact, no mention of when they'd get back?'

Dempsey shook his head. 'No, nothing.'

'Did they say anything about a deadline?'

'Not a thing. Whatever was in that envelope was all they left. They certainly didn't say anything else to Mr O'Brien or I would have heard it. I was strapped to the chair with him.'

The door to the study slowly opened. A haggard and distraught Sandra O'Brien, one hand resting against the frame for support, swayed and almost collapsed. Theo Dempsey rushed to grab her before her knees buckled.

'Get me my baby,' she mumbled. 'Get me my baby back.'

Two Ban Gardai took her from Dempsey's grasp and led her gently back to her bedroom.

McGrath and Dempsey exchanged glances as they watched her disappear up the stairs.

'Stay here,' ordered McGrath. 'I'll be back in an hour. Hang on here in case these bastards make contact. You're the only one on your feet that knows anything about this place at the moment.'

Dempsey slumped into a chair and rested his head in his hands. What a night. What a fucking awful night.

Dempsey could still hear the screeches of Gordon O'Brien as he was carried out into the freezing night and of Sandra O'Brien as she rushed from room to room, crashing doors open. 'Where's my baby? Where's my baby?'

He felt drained, totally exhausted, totally defeated. Where
was
her baby?

27

2.24 pm

Laboratory, Central Maternity Hospital

The hospital staff had agreed to work over the weekend to clear the backlog. Theatres were returning to normal, wards were buzzing again with activity. Babies were being born in a more settled hospital atmosphere.

The laboratory was fully stretched. Bloods, swabs, urines, cervical smears, tissue samples for histology: all had to be collected, analysed and reported on. The staff were back in action and chasing their tails to make up for lost time. They needed Kate Hamilton like a hole in the head.

But that's what they got at two thirty, accompanied by a grim-looking Luke Conway, still smarting from their first encounter.

'I'd like to speak with all the staff for a moment,' she told him in the outside corridor. 'Then I'd like it if we could speak with them individually.'

Conway sighed deeply, an air of resigned compliance. 'Do you have to do this now? They're only just getting back to some sort of normality. There's an enormous backlog of work here, you know.'

Hamilton rounded on him angrily. 'Now, this minute. Not tomorrow or next week. This minute.'

Conway wasn't that surprised at her outburst, he knew he was up against a formidable young woman and one who was in the driving seat.

The staff turned when the three entered the lab. Nervous glances were exchanged. Hamilton and Dowling walked
over to the spot where Mary Dwyer's body had been found. Inspecting it closely, Hamilton took out her black notebook to compare what she had written on the first night. She frowned. Dowling watched and a faint flicker of an amused smile crossed his face.

As the lab became quieter, Conway cleared his throat. 'Okay, everybody. We'll have to break for a moment. You can stop everything and put it on hold for a few minutes.'

More faces turned, roughly fifty-fifty male to female. Hamilton looked at each, her mind buzzing. She counted eight in white coats around the benches.

'Eh, I'd like to introduce you to Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton.' Conway began. 'She's now in charge of the incident, eh, the murder investigation.' He almost choked on the words and paused as if he was trying to think of a better way to continue. Then he suddenly realised he was now standing on the exact spot where Mary Dwyer had been found and couldn't stop himself looking at it. Eight sets of eyes followed his to the floor and there were involuntary shudders all round, two of the girls clutching at their throats, as if ghostly hands were slipping around them.

'Detective Hamilton wants to say a few words.' Conway finally ended.

Hamilton waited until she was certain of full attention.

'Hi. I'm sorry to interrupt you all and I know you're all trying to get the hospital back into some sort of routine and working all day Saturday and Sunday isn't exactly fun.' She paused, noticing a few nervous smiles. 'However, the more I've looked at the information we've got so far the more convinced I am there's something missing that's staring us in the face. And I think it's something to do with this lab.'

Worried glances were exchanged all round.

'So what I'd like you all to do is go over the ground you've already gone over when Detective Inspector McGrath was here. Is there anything, anything at all, no matter how remote or irrelevant you may think, that you maybe didn't mention?'

She stopped to let that sink in.

'In particular can you think of any way of finding out what test Mary Dwyer was working on that night that maybe we don't know about? Could she have been doing one for a friend as a favour? Why was the PC she was working on smashed? There were several sheets of paper torn away from the printer. Any ideas why? Why was the printer smashed as well? Why did the murderer deliberately drop all the blood samples onto the floor? Were the other machines smashed randomly or was one chosen in particular, maybe to destroy the information it contained?'

She stopped to look again at the faces. This time she looked very closely, as did Dowling. They both agreed later if it was one of them he sure kept it back. A more numbed and anxious group of faces would be hard to find anywhere.

Hamilton continued. 'Are your PCs networked? If they are do you have back-up facilities at the central server?'

A voice cut through. 'We do.'

All eyes turned to a young, desperately young face, pock marked with acne. He had long dark hair tied in a ponytail. Both his hands were folded across his chest and he was wearing a white coat that had seen better days.

He continued. 'I tried to explain that to the other detective.' Hamilton looked towards Dowling. 'No, not him. The other one. With the moustache.'

'Detective Inspector McGrath?'

'Whatever his name was. I started to explain that to him but he got into an argument over the phone with somebody and next thing we knew the lab was closed and nobody could get in or out. I mean what's the point in asking for our cooperation if you're not going to listen to what we have to say?'

Luke Conway smirked.

Hamilton didn't want to alienate this group any further. Go carefully, she thought.

'I'm sorry about that, er... sorry what's your name?'

'Hogan, Ben Hogan. All our tests are computerised. We get the request form with the sample and enter all details into PCs at the benches. All this is carried back to a central
server. There's an automatic back-up in case of power failure and the like. So even though the bench PC was broken the information is still recorded and kept. Same with all the other machines.'

'So anything Mary Dwyer was working on last Tuesday is stored and can be retrieved?'

'Absolutely.'

Hamilton turned to Conway and smiled sweetly. 'Dr Conway I know you're already overstretched but do you think I could get Ben to do a little computer work for me. Like now?'

'All this could have been sorted out much earlier, you know,' complained Conway, jumping on the aggrieved bandwagon, 'if Detective Inspector McGrath had done his job properly.'

'Let's forget about all that for the moment.' She motioned to Hogan. 'Okay, Ben, let's go to work.'

Dowling listened closely to all this and concluded two very important things. One, he was delighted to be retiring soon. All this talk of networking and back-ups was way out of his depth. He still used an old battered portable typewriter for reports. And two, Kate Hamilton was one helluva smart cookie. A third thing then crossed his mind. Jack McGrath could well end up as the scapegoat if this investigation screws up.

28

5.07 pm

The Cottage, nr Kilcullen, Co. Kildare

Gordon O'Brien, five days and five hours old, was a very unhappy baby.

A newborn baby is the most delicate and vulnerable animal on earth. For the previous ten months Gordon O'Brien had grown and slowly developed into a fully formed baby. He had bounced gently in the protective waters surrounding him in his mother's womb. He had heard her heart beat, felt her movements, even heard her voice. He had been in a warm, loving environment. He was content. Unborn, but happy, growing and developing normally. He was never hungry and never frightened.

All that changed on Monday, 10th February 1997, the day he was born. He had struggled for life then and almost lost. He had been lifted roughly into the outside world and felt pain for the first time as needles entered his skin. He'd heard loud, anxious voices and then slowly realised he could not hear the comforting noise of his mother's heartbeat, the sound of her voice.

He had screamed in his own little way, struggled to scream, fought desperately for the breath to scream. But finally screamed.

Then she was back again. He was feeding from her breast and heard again her heart, her voice. He felt for the first time her touch as she caressed his face and body and stroked his hair.

He was content once more. Happy. He had his mother.

Now she was gone. Again. He screamed in his own little way.

'Can you not shut that bloody child up?' Sam Collins was near the end of his tether.

None of them had slept much the night before. The elation of the successful kidnap had kept them awake, the adrenalin still flowing from the noise of the explosives, the excitement as they drove back to Newbridge.

But the baby wouldn't stop crying, screeching in fact. And Sam Collins had had enough. He didn't like babies at the best of times and this one was really getting on his nerves.

'Peggy? For fuck's sake would you shut the little bollox up.'

They were all edgy. Tommy Malone had tuned in to all the news bulletins throughout the day, wanting to hear everything about the night's work. Like all criminals, he loved reading in the papers or watching on TV or listening on the radio to reports of his latest job. He wouldn't be disappointed on all three.

The news was broadcast in sombre tones and given extra time. Appeals were made to the kidnappers for the safe return of the baby and separate appeals were made to the general public for help. The Minister for Justice would make a nationwide appeal on the 6.01 News tonight. Sandra O'Brien and her husband were under police guard and medical attention, both heavily sedated, unable to make any personal TV appeals at this stage.

'Fuck,' muttered Tommy Malone. He hadn't reckoned Big Harry would go off the deep end. 'Maybe he'll come round tomarra? Well he'd better fuckin' hurry, I can't stand that screechin' child meself. Hope Peggy's up to this.'

Peggy Ryan was up to it. About fifteen years ago, but not any longer. Even she was getting agitated with the baby's incessant crying. She stuck soothers in his mouth but that didn't work. She tried winding him, but that didn't work
either. She tried feeding him. No good. She was tempted to smack him one. But not while Tommy Malone was around.

Gordon O'Brien was very frightened. His mother's soft caresses were replaced by rough hands, the comfort and warmth of his mother's breast replaced with cold rubber teats. Her voice was gone. All he could hear were loud shouts, abusive shouts. Angry voices.

His nose and chest were becoming irritated already and he began to snuffle and cough, the result of inhaling smoke from Tommy Malone's cigarettes.

Malone flicked the radio off. The baby was asleep. A bit of fuckin' peace for a change. He threw Peggy Ryan a threatening look. Shut him up or else, his eyes said.

'Okay. As far as I can see Big Harry won't be in any fit state to get the money organised until Monday by the earliest. That's two days from now. Youse may as well ignore all that crap on the wireless. It's the usual crap after any big job. By tomorra they'll be singin' a different tune. Big Harry'll want his baby back.'

'He's fuckin' welcome to him. Noisy little bollox.' Moon-face was getting fed up too. He picked at his nose and wiped the result on the back of his trousers.

Malone ignored him. 'We're stuck here until the money's paid over so youse may as well make the best of it. I'm gonna go out and get more groceries in. Write down anything youse want. Remember, no booze. Peggy stays with the baby all the time.'

Fuck, thought Peggy.

'I don't want anywan leavin' the cottage. Or only go as far as halfway down the lane. I don't want anywan seein' who's here or nebbin' at what we're doin'. Okay?'

Heads nodded. The same heads cursed their luck. Fuckin' screamin' child and not as much as a can of beer to calm the nerves.

'Can I come with yah?' asked Moonface. 'I need to get a bit of air. Those fuckin' cigarettes of yours is deadly.'

Collins wasn't sure about letting the two of them out of his sight but decided to let it go. They wouldn't disappear without the baby. Pity, almost, he thought.

Moonface was packing the boot of the Volvo with groceries and baby food and nappies.

'Ah Christ, Tommy. Why do I have to ge' them?'

'Because I'd look fuckin' suspicious buyin' baby things at my age. Didn't ye hear the news? Everybody's lookin' crossways at anywan buyin' baby stuff. Ye look the age. I don't.'

So Moonface paraded up and down the aisles in the big Quinnsworth in Newbridge, looking for tins of Cow & Gate and packets of Pampers for boys. He had a terrible time working out the right size.

Inside the Volvo, Tommy Malone scanned both evening papers. He'd hit the headlines in a big way.
snatched! kidnapped!

The
Evening Herald
and
Evening Post
had the family photo, taken in the lobby of the Central Maternity Hospital, splashed across their front pages. Inside each continued the story with more photos and big close-ups of Gordon O'Brien, his tiny head and small crop of hair sticking up, wrapped in his shawl and sleeping contentedly in his mother's arms. There was a map of North Wicklow with Roundwood arrowed, aerial shots of Beechill and more on the Garda presence. The articles contained 'on-the-spot' reports with photos of the on-the-spot reporters, photos of the TV crews, even a close-up of a CNN crew filming. Reports on the kidnap story were being beamed live across all CNN networks with a history of Harry O'Brien and each bulletin was accompanied with a potted history of previous kidnappings in the state.

Malone didn't read that in case it would annoy or worry him. He didn't like the way this was all blowing up. He watched as Moonface pushed an empty trolley back to the shop, then slipped out of the car and stuffed the papers in a rubbish bin.

'Did ye bring the papers with ye?'

'Ah bugger it, I musta left them on the boot of the car when we were drivin' off. Musta got blown away.'

'Righ',' said Moonface. I didn't see them on the boot though, he thought suspiciously.

Brian O'Callaghan came round the corner just too late to see more than the tail of the Volvo as it turned into the lane. They're still here, he thought. I wonder who they are?

Ben Hogan looked at the monitor screen, puzzled.

He'd done a print-out of all tests carried out in the lab on Tuesday 11th February 1997, then checked them against the official hospital request forms. All matched up, except one. There was no request form corresponding to one of the tests.

He then scanned the records, which was even funnier. Funny unusual, not funny ha ha. There was no patient registered by that name, the name on the screen he was now staring at. Joan O'Sullivan, 249 Crumlin Crescent, Crumlin. Date of Birth: 27/2/76.

He did a search by name, then by initials, then by date of birth. Nothing. There was no Joan O'Sullivan, at that address, with that date of birth, in the hospital records.

But what was funnier, funny peculiar and definitely not funny ha ha, was the fact that there was no name of technician entered. Or of doctor ordering the test. Which was unusual, most unusual. But there was little doubt who had carried out the test. It had to be Mary Dwyer. Because it was set up, as recorded on the screen, at 21.23, 11/2/97, when Mary Dwyer had been on duty. The only one on duty.

Ben could feel his heart race as he walked to the back office. He pulled open a filing cabinet and rustled through until he found what he was looking for, the list of names and test requests for the broken rack of test tubes. Then he sat down and began checking names against tests ordered. At the end of the first check one didn't match up. He
checked again. It still didn't match up. He rang Luke Conway and asked him to come back down to the lab. Immediately.

Conway was back in the lab within minutes.

'Remember we had to collect all the names on those test tubes? You know, the ones broken on the floor last Tuesday night.'

Conway studied Hogan closely, wondering what exactly he had discovered. 'Yes.'

'And we had to check the names against the test ordered?'

'Yes.' Clipped, precise.

'Well, there's something funny here I can't make out. One of them doesn't match up.'

'Explain it to me slowly. Very, very slowly.' Kate Hamilton had called all the team together in the library to listen in on the development.

Ben Hogan and Conway outlined the problem. Conway was markedly subdued, very aware of the significance of what was about to be revealed.

'Mary Dwyer set up an AIDS test at exactly twenty-three minutes past nine last Tuesday night,' began Hogan.

'Exactly?'

'Yeah. It's recorded on the computer. Exact minute the test kicks in.'

'Right.'

'Now when we routinely type in requests we put the requesting doctor's name and ward. Or if it's outpatients, we type in OPD. We also type in the technician's initials. That's whoever's setting up the test in the first place. Are you with me?'

Hamilton nodded.

'Now when we set up a test we need to know whether it's for a patient already on the hospital records or for a new patient. If she's already on record there's less typing to do. You just add the request to her file.' He paused to look at Hamilton and she motioned him to go on.

'Now when Mary Dwyer set up that test,' continued
Hogan, 'she would have routinely scanned the records to see whether the patient was already in the system. But she wasn't.' He stopped and took in a deep breath, sensing everyone was hanging off his every word.

'So, she was a new patient,' interrupted Dowling.

'Not at half nine at night. She'd have been in the wards if she was a new patient, and even if she had just been admitted, she would still be in the system. All her details would have been entered at reception. More importantly, I can't see anyone ordering an AIDS test at that hour of the night. After hours requests are for emergencies only.'

'And an AIDS test isn't an emergency?' one of the team interrupted, real surprised like.

'No. I know that sounds strange to you but really AIDS tests are expensive and time consuming. We try and do them during normal hours. I've just never heard of anyone requesting an out-of-hours AIDS test.'

'Maybe she was a new outpatient?' offered Hamilton.

'Still not at half nine at night.' Hogan had thought this all through. He knew what he was talking about. 'Outpatient clinics are well over by six, six thirty at the latest.'

'Okay,' interrupted Hamilton. She knew by now there was something important in all this. Very important. 'She sets up an AIDS test at nine thirty or thereabouts, which is way out of line, but what's the big deal? I mean from what I hear some of you do little tests on the quiet for family and friends. You know yourself, it goes on all the time, you know that.'

Luke Conway came in on that one. 'It does, but not out of hours. It's too easily spotted then. We check on this fairly regularly. It's part of hospital procedures, trying to keep our budget in line. Most are done when the lab is busy. That way the test's buried in among all the other stuff.'

Hamilton turned this over. 'Okay, anything else?' She couldn't help but notice Conway's change in attitude.

'Yes. There's no request form. Ben couldn't find a request for that test. We don't know which doctor ordered the test. And if she was doing that test for a friend, or even herself, she would have gone ahead and carried out the test but not
entered a false name and address into the hospital system. She wouldn't have entered anything, she'd just've gone ahead and done the test. But she set up the test in a patient's name.'

'Why didn't she enter the doctor's name and her own initials? You said that was routine.'

Ben Hogan answered. 'I know.' All eyes switched to him. 'That's something we do all the time when the request doesn't tally. It saves on unnecessary typing and correcting. If the request form isn't properly written or the requesting doctor's name can't be made out, and that happens a lot believe me, we hold back on the paperwork until everything's correct.'