Scalpel (27 page)

God, she looks awful old for a baby that young, thought O'Callaghan.

He was just about to turn away when he spotted Sam Collins walking down the laneway. He walked to within ten feet of where O'Callaghan lay, close enough for him to see his face clearly. It was not a face he knew and wondered again who they were. The thought crossed his mind they might be connected to the kidnap gang and that he should let the Gardai know. Then he remembered about his uninsured and untaxed car with its bald tyres and decided the risk wasn't worth it. If he was wrong all that'd happen was that the Gardai would start nebbing at him and then he'd be out of pocket and have his name in the local paper. He decided to mind his own business.

'I watched the nine o'clock news, then the weather forecast. As far as I can remember I switched to BBC for a programme on new developments in medical technology going
on in the States. I might have watched something else after that. No, I remember watching a few minutes of soccer on Sky Sports. Man United and Sheffield as far as I can recall. Wasn't much of a game so I flicked off and went to bed.'

Dean Lynch was recounting his alibi for Kate Hamilton and the team in interview room two of Store Street Garda station.

As soon as the body of Nurse Higgins had been identified all hell broke loose. First Kate Hamilton rang Chief Superintendent Mike Loughry and informed him of developments. He immediately transferred twenty extra detectives onto the case and the new team descended on the Central Maternity Hospital like a marauding army. Its corridors echoed again to the sound of heavy feet. Doors that had never been opened were burst open and desks rifled. Those whose alibis had been shaky or uneven or in any way suspicious for Mary Dwyer's death were invited to Store Street Garda station to help with the ongoing inquiry. And they were invited in such a fashion that no one was in any doubt that the gloves were off. Kate Hamilton meant business. None of them knew about Nurse Higgins, yet, except Dean Lynch, who acted the picture of aggrieved innocence in the interview room.

'And no one was with you overnight?'

Hamilton sat across the table, watching intently. There was something about him that didn't add up. She couldn't figure out what it was but she just wasn't happy. His shirt collar was a size too big, his face looked as if it had lost flesh recently. He had a slight turkey-like loose fold under the chin and a distinct unhealthy looking pallor. His hair was combed back flatly to the back of his head and above his eyebrows she could see tiny beads of perspiration. He also had a slight cough which kept interrupting his answers and irritating the hell out of her.

'There's no one with me any night. I live alone. I always have done. And do you know it's never been a problem for me or anyone else up until this week. I hope you don't
expect me to get married just to have someone provide me with an alibi for every crime committed in Dublin.'

He smiled his thin smile which Hamilton tried to ignore but found she couldn't. She had scanned the notes taken at the first interview and could find no flaw at all. Nothing. And now, being interviewed, he was impressively vague when you would expect vagueness and impressively accurate when you would expect accuracy. He was impressively confident and unruffled, not a bit like a man who had committed two murders, two brutal murders, within a week.

He coughed again, a deep throaty and phlegmy cough.

'Got a cold?'

'No, just some bug I picked up. I'm taking some antibiotics. Should be clear within days.'

He looked at her closely, his eyes never leaving her face. She sensed his gaze and felt distinctly uncomfortable.

'Where were you last night?' She decided on a sudden change in tack, hoping to catch him off guard. He was ready for her.

'Last night?' The voice was full of surprise.

'Yes, last night. From around ten to say one o'clock this morning?'

Lynch looked very puzzled. He sat back in the uncomfortable chair and looked directly at Kate Hamilton again. It's those eyes, she thought as she tried to avoid his gaze, there's something about those eyes I don't like.

'Well, actually, I was out for most of last night.'

The room quietened. Dowling and Doyle were both listening in on this interview.

'Oh, where?'

'I was at the pictures. The Savoy. I went to the late night showing of
The Godfather. Godfather Part 1.
You know, the good one.'

'What time did it start?'

'God, I don't exactly know. I think it was about half past ten. I queued early to be sure to get a good seat. They don't take credit card bookings for the late show, so I had to go down earlier.'

'And what time did it finish?'

'I really don't know. I wasn't watching the time. Suppose about one, one thirty. Something like that. I drove straight home.'

The questions went on and on. The answers come back just as assured and innocent. Behind Lynch's back Hamilton could see Dowling shake his head at her. We're gettin' nowhere. Move on.

'Dr Lynch would you be prepared to take an AIDS test? We believe we could eliminate you from our enquiries with the result of a simple AIDS test.'

Lynch leaned forward and rested both hands on the desk in front of him. His movements were slow and deliberate and he paused as if thinking through his response. Hamilton watched closely.

'Detective… sorry, I've forgotten your name again.'

'Hamilton, Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton.' Her reply did not sound friendly.

'Yes, Detective Sergeant Hamilton.' Lynch rolled the words around his mouth as if he were savouring them. He looked straight into Kate Hamilton's eyes and she couldn't help but drop her gaze. 'I have no objection, at all, to taking any sort of test that will help. Especially one that would allow me to be, as you say, eliminated from your enquiry. However Professor Armstrong has directed senior staff not to become any more involved in your investigation unless they have a legal representative present. Indeed Professor Armstrong has actually advised us not to cooperate at all.' Lynch finished with a slight flourish.

Kate Hamilton couldn't contain her fury. 'Armstrong did what?'

Lynch leaned back in his chair, trying hard to suppress a self-satisfied smirk. 'Just as I said, Detective Sergeant. Professor Armstrong has directed all senior staff not to cooperate with the investigation. He's the one who does the hiring and firing at the hospital and all of us are more or less under orders to keep our contact with you to the bare
minimum. I'll be happy to have a blood sample taken, but not until I've cleared it with him and had legal advice.'

Lynch's revelation about Professor Patrick Armstrong's interference with the investigation disrupted the interview completely. Kate Hamilton went into an immediate huddle with Tony Dowling and then despatched John Doyle to locate Armstrong immediately. The diversion also let Dean Lynch off the hook as the train of questioning was broken. Just as Hamilton was returning to him a knock sounded at the door and one of the investigating team looked in. He spotted Hamilton and beckoned her into the corridor where there was a hurried conversation. Her eyes lit up as she listened and she walked smartly back into the room and started packing away her interview notes.

Dean Lynch watched and then coughed slightly for attention. 'Is there anything else I can do to help?' He was the model of cooperation.

'No, that seems to be all for the moment, Dr Lynch. Thank you very much for being so helpful. I hope we didn't upset your routine too much?'

Lynch stood up, pushing the chair with the backs of his legs. 'Not at all. No problem. Sorry I can't be of more help. I keep myself to myself. Don't really get to hear hospital gossip so I can't really tell you much more.'

Hamilton forced a smile. 'No, you've been very helpful, really. Thank you. I'll have one of the officers show you out.'

'Don't bother. I'll find the way.'

He had his hand on the door when Dowling tried one last shot in the dark.

'Eh, Dr Lynch, did anyone actually tell ye how Mary Dwyer was murdered? Like did ye hear anyone say
exactly
how she died?'

Lynch paused, his hand almost stuck to the door. 'No. I didn't ask and I prefer not to indulge in idle gossip. The hospital's full of it. I didn't ask and no one asked me.'

Dowling stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'No one?'

'No, no one.' He looked at Dowling, then at Hamilton. 'Is that all?'

Dowling nodded. 'Thank you, Dr Lynch.'

As the door closed behind him Kate Hamilton turned to Dowling. 'He's made contact, Tom Morgan's made contact,' she announced gleefully.

'When?' Dowling almost shouted.

'Just now. His solicitor rang and said he'd like to come in and make a voluntary statement.'

This will be interesting, she thought, this will be very interesting. She smiled slightly as she packed her handbag. She would like to have smiled more but there was something about Dean Lynch that unsettled her. She decided to put him out of her mind for the moment.

Kate Hamilton wasn't out of Dean Lynch's mind as he walked along the pavement outside in Store Street.

What a little genius you are, Dean boyo.

He slipped past a huddle of women gathered round a uniformed Garda, each trying to outdo the other with their complaints about some grievance. The Garda pulled one of the women aside to let Dean Lynch by.

As Lynch made his way back to his car a spluttering and indignant Professor Patrick Armstrong was being led unceremoniously down the front steps of the Central Maternity Hospital to a waiting squad car for the short journey to Store Street Garda station. There he would be detained and questioned remorselessly before finally being released without charge. But not before a photographer and journalist from the
Evening Post
had been tipped off. They were waiting to record the man's humiliation.

Dean Lynch was settling all scores.

36

5.17 pm

Beechill

Jack McGrath wasn't at all happy.

There was very little information coming out of the woodwork. The underworld was being shaken to the roots but nobody seemed to know who had Gordon O'Brien, nor did anyone seem to have the faintest idea where he was being held.

The Jaguar Unit had swooped on every major and not so major criminal and subversive in the country. Their colleagues in the RUC in Northern Ireland had cooperated fully and a number of possible gangsters and paramilitarists had been rounded up and interrogated. Nothing came out of that particular piece of woodwork either.

Small-time criminals in Dublin and some of the major cities such as Cork and Galway and Limerick were taken into custody and grilled for information. Still nothing concrete or positive turned up. McGrath and his team finally decided the kidnap gang was not one of the big players in the criminal scene. They'd rattled so many of their trees that something would have shaken out by now. No, this had to be an opportunist gang, a bunch who didn't know what they had let themselves in for and were possibly now scared stiff. They would be aware of the national uproar and might well be panicking. They might panic so much they'd abandon the baby and make a run for it. And they might not abandon him somewhere safe. Jack McGrath's nightmare was of Gordon O'Brien being found dead in some ditch or bin and the gang
melting back into the underworld whence he was sure they had come.

The Jaguar Unit held conference updates every twelve hours. Nothing. The Minister for Justice was in almost hourly contact with the incident room, her calls becoming more and more frantic.

Jack McGrath felt he just needed something out of Big Harry, a name, a description, an accent, some little clue as to who was behind this. He called over to Beechill again and asked for a meeting.

'Is there anything, anything at all, you can remember about the first two men?'

Harry O'Brien was sitting in his study in the same seat he had been strapped into the night his child was stolen. He looked much better than when McGrath had first seen him. The gibbering and ranting and wild-eyed hysterics had abated. Big Harry was back at the helm. Haggard, drawn and worried as he was, he had dressed smartly in casual slacks and Aran sweater over Viyella shirt. His hair was combed to order and there was life back in his eyes. But it was obvious he was struggling to maintain his composure. He wanted everyone to know he was pulling the strings, calling the shots. Theo Dempsey was at home on a round the clock vigil beside the telephone awaiting instructions from the kidnappers. Sandra sat on a leather sofa to the side watching anxiously, her beautiful features contorted by worry and fear and lack of sleep. As far as she was concerned the die was cast and she didn't want anyone trying to change Harry's mind or stalling the ransom pay off. She wanted her baby back. Before it was too late.

'Mr O'Brien,' McGrath asked again, 'please try and help us. Is there anything, anything at all you can remember about the first two men.'

Harry O'Brien looked up and held McGrath's gaze defiantly. 'No.' His voice was strong and even, his demeanour controlled. But his brain was still in turmoil, a mixture of terror, shame, sleeplessness, and defeat. He was finding it difficult to focus on anything other than getting
Gordon back. He had listened to Sandra crying unconsolably night after night, unable to sleep or eat properly. He had developed severe chest pains, so bad the local Round-wood doctor had to be called out immediately. An ECG confirmed what everyone suspected, Big Harry wasn't having a heart attack, just a stress attack. The big man knew then that he'd had enough. He'd like to help catch the bastards who had brought him and his family to their knees but he'd had enough. He wanted, his baby back.

'You said one of them was a slightly smaller man,' McGrath pressed. 'Said he did all the talking?'

Harry nodded yes, then no, then yes again. Then he shrugged his shoulders. 'I can't remember.'

'Did he do anything or say anything? Was he wearing anything you could see that you can remember now? It doesn't matter how simple it might seem to you. His shoes, a glimpse of hair, smell of tobacco? Anything? Mr O'Brien, you've got to think. We won't find this gang if you don't give us any information. You were the one who saw most that night.' McGrath slumped back, exasperated and frustrated. He felt defeated for the first time in his many years in the force. He got up and walked slowly towards the door and was halfway out when Big Harry finally spoke, although everyone later remembered it as more of a whisper.

'He nearly shot me.'

The room went suddenly quiet, nobody daring to move or speak.

'The small one put a gun to my head.' Big Harry pointed an index finger to the exact spot, as if he could still feel the metal. 'He cocked it and pulled the trigger. I thought I was dead. But it mustn't have been loaded. I just heard a noise, like a snap.' He clicked his second finger as if he was pulling a trigger. His pointing index finger was the barrel, the finger still pushed against the middle of his forehead. 'Then he said, "The next one's for real".'

McGrath couldn't believe his luck, he just couldn't believe his luck.

'Tell me that again, Mr O'Brien,' he said gently, desperate
not to confuse the big man, desperate himself not to misinterpret the words. 'What did he do exactly?'

'The small one put a gun to my head.' Big Harry went through the motions again, pointing his index finger to his forehead. The room had gone deathly silent. Sandra O'Brien felt she shouldn't breathe at all lest she disturb Harry. She stared open-mouthed at Jack McGrath, watching the intensity on his face as he listened. 'He cocked it and pulled the trigger. I swear to God I thought I was a goner. But it mustn't have been loaded. It just seemed to... to sort of make a snap.' He looked up at Jack McGrath as he finished. 'Do you think that's important?'

'What did he say then? You said he said something about the next one being the real thing, or something like that?' McGrath's eyes were half-closed, the lids flickering with the intensity of the moment.

Big Harry thought for about a minute, his brow furrowed, then he nodded his head. 'Yes, I'm sure of that, it's not something you're likely to forget. He said, "The next one's for real".'

Jack McGrath had come up trumps. 'That's Tommy Malone, that's Tommy Malone's trademark. That's who's got him, Tommy fucking Malone. That's how we got him the last time.' McGrath couldn't contain his excitement. 'The little bastard.'

He snatched the phone on the desk and punched ten numbers in quick succession. His excitement was infectious and everyone in the room strained to listen. Sandra rushed to Big Harry, kissed him on the forehead, grasped both his hands in her own and knelt down beside him. Her lips moved as she began to pray. Please God, let me get my baby back. She felt her hands squeezed and looked up to find her husband crying softly. She squeezed him back and continued praying. Please God, please God, give us our baby back.

The phone was answered and Jack McGrath shouted his instructions. 'Search the records immediately, then double check with Jaguar Unit sightings. Search under "seek and
locate". Search under Thomas Malone, if nothing shows up under that name search under "Tommy Malone".' He turned his back on the audience and began a silent prayer himself, one hand cupped over the mouthpiece. The wait seemed ages but the voice at the other end came back with the confirmation he expected, the confirmation he was praying for. Thomas Malone had not turned up in the 'search and locate' part of the kidnap investigation. He was one of thirty-two known criminals who had still not been tracked down. He had been seen in Hal's Snooker Emporium recently. Hal himself had been questioned about criminal activities and meetings in his front room but had been his usual uncooperative self.

'Put out an immediate search for Tommy Malone. Contact all members of the Jaguar Unit and have them meet me in an hour in Pearse Street Garda station,' shouted McGrath.

He didn't even stop to explain to the open-mouthed audience what was happening. He was out the door and into his waiting squad car before they could react.

The hunt for Tommy Malone had begun.

At that precise moment Tommy Malone was waiting at Heuston station for Moonface to turn up. He was in exceptionally bad form. He had telephoned Theo Dempsey at three o'clock exactly and started to lay down the rules when Dempsey interrupted.

'We haven't got the money yet.'

'Waddye mean ye haven' got the money?' Malone had screamed into the phone. He couldn't control his agitation. 'If ye want that baby back alive ye better get the fuckin' money soon.'

'We're trying as fast as we can,' Dempsey tried to explain. He sensed the anger at the other end of the line. 'The courts have blocked our bankers from moving anything over fifty thousand out. I'm not making this up, you gotta believe me. Harry O'Brien wants his baby back and he's prepared to pay but the banks can't move the money, it's as simple as that. We're getting money in from an offshore account in
Jersey but it's going to take another day at least. You've got to give us another day.'

Tommy Malone stood in the phone booth, teeth chattering from cold and fear. Outside cars and container lorries moved slowly through the narrow roads along the quays. He wished he was in one going somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but back to the cottage in Kilcullen armed with the news he was hearing. 'Tell yer boss from me he'll find his baby in the river if he doesn't have the money ready be tomorra, righ'? D'ye hear me?'

'I hear you.'

'I'll ring this time tomorra. If there's no money I'll put Harry O'Brien's baby in a sack and drop him in the Liffey.' He hung up, cursing. And I fuckin' well will too, he decided.

He was in bad enough form even before he reached Heuston station, but was in worse form when Moonface didn't turn up for the 4.45 train to Newbridge. Nor the 5.20. He finally swaggered into the station just after 5.40, singing 'Ole, Ole, Ole' and wearing an Irish soccer team shirt under an Irish soccer team tracksuit topped off with an Irish colours scarf. He stood out like a beacon. 'Ole, Ole, Ole,' cheered Moonface to passers-by. Malone groaned. Moon-face could see immediately that his boss was less than pleased. 'Cheer up Tommy, we're gonna knock the shite outa Englan'. Ole, Ole, Ole.'

It was 'Ole' all the way to Newbridge as people on the train looked and smiled at the simple-looking big oaf. If only they knew, he'd kill for thruppence. He was even warned by a uniformed Gardai on the train to behave himself. Oh, God, groaned Tommy Malone, half the shaggin' rozzers in the country lookin' for him and he's lurchin' about like a drunken sailor.

Whatever about Tommy Malone's reaction, when they got back to the cottage Sam Collins was fit to kill. 'The stupid, stupid bastard.' He turned on Malone. 'How did you let him get in that state?'

'Now don't annoy me, Sam, just don't annoy me.'

'What do you mean "don't annoy me"?' Collins mocked
Malone's Dublin accent as he shouted. The mixture of his Northern voice and attempt at Dublinese riled Malone and he took a swipe at Collins who just ducked out of the way in time.

'I'll fuckin' swing for ye,' Malone shouted and lunged at Collins, grabbing him by the shirt, tearing it slightly.

Moonface made a half-hearted drunken attempt to intervene and was pushed back against the sink by Collins who had squared up to Malone.

It was Peggy Ryan who broke them up with a lash of her tongue. 'Ye stupid bastards, I'll knock the shite outa the two of ye if ye don' stop fightin'. That child's not well in there and I think he needs a doctor.' She was screaming at the top of her voice and Malone let go Collins' shirt, scowling at him. Collins scowled back. 'Get yer act together, Tommy,' she shouted angrily, surprising even herself with her outburst. 'There'll be no money to collect if somethin' happens to tha' baby.'

The A-team was splitting at the seams. It hadn't burst, but it was definitely showing signs of severe wear and tear.

The row with Tommy Malone was the final straw for Sam Collins. 'I've had enough,' he snarled through gritted teeth. 'I'm fed up with this freezing cottage and with that squawking baby.'

The beery Moonface threw his hat in the ring. 'Sam's righ', Tommy. I'm fuckin' fed up too with this kip.' Moonface wanted it all to be over so he could go to the match. 'Ole, Ole, Ole. Any sign of the money bein' paid over yet?'

Malone was dreading that question. 'No, nothin'. I rang but Dempsey says it'll be tomorra before they're ready. Can youse not wait until tomorra? We'll be laughin' after tomorra.'

'They're not gonna pay, Tommy,' Collins shouted angrily. 'This was a mistake from the beginning. Let's get the fuck outa here, give them back their baby and let's go home.'

'Yeah,' agreed Moonface. 'Ole, Ole, Ole, I wanna go to the match. Stuff the baby. Come on Irelan'.' He made a scoring shot with his right foot and punched the air as he
mentally watched the ball hit the back of the net. 'Ole, Ole, Ole.'

Collins looked at him with contempt. 'Let's call it a day, Tommy.'

By now Tommy Malone saw little point in arguing. The whole country was against them and now
they
were ganging up on him. 'Waddyou think Peggy? Where's Peggy? Peggy, where are ye?' Peggy was in one of the bedrooms staring at the baby. Malone came to the door. 'Ye better come out, Peggy. We've somethin' to discuss.'