Living Death Page 9

  After she had hung up her plum-coloured raincoat in her own office she put her head around the door and said good morning to Moirin, her new assistant. Moirin was small and chubby with a pale heart-shaped face and red heart-shaped lips and black bouffant hair, like Disney’s Snow White. If Katie hadn’t known that she was twenty-six years old and a single mother, she would have guessed that she had only just left secondary school.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner O’Reilly was asking after you, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, Moirin, I picked up his message on my mobile. I’m heading along to see him now, once I get myself a coffee. But don’t be surprised if I come back with two black eyes.’

  Moirin gave a hesitant little ‘Stop!’ but said nothing else. She had been working here at Anglesea Street for only five weeks and she wasn’t yet sure whom it was safe to talk about sarcastically, and whom she should treat with respect.

  Katie went to the canteen for a take-away cappuccino and carried it along the corridor to Jimmy O’Reilly’s office, pinching the lid between finger and thumb because it was so hot. She knocked and he immediately barked out, ‘Come!’

  He was standing by the window with his back to her, looking out at the rain. He was wearing his navy-blue full dress uniform, with his medals and his Sam Browne belt, and she remembered that he was attending a memorial service today for one of his predecessors, Martin Duggan.

  ‘I heard your message,’ she said.

  He paused for a long moment and then he turned around. He was very thin, with a gaunt, cadaverous face, and a concave chest, and eyes that had as much expression as two stones picked up off the beach. His silvery hair was greased straight back from his forehead and half of his left earlobe was missing, although he had always refused to explain how and when he had lost it. Detective Dooley reckoned that a Rottweiler had mistaken him for a bone.

  ‘Ah, Katie,’ he said. ‘Sit down for a moment will you.’

  Katie sat, placing her coffee cup down on his blotter. He stared at it, his nostrils widening with every breath, as if he were going to tell her to take it off immediately, but then he obviously decided that life was too short and that the relationship between them was strained enough already.

  He sat down himself, and tilted himself back in his black leather chair, his hands steepled in front of him, his eyes narrowed towards the window, and not at her.

  ‘You and I are both adults, Katie,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to pretend that things between us are remotely what you might call amicable. However, we have a job to do and that job is more important than any ill-feeling that we might harbour towards each other.’

  ‘I’ve no personal ill-feeling towards you, sir,’ said Katie. ‘I’m perfectly well aware of what situation you found yourself in, and I fully understand why you did what you did.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’

  ‘Yes. You know full well yourself that when you passed on information to Bobby Quilty, you placed me and three people that I cared about in danger of their lives, and I find that professionally unforgivable. I’ve said this to you before and I don’t mind saying it again: how do you think I can trust you now? How do you think I can take your word for anything?’

  Jimmy O’Reilly sucked in his cheeks, and his nostrils flared even wider. Katie sensed that he was right on the brink of jumping up and barking at her, but he restrained himself, and continued breathing steadily, and carried on talking to her in that dry, expressionless monotone.

  ‘As I said, we have a job to do and the job comes first. Especially when it comes to protecting the public at large. I simply want to pass on to you some information which was sent to me late yesterday by the Special Detective Unit.’ He paused, and then he added, still without looking at her, ‘You can trust them, I imagine?’

  ‘The SDU? I would hope so.’

  ‘It’s highly classified, this intelligence, Katie, and before I share it with you, I have to warn you that you’re not to divulge even a whisper of it to anybody outside of this room. Not yet, anyway. Not until you’ve satisfied yourself – and me, of course – that it’s one hundred and ten per cent accurate. Not until you’re confident that you’re ready to act on it, and make arrests that will lead to certain convictions. You’ll understand why when I tell you where it came from.’

  Katie said, ‘Why can’t the SDU act on it themselves?’

  ‘Because they’re still unable to verify what they’ve been told, not to the point where they can justify a search warrant. Whereas you, Katie – you’re just about the only person in Cork who could do that for them.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘The source of their information declines to talk to anybody else, that’s why. She says she can’t trust any other Garda officer but you, because you came up with the evidence that saved her brother from prosecution.’

  ‘I think I know who you’re talking about,’ said Katie. ‘Maureen Callahan. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t exactly know the full details of what you did for her brother, but apparently she was adamant that she was only going to share her information with you.’

  ‘Well... I’ve always had the feeling that Maureen’s not altogether happy being a member of the Callahan family,’ Katie told him. ‘Not an active member, anyway. But those three sisters of hers – they’re enough to scare the sheet off a ghost. I don’t think she ever dares to step out of line.’

  Katie knew Maureen Callahan well, and couldn’t help herself from liking her, because she was pretty and funny with brassy blonde hair and very smart. The problem was that she was the youngest member of one of Cork’s most violent crime families. The Callahans were involved in protection rackets and heroin dealing in the city’s nightclubs, but most of their money came from gun-running. They had made a fortune smuggling in automatic weapons and pistols and even rocket launchers from eastern Europe and supplying them to the Authentic IRA and the drug gangs of south-west Dublin.

  Like several other criminal gangs in southern Ireland, the Callahans had survived and prospered for so long because they were run by women. Instead of having lethal feuds with their rivals, the way their menfolk did, they gritted their teeth and co-operated with them, no matter how much they despised them. They paid their fathers and sons and brothers to stay in the pub all day and not to interfere with business.

  ‘So what’s the story between you and Maureen Callahan, then?’ asked Jimmy O’Reilly.

  ‘It was on Paddy’s Day last year. There was a fight in the street outside Cubin’s and Maureen’s brother Padraig was arrested for stabbing a member of the O’Flynn family. The O’Flynn fellow wasn’t killed, but he lost three fingers and a lot of blood. The next day two alleged eye-witnesses picked out Padraig, but they were so sure of themselves that I thought that there had to be something suspicious about them. No “ums” or “ahs” or “it might have been him, like, but then maybe it wasn’t”. That was in spite of the fact that it was pitch dark and everybody involved was either high or langers or both.

  ‘I had my team go through all of the CCTV footage in the city that night, and sure enough there was Padraig Callahan at the exact time of the stabbing, coming out of The Pav.’

  Jimmy O’Reilly waited expectantly for Katie to continue, but she didn’t tell him what her suspicions had been: that the two eye-witnesses had been bribed by Acting Chief Superintendent Bryan Molloy to identify Padraig Callahan. During the course of his career, Molloy had earned himself a formidable track record for crushing criminal gangs, especially the warring families who used to dominate Limerick’s underworld, but he had frequently falsified evidence to make sure that he got the convictions that he wanted. He had retired now, but Katie knew that he still bore her a volcanic grudge, and that was why she never spoke about him, in case word got back to him, and he lodged a formal complaint with the Garda Ombudsman.

  When he realised that Katie wasn’t going to add any more, Jimmy O’Reilly said, ‘Any road, Maureen Callahan approached an SDU detective over the
weekend. He was plainclothes, of course, and she didn’t know who he was, but for some reason he told her that a friend of his was a guard. She told him that she had some major information about her family that we’d be interested in.’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell him, but it’s a fair bet that it’s either about drugs or guns, and even though she’d had a fair few scoops the detective had the feeling that she wasn’t messing. Since she wouldn’t speak to him, he suggested that she give us a ring here at Anglesea Street, even if she did it anonymous-like. It was then that she mentioned your name, and told him that you were the only Garda officer she felt she could confide in. So – I’d say you need to meet up with her, and as soon as you can arrange it.’

  ‘How can I get in touch with her?’

  ‘Here, take this down,’ said Jimmy O’Reilly, opening up a folder on his desk. ‘This is her mobile.’ Katie took out her iPhone and prodded out the number that he read to her. ‘She’ll be free sometime after five, so she said, but not to try and get in touch before then because she’ll be home with her sisters, and of course she doesn’t want them to know that she’s talking to the guards. If you ring her or text her then you can arrange somewhere discreet to meet her.’

  ‘Can you give me his name, the SDU officer? I’d like to speak to him in person.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course I know who he is, but I’m not allowed to tell anybody else, Katie, even you. You know how secretive they are, the SDU. All of this information came direct from Detective Superintendent O’Malley at Harcourt Street.’

  ‘And you have no idea why Maureen Callahan wants to rat out her own family? Surely she’d be risking her life, wouldn’t she? Those Callahans, they did for Fergal Ó Brion, I’m sure of it.’

  Jimmy O’Reilly gave her a minimal shake of his head. ‘You’ll have to ask her that yourself, won’t you?’

  Katie waited for a moment, looking at the young woman’s name and number on her iPhone. Something about this didn’t quite fit, although she couldn’t decide what it was. It was like looking at one of those pictures of a hundred cartoon snowmen, and having to spot the single penguin among them. She knew it was there, but she couldn’t see it yet.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Jimmy O’Reilly. ‘You’re looking suspicious.’

  ‘That’s because I have no reason to trust you about anything whatsoever.’

  He shrugged. ‘You don’t have to trust me. You can talk to Maureen Callahan and make up your own mind about whatever it is that she tells you. If you don’t believe her, fair play to you. Don’t forget your coffee.’

  Katie picked up her cup. Before she left, though, she looked around Jimmy O’Reilly’s office and said, ‘I haven’t seen James Elvin in a while.’

  ‘That’s because he doesn’t work here any more. Not for over a week now.’

  ‘You’re not getting any threats about his debts, are you? None of the casinos have been after you?’

  ‘I’d say that’s totally none of your business.’

  ‘Of course it’s my business. You’re the Assistant Commissioner and I’m the Detective Superintendent and if you’re being maced for money I need to know about it.’

  Jimmy O’Reilly stood up and walked around his desk so that he could open his office door wide and keep it open. Detectives Roche and Ó Connail were walking past and they stared at them, because it was common knowledge in the station how frosty their relationship was, although nobody knew exactly why.

  When they were out of earshot, Jimmy O’Reilly said, ‘Listen, Katie, why don’t we continue to work together on a purely professional basis and keep our snouts out of each other’s personal problems? I’m sure you have plenty of your own to take care of.’

  ‘All I’m saying, sir, is that it would be fierce bad publicity for the force if some casino bouncer was to catch you in the street one night and give you the mother and father of all clatters. Come to that, I don’t think you’d enjoy it much, either.’

  Jimmy O’Reilly closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were praying that when he opened them again Katie would have disappeared, or better still, never existed.

  ‘Joseph and Mary and all the saints, Katie, will you forever stop vexing me and the sun splitting the rocks. I can tell you this for nothing—’

  He stopped himself abruptly, and jerked his head towards the corridor, indicating that Katie should leave.

  ‘Go on,’ said Katie. ‘What can you tell me for nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jimmy O’Reilly. ‘I’d appreciate if you’d let me know when you’ve arranged to meet Maureen Callahan, if that won’t be too much of a bother for you.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t have something you want to tell me?’

  He didn’t answer. Katie looked at the expression on his face and realised that he couldn’t answer, because he couldn’t trust himself. His lips were tightly pursed and the muscles in his cheeks were flexing, as if he were grinding his teeth.

  ‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I’ll be away. Slainté.’

  She lifted her coffee cup as if she were toasting his health. She knew that it was petty, and vindictive, but if it hadn’t been for him, John wouldn’t have lost his legs, and she wouldn’t be feeling so bitter, and confused, and she wouldn’t be sick to her stomach with such agonising guilt.

  10

  Detective Dooley was waiting for her outside her office, leaning against the open door and talking to Moirin. They were laughing about last night’s Naked Camera, in which one of the actors had gone for a haircut but then told the unsuspecting stylist that he was pathologically afraid of scissors.

  ‘How’s the form, ma’am?’ he smiled, as Katie sat down at her desk and opened her coffee. ‘You got my message about the dogs okay?’

  ‘I did, yes. Any more progress since then?’

  Detective Dooley checked his watch. ‘I’m just heading on to see this feen who’s advertising two pedigree dogs online. He only posted them this morning, and they fit the description of two of the dogs that were buged from the Cassidys’ kennels.’

  ‘What breed are they?’

  Detective Dooley flipped open his notebook. ‘One’s a German Shepherd and the other’s a Vizsla. Both pedigree. He’s asking a thousand yoyos for the German Shepherd and seven hundred for the other one.’

  ‘That’s a little on the dear side, I’d say, but – you know – not totally outrageous, if they really are pedigree.’

  ‘His name’s Mulvaney and he has a kennels down at Riverstick. He calls it a boarding kennels but that’s just a front. He’s a fence for stolen dogs, and he specialises in top-class pedigree animals, although he’d find a scratty mongrel for you if you really wanted one. He sells most of them on his website but he exports them, too, mostly to some other dodgy dog dealers in the UK. The Brits pay way over the odds for quality dogs.’

  ‘Mulvaney? Gerry Mulvaney? I think I heard his name mentioned before, when all those rough collie puppies were stolen last Easter from Ballygarvan,’ said Katie. ‘We’ve never charged him, though, have we?’

  Detective Dooley shook his head. ‘He always swears blind that he comes by his dogs legitimate. I don’t exactly know the science of it, but the registration details on their microchips always tally, or else they don’t scan at all, so we’ve never been able to prove that the dogs are not his. I’m sure Bill Phinner or one of his technical experts can tell you how it’s done.’

  Katie said, ‘It’s not so much the dogs themselves that I’m interested in. What I want to know is who gave them to him.’

  ‘I don’t think for a moment that Mulvaney will tell me. Even if he does give me a name, the odds are that he’ll give me a false one, and I know what he’ll say. “I swear on the Holy Book that was the name that was given to me by the feller who sold me the dogs and I never saw him before so how was I to know that it wasn’t kosher?” But, you know, it’s worth having a shot at it.’

  ‘When are you heading on?’


  ‘In about ten minutes. I’m taking Scanlan along with me. I just have to wait until she’s finished talking to those Travellers who were driving their horses down McSwiney’s Villas.’

  ‘Oh, stop. Serious? I haven’t heard about that.’

  ‘The Travellers said it was a protest, like, but two of the horses ended up in a cycle shop, right down the bottom of Blarney Road, and apart from the damage, three four-hundred-euro mountain bikes mysteriously went missing.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ said Katie. ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you? I suppose they’re making out that the horses rode off on them.’

  She thought for a moment, and then she said, ‘I might come with you to Riverstick. I have a pure strange feeling about this dognapping and this feen who got his head shot off. I have to ring Inspector O’Brien at Bandon but I’ll be ready to leave after that.’

  ‘Okay, then, ma’am,’ said Detective Dooley, although he didn’t look particularly thrilled at the prospect of taking Katie along with them. Maybe he had been looking forward to some time alone with Pádraigin Scanlan. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes so.’

  Katie’s iPhone had been pinging incessantly, and there was a stack of unread files on her desk that urgently needed her attention. Not only that, she was due to make an appearance in the District Court shortly after lunch, and at 5:30 pm she had a strategy meeting with Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin and Superintendent Pearse. But a visit to Mulvaney’s kennels took priority, as far as she was concerned. These two dogs being offered for sale online were the only serious lead they had so far to the possible identity of the gang who had raided Sceolan Kennels, but there was almost no chance that Gerry Mulvaney would willingly tell Detective Dooley and Detective Scanlan where the dogs had come from. If he could scan the animals’ microchips and show that they now legally belonged to him, the two detectives would have no way of putting any pressure on him, but Katie reasoned that the presence of a Garda officer with a little more seniority might impress him enough to co-operate. She could threaten him with a forensic tax audit by the Revenue Commissioners, or an ISPCA inspection, with possible closure on health grounds.