20
1.05 pm
Just after one o'clock that afternoon an RTE NEWS TV crew was wrapping up a 'piece-to-camera' item in front of the Central Maternity Hospital, the reporter outlining the dramatic events overtaking the hospital, starting with the emergency delivery of Gordon O'Brien and ending with the discovery of Mary Dwyer's body fewer than thirty-six hours later. It would be the first of many 'piece-to-camera' items involving the Central Maternity Hospital.
Inside the hospital Luke Conway and Professor Patrick Armstrong were deep in conversation. While Conway was the Master of the hospital and in charge of day-to-day management he quite often conferred with Armstrong. The older man had been attached to the hospital for almost twenty-three years and was on the board of governors. He knew the pulse of the hospital and was a clever manipulator of its staff.
'Let me have a word with the Minister for Health,' suggested Armstrong. 'I'm on quite good terms with him. We'll put a bit of heat on Detective Inspector McGrath.' He almost spat the words out. 'We should have the lab back in action by tomorrow.'
Luke Conway nodded, relieved. Maybe there might be light at the end of this very long tunnel after all. He watched as Armstrong placed the call.
3.45 pm
Tommy Malone drove a stolen Volvo 460 along the Newbridge bypass for about two miles before taking the turn off to Kilcullen. Sitting in the back seat, staring out at the passing traffic, was Peggy Ryan. Sam Collins had taken the car from outside a pub in Donnybrook earlier and fitted it with a set of Kildare number plates which Moonface had lifted off a Toyota Corolla parked in the long-term car park at Dublin airport. Moonface had also taken a set of '95 registration Dublin plates from a BMW. He'd been sorely tempted to take the car as well but was under strict instructions to steal only what was ordered and nothing else. 'And that means don't lift a fuckin' thing outa the back seat or nuthin',' Malone had warned.
As Malone and Ryan drove through the village he pointed out the nearest grocery shop, telephone kiosk and public house. Slightly less than a mile past the last bungalow marking the edge of the village, Malone turned off the main road onto a smaller B-road, then turned sharp left again onto a track that led them past fields. Peggy squinted into the enveloping darkness, barely able to make out the top of the hedgerows. Malone slowed to a crawl easing the Volvo up a dirt path. Finally the headlights picked out the front of a small whitewashed cottage with two front windows and a black front door.
'We're here,' grunted Malone as he killed the engine. He climbed out of the car first, advising Peggy not to budge until he had the front door open. 'Ye'll freeze out here. Wait'll I have the door open and a ligh' on.'
Peggy pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck and waited. The blackness of the night was relieved by a weak moon struggling to make itself seen from behind dark clouds. Malone struggled to find the right key and then struggled further to find the lock and turn the bolt. With a kick and a curse the door was slowly pushed in, creaking and groaning. In the gloom Peggy watched Malone grope
his way along a wall and suddenly the weak glow of a single lightbulb lit up the inside porch.
Once inside the two looked over the cottage carefully. It was basic, three bedrooms, a kitchen-cum-sitting room and an inside toilet with an old grime-stained bath in the same small room. There was a fireplace in the kitchen. The other rooms were heated by three-bar electric fires. The cottage was freezing and frost hung off their breath as they spoke.
'Ye'll have to get this place heated, Tommy. Ye can' bring a newborn baby into this vault. Jaysus, it wouldn' last an hour.'
Malone nodded, deep in thought.
'We'll light the fire in the kitchen now,' he said, 'and turn on the electric fires in the bedrooms. Better get electric blankets as well.'
Peggy didn't much like what she saw. The cottage was a dump, obviously unlived in for months. A musty smell hung everywhere and the sofa in the kitchen felt damp to the touch.
'Jaysus Tommy, I hope we don' havta stay here long,' she complained. 'We'll all get our deaths a cold here.'
Malone ignored her and continued carrying in boxes of groceries, tins of baby food, firelighters, peat briquettes, bundles of sticks and, finally, a large box of Mini Pampers for boys.
Within half an hour the first smoke from the burning paper and sticks trickled into the frosty air outside. It hadn't snowed yet but there was talk of it. There was little wind even though dark clouds moved slowly across the sky. The fields surrounding the cottage had pockets of frost but, apart from a few sheep and cattle nuzzling the hard earth, there was hardly any movement.
Half a mile away, Brian O'Callaghan was worrying over a sheep he was sure was going to lamb. Wrapped in four sweaters and a long grey oil skin, he could still feel the bitter cold penetrate. The ewe seemed unperturbed, scraping at the frost for any tuft of grass that hadn't been grazed.
Now well into his seventieth year and a farmer all his life, O'Callaghan reckoned any lamb born now, and in the open, stood little chance of surviving. He wasn't at all happy as he watched the sheep, swollen bellied, move off to a more promising looking tuft.
As he turned around towards home he noticed the smoke. That's strange, he thought, I've never seen anyone use that cottage this time of year.
21
6.27 pm
Library, East Wing
The mood was heavy with anger and frustration.
'Wait'll you hear this one.' One of the detectives assigned to the case was recounting his experience trying to interview a consultant. 'I do the polite thing and ring up his secretary, tell her who I am and why I need to see the great man. Do you know what she says?'
McGrath's team listened, some smirking but others with similar experiences were grim faced.
'"Well," she says, "I'll check and see if there's a window in his diary for next week." A window in his diary,' he mimicked, 'and for next week. I'm trying to investigate a murder and all I get is this crap. A window in his diary for next bloody week!'
A buzz of conversation filled the room as others related similar experiences.
'Okay, okay,' interrupted McGrath as a last straggler entered, sat down and pulled a chair nearer to the large reading table in the middle of the room. McGrath and Dowling sat at the table, tall shelves of medical textbooks on either side. Kate Hamilton glanced at her watch as she shuffled her chair along the reading table to make room. She'd promised Grandad she'd be home by seven. The way things were going she doubted she'd make it.
'It looks as if we're all getting the run around.' McGrath flicked open a notebook and squinted at it briefly. 'However
before we go into that I want to run over what we now know about this case.'
The group shifted to more comfortable positions, each consulting individual notepads.
'We know Mary Dwyer was murdered between 10.45 and 10.55 last Tuesday night. Almost certainly the killer knows this hospital like the back of his hand. He got in and out without anyone noticing. There have been no sightings in the hospital, the grounds, the car park or the exits leading into Whitfield Square. Either he went back to doing whatever he usually does in the hospital and continued as though nothing had happened, or…' A murmur of dissent interrupted McGrath's flow. 'Or… or,' his voice grew louder, 'more likely, he slipped out the same way he came in, through the basement and out one of the side gates.' He paused as one or two scribbled in their notebooks.
'We also know that the scalpel used, almost certainly, but not definitely, came from the room outside that the docs use for what they call minor surgery.'
Someone sniggered at a comment about Mary Dwyer's minor surgery getting a bit out of hand and Kate Hamilton had to cover her face to hide a smirk.
'There are no prints on the scalpel,' continued McGrath, ignoring the diversion, 'and forensics say the markings and powder on her throat suggest he was wearing gloves. Surgical gloves.'
He paused to let this sink in.
'The guy also smashed a row of blood samples, a small PC and printer and a couple of other machines. The lab staff have double checked the samples with the requests and say there's nothing they can find that would link the murder with the tests. The paper from the printer is individually numbered and there are eight sheets missing, can't be found anywhere. They can't have got out of the hospital by any normal route as we've had all wastepaper bins, sluices and the like checked. The skip outside the basement has been turned over and nothing found.'
He stopped again and looked at the gathering. All eyes were on him.
'Every rubbish bin and skip in a mile radius has been turned over. Every taxi company and bus driver interviewed. Zilch. Nothing.'
He paused and looked at Dowling who nodded back.
'Mary Dwyer is as clean as the driven snow. We've nothing on her. She lives with her parents and she's not into drugs. There's no funny bank accounts, no kinky sex. Nothing.'
McGrath stood up slowly, resting both hands on the desk in front of him, staring at his notebook.
'Nothing that's immediately obvious anyway. But I just can't help feeling she knew something. She might have had some information, something. Something so important she had to be killed for it. She may not even have known how important it was but this guy just couldn't take any chances. She had to go.'
The room was silent.
McGrath looked up from the desk. 'Now,' he continued, his voice raised again, 'we seem to be getting the run around from some of the medical staff here. Some of these guys seem to think it's beneath their dignity to be interviewed by the police.'
'Bloody right they do,' shouted a voice and Kate Hamilton turned to see who had spoken. She was secretly delighted the investigating team were incensed at the doctors' attitudes. Now you know, boys, what we girls go through all the time.
McGrath held up a hand. 'Well let me tell you, and I don't mind you letting this slip out to anyone you feel might like to hear it, but we have the trump card in this game. From what I've heard operations are being cancelled, patients are having to be sent home and some women are being directed to the Rotunda Hospital to have their babies. All because we've closed the lab.'
Something close to a cheer filled the room, followed by 'shooshes' and muted laughs.
'Until we get cooperation that lab stays closed.'
The cheer could be heard down the corridor.
As the detectives filed out of the library, Dean Lynch watched from his consulting room just down the same corridor, the door open only a fraction. He had counted twelve going in and checked that the same number left. There were eleven men and one young woman. Eleven men and one very interesting looking young woman. He had watched her very closely, noting her body language and hand movements.
I'd like to meet you, sometime.
Alone.
When the last murmur of conversation drifted away from the empty and darkened waiting area, he slipped out and entered the library.
He assessed the scene quickly. All the chairs were pulled around the central reading desk. There were only two at the desk, one facing the other. He scanned the book shelves which stood immediately to each side and, using a cloth tape, measured the width of a number of titles before choosing four. They left the hospital with him.
Commissioner Thomas Quinlan, responsible for overall control and management of the Garda Siochana, was sitting in his living room watching TV when the telephone rang. Spread on the carpet at his feet lay the two Dublin evening papers, each carrying banner headlines about the murder investigation.
'Commissioner, this is Alice Martin.'
Quinlan sat bolt upright and flicked the TV off with the remote control.
'Minister, what can I do for you?'
'My sources tell me that a Detective Inspector Jack McGrath is wreaking havoc down at that hospital and the doctors are raising hell.'
Quinlan said nothing. Experience suggested the Minister of Justice was less worried about the murder and its investigation and Jack McGrath than she was about bad publicity.
The government was a shaky coalition, lurching from one badly handled crisis to another. Law and order, or the lack of law and order, was the current hot political potato.
'Did you hear me, Commissioner?' Martin's voice felt like a lash.
'Most certainly, Minister. But I get the impression you want me to do more than tell you what you already seem to know.' Bite on that one, you smart assed bitch.
Martin paused, taken back.
'I think Detective Inspector McGrath should be removed from the investigation.'
Quinlan had sensed this coming.
'That might be a mistake, Minister, if I may say so. It might seem like a panic reaction to the bad publicity.'
'I want him off that case.' It was an icy voiced command, not a suggestion.
'Minister, let me make a few calls tonight and I'll get back to you first thing tomorrow morning. There may be ways around this.'
'Commissioner Quinlan, may I remind you I am the Minister for Justice. You are directly responsible to me.'
'With respect, Minister, you have not ceased to remind me of that since the day you took office.'
'I want Detective Inspector McGrath removed from that investigation.' The phone was slammed down.
Quinlan stared at the earpiece for a moment.
'Hoor,' he muttered and started dialling.
Dean Lynch carefully cut out the insides of the four textbooks to the depth and shape he required. He closed each book in turn and inspected the result. The books looked no different. When opened a neatly carved space was exposed with a thin, narrow space running to the spine. Into the spaces he fitted a Panasonic Voice Activated System dictaphone. Attached by a lead to the top of the dictaphones was a Vivanco EM 116 clip-on microphone. When closed, the books showed no sign of the dictaphone. The tiny clip-on microphone lead was easily threaded through the
specially cut tunnel, barely protruding above the book spines.
Lynch admired his handiwork for some time before putting it to the test. He placed the four books upright at various levels inside his kitchen cupboards and then sat down at the kitchen table. He began reading out loud from an instruction book on cooking a casserole in under eight minutes using a microwave oven. After five minutes, as timed on the kitchen clock, he stopped. The books were taken down and the tapes inside the dictaphones checked. They all had responded to his voice as picked up by the microphones. He rewound and played. His voice had been recorded clearly. He rewound the tapes once more and replaced the books in the same positions. The instruction manual was read aloud again, but this time he stopped for a minute every three minutes. Down came the books and the tapes were replayed.
Perfect.
The Voice Activated System had worked perfectly, recording only when he spoke, stopping when there was no noise picked up.
Perfect.
It's looking good, Dean, boyo, it's looking good. Put them in four different sites so you miss nothing. Then you'll be able to keep tabs on whatever's going on in the library.
There's no doubt about it, you're a little genius.
He treated himself to a fix to celebrate.
137