He ushered them in, apologising for the state of the house in one breath and then warning them not to talk too loudly in the next. 'You'll wake the children,' he hissed.
Kate Hamilton warmed to him again, just as she had when first she'd interviewed him. She warmed to the house as well, recognising the disorganised chaos of children. Two bicycles rested awkwardly in the hall and cycle helmets lay
halfway up a staircase. A door led into a kitchen and even in the poor light Hamilton could make out a table with dishes not cleared away. A kindred soul, she thought. Here's someone like myself, struggling to make a home for the children and hold down a job at the same time.
'How old are the kids?' she asked, trying to break the ice. She'd sensed immediately his concern at being called on so late at night.
'Anna's seven and Laura's nine. They're good kids really, but they know how to run rings around me.' Holland smiled ruefully. 'It takes me ages to get them down at night and then I only have these few hours before I go to bed to catch up on my hospital work.' He took off his glasses, breathed on the lenses quickly then cleaned them with the end of his tie.
'Sorry,' offered Hamilton. 'We'll get this over quickly.'
Tea was offered and refused as Dowling began going over Holland's story in detail, checking it against the original statement. It matched. Any worries about Holland's whereabouts on the night Mary Dwyer was murdered were quickly dispelled. Holland mentioned he had made a number of telephone calls that night, two of them around the time of the actual event. When Dowling asked if he could check the telephone company records on this Holland had no objections and sounded relieved there was a way to confirm his story.
'I suppose this murder has caused all sorts of problems at the hospital,' Dowling suggested finally, fishing for gossip.
'Dreadful,' agreed Holland. He was sitting on a sofa, one leg draped across the other.
He looked and sounded tired. Paddy Holland was taller than Kate Hamilton and quite young-looking for his forty-two years. He was in denims and checked shirt with a rather worn looking cardigan thrown over for warmth. A gas fire burned in a fireplace beside where he sat and Dowling pulled his chair closer for heat.
Holland kicked off a suede boot and wrinkled his toes for comfort before slipping the boot back on again. 'The nurses
are very worried. We've had two girls refuse to do night duty already, they're too frightened to come in on their own in the dark.' He looked towards Hamilton and noticed her suddenly avert her eyes from him. He glanced quickly at her ringless hands as they fiddled awkwardly with a pen and notebook.
'And,' he continued, 'I've had to sit down with Anna and Laura to try and explain everything to them. Somebody at school got to them and the next thing I find is them waiting up for me to come home and crying because they were told I was going to be killed next.' He shook his head sadly. 'Kids and their exaggerated scare stories.'
Hamilton made a few sympathetic murmurings.
'It's having a dreadful effect on some of the staff and their families,' he added finally, looking back again at Kate Hamilton who was watching him closely. This time she didn't look away. 'You don't have any kids so I suppose this doesn't mean a great deal to you,' he said.
Tony Dowling tried to defuse the gaffe with a sudden burst of coughing.
'Wrong, very wrong,' said Hamilton. She stood up to go. 'I have a four-year-old boy.'
Holland looked flustered and embarrassed and started to mouth apologies.
'Don't worry, you weren't to know. His father and I were planning to get married but he died.'
The room fell silent, Dowling studied his hands for a moment. There was a short but very pained silence.
'Can I ask how?' Holland asked.
Hamilton began packing her notebook, unclipped the biro, slipping it inside her jacket, anything to distract. She finally looked up and straight at Holland, her emotions running riot but her features controlled. Tired and worn out as he was she could see care and sympathy in his eyes.
'He was gunned down in a drugs bust in Boston. I worked there for a short while. It was supposed to be a simple drugs bust, but they got it wrong. He died instantly.'
'I'm sorry.'
'No need to be. I know you've lost your wife. I've seen your interview file. You know what it's like trying to hold down a job, rear your children, be there for them and at the same time keep your independence.'
Holland looked surprised at the insights to his life Hamilton knew.
'Is it worth it, Detective Sergeant?' he said. 'Sometimes I ask myself that. Do you? Is it worth it?'
'Is it worth it for you?' Hamilton felt unsure of herself and embarrassed she was discussing her private life so openly in front of Tony Dowling.
'Yes. The hospital and my children are my life, they're all I've got. And the hospital is bigger than all of us. Bigger than every member of staff, bigger even than the egos of some of the doctors who walk its corridors. It's been serving the people of Dublin for centuries. Not for ten years, or fifty years, or even a hundred years. For two centuries. Rich and poor alike. It's more than a maternity hospital, it's a national institution. And now some bastard's brought it to its knees.' His voice was now full of anger.
Tony Dowling watched and listened in silence. He could sense the raw emotions in both and could almost feel the shared grief.
'Nice fella,' said Dowling when he and Hamilton were back in the car. Kate Hamilton was glad the darkness hid her blushes. As Dowling waited for a break in traffic to get out onto Donnybrook Road, he was grinning. 'And he's unattached.'
Hamilton waited until the car was safely onto the main road. 'Tony, you're way outa line on this.'
The two briefly smiled to one another.
Tommy Malone made contact for the first time just before midnight. He drove into Kilcullen and parked on the main road close to the public phone box with the car lights off. He waited for twenty minutes and during that time no one appeared on the road. Only two cars passed by.
The telephone rang out once and Malone redialled. Finally it was answered by a sleepy voice at the other end.
'Is Theo Dempsey in?' Malone had the mouthpiece covered with a cloth to disguise his voice.
There was a pause. 'No, he's not. Who's speaking?'
'Can you take a message for him?'
'Yes. Who's speaking please?' The sleepiness had gone out of the voice.
'Listen and listen very carefully to what I have to say. I won't say it twice. Are ye with me?'
There was silence at the other end for almost a minute.
'Are ye still there?' Malone didn't conceal his annoyance.
'Yes.'
'Tell Theo to take this message to his boss. If he wants his baby back he'll have to come up with three million in cash. Three million. Cash. Tell Theo I'll ring him tomorra at this number. Tell him to get Big Harry movin' for we want the money by Tuesday at the latest. When I call tomorra I'll tell Theo how we're gonna collect it.'
He hung up.
At the other end Theo Dempsey's wife, Marie, scribbled furiously, trying to remember every word. Then she rang Beechill.
Day 7
4.37 am, Sunday, 16th February 1997
A little hand brushed against Kate Hamilton's face. 'Mummy, I'm frightened.'
Half asleep she reached out and tugged Rory in beside her and he nestled down, put his thumb in his mouth and fell asleep again. Hamilton edged away slightly to give herself more space and turned to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling. Outside she heard a rumble of thunder and minutes later the steady streaming of rain against a skylight. It was at moments like this that she felt the loneliness so much, so strongly.
She reached across and shifted the sleeping child's body slightly for more room and held her breath as she watched him stir in the darkness. Then his breathing settled again. You're all I've got, Rory. You're all I've got. You and Grandad. Tears pricked behind her eyes and for a fleeting moment the face of Paddy Holland flashed through her mind. She turned to one side and closed her eyes and tried to drift back to sleep.
A little hand pulled her face back to the other side. Rory was awake again. 'Close your eyes, now. It's very early. Mummy wants to sleep.' Rory began brushing Ted across his mother's face. 'Rory, go to sleep. Stop that. Mummy's very tired.' She cocked an eye at the digital clock and groaned. 'Go to sleep Rory.'
Rory rested one arm on her shoulder and closed his eyes
again. He was content. He was with his mother. He could feel her warmth, hear her breathing.
Gordon O'Brien could not. He was awake too, crying. He was hungry and frightened and in his own little way he knew there was something wrong. There was no warmth, no tenderness, no caresses. There was no mother's milk, no comfort of the breast nor sound of his mother's heartbeat as he fed, nor warmth of her breath against his cheek. He cried loudly. Too loudly.
'Take tha' ye little bollox.' Peggy Ryan was beginning to regret the whole episode. Jesus, I'm well past gettin' up at nigh', feedin' babies, changin' nappies, walkin' the floors. She stuck a half-warmed bottle of milk in the child's mouth and pulled the sleeping bag tightly around her shoulders. Jesus, it's freezin'. We'd better get outa this kip soon before we all get our deaths. The smell of damp and must was beginning to get to her. The smell of Tommy Malone's cigarettes hung everywhere. What a kip.
At around the same time Dean Lynch was staring at his naked body in the long mirror in his exercise room. The rash was spreading. He had noticed it two days previously for the first time, but knew it may well have been there longer. It was red and scaly in both large and small patches, mainly on his chest where it almost covered the tattoo there, and whatever part of his back he could see. He noticed some on his forehead and eyebrows.
Disease progression. It's catching up on you, Dean boyo. You'll have to move a little faster. You've some unfinished business to do. Like that little nurse. And that new detective.
Yes, her in particular.
Rot in hell, will I?
I'll see you on the way down the elevator.
The phone rang and he jumped. Heart pounding, he snatched at the receiver.
'Dr Lynch?'
'Yes. Speaking.'
'Doctor I'm very sorry to wake you so early but we've got a deep transverse arrest in Labour Ward Three in East Wing. Dr Sharif's doing an emergency Caesarean section in theatre at the moment. There's nobody else in the house to do this.'
'I'll be in within ten minutes.'
It worked to his advantage.
Oh lucky man!
5.32 am
It was a difficult delivery, but skilfully and successfully completed. The mother, a thirty-three-year-old in her second pregnancy, was trying to push out a nine-pound baby and had become exhausted. The baby's head arrested at mid-pelvis, occipito-posterior presentation. Her baby's head was arriving into the world the wrong way round and was stuck. Only a skilled and expert obstetrician could turn the head around and ensure a normal delivery. Fortunately she had an epidural in place and could not feel the manipulations going on inside her body.
Lynch slipped the Kielland's forceps inside, up to and around the sides of the baby's head. After locking the blades, he pulled gently to ensure a proper fit. Then, in tandem with the contractions, the baby's head was gently turned and then eased lower into his mother's pelvis, right way round. Eventually, and safely, the child was born. But Lynch became aware halfway through how draining the effort was. He didn't usually feel so fatigued, the delivery wasn't that difficult. He noticed also he was perspiring heavily. Very heavily.
Before he left the labour ward he took three scalpel handles and three size twenty-three scalpel blades from the stores.
6.12 am
He slipped into the library and retrieved one of the medical textbooks containing his microcassettes. He had plans for it.
6.27 am
He gently and slowly opened the door into Matron's office which was deserted and unlit. He'd carefully checked there was no one along the corridor likely to disturb or see him before closing the door quietly. With a pen torch he scanned the walls until he found what he was looking for. The nurses' duty roster. He flicked off the torch for a minute and listened. The only sounds were from his own breathing and the pounding of his heart. The noises reassured him and he flicked the pen torch on again and read, finally coming to the name he was looking for. Staff Nurse Sarah Higgins. Apartment 7, the Hawthorns, Rock Road, Blackrock. He scribbled the address and telephone number onto the back of his hand. Then he scanned further. Sunday 16/2/97: 2-11 pm shift. In the dark, he smiled slightly.
7.49 am
He was back in his flat staring at the reflection in the mirror. It was perfect. His usual disguise, jet black, well-fitting wig with the hair swept back severely. The wig was long, over collar at the back, covering his own, slightly lighter and totally grey. There was no sign of Dean Lynch's hair anywhere. He fixed a short but thick black moustache onto his upper Up with mastic spirit gum, pressing firmly along its length until he was sure it held well. Then he placed a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, pushing them into position. There were no actual lenses in the frames, just clear glass. He was dressed in a neat, casual jacket and
trousers with roll neck sweater, all black. A dark grey scarf would be pulled up over his lower face later to protect against the cold and to complete the disguise. He pulled on black leather gloves and a heavy overcoat. I'm dressed to kill. The Dean Lynch thin smile flickered.
It was his usual routine when he visited London John. He was always careful, always on guard, the art of disguise mastered to the last detail. He had taken trips to London twice on the same day in different outfits and no one at the airports or on the flights would have recognised him. It was London John who'd suggested this once, a long time ago. It was London John who had actually arranged for the wig fitting, the glasses, the moustache.
'Never let anyone know your business, Bobby boy. Keep yourself to yourself. Never let the girls see your face.'
They never did. All they ever saw was the black wig, the black moustache, and the horn-rimmed glasses. And the eyes. It was the eyes that frightened them most.
He left a message on his answering machine, to be on the safe side. But he had already cleared with Dr Sharif to cover any emergencies, which was usual in gynaecological practice. He'd told everyone he was going to take the day off and relax, maybe take in a movie later tonight. The film started at quarter past ten and went on until after midnight, suiting his plans nicely. He'd mentioned some of this, casual like, to Dr Sharif and a few nurses as they sipped tea in the rest room of East Wing after the forceps delivery. He was setting up his alibi.
He checked the flat door peephole. There was nobody in the corridor outside. He turned on the burglar alarm, then the back-up burglar alarm, before slipping outside and gently closing the door behind him. Then down the stairs to the ground floor, stopping and checking again before leaving through the fire escape. He inserted a small metal bar, no longer than six inches, no thicker than a quarter of an inch, into the inner frame of the fire escape door. The door closed against it but didn't lock. He had done this before, many
times. He knew how to get in and out of the flats without using the front door. It was a useful trick.
He walked briskly along Baggot Street and hailed a taxi.
'Airport, please.'
Those were the only words the taxi man got out of him throughout the thirty-minute journey, despite his usual attempts at conversation. He was paid, in cash, without a word. Miserable little bollox, thought the taxi man as he drove off without a tip.
Lynch bought a ticket on the next flight out, an Aer Lingus to Heathrow, using the name Julian Nutley.
He sat in a window seat, staring out at the clouds, throughout the flight, looking neither left nor right and ignoring the hostess.
'Coffee, sir?'
'No.'
'Paper, sir?'
'No.'
Odd bollox, thought the air hostess.
11.24 am
'Hullo?'
'I want to speak to John.'
Pause. Breathing clearly heard over the line.
'This is John speaking.'
'Hello John. This is Bobby. I've arrived.'
1.17 pm
London John sat in the foyer of the Hilton Hotel, Park Lane, reading the
Sunday Times.
It was full of details of Gordon O'Brien's kidnap with banner headlines and half of the front page devoted to the story. London John read with interest. He couldn't give a toss, really, but always found it fascinating what others would do to get money.
London John was a tall good-looking Cockney in his late fifties. His grey hair was fashionably short at the front and fashionably just that little bit long and thick at the back, covering the collar of his crisp white shirt. He was wearing a navy-blue suit, cashmere and wool navy overcoat with a red Liberty cashmere scarf. A club tie set off the image perfectly, giving him a slightly raffish look, like someone about to climb into an open-hooded Mercedes and zoom up to his weekend retreat in East Anglia. Except London John wouldn't know where East Anglia was if you asked him to point it out on the map.
A Londoner all his life he rarely left home territory except on short business trips to Amsterdam or Turkey. London John was a big business man who controlled most of the pornography and hard drugs in South London. Starting as a small crook in his late teens London John had become involved first in London vice dens, then pornography, then procurement. He'd befriended girls and boys hanging around the bright lights of Soho, offering them somewhere to stay, then offering them money and gradually buying their confidence. It wasn't long before he owned them. Within ten years he had established a formidable reputation in the sex trade. He then moved into drugs. With the profits from drugs he acquired the heavy back-up necessary to keep pretenders to his developing empire at bay. He also needed the heavies to collect debts.
By 1996 London John had the reputation of a man who could get anything you wanted, at a price. He was a businessman of sorts. He could provide boys and girls of any age and drugs of every kind. He could also provide the hardware, and the heavies to go with the hardware if necessary, at a price. He was not cheap.
Dean Lynch had first met up with London John in a Soho sex shop. He was putting out feelers for a good dealer, one who wouldn't rip him off. London John heard through the grapevine and had him checked out. When his spies declared Lynch clean a meeting was arranged and from then on a very sensible business arrangement was agreed. No names
were exchanged, just code tags. London John. Bobby. Nice and simple.
In exchange for cash London John would provide all the heroin Dean Lynch required and all the girls he felt he could handle. Dean Lynch was a good customer, never failing to come up with the money. His income from the Central Maternity Hospital was good and he had few or no outgoings. He could easily afford his little treats. He usually rang two weeks in advance of any purchase to the memorised number London John had provided. His requests were clear and unambiguous, heroin at first, the exact quantity and at the going rate. Then, as he came to trust his dealer, he began pushing for something extra. Girls. Always slightly older girls, always dark and taller than Lynch himself.
To London John such requests sounded normal. In fact he dealt with so many weirdos, Lynch sounded refreshingly normal. 'I'd like a dark-haired girl, mid-thirties or older. No older than forty. Get her to put on lots of deep red lipstick.' 'Whatever you say, Bobby boy, you're paying. You'll always get what you order from me.' The requests never varied and while some of the girls asked not to go with him again, many felt they made their money real easy. 'He just sat and stared at me for two bloody hours,' one reported back to London John. She would be one of the lucky few. All the girls' reports had one thing in common. Lynch frightened the life out of them. The bastard was dangerous. Those eyes were full of hate.
Then Lynch became violent. Not too rough at first, but progressively more so with each visit. It got so that London John would only put junkies down for Lynch; desperate for money they usually put up with anything. But the last girl had been badly beaten. Battered in fact. It had cost London John over three hundred pounds to have her sorted out in the private clinic he used for all his girls and boys. The surgeon there was a customer of London John's. 'Whoever did this really got stuck in,' he related to London John over a fix afterwards. 'He broke her nose and nearly ripped the
scalp right off her head. It took me hours to get her sorted out.'