'Tom, don't say another word. Get out of there this minute.'
But Tom Morgan only got as far as the outside footpath where he suddenly felt the restraining hand of Kate Hamilton on his right shoulder. He turned around, scared and bewildered. Buckley looked on, shaking his head.
'Tom Morgan, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sarah Higgins on 16th February. I must inform you you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.'
Morgan's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Kate Hamilton was already in deep conversation with the Member in Charge. He listened carefully, noting Morgan and his solicitor. He noted in particular that Doyle was keeping a very close eye on Morgan. Finally he nodded his agreement and turned to Morgan.
'Tom Morgan, I am satisfied there are sufficient grounds to detain you under Section Four of the Criminal Justice
Act 1984 for the proper investigation of the crime for which you have been arrested. You may be held for a period of six hours. You may be held for a further period of six hours with the Superintendent's authorisation. You may also, with his authorisation, be asked to provide a blood or other sample for testing in connection with the offence. If you obstruct the taking of any such sample you may be charged with such obstruction under Section Two of the Criminal Justice Forensic Evidence Act 1990. I should warn you that charge alone carries a twelve-month gaol sentence and or a fine of one thousand pounds.' Tom Morgan almost collapsed.
38
8.07 pm
Moonface was fast asleep, the beer having dulled his already dull brain to the point of stupor. He lay on his small bed, curled up for heat. Even though the electric fire was on full it had barely taken the chill out of the air.
Peggy Ryan was still worried about the baby. He hadn't cried for a feed for almost eight hours and his breathing seemed very rapid. She put the back of her hand against his tiny forehead, it felt hot. It was very hot. Gordon O'Brien had developed a fever, he was even more unwell than Peggy Ryan thought.
'Tommy, I think we should get outa here tomorrow. Leave the baby outside some hospital and let's go home.' Sam Collins had made his mind up definitely. The squawking baby was one thing, the freezing, damp kip of a cottage was another, but seeing Moonface stagger in shouting 'Ole, Ole, Ole' was more than he could take. Malone's losing it, he'd decided earlier. He was always a loser and he'll always be a loser. It's time to bail out. It won't be the first time one of his jobs has gone wrong and it definitely won't be the last. But gone wrong it certainly has and I'm getting out before that stupid big bollox pulls the rozzers on top of us. Malone's a loser. He's not gonna drag me down with him.
Collins by now couldn't stand the sight of Moonface and he hated the look of Peggy Ryan and her mutterings. He was rationalising his position in his mind, planning his exit.
'Are ye out then?' Malone asked angrily.
'I am, Tommy, I've had enough. I've been listening to the radio all day and we're bad news. Every rozzer in the country is after us. They won't pay that money out Tommy, and you know it. We shouldn't have rushed into this, we should've thought it out better.'
Malone knew there was no point arguing with Collins, he was too headstrong. He decided on one more try, one more attempt to keep his A-team together and salvage his 'big wan' from total disintegration.
'Sam, Dempsey said they'll have the money by tomorra. Jaysus, it's only wan more day. Could ye not give it wan more day?'
'Tommy, I'm not gonna give it one more night. I'm gonna get outa here as soon as we can. I'm telling you, Tommy, we're bad news, the whole country's looking for us. I'm getting outa here in the next few hours, just as soon as I think it's safe to move.'
'Look, Sam,' pleaded Malone, 'lemme give Dempsey wan more call and then we'll decide wan way or the other. I mean he could have the fuckin' money in a bag as we're arguin'. He could be waitin' for us to call. Lemme give him wan more call.'
'Suit yourself, Tommy. But I'm warning you,' Collins wagged a finger, 'if he doesn't have the goods, I'm off. Right?'
Malone was already pulling his coat on, searching among the dirty dishes for the car keys. 'Righ', Sam. Just wait'll I give him wan more call.' He turned towards Peggy. 'Is that all righ' with ye, Peggy?'
'Righ',' said Peggy. She felt she owed Malone the few hours more he was asking. But she was more worried about the baby at that point. She wanted out as well. Out and away from the baby. 'Tommy, I'm worried about tha' baby. He's very pasty lookin'. Hasn' takin' a bottle nearly all day.'
Malone inspected Gordon O'Brien who was asleep, mouth slightly open, and breathing rapidly. His lips were slightly blue, which Malone put down to the poor light.
It wasn't.
'We'll leave him till the mornin'. If he's no better we'll drop him outside Naas hospital and make a run for it.'
Peggy felt a bit better about this, but Sam Collins couldn't have given a toss one way or the other. As far as he was concerned they could dump him on the moon. The little bollox hadn't shut his mouth since the night he was lifted.
'Will ye stay with Peggy and hang on until I'm back?' Malone asked Collins. 'If Moonface wakes up he'll go spare if he's left on his own.'
Collins didn't like this one bit, but listened as Malone explained why two of them couldn't go out together.
'The place is swarmin' with cops. Nah, let me do wha' I have to do and I'll be back within the hour. I'm only goin' as far as Firhouse. It's only twenty minutes down the road. I don't wanna use the phone in the village again in case somewan spots me and wonders why I use it so often. Somebody has to stay and keep an eye out. Ye can't expect Peggy to, not with Moonface in a fuckin' coma.'
Tommy Malone eased the Volvo down the lane, headlights lighting the hedgerows. As he did the Nine O'Clock news on RTE scooped the world with the first pictures of Gordon O'Brien's kidnappers.
'Gardai have released the first pictures of three men they would like to interview in connection with the kidnapping of baby Gordon O'Brien, son of Harry and Sandra O'Brien. They are Thomas, better known as Tommy, Malone originally from Dublin's inner city and now with an address in Anderson's Quay in Dublin; Martin, also known as "Moonface", Mulligan originally from Limerick but now thought to be based in the Rathmines area of Dublin; and Sam Collins, originally from Newry in County Down but last known to be living in Swords, County Dublin. The men are described as…'
As the Volvo moved out on to the Kilcullen road, in his cottage across the fields Brian O'Callaghan stared at the photographs intently.
'Gardai have warned that these men are heavily armed and very dangerous. If any member of the public sees them, or knows of their whereabouts, they should on no account approach. Instead they should contact their nearest Garda station or telephone the Garda confidential hotline. The number will appear on your screens now and will be repeated throughout this news bulletin. Gardai are also looking for the woman who took part in this kidnapping. It is possible she may be an older woman, possibly with children of her own or well used to children.'
The newsreader sifted through the pages in front of him and turned to autocue again.
'In other developments Gardai in Store Street confirmed they are holding a man for questioning about the recent murders of two female members of staff of the Central Maternity Hospital. It is understood the man in question is one of the doctors attached to the hospital.'
Dean Lynch threw his head back and howled with laughter. He howled like an animal over prey. It's worked! It's fucking well worked! Dean, boyo, you're a little genius. It's worked!
He was sitting in his flat, bags packed and ready around him. He checked again all drawers, clothes and under the floorboards and laughed again, a sort of a howling laugh. He went through the motion of carrying the bags, working out the best combination. Three in his right hand, two in his left hand. He walked around the flat holding them until he reached the point where he felt he had to stop. He practised this for another hour until he had the plan worked out to the last minute. Then he sat down, turned off the TV, turned off all the lights and switched on the burglar alarm. Sitting in the dark, resting, relaxed, for all the world he looked like an animal saving its strength for a long hunt.
Which is more or less what he was planning.
9.57 pm
'Now I don't want to be botherin' ye people and God knows ye have enough to be doin' without me takin' yer time up. But…'
'Yeah?'
'Well it's about that wee kidnapped baby. Now I don't want to be gettin' people inta trouble and mebbe they're right dacent people really. But…' said Brian O'Callaghan again.
That was how the Gardai found out where Gordon O'Brien was being held.
10.05 pm
'Betty? Is that ye?'
There was a sudden intake of breath at the other end of the line. 'What's yer number? Gimme yer number an' I'll ring ye back.'
'Wha's goin' on, wha's—?'
'Gimme the bloody number,' Betty screamed.
Tommy Malone squinted at the number on the box in front of him and called it back. 'Betty wha'…' The line went dead. Malone stood looking at the mouthpiece for almost a minute before he had the wit to hang up and wait for the return call. What the fuck's goin' on?
Less than three minutes later the phone rang and he snatched at the receiver.
'Jaysus, Tommy, ye're all over the news.'
'What?'
'Ye're all over the news. Yer picture was on the nine o'clock news with the other two fellas. The kidnappin'. The police are on to ye for the kidnappin'.'
'Christ!'
'Jaysus, Tommy, ye better come up with somethin' better than tha'. I'm tellin' ye, half the country's lookin' for ye and those other two.'
'Betty, can ye put me up for a coupla days?'
'Jaysus, Tommy, ye better not come next nor near me. I'll pick ye up. Don't ye put a step near me until I've checked. Where are ye ringin' from?'
Tommy Malone looked around desperately. 'I'm in a call box in a pub along the Naas dual carriageway.'
'Stay there, don' move. I'll come and collect ye when I've checked.'
'I'm gonna warn the others. I'll ring ye back. I'll ring ye back in an hour.'
'Tommy, for Christ's sake don' come near me an' don' ring me at the house. Ring me in Mooney's in half an hour.'
'Righ'.'
It was already too late.
As Tommy Malone drove back towards Newbridge and the turn off to Kilcullen he was overtaken by eight different squad cars, their lights flashing but their sirens quiet. He followed at a respectable distance, his heart sinking as he watched them take every turn he was just about to take. Finally he pulled into a lay-by when he spotted them setting up road blocks on the road into Kilcullen.
'Jaysus, I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry, Moonface. I'm very, very sorry, Peggy. It just didn't work out. It's goin' wrong for me again. I'm a fuckin' loser, that's all there is to it. I'm a fuckin' loser.' He actually whispered the words in the dark as he watched two plainclothes detectives with their UZI sub-machine-guns join the checkpoint.
Jaysus, I better lie low.
As Tommy Malone planned his next move, six detectives walked down the narrow steps that lead to Guys Club, just off Dodder Street. Never would so many be frightened by so few in such a short space of time. The small bar and lounge was relatively quiet but in the steam rooms it was standing room only, so to speak.
'This is not a raid, so you needn't panic'
The barman panicked, his eyes flitting all over the place.
One old man holding the hand of one much younger suddenly developed an intense interest in his empty glass of beer, while the rest turned sideways, backways and anyways to shield their faces.
John Doyle dropped a photograph of Tom Morgan onto the counter.
'Have you ever seen this man before?'
The barman put on a real studious look, as if he was actually examining the photograph, then shook his head, stopped as if to rethink, then firmly shook it again. 'No, I can't say I have.'
'That's funny, because he says he was here late last night with three other men.'
'Did he?' The reply sounded so surprised, eyebrows disappearing under fringe for effect. He re-examined the face closely, turning the photograph this way and that in the dim light.
Two of the club members tried to make a hasty exit but were restrained. The barman noticed this and decided to be a bit more forceful. 'No, I've never seen this man here, ever.'
'Are you sure? This is real important for him. And if you're not straight with me I can tell you it might turn out to be very important for you too.'
'I've never seen him in my life before. I was here all last night and I can tell you he was definitely not here.' This time he was most emphatic. And so were the rest of the club members when shown the photo. The detectives just couldn't believe how many were in the back steam rooms as they politely asked them to come out, one by one, and have a look at the photograph of Tom Morgan. John Doyle said later that if he had shown each of them a photograph of themselves they still wouldn't have seen that face before.
The membership book was inspected and all the false names scanned. If Tom Morgan had been there the previous night he either didn't sign in or did so, like the rest, as James Murphy. The team had never seen so many James Murphys under the one roof at the same time.
'Big Murphy fan club, haven't you?'
The barman just smiled and offered a drink on the house. The team decided to take up the offer and discussed, real loudly, about how sad it was no one could remember seeing the man in the photograph. 'Because he's in big trouble now. Now he mustn't have been here, in Guys, as he said, but somewhere else instead.'
They finished their beers and let those words linger in the smoke and steam after them.
Things weren't looking good for Tom Morgan.
But things were looking very good for Dean Lynch.
He had waited until the corridor outside his flat was quiet for almost an hour and all lights quenched. Then he silently opened the door, placed the bags outside and turned on the TV and the double burglar alarm before slipping down the fire escape to the fire door. Here he placed the bags down and eased the door open, courtesy of the small metal bar in place, then placed the bags outside. Gently, but firmly, he closed the door and set off towards his new car, the 'wee beauty' from Dinny. No one noticed the small, bulky frame, dressed in black and wearing clear-lens glasses, as he noiselessly skirted the back of the apartment block. Within minutes he was on the quiet road beside the complex, then into the car, bags thrown along the back seat. Gently and carefully, he lay the briefcase on the passenger's seat. Dinny's 'wee beauty' started after a few chugs and was soon on its way to Booterstown. As Lynch drove he threw a backward glance at his flat window, where one light still glowed and the TV churned out whatever rubbish the all-night cable channel had to offer.