The Galway Homicides Box Set Read online

  “Did you see any other vehicle at all on the road, or anyone about?” Hays asked.

  “No, I saw nothing and no one since I left Roundstone till I came to this very spot.”

  “What made you stop?”

  “I had to swerve out to avoid some rocks that had come down from the side of the bridge, and then I saw her red coat in the headlights, so I stopped to take a look,” she said.

  “Right so. Can you wait here till we get a few details, and we’ll need to get a statement from you tomorrow, but you can get on into Clifden shortly. As a matter of interest, why did you come this way? Would the main road not have been quicker?”

  “I had to collect some curtains for my mother at the Lake Guest House in Roundstone. She’s been waiting on them,” Ciara said.

  “Fair enough, we’ll leave it be for now. Just give your details to Garda Dolan, then be on your way.”

  * * *

  Dr Julian Dodd was not a native of Galway but had taken the post of pathologist at the regional hospital to avoid having to emigrate. It had worked out well, and he was now firmly established in the post and highly regarded by his colleagues for his thoroughness and intuition.

  Now in his mid-fifties, he was a man of some five foot ten inches tall with a mop of curly hair that would have been unruly if he did not have it cut regularly. He had been at a dinner with friends when he got the call to come out to Connemara, so he looked a bit out of place in a smart Ralph Lauren Polo button down shirt, tweed jacket and slacks. His shiny black shoes were already muddy and stained from the bog water, but Dodd ignored this as he went about his job with what was approaching enthusiasm.

  The white inflatable tent that they had tried to position over the body had been taken by the wind, so the good doctor and the paramedics were hunched over the ditch where the woman lay when Hays approached.

  “Well, Doc, what are your first thoughts?” Hays asked.

  “Very few for now, Inspector. She’s definitely deceased, that’s for sure, but beyond that, there’s not a lot to say as yet,” he replied rather formally, as was his style.

  “Any idea how long?” Hays persisted.

  “Probably between three and five hours ago, but immersion in the water hasn’t made it easy to be certain.”

  “Did she drown?”

  “I can’t tell you till I get her back to Galway and open her up, but intuitively I’d say no. There’s no ditch water in her mouth or nostrils. But I can tell you one thing, she’s taken a severe blow to the back of the skull.”

  “I see. Any idea what the weapon might have been, or could she just have fallen against the stones?”

  “I doubt that. It could have been a rock, or a flat instrument of some kind – perhaps a spade. But I’ll be able to tell you more tomorrow when I’ve had a good look.”

  “No chance she was run over?” Hays asked.

  “I don’t think so, no. In fact, I’d say definitely not. If I had to guess, I’d say she was whacked from behind with something and then fell or was pushed down into the ditch. She was probably dead before she hit the water. Get your boys to look for a squarish stone that you could hold in your hand that’s been chucked away a bit. You might find the murder weapon close by, but don’t quote me. Anyway, that’s your job, not mine.”

  “Great. A loose rock around here – now where would you find one of those? Can we move her yet?”

  “Yes, you can get her into the ambulance now.”

  Hays gave the go ahead for the woman’s body to be put in the ambulance but asked one of the scene of crime officers to search her pockets for any identification before she was taken away.

  Hays returned to where Sergeant Mulholland was talking to the two uniformed Gardaí that had come out from Galway.

  “Séan, can you leave Dolan here for the night on point? Our team will be back in the morning to do a fingertip search of the site. I want to get back to Galway and inform the superintendent. What do you know about this Ciara O’Sullivan?”

  “Oh, she’s a grand lass. They are a good family, never in any trouble. Her father died about five years ago, and her mother is elderly and a bit poorly. She lives in the town, and the girl comes out to see her every week. She has a good job in the city.”

  “Hmm, OK, well we will get a detailed statement from her tomorrow and take her fingerprints too and a DNA swab – ‘for the purpose of elimination’, as we say.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect her, Mick? She’s just a slip of a lass,” Mulholland said.

  “She’s probably in the clear, but she was the first to find the body, and you know what they say, so let’s not take any chances Séan,” Hays said.

  As Hays was talking to the forensic team, an old white van came along the road from the direction of Roundstone, and pulled up in front of Jim Dolan’s squad car. A man got out and walked over to where Séan Mulholland was leaning against the car.

  “Good evening, Sergeant, what’s the story?” he asked.

  “Oh, hello Gerry. God it’s awful. We’re after finding a girl here down in the ditch, and on such a night. It’s terrible.”

  “Is she OK?” Gerry Maguire asked, looking concerned.

  “No, she’s not OK, Gerry. She’s dead.”

  “Jesus, merciful hour. What in God’s name happened to her?”

  “I can’t say any more for now, Gerry. What has you out at this time anyway?”

  “I’m just on my way back from a job in Roundstone, Sergeant. Mary will be wondering where I’ve got to,” Maguire replied.

  “And did you see anyone else on the road at all?” the sergeant enquired.

  “No, not a soul. Sure, who would be out on a night like this? But listen, I better be on my way. If I can be of any help, or if you need to get a cuppa tea or anything, come on down to the house. We’ll be there, and it’s no trouble.”

  “Fair enough, Gerry, that’s good of you, but I better stay on my toes here, what with the big brass out from Galway, if you know what I mean,” the sergeant responded, and with that, Gerry Maguire got back into his van and navigated around the parked cars and left the scene.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, 8:30 a.m.

  Detective Sergeant Maureen Lyons was already at her desk when Hays arrived on Wednesday morning. Lyons was a small thirty-two-year-old brunette with a trim figure and a cute face. She had large brown eyes, and her hair was down to her shoulders, though she almost always wore it in a ponytail at work.

  Maureen Lyons had wanted to join the force since she was sixteen years old. Her father had been a sergeant based in Loughrea, but had spent much of his service in and around the border area during the troubles of the 1970s and early 80s. Even at a young age, Maureen was fascinated by the stories he would tell of his investigation into various crimes, and how the detectives had worked a range of clues to finally bring wrong-doers to justice. She had enrolled in the Garda Síochana in her final year at school and headed off to the training college in Templemore in the autumn of the year that she had completed her secondary education.

  Lyons had earned her stripes early in her career by single-handedly foiling an armed raid on the Permanent TSB Bank in Galway four years earlier. She had been on the beat around Eyre Square and was just passing the bank when an armed raider in a balaclava had burst out the door carrying a supermarket bag full of cash in one hand and a sawn-off shotgun in the other. Lyons had simply stuck out her foot tripping the thief who fell flat on his face, unable to break his fall due to his hands being full. Gun and money went flying. The robber broke his nose and was stunned, bleeding profusely, so Maureen took the opportunity to handcuff him, and of course arrest him then and there. Talk about being in the right place at the right time.

  The media, and in fairness the Garda publicity teams, had milked the story mercilessly. “Pocket Rocket Bean Garda foils armed raid” declared the headlines in the Connaught Tribune. In the interviews that followed on Radio, TV and for the print media, Maureen had been very understated
and modest about her new-found celebrity status.

  “Sure, I was just doing my job,” she would say shyly, “any other member of the force would have done the same,” she had said with a twinkle in her big brown eyes.

  After a decent interval following her heroics when the media circus had moved on, she was made up to sergeant and invited to join the detective unit, a role that she eagerly accepted. In the two years since she started working for Mick Hays she had proved her worth over and over. Her sharp instincts and logical mental processes had helped solve many tricky cases, and she was generally well regarded in the unit.

  “Morning Maureen. I suppose you heard about the drama last night out Clifden way. Had me up half the bloody night,” Hays grumbled.

  “Yes, boss. I’ve been reading the notes. Do we have any idea who the poor woman is yet?”

  “Not a clue. No identification, no handbag, no phone, nada,” said Hays.

  “We need to set up an incident room straight away. Can you grab a room and get a whiteboard and a few computers, phones and stuff set up? And get Flynn and O’Connor in, we’ll have a briefing in an hour.”

  “The Super is going nuts. He knows when the press gets hold of it they’ll go to town. You can just see it now, ‘Wild night of murder on the Wild Atlantic Way,’” he mimicked, using his hands to draw an imaginary headline.

  “Still, maybe it’s not all bad. You know what they say about publicity, and there are enough gawkers around to make the scene a tourist attraction in its own right,” she said.

  At half past nine, in the Corrib Room, Mick Hays called the briefing to order. He had Maureen Lyons, a Detective Garda Eamon Flynn and a uniformed Garda John O’Connor assigned immediately to the case and he knew he could get more resources if he needed them as the investigation moved forward.

  Hays outlined the events of the previous night in as much detail as he could for the team. A single ten by four photo of the dead girl taken from where she lay in the ditch had been pinned to the whiteboard, with a large red question mark beside it. The name Ciara O’Sullivan also appeared on the board, but no photo. And that was it.

  “Our priority is to identify the victim. We need that before we can start looking for a motive or an opportunity,” Hays said.

  “The post mortem is at ten-thirty. I’ll need you with me, Maureen, the victim is female, so you can give us the female perspective on things.”

  Maureen bristled slightly at the near sexist remark, but let it go. She knew Mick Hays wasn’t biased against women either in or out of the force. He was just winding her up ever so slightly.

  “John, I want you on the computers all day. We need background on the girl that found the body for starters. When she comes in this evening to make a statement, we’ll get more. Then do the usual missing persons trawl. Include Northern Ireland as well,” Hays instructed.

  He then turned his attention to Detective Flynn. “Can you get over to forensics? I want to know the moment they find anything of interest out at the scene. Stay close for the day and call me with anything that comes up.”

  “Well OK, boss, but they’re only just getting started, it could be a while before they have anything.”

  “That’s why I’m sending you over there, Eamon, to give them a kick up the arse.”

  Mick Hays didn’t like post mortems much. The smell, the apparent disregard for the dignity of a body that a couple of days ago had been a vibrant, living being bothered him too. And then there was the slightly superior air of the pathologist with a “what would you know” attitude to deal with. Dodd was quite good at being superior in his own surroundings while trying to impress his obvious ability on the two or three trainees that invariably attended these morbid affairs. But Hays had to admit that he was damn good at his job too. He had helped to untangle many a knotty problem for the detective over the years they had worked together.

  The girl was laid out on the slab, with a block under her head, facing upwards as if staring blankly at the ceiling.

  “Well, Doc, what have you got for us then?” Hays asked.

  “Very little so far. As I said last night, she appears to have died from a blow to the back of her head. Time of death between five and nine yesterday. She died where she was found. The blow was a severe one. From the angle and the severity of it I’d say she was struck by a man, or maybe a tall strong woman, wielding a stone or a rock. We found tiny slivers of feldspar in the wound, so that rules out a spade. It wasn’t frenzied, there was just one, single fatal blow, but he intended to kill her, you don’t whack someone that hard to get their attention.”

  “Anything to identify her?” Hays asked.

  “Precious little, I’m afraid. Her teeth have never been filled, so there won’t be any dental records. But there are one or two indicators that may be helpful,” Dodd said.

  “She’s younger than we thought. Twenty-three or four, six at most. The skeletal development and teeth are that of an early to mid-twenties female.”

  “Was she pregnant?” Lyons asked.

  “Good question, Detective. No, she wasn’t or isn’t, but she has had an abortion some time ago. Nice job too, not the usual knife and fork job. Would have been expensive.”

  “How long ago?” Lyons asked.

  “More than a year is all I can say, and no more than five years ago, so sometime between the ages of say seventeen to twenty-two,” he said.

  “Oh, and we found this,” Dodd said, scooping up a small plastic bag from the bench and holding it out in front of him at arm’s length like a small trophy.

  “It was on the arm folded beneath her in the ditch, so we didn’t spot it last night,” he said.

  Lyons took the bag and examined the contents. It contained a gold bangle about a centimetre wide with a spring clasp and a tiny safety chain.

  “You can take it out, there are no prints on it,” the doctor said.

  Lyons removed the bangle from the bag and examined it closely.

  “It’s foreign,” she said. “It has the number 916 stamped inside which means it’s twenty-two carat gold, but not from round here. I think that’s a European stamp,” she added.

  “Anything from her clothes that might help us to identify her?” Hays asked.

  “Nothing. All the labels have been cut off and I’ve looked really thoroughly. Sometimes a maker will leave a label internally somewhere, like inside a lining or something, but there’s absolutely nothing. All I can say is that her clothes are generally of good quality, that’s about it,” the doctor remarked.

  “I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough to find she was full of semen?” Hays asked.

  Lyons gave him a scornful glance.

  “Nope. Not a drop. There has been recent sexual activity, but fully protected, I’m afraid. Vaginal only before you ask,” Dodd said.

  “OK, Doc. We’re heading back to the station now. Let one of us know if you find anything else. We need to be able to identify this girl as soon as possible,” Hays said.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, 1:30 p.m.

  Hays and Lyons arrived back at the station at around half past one having eaten a hasty sandwich in the pub across the road. Hays called the team together and updated them on the initial results from the post mortem. He then asked John O’Connor for any information that he had managed to dig up during their absence.

  “Nothing much to report,” he said. “The girl that found the body seems to be as clean as a whistle – not even a speeding ticket or a parking fine. Yer man Maguire that turned up while you were there has a bit of previous, but only small stuff, no tax and insurance about five years ago, that sort of thing. Oh, and a bit of hijinks when he was younger. He slapped a Garda outside a pub, but he got off with a fine. We have his prints and stuff on file though.

  “Then I went onto Pulse to look for missing person reports. Nothing there either. There was only one report that fits the timeframe and that’s for an eighty-six-year-old male who wandered off from his care home in Port Laoi
se.”

  “Good work, John, thanks, even if you came up with zilch,” Hays grunted.

  “We really need to find out who this girl is. John, can you get a few hundred hand-bills made up with her picture – cheer it up a bit, try to make her look a little less dead. Get all the uniformed Gardaí to hand them out around the town, put them up in shops, bars – you know the drill, ‘Have you seen this woman? Gardaí are urgently seeking information…’ that sort of thing.”

  “Sure, I’ll get onto it right away,” O’Connor responded and left the room.

  Turning to Eamon Flynn, Hays said, “Eamon, I want you to take this bangle down to a jeweller. Hartmans would be a good bet. See if they can tell you where it’s from, or anything else about it. They might even have sold it, though I doubt if we’d be that lucky. Ask roughly how much it’s worth, and what sort of age it has.”

  “Maureen, you’re for the old bog road again I’m afraid. Get back out there and see if the search team has found anything. And have a nosey around too. Kick up some dust, turn over a few stones. You can take a uniformed Garda with you and let him out in Roundstone to poke around a bit. Someone knows something. She didn’t fall from the sky, that’s for sure,” Hays said.

  “Oh, and while you’re there, shake up the local Garda a bit too. Tell Mulholland the Super is talking about calling out to see him. It’s all a bit laid back out in Clifden for my liking,” Hays said.

  “And while I’m enjoying the scenery out in Ballyconneely, what are you going to do?” Maureen asked. She was peeved at having to drive all the way out to Clifden at this time of day just to spend a few hours making herself unpopular and then driving back, and she was concerned that Hays was sidelining her from the investigation.

  Hays ignored the irony and replied, “I’m heading on over to Ciara O’Sullivan’s shop. I want to get a statement from her today. She might have remembered something important overnight.”

  Lyons gave him a filthy look. This Ciara O’Sullivan was one good looking woman.