The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 2
John and herself had discussed extending the premises for the next season and had plans and drawings prepared by a local architect. John had approached Galway County Council who were amenable to the idea of a dormer styled extension to the side of the house that would provide additional bedrooms, a large sitting room with views out to sea, and a dining room capable of seating all of their guests. The Council were keen to encourage an increase in capacity in the area, and told John that there might even be a grant available to help with the cost.
* * *
In the week in question, Ocean View had three parties staying. In room one, Eileen and Shane Farley from Carlow had booked for the whole week. The Farleys kept horses on their own land at home, and combined their annual trip to the pony show with a short holiday in the beautiful countryside in the west of Ireland. Using Ocean View as their base, on days when they weren’t going to the show, they would drive out through Letterfrack and on out to Louisburgh and Leenaun. On these days, Cathleen would insist on giving the Farleys a pack lunch comprised of ham and tomato sandwiches, generous slices of home baked cake, and an enormous flask of tea.
Room two was occupied by a couple from England. The Ashtons were keen followers of the Connemara breed, and spent as much time as they could at the show. They knew many of the breeders and competitors, and enjoyed watching the various events each day as the ponies went through their drills and exhibitions.
The occupant of room three was different. A single man, or at least travelling on his own, David Ellis was average in almost every respect. He was of average height, average weight, with an average appearance and average brown hair. His clothes were average too. He wore plain grey slacks, a check, button-down shirt and a sleeveless green pullover topped off with a Harris Tweed jacket. The only distinguishing feature of the man was the expensive digital SLR camera that could be seen in his company anytime he went outdoors.
Despite Cathleen’s well-developed skill of subtly questioning her guests about every aspect of their lives, she had been singularly unsuccessful in discovering much about Ellis, who had insisted on paying the double rate for his double room, given the pressure on accommodation at that time. Beyond his name and address, which Cathleen had looked up on Google maps – to discover, to no great surprise, was an average apartment in the Dublin suburbs – she could establish nothing at all about the man. Neither Facebook nor LinkedIn revealed any information at all about Ellis, which was in itself a bit odd, but he had paid in advance for his stay, in cash, and was perfectly pleasant, so apart from the frustration of not being able to find out anything about him, Cathleen was happy to have him as their guest. All was going well, that is until Wednesday morning when matters took a strange turn.
* * *
Cathleen rose at 6:45 a.m. each morning when they had people staying. Breakfast was served between 7:30 and 9:30 on weekdays, and between 8:30 and 10:30 at the weekends at Ocean View. Most of the visitors appeared between eight and nine, and Cathleen was well prepared. Before the start of service she would lay out a cold buffet of fresh seasonal fruit, cereals of all kinds, and a large jug of fresh orange juice. When she had guests from Scandinavia or Germany, this would be complimented by cold meats and cheeses, and for French visitors, she always provided croissants and pain au chocolat. Most Irish and English guests opted for a cooked breakfast, and Cathleen’s “full Irish” was a substantial feast of bacon, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms, fried eggs and beans accompanied by lots of freshly made toast and as much tea or coffee as any human could comfortably imbibe. Following such an indulgence, her guests could often survive right through to teatime without having to touch another morsel.
On this morning, the Ashtons and the Farleys appeared at almost the same time, and all four ordered the “full Irish”, putting not a little strain on Cathleen’s capacity in the kitchen. But she coped well and the two couples were duly served with their morning banquet in a timely and very cheerful manner.
“It’s a lovely day for the show,” Cathleen said as she presented her masterpieces to the guests, “not too hot for the ponies, but I think it will stay dry, thank God.”
The breakfasts were consumed enthusiastically, with Cathleen appearing from time to time to offer more toast or fresh tea and coffee, and by shortly after nine o’clock, all four had departed to go about their business.
Cathleen busied herself clearing away the dirty crockery from the dining room and tidying the kitchen for the next half hour. She liked to have breakfast completely finished before Mrs Magee, her daily help, arrived at ten o’clock. Mrs Magee lived close by and cycled daily, whatever the weather, from her own home to Ocean View where she spent four hours each day changing the bed linen, vacuuming the rooms thoroughly, topping up the tea and coffee sachets in each room, cleaning the bathrooms, and tending to the laundry. Then she would iron the sheets and pillowcases from the previous day’s endeavours and finish up by giving the entire downstairs a good dusting to remove any traces of ash that had come from the open turf fire that Cathleen lit in the lounge every evening regardless of the weather.
At half past eleven, it was customary for Mrs Magee and Cathleen to sit down for a cup of coffee and some homemade cake or scones, and a good gossip about the current patrons of the little enterprise.
“What happened to your man in room three?” Mrs Magee asked when she had finished loading the two washing machines in the utility room.
“Oh, good God, I completely forgot about Mr Ellis. I was so busy with breakfast. He never came down,” Cathleen said.
“Well you needn’t worry. He won’t be wanting breakfast,” said Mrs Magee, “he’s not in his room, and his bed hasn’t been slept in either.”
“God, that’s strange. He must have met someone in the town, or maybe he had too much to drink or something. Sure he’ll turn up looking sheepish later, wait till you see,” Cathleen said.
Chapter Three
It was a fine sunny day in Galway when Inspector Maureen Lyons got to work at Mill Street. Lyons was part of a five-man team headed up by Senior Inspector Mick Hays, whom she also lived with as her partner out in Salthill. It was a slightly unconventional arrangement, but Superintendent Plunkett tolerated it, as long as it didn’t interfere with their work, and to date, there was no evidence that it had.
Lyons had moved in with Hays when she had been promoted to Inspector following the successful conviction of an avaricious murderer a couple of years previously. It had been a difficult and complex case, and Lyons’ powerful instincts and somewhat unusual methods had been largely responsible for solving the crime where a harmless old man had been murdered by his nephew for some Coca Cola shares worth a few hundred thousand euro.
She had held onto her flat down by the river in Galway city though, in case her relationship with Hays went sour, but that hadn’t happened so far, and the flat was sublet to a uniformed Garda working at the same station. On the week in question, Hays was away on a training course in the UK. “Crime Detection in the Digital Age” was the name of the course, and Hays told her it was mildly interesting, but that Galway seemed to be well ahead of most of the others in their use of technology.
“There’s an inspector here from Wales somewhere who seems totally baffled by the whole thing. I don’t even think they have broadband at their station. When the instructor used the word ‘Instagram’ he asked him if he didn’t mean ‘telegram’,” Hays told her during one of their nightly telephone calls.
“Are there any gorgeous girls on the course?” Lyons asked.
“There are only two women out of the twelve of us, and if you saw them you wouldn’t be concerned, trust me,” he said.
Hays’ team in Galway had its own technology super sleuth in the form of Garda John O’Connor, a uniformed officer assigned to the unit. O’Connor was a gem when it came to digging into a suspect’s information on Facebook or Snapchat, and there was very little he couldn’t find out given a criminal’s mobile phone or computer. He loved the work, and was
often sought out by other squads to assist when some knotty technology challenge was presented.
Lyons was using the week to catch up on the ever-present mountain of paperwork that the job generated these days. In the evening she went to her yoga classes, and while missing Hays’ company, she was glad of the chance to catch up with her girlfriends, who, she had to admit, she had been neglecting somewhat of late. Of course, they all teased her mercilessly about Hays, and persistently asked her if there was ‘any news’, but she took it in good spirits. At thirty-six years old she had resigned herself to not having children, and she and Hays had agreed on this unanimously, though occasionally she wondered if she really meant it.
She was putting the finishing touches to a sizeable statistical report on “Detectives’ use of Overtime, Vehicles and other Resources”, a quarterly behemoth that regional administration always wanted, but for what she wasn’t quite sure, when the phone on her desk came to life.
“Inspector Lyons?”
She immediately recognised the voice of Sergeant Séan Mulholland.
“Good morning, Séan. What’s up?”
Mulholland went on to explain the events of the morning.
“Can we close down the pony show, Séan?” Lyons said.
“God, Inspector, that would be very difficult. Think of the bad publicity. There’s all sorts of events scheduled for the day, and it may just be an unfortunate accident after all. Can we not let it go ahead? I’ll make sure the scene is preserved,” he said.
“Very well. But it’s essential that the pony from the horsebox is kept isolated, and doesn’t go out onto grass. There will be forensic evidence to be collected. And seal off the whole area around the trailer. Don’t let anyone move it. I’ll be out as quickly as I can,” Lyons said.
Lyons grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, closed the folder containing the statistical report and headed out into the open plan.
“Sally, Eamon, I need you both with me. There’s been a death out at the pony show in Clifden. Sally, will you take the squad car? Eamon, you’re with me in mine. Let’s go!”
Sally was a young Detective Garda that had started out as a civilian worker with the detective unit under Hays some three years ago. She liked the work, and with a little persuasion from Maureen Lyons and a lot of soul-searching, she had put herself forward to join the force properly, and qualified as a fully-fledged Garda with distinction from the training school in Tullamore. Hays had pulled a few strings and managed to draft her into the unit, and he was glad that he had. She was a smart girl, and fitted in well with the others on the team.
* * *
Jenny Gillespie had been joined by her mother in the stable where Lady had been put after she was removed from the horsebox. Jenny was still very upset, but she had busied herself making up a bucket of nuts with a bottle of Guinness in it for her pony, and she was re-assured by the fact that Lady seemed to be much calmer, and more like her usual self.
Outside the stable block, Cathal was talking to Oliver Weldon, secretary of the Connemara Pony Society, who had come down as soon as he found out about the incident.
“They’re saying that your daughter’s pony kicked the man to death, Cathal,” Weldon said.
“I can’t see it, Oliver. The animal has a lovely temperament. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her lash out, not even with a dog snapping at her heels,” Cathal said.
“Yes, but if a stranger got in, and was drunk and loud, unsteady on his feet, she may have been spooked. You couldn’t blame the animal,” Weldon said.
“Well, let’s wait and see, shall we? The Gardaí have a team on the way. And for God’s sake don’t say anything to Jenny. She’s not stupid. If Lady did kick him to death, she knows what the consequences will be, and that would destroy her.”
It seemed no time at all before four Garda vehicles arrived in quick succession from Galway. In the lead was Sally Fahy in her white Hyundai squad car. She had the good sense to turn off the sirens as she approached the show ground so as not to frighten any of the ponies who had started to go through their routines out in the arena.
Next to arrive was Sinéad Loughran in her unmarked Toyota Land Cruiser, favoured by the forensic team for its off-road capabilities. Sinéad had two more forensic technicians with her, and as soon as they had parked the jeep and got out, all three donned white paper suits and blue vinyl gloves before approaching the taped off horsebox. Sinéad gave one of the uniformed Gardaí a clipboard, instructing him to record anyone who went inside the cordon so that fingerprints and shoe prints could be eliminated if the need arose.
Lyons and Flynn arrived next. As soon as they had got into the car in Galway, Lyons had called Dr Julian Dodd, the pathologist; Sinéad, the forensic team lead; and Superintendent Finbarr Plunkett on her mobile phone.
Dodd was last to arrive in his almost new Lexus. Although he was an excellent pathologist, his manner often left something to be desired. The detectives put this down to his diminutive stature, but on this occasion, he appeared to be quite subdued. He was, as always, dapper, sporting a green and brown tweed suit and stout all-leather brogues.
“Good morning, Inspector. This long drive out through Connemara is becoming somewhat of a habit, don’t you think? What have you managed to dig up for me today?” he said.
“This looks pretty straightforward, Doc. A man was found in the back of this horsebox with what looks like a head injury. They’re saying he may have got in when he was a bit the worse for wear, and the pony got spooked and kicked him in the head,” Lyons said.
“And the people who are saying this are, no doubt, trained pathologists?”
“Well no, of course not. That’s why we sent for you, Doctor,” she said.
“Very well. I’ll get started. Who’s that inside the cordon?” Dodd asked.
“That’s the father of the girl that owns the pony,” Lyons said.
“Well get him out of there will you, for heaven’s sake? Oh, and by the way, where is the animal?” Dodd asked.
“She’s been put into one of the stables with her owner.”
* * *
As the show started to get busy, other owners and competitors, on hearing the story, stopped by the stable where Jenny, her mother and Lady were resting. It didn’t take long for the rumour that Lady had in all probability kicked the man to death to filter into the stable, and one particularly insensitive man blurted out, “Of course, you do realize the animal will have to be put down now,” in a loud voice so that it could be heard inside.
On hearing this prediction, Jenny lost it. Her brain went into melt-down at the thought of losing her beloved horse and best friend, and it all became too much for her to bear. She ran out of the stable, pushing past the man, nearly knocking him over, and ran sobbing out of the show grounds. She ran and ran. Off down through the town, and out across the fields, on and on until she felt her lungs would burst. By the time she came to a stop, totally out of breath, she had no idea where she was and couldn’t care less. Máiréad, the girl’s mother, didn’t know whether to chase after her or to stay with Lady, who had become restive again in response Jenny’s antics. She decided to stay put and try to placate the pony, giving the man a stern look. He took the hint, and wandered off without another word.
Chapter Four
When the doctor had been working for a few minutes kneeling down beside the prone corpse of the dead man, he called out to Lyons.
“Inspector, over here please, if you will.”
Lyons lifted the tape and ducked under.
“Two things, Inspector. Firstly, this man was not killed by an animal. In fact, he wasn’t kicked by the pony at all. He has, as you observed, a head injury, but it was quite definitely not inflicted by a horse’s hoof, and in any case, it wasn’t of sufficient ferocity to kill him,” the doctor said.
“How do you know, Doctor?” Lyons said.
“Dear lady, I have been doing this job for almost thirty years, and I have seen many an unfortunate soul who
se life was extinguished by the rear leg of a horse, and I can say categorically that this is not one of those injuries. A shod horse leaves a very distinctive arc shaped indentation at the site of the injury. This man’s wound is linear – quite impossible for an animal to inflict. Furthermore, the blow to the head is not what killed him. It’s quite superficial. Enough for him to need a few paracetamol tablets, and he probably would have blacked out for a few minutes, but that’s it,” said the doctor finishing his speech.
“I see. And the second thing?” Lyons said.
“He wasn’t killed here. He was killed elsewhere and then placed in the horsebox, presumably so that folks would think that the wretched pony had seen him off. Seems to have worked too, from what I hear.”
Dr Dodd then held up his hand to prevent Lyons from speaking.
“I know, Inspector. What did he die of? When did he die? Who killed him, and why? Frankly, I haven’t a clue, but I’ll know more when I get him back to Galway and look inside. But I can say that he probably did bleed a bit wherever he was struck, and I’d say he died about twelve hours ago, give or take, so sometime between eight and ten last night,” he said.
“OK, thanks, Doc. So we have a murder on our hands – again. Can I just go through his pockets before you cart him off? I’d like to identify him if possible,” Lyons said.
“Yes, of course. Help yourself,” the doctor said gesturing towards the body.
“Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning?” Dodd said.
“Yes, OK, fine. See you then.”
The doctor packed the implements of his trade away in his old leather bag and left the scene, wiping his shoes on the grass at the edge of the path before getting back into his car. When Lyons had finished fishing in the dead man’s pockets, the body was placed in a strong plastic zip-up bag and then taken away in an anonymous black Mercedes van to the mortuary in Galway where the post mortem would be performed.