Scalpel (19 page)

Dowling looked confused. He was confused. 'All ye're tellin' us is that she may not have carried out the paperwork because she couldn't find the patient in the hospital records. I still don't get it. What's the big deal?'

'The big deal, as far as I can see, is this,' Conway interrupted and began to explain. 'One, Dwyer set up an AIDS test out of hours, which is most unusual. Two, the test was set up on a patient who wasn't already registered in the hospital. Three, the test request form is missing. And four, and this is the bit I was really coming to, the blood sample is missing also.'

'Missing?' Hamilton's voice lifted an octave.

'Yes, missing. All samples are kept and stored. Ben and I thought the sample would have been in among the ones smashed on the ground. But we've checked and double checked on them. All are accounted for.'

Hamilton and Dowling exchanged glances, as did the rest of the team. 'So where's it gone?'

'I don't know. It was definitely not in the lab. Everything was searched that night and the next day. Every bin, every disposal unit, behind every radiator. Everywhere. I know that for certain for your Inspector McGrath made a point of closing off almost half the hospital to look. It was definitely not in the lab.'

'So he took it with him?'

'That's what I think.'

'What was the address for the patient?' John Doyle, one of the detectives, asked. He was leaning against the bookshelves.

Ben Hogan read from the computer print-out. '249 Crumlin Crescent, Crumlin.'

'Say that again,' asked Doyle, straining forward to be sure he heard correctly.

'249 Crumlin Crescent, Crumlin.'

'Is that Dublin? Is that supposed to be in Dublin? Dublin 12?'

Hogan looked down. 'I think so. Mind you it's got Dublin 16 on the print-out.'

Doyle straightened sharply. 'That's wrong, that's totally wrong, Kate. I used to work the Crumlin area. I know Crumlin Crescent. It's only about twenty houses facing one another down a wee cul-de-sac. There couldn't be a 249 in Crumlin Crescent. Not in a million years. Couldn't be any more than a number twenty or a… a number nineteen.'

Silence.

Luke Conway was distinctly uneasy and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ben Hogan's discovery could mean one thing and one thing only and he could hardly bring himself to say it. But Kate Hamilton left him no room for evasion.

'What's your assessment of this Dr Conway? What do you make of all this?'

Conway moistened his lips and curled his long fingers in an arc in front of him. He deliberately avoided looking up as he spoke.

'The only way I can fit all this together is for someone inside the hospital to have killed Mary Dwyer.'

The room fell silent again, a long, dead silence.

'Why?' It was a very slow why from Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton.

Conway paused to get his wits about him.

'Mary Dwyer was a great kid, a good worker. She was sensible, down to earth. She would only have started up an AIDS test at that hour if specifically requested. It could
have been one of the doctors, even one of the porters, anyone. But it had to be someone from inside the hospital. Anyone could have forged a hospital request form, brought their own blood sample in and said Dr so-and-so's just sent me down with this and wants that test done immediately. She was a very obliging girl. I can just see her going ahead and doing it, setting it up along with the other tests she was doing and only getting around to the paperwork at the end.'

Nobody spoke for a moment.

'So you're telling us that anybody from the hospital could have come down to the lab last Tuesday night and could have duped Mary Dwyer into setting up an AIDS test. Only she twigged something was wrong when she tried to check the patient through the hospital computer?'

'That's what I think.'

'But why was she killed?' Dowling asked the obvious. They were all thinking the same thing, but they wanted Conway to spell it out for them. Why was she killed?

'I think it's because she discovered something he didn't want to get out.'

'Like what?' Kate Hamilton's face was grim.

'That he's got AIDS.'

Crunch.

'The test was positive.'

Each word was recorded by the microcassettes. They clicked on to any noise. They clicked off to each silence.

Dean Lynch knew how to listen in. And listen in he would.

'This is one dangerous bastard.' Kate Hamilton was angry. Her voice sounded very, very angry, as recorded on the microcassettes.

'This is one dangerous bastard. I hope he rots in hell.' When Dean Lynch listened later, those words tormented him. 'I hope he rots in hell.'

He played it back, again and again.

'I hope he rots in hell.'

Like a wounded animal, Dean Lynch began to howl.

'There are eight members of staff who don't have alibis for last Tuesday night.' Kate Hamilton was reading from notes. 'I know it's Saturday and we'd all like to get home but let's pull in three and take them down to the station for questioning.'

There were a lot of silent curses.

'There's the kitchen chef who was very flaky about his whereabouts according to the interview report. Get him. Will you take him, John?'

Doyle nodded and collected the original interview statement.

'Paddy Holland has no alibi. He's one of the doctors.' She paused slightly, feeling inexplicably flustered. 'I'll take him with Tony. Is that okay by you?'

'Okay.'

'There's a Dr Tom Morgan who's story sounds way off according to the interview report. Let's call on him first though.'

Tony Dowling looked at her aghast. 'Are ye and I goin' to deal with both of them tonight?'

Hamilton frowned. She no more wanted to be running into overtime at the weekend than the rest but felt they had to press ahead while the momentum was building.

She collected her bag. 'The rest of you can go home. I'd like us all back here tomorrow at one o'clock.' Groans filled the air. 'Yeah, I know it's the weekend but we've got to move on this while it's hot.'

She paused.

Unbeknown to her the microcassettes clicked off.

She spoke.

The microcassettes clicked on.

'Also I think we should interview that nurse again, the one who heard this guy's voice. Get her to listen in on any questioning. We could put up a screen in an interview room down at the station. Fire the questions and have her listen. Maybe if she hears the voice again it'll jog her memory. Also I want to get legal advice on doing an AIDS test on
male staff members. We could wrap this up very soon if we screened them all.'

Later, when he listened to this, for the first time Dean Lynch began to worry.

Before she left Kate Hamilton joined Luke Conway where he sat in the outside corridor. There was no mistaking the worry on the man's face. This nightmare was deepening, not easing.

'I'd like to arrange an AIDS test on all male staff members. We could get to the bottom of this case very quickly with that information.'

Conway shook his head slowly. 'I've been thinking that myself, that thought's been going through my head from the moment Ben Hogan told me about this.' He looked at her and she sensed deep, deep concern and worry. 'There are two problems though,' he continued. Hamilton listened intently. 'One, if word gets out that someone in this hospital is HIV positive and possibly working here, all hell will break loose. The wards will empty in minutes.' He paused as the significance of his words shook him yet again. 'Secondly, anyone having an AIDS test would have to give permission first and you might find legal problems there. I'm going to have to get advice on this from our solicitors.' He stood up to go. 'I suggest you do too. You might find the law slowing you down. I just know some of the doctors will want to take legal advice before agreeing to this. This isn't going to happen overnight.'

29

6.01 pm

Studio 4, RTE television centre,

Donnybrook, Dublin 4

'Roll with intro jingle.'

The 6.01 News jingle began, the 6.01 News logo appeared.

'Cut to intro clip.'

The clip of Harry O'Brien wheeling his wife into the lobby of the Central Maternity Hospital was shown in slow motion. The intro jingle continued. Across the nation's screens the clip ran with sound but no voice-over.

On screen, Harry O'Brien stopped and posed behind the wheelchair. Flashes, like bursts of lightning, silver-greyed the faces. There was still no voice-over. June Morrison came into view carrying Gordon O'Brien, wrapped in shawl. More flashes. Then came the hand over in slow, slow motion. Sandra O'Brien gently took the little bundle, resting him in her arms. Her face looked down lovingly at the tiny head, barely visible. Harry O'Brien looked over her shoulder and poked a finger down to gently lift the shawl back for a better view.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

The viewers could see the silver-grey lightning but could not hear the thunder yet to come. There was still no voice-over, just a flickering TV screen, intro jingle running without a commentary.

Harry O'Brien stood up and rested both hands on the back of the wheelchair. The camera zoomed in as the
beautiful face of Sandra O'Brien slowly lifted. Then came that smile, that million dollar smile. FLASH! FLASH!

The camera pulled back to take in the family unit. Big Harry, his beautiful wife and their newborn baby. There was lots of lightning as the flashing cameras lit up the scene.

'Hold that frame. Voice-over.'

'The infant son of Harry and Sandra O'Brien was kidnapped from their family home in County Wicklow in the early hours of this morning.' The news was read in a voice that would do justice to a preacher at a funeral. Hardly a television set in the country wasn't tuned to the bulletin. In pubs and game halls, clubs and sports centres, people gathered around, shushing and pushing for a better view.

'Three masked and armed men entered the house just before midnight, tied up the occupants and lifted the sleeping baby from his cot. The front gate of the O'Brien mansion was blown open, probably by some form of plastic explosive. The raiders made their getaway in a four-wheel drive, later found abandoned and burned out in the car park of the Stand Hotel at the Curragh in County Kildare. A midwife from the Central Maternity Hospital staying at the house was found unconscious and is in intensive care in Wicklow General Hospital. Gardai are appealing to the public for any information to help track down these men, believed to be members of a Dublin criminal gang. A fourth member, thought to be a woman, was also involved. As yet, Gardai have released no details of any ransom demand.'

Women held their children tightly, men cursed and swore. This was the worst crime in the nation's history, worse even than the Monaghan and Dublin bombings in the mid-70s, worse than all the shootings and knivings and bludgeoning. He's only a baby, for Christ's sake. He's only a few days old, the poor little bollox. There was open talk supporting hanging, even a firing squad, if the kidnap gang was caught.

There was no mistaking the public anger. We're disgraced again as a nation. All this is being beamed across the world, just when we thought the country was getting back to some
sort of normality. They've disgraced us in the eyes of the world. The bastards!

The newscaster went on to relate the sequence of events. There were clips of Gardai on the estate with helicopter views coming in over the Wicklow hills, still covered in a light layer of snow. It could almost have been a travel documentary, it looked so beautiful.

The reports were accompanied by a number of 'piece-to-camera' on-the-spot reports at Beechill while others were relayed from the incident centre in Wicklow town and included a shot of Jack McGrath climbing into a squad car, ignoring the microphones thrust at his face.

'Is the Jaguar Unit involved? Have the Gardai any leads? How is Harry O'Brien? Is his wife safe? Was anyone hurt? Has any ransom been demanded?'

'No comment.'

The on-the-spot reporter returned the viewer to the studio where interviews with members of the opposition, baying for the blood of the Minister for Justice, followed. Arguments soon broke out on the panel with political experts disagreeing on the way the government was handling the affair. Lots of hot air and strong opinions but not an ounce of common sense, the panellists so caught up in political point scoring they couldn't have given a damn if Gordon O'Brien was found face down in the Liffey. It might have helped, in fact. That would have given them more ammunition to get back into government and then hold a public inquiry.

Alice Martin, grim faced and wearing a very sombre suit, appealed to the nation from the Dail TV studio. Her speech was beautiful, almost poetic, the content full of passion. As she neared the end, her face contorted, as if suppressing tears. She looked beyond the camera, reached into a pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and let her shoulders shake a little. She continued with more appeals, finally ending with a prayer, a good, well-recognised Catholic only prayer.

'Thank you. And may God protect you Gordon O'Brien
wherever you are.' It was a magnificent performance, Oscar potential.

'Jesus, will somebody get me a drink,' said Alice Martin, Minister for Justice, at the end. I wonder how that went down? Hope I didn't ruin my make-up.

Dean Lynch watched the news.

Somebody's stealing my thunder.

'Is your daddy in?'

Hamilton and Dowling stood at the door of the magnificent redbrick house in Sandymount where Dr Tom Morgan lived, or was supposed to live. Certainly that was the address he gave. As they waited both stomped their feet to keep away the numbing cold.

'Who's that at the door?' a slurred female voice called out.

The little boy looked over his shoulder anxiously. 'I don't know.'

The sound of footsteps was heard, tripping footsteps.

'Get inside.' A hand grabbed the child's shoulder roughly and he was pulled back from the door as it swung slightly open, revealing a woman who was long past her 'best before' date. A cigarette dangled from her lower lip and she was clutching a bottle of vodka with her right hand. She looked them up and down.

'Who're you?' Before Hamilton could answer the woman began a fit of coughing, resting her right hand on her right knee as she bent down for support, careful not to spill the vodka. 'What do you want?'

'I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton from Store Street Garda station. This here's Detective Sergeant Tony Dowling. We were wondering if your husband was in? We'd like to have a few words with him, if that's at all possible?'

The drunken laughter rang in their ears all night. When the woman finished enjoying that little bit she went into another fit of coughing, letting go the door which slowly opened fully, revealing the frightened faces of three children.
Two boys, aged about seven and five, and the most beautiful looking little girl, no more than three years old, if even that. They were all crying, obviously frightened.

'Why don't you look down in the animal shelter? He's probably screwing every alley cat they've got.' There was no mistaking the bitterness and anger in her voice.

The door slammed in their faces. Dr Tom Morgan was obviously not at home.

Hamilton knocked again and waited. Dowling stomped his feet rapidly and blew into his hands to stave off the biting cold. The door opened again and the woman leaned against the frame.

'How long are you going to keep annoying me? He's not here, I told you that.'

Hamilton stepped forward and pressed against the door slightly. She felt the woman push it back against her.

'Look I'm real sorry to be bothering you, but it'll only take a minute. We just want to ask a few questions. Can we come in?'

'No.' Even though the voice was slurred the tone was emphatic. 'If you have anything to ask about, ask it here.'

'Jaysus Kate, get on with it,' grumbled Dowling. 'I'm freezin' here.'

'Eh, Mrs Morgan… am I right, are you Mrs Morgan?'

'You are right. I am Mrs Morgan. For all the bloody good it does me.'

'Well, Mrs Morgan,' continued Hamilton quickly, grasping at the morsel of cooperation, 'we're trying to tidy up a few loose ends. It's about the young girl who was murdered at the Central Maternity Hospital. I'm sure you've read all about it?'

If Mrs Morgan had read about it she was not letting on. She swayed slightly and Hamilton watched as she gripped tightly onto the frame for support. 'Go on,' she slurred.

'Well we just wanted to check out something your husband told us.'

'What exactly did he tell you?'

Hamilton flicked open a notebook and squinted at it in
the gloom. Suddenly the porch light was flicked on and Hamilton could see Tom Morgan's wife clearly for the first time. She was around the same height as Hamilton but with a careworn and wrinkled face. Her streaked blonde hair lay in a mess around her shoulders and the tracksuit she was wearing reeked of cigarettes and spilt vodka. She noticed Hamilton sizing her up and stepped back further so that she was halfway in and halfway out the door. Hamilton glanced up at the light and smiled. 'Thanks.'

'Forget it. Now get on with whatever you want to know, I'm getting cold standing here.'

From inside the screams and roars of children bickering could be heard and the woman turned and shouted a mouthful of abuse at them. The screams died instantly. She turned back. 'Get on with it for Christ's sake.'

'Your husband said he was at the movies on the night Mary Dwyer was murdered. Can you remember that night? Maybe you were with him or you remember him going out?'

The drunken laughter started again. 'At the movies. Jesus I don't believe it, at the movies. That bastard wouldn't sit through a movie if you were to pay him. I dunno where he was that night but I can bloody well tell you he wasn't here and he certainly wasn't at the movies.'

The door was slammed back in their faces again.

Tony Dowling rubbed his frozen hands against one another. 'Charmin' lady, isn't she?'

Kate Hamilton frowned. Dr Tom Morgan would certainly need to be questioned again.

9.47 pm

Inside a public phone booth in Sandymount Green the surgically gloved finger of Dean Lynch dialled a number.

'Hullo?'

'I want to speak to John.'

Pause. Breathing clearly heard at the other end.

'This is John speaking.' Cautious, wary.

'Hello John. This is Bobby.'

Little laugh.

'I thought it was you, Bobby boy. Thought I recognised the accent. You're early. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon.'

'I have a problem.'

'Haven't we all, Bobby boy, haven't we all. These are difficult times we live in.' Short pause, too short for Lynch to come back. 'What's up?'

'I need a gun.'

Long pause.

Finally. 'No problem, Bobby boy. If the price is right you can get whatever you want. I'll get you a Sherman tank if you know how to drive it.' Lynch heard a grunt that might have been a laugh.

'I need a small gun.'

'Like a handgun?'

'Yeah.'

'Is this defensive or offensive? Are you thinking of starting your own little war, Bobby boy?'

'I may need to be positive.'

Slight chuckle. 'Need to be positive. I like that, Bobby boy, I like that. Need to be positive.' The Cockney twang sounded lighter than usual.

'Can you get me one?'

'No sweat, Bobby boy. No sweat. I know just the one for you. Will you be taking it home with you?'

'Yeah.'

'Then you'll need something to carry it in that won't look suspicious.'

'Yeah.'

'Leave it with me, Bobby boy. Leave it with me.' Short pause. 'When do you need it for?'

'Can I get it tomorrow?'

'This is very sudden for you, Bobby boy. You usually give me lots of notice. Something big happening?'

'Kind of.'

'Very good, Bobby boy. Ring me as soon as you get to the airport. What time do you think you'll be arriving?'

'Late in the morning.'

'See you then, Bobby boy. See you then. Bring a grand in cash for the gun. And another grand for ammunition and secure travel bag.'

'See you tomorrow.'

'Need anything else?'

'No.'

Both phones clicked.

Dean Lynch made his way back to his flat, deep in thought. They were deep, deep thoughts, black, black thoughts.

He had been feeling unwell all day, sweating even in the cold. His mouth was sore again, his appetite non-existent. He felt dreadful.

I'm dying.

He wasn't planning on going alone.

The door bell at Dr Paddy Holland's two storey redbricked terraced house rang at ten thirty exactly. The house was set back from the pavement by a small garden in which a few withered rose bushes struggled to survive. There were black railings and a small half-open gate leading to the front door. Kate Hamilton and Tony Dowling had driven there immediately after questioning Tom Morgan's wife. They'd agreed they would only call on Holland if they saw lights on inside the house. Dowling groaned as the car pulled up. Not only was the light on in the front room but the curtains were only half pulled and the tall frame of Paddy Holland could be clearly seen sitting at a table.