Scalpel (26 page)

'Okay, open it up.'

One of the forensics nodded to the other. He slipped off the surgical gloves he was wearing, stuffed them in his pocket, then tugged out a second pair and pulled them on. The small audience gathered round the back of the Mazda. It seemed they were all reluctant to take the next step. Hey, how about we all go and have a cup of coffee and warm ourselves up, maybe go for a boozy lunch? Anything but the next step.

The forensic looked to Dunne and he nodded, eyes resigned to what he was going to see.

The forensic looked at Hamilton, now joined by Tony Dowling, who had slipped noiselessly through a gap in the yellow screen.

Kate nodded, pulling her heavy coat collar up around her ears, clutching it firmly at the front. She wasn't sure she really wanted to see the next bit, but knew she had to. She couldn't turn away. Typical, they'd say, typical of a bloody woman.

The forensic had already checked the lock mechanism and Dan Harrison also had it in his roll of film.

Delicately, one fingered, the lock was clicked open. In the silence it sounded like a pistol shot. Then, with a two fingertip pressure at each edge the boot was slowly lifted. At about halfway the spring mechanism took over and it suddenly flew up.

'Oh, shit!'

'Christ!'

'Jesus!'

Noel Dunne said nothing, he just stared. Kate Hamilton said nothing, but couldn't help averting her eyes from the
bent head, with its long, blonde, blood-streaked and matted hair. The body of Staff Nurse Sarah Higgins had been forced into an almost foetal position, with one white stockinged leg pulled back at the knee so the limb filled one corner of the boot. The other lay along the back of the pushed forward seat. The face was squashed up against a sports bag, the features mercifully hidden from the staring eyes of the audience.

But what was not hidden was the blue twine wrapped around the neck, pulled so tightly it was embedded in the skin. A small collection of blood lay in the visible right ear space.

And in her once voluptuous neck, a scalpel was deeply embedded.

'Dan, get as many close-ups as possible. Get an overall shot of the boot from a few feet back. Right side angles and left side too. One straight on and one from above.' He turned to one of the uniformed Gardai. 'What's your name?'

'Garda Carter.'

'Well, Garda Carter, go to the back of the van and you'll find a small stepladder. Bring it over here, like a good man. Whatever you do, don't go near that pool of blood or kick any gravel or leaves near that hammer. Go round the other side, in fact.' He turned back to Harrison. 'Dan, get as many as you can from above, before we move the body. And get as many decent close-ups of that scalpel holder as you can. The rest of you, stand well back. Give him all the space he needs.'

He turned to Hamilton. 'Detective Sergeant, I'd like a word with you.'

Hamilton and Dowling joined Dunne in a huddle about twenty feet from the right side of the car. For a moment Dunne said nothing, pausing to watch Harrison's Nikon record the scene. He shouted a few more instructions, ordering one of the uniformed Garda well away. Finally he turned to Hamilton as Dowling watched and listened respectfully.

'Detective Sergeant this is the second body I've had to
deal with in the past week that has had a surgical scalpel stuck in the neck. Both victims young women. Do you know who this girl is?'

'It looks like a nurse from the Central Maternity Hospital called Sarah Higgins.'

'Why? How do you know?'

'She was supposed to meet us at nine o'clock. She was supposed to sit in on alibi interviews today. That's her car and that's her uniform.'

'Is she the one who heard the voice over the phone last week? Jack McGrath mentioned one to me.'

'Yes.'

'Would you recognise her if I turned the face around?'

Hamilton swallowed deeply. 'Yes, I've spoken with her.'

'Okay, let's go look. Two scalpels in the neck inside a week is a bit of a record, even for me.'

Dunne walked slowly towards the open boot. Harrison was standing halfway up the small stepladder, snapping away.

'I'm finished.' Harrison climbed down, pressed a small button on the camera base whirring the film into rewind. He was already fishing inside a pocket for a fresh roll.

Dunne lifted the ladder aside and bent down to peer closely at the body. He started dictating. After about ten minutes he turned to Hamilton, who was standing slightly behind and to his right.

'Ready?'

She nodded. A shiver ran down her spine and she struggled hard not to let the rest see her unease. It wouldn't sound good when retold later, in the pub.

Dunne slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and gently prodded the body, first the exposed neck area, then that part of the right side of the face he could see without disturbing. Next he bent the knees. 'No rigor,' he muttered, then turned to Dowling. 'What's the temperature of that thermometer on the roof?' Dowling inspected.

'Four degrees.'

'Thank God there's no wind or we'd all be frozen,' muttered Dunne.

'Any idea how long she's been dead?' Hamilton asked.

Without looking up, Dunne prodded further. 'Not yet, Detective Sergeant. Not yet. There's no rigor yet. It was near freezing last night and most of this morning. Rigor mortis hasn't set in yet because of the cold. I'll be able to give you a better idea after I've measured rectal temperature. I want you to look at her face and tell me if it's your nurse.'

He gently manipulated the head in both gloved hands until the waxen-like face came into view.

For a moment Kate Hamilton couldn't be sure. The beautiful and lively face that had discussed boyfriends and dances and rock bands while Hamilton had tried to persuade her to cooperate during her interview was now lifeless, the spirit gone. The basic features remained, but the sparkle, the life, had left. For ever.

'That's her,' Tony Dowling spoke. He was peering over Dunne's left shoulder. 'That's her all right, isn't it Kate?'

Hamilton straightened. 'Yes it is, unfortunately. Yes, it's definitely her.'

'Well, Detective Sergeant, I think he's used a clean scalpel this time, but it looks as if it's our friend from the hospital again. You've got one hell of an investigation on your hands.'

'Good morning, Southside Town Houses. Lesley Cairns speaking.'

'Ah, good morning. I was hoping to rent one of your houses for a week.'

'Certainly sir. Have you any area in mind or any particular price range you'd like to stay within?'

'Well, it's for a business client coming to Dublin for a week. He'll be based around the southside for most of the time and he'll be on his own. Maybe you could suggest somewhere?'

'Well, we have a new flats complex in Dun Laoghaire that's very reasonably priced.'

'No, that's too far out.'

'Hmm, let me see.' Buttons clicked on a PC. 'How about Booterstown? We have a mixture of town houses and one or two bedroom flats in Mourne Court just off Booterstown Avenue. That's very central really. Not too expensive either.'

'Yes, that sounds fine. Have you a one-bedroomed flat there?'

Click. Click. Noise of humming.

'Yes. We have a one-bedroomed flat with kitchen-cum-dining area. There's a bathroom and toilet and small sitting room. That one's free until the beginning of March.'

'Sounds fine. How much is that?'

It was all on the screen in front of her.

'That one's three hundred pounds per week. The electricity and gas is metered so you pay for that as you go. There's also a three hundred pounds breakages and damage deposit. That's refunded within one week of departure. You can collect that here at our offices or we can post it to you. We can arrange to have it posted in whatever currency you wish at no extra charge.'

'That sounds perfect. Can I book that and I'll call down within the next hour and pay you?'

'Certainly sir. Will you be paying cash, cheque or credit card? If it's by cheque we'll need a cheque card and details of your bank account.'

'I'll pay the lot in cash, if you don't mind. If you just give me a receipt I'll get a refund from my company'

'That's fine, sir. What name shall I hold the flat in?'

'Andrew Kelly. You can book it in Andrew's name, Andrew Kelly. He's a computer software sales representative based in Southampton. He's over on a business trip to Microsoft in Sandyford. I'll leave you his business card when I call.'

'I'll have the keys and a map of how to get there when you arrive. Our offices are in Mount Street. You can't miss us, there's a large red sign just above the entrance.'

'Great. See you within an hour.'

Lynch flicked through the Yellow Pages again until he
found second-hand car sales. He looked along the list, finally choosing one he knew and had passed by lots of times. He picked up the phone again and dialled. Within ten minutes he learned there was a 'real wee gem, only fifty-six thousand miles on the clock, in perfect condition, new tyres and battery, only two safe drivers as well' awaiting him at Donnie's Motors in Ringsend. He took a taxi to Donnie, dressed in his false wig and moustache, clear-lens glasses and black tracksuit outfit. Donnie was all over him, lying through his teeth about the car mileage, owners, total lack of accidents and 'just serviced' yesterday.

Lynch knew he was lying. Pathetic, really.

They haggled over the price but eventually Donnie was paid cash for a 1995 Dublin-registered Mitsubishi Colt, in which Lynch drove off after supplying the delighted Donnie with a false name and address for the vehicle change of ownership form. Lynch also bought a thick steel chain and padlock which Donnie, now so concerned for his customer, advised. 'Wrap that around the steering wheel and the bar under the driver's seat. It won't stop them nicking it if they really want it, but it might just make them move on to some other, easier car.'

Donnie was real concerned.

Lynch made a mental note to wrap the same chain around Donnie's neck when next they met.

35

11.17 am

Tommy Malone and Moonface decided in the end to take the train from Newbridge to Heuston station rather than drive to Dublin direct. They'd listened all morning on the radio to news of the kidnap and the continuing hype was secretly worrying each of them. Their uneasiness grew by the hour. By the time fresh Polaroids of the baby with one of the morning papers had been taken, Malone decided it was too risky for himself and Moonface to travel in the car together. 'Too many road blocks. Some Garda will be sure to recognise us and start askin' awkward questions. Martin and I'll go and I'll check out what's goin' on generally. I'll put the frighteners on Big Harry. We'll go for the pick up tomorra, okay?'

So the plan was changed. Sam Collins stayed behind with Peggy Ryan and the baby, Malone and Moonface drove the Volvo to Newbridge railway station where Moonface again chained the wheel and removed the spark plugs. Standing in the morning cold they said little to each other. Malone carried a large thick brown envelope containing six smaller envelopes each of which contained a Polaroid of the balaclava'd Moonface holding Gordon O'Brien. Over his shoulder Collins had again held a newspaper, clearly identifying the date and headlines.

The short journey to Heuston station was silent for both. Malone advised against them sharing the same seat, even the same carriage. They sat well apart, staring at the headlines on other people's newspapers, trying to read the smaller print. Malone sat beside a young couple with a baby who struck up a conversation with an elderly man sitting opposite.

Very soon they started discussing the kidnapping. The anger from each side unsettled Malone even more and he moved away.

Moonface couldn't have cared less about the papers or the headlines. He borrowed a copy of the
Star
and spent the last minutes of the journey reading about the big match. The more he read the more excited he became. The managers were trading insults, the players admitting it was a grudge match. 'We're taking no prisoners,' ran one quote from the new Irish midfield star. 'Don't expect us to hold back,' returned the opposition striker.

A separate report related how English police had warned Gardai that a large number of National Front bully boys were expected to arrive in Dublin without tickets, their sole purpose to stir up trouble. This was their planned revenge for the baton charge that had ended the last England vs Ireland soccer match, before full time. There was a half-page photo in the
Star
of one English yobbo wearing a Union Jack tee shirt, Union Jack tattoo on his forehead with a Union Jack flag draped over his shoulders and a two-finger salute for the camera. 'Paddy slime will suffer this time.' Quote, unquote. Moonface's blood began to boil. British bastards. English scum. Just wait'll the big night. We'll see who'll suffer.

Malone sidled up to him in the crowded Heuston station with a few brief final words. Moonface nodded at all Malone's words of wisdom. 'Don' worry, Tommy. It's as good as done. I've the bike and courier outfit in a lock-up garage in Ballyfermot. They'll be dropped off within an hour or so. Wha' time do you wanna go back?'

Moonface was in no rush to head back to the cottage and the screaming child. He hoped Malone would drag the day out in Dublin as long as possible. Malone felt the same but didn't say it. Secretly he was very worried about the potent
cocktail of Sam Collins, Peggy Ryan and the screeching Gordon O'Brien. It was an explosive mixture. If the baby started acting up again he could see Collins losing his rag altogether. And Peggy was in no great shape either, she was losing her cool. A-team! he thought, some A-team. They're a bunch of fuckin' losers. Jesus, what would've the B-team been like.

Malone and Moonface took separate taxis, Moonface to Ballyfermot, while Malone headed towards his house along the quays. He had to bail out when he spotted a Garda check point with a long line of traffic banked up. 'I'll get out here and walk, it'll be quicker.' The taxi man nodded. He'd just given Malone an ear bashing on the kidnapping and what he personally would bloody well do if he got his hands on the bastards. Gardai are useless. Spot checks all over the place. As if the kidnappers are gonna drive right up to one and wait in the queue to be searched. Malone had heard enough.

He walked past the check point and hailed another taxi only to get an even more vitriolic ear bashing, this time from a woman cabbie who had three small children herself and what she would do to the bastards who kidnapped that innocent wee baby was not worth repeating. She even apologised to Malone for using such bad language but she was sure he'd understand and she was equally sure he must feel much the same. Didn't he?

'Yeah,' said Malone, 'let me out here.'

He spotted the special branch detectives before they spotted him. He was walking along Anderson's Quay and stopped short. There was no mistaking it, the unmarked car with its telltale short aerial, parked only about fifty yards from his house. There were two in the front, one smoking. Malone ducked into a shop and bought a packet of Sweet Afton, lighting one nervously. He felt his heart pounding, noticed his hands trembling. Either they're onto me already or it's just a routine surveillance. He walked back out onto the road, real casual like, back through some side streets and away from the area. Fuck it, fuck it! I'd better make a
few calls. He walked until he came to Connolly station where he took the next Dart train back to Westland Row.

As he sat in the carriage he noticed a familiar face, an old Steevens Street flats pal. But the man's face shocked Malone. It was battered, almost war torn, ravaged by lack of decent food and years of booze. He was rambling to himself, his head nodding as one part of whatever still constituted brain conversed with the other. He was wrapped tightly inside an oversized overcoat that was tattered and torn and stained from too much South African sherry. He stank, the smell pervading the carriage so much that fellow passengers moved away. Shamefacedly, Malone sneaked to a distant window seat where he watched the next station slip by until he reached Westland Row. Outside again he stared as the train pulled away, carrying its one cargo of human misery.

The last time he had seen someone so down and out, so destitute and useless, was when his mother had collected his father from the cells in Blackrock Garda station after he'd been arrested for drunkenness. He'd gone on a futile drunken attempt at breaking and entering during yet another losing streak leaving his wife weeks without enough money to put food on the table or clothes on the backs of her seven children. Jaysus, thought Malone as the Dart disappeared around the corner towards Landsdown Road Station, is it any wonder I'm the way I am today? How else am I supposed to live? I'll be fucked if I'll end up like me Da or that poor, simple bollox on the train. He didn't like to admit it, but recognising the down-and-out had unsettled him. That and spotting the special branch car. There's no way I'm goin' back to the flats. There's no way I'm goin' back to beggin' in the streets. No way.

He left the station and walked along with the usual traffic as far as the Davenport Hotel where he found a secluded phone booth. He wanted to ring Betty Nolan and find out what was going on down at the O'Brien headquarters but the two had already agreed a plan on contact. He couldn't reach her until six when she would sit beside the public phone in Mooney's pub in Blackrock in case he had to make contact.

He decided to ring Richie Murphy, an old hand from Mountjoy and one of the few fellow criminals Malone kept in contact with. The news from Richie Murphy was not good at all. The Gardai had turned the Dublin underworld upside down looking for the baby or any leads on who had taken him.

'Do
you
know, Tommy?' asked Richie.

'Nah, havin' a clue. Sure I'm as bad as yourself. I was only ringin' to see if I was the only wan bein' watched.'

'Ah Christ no, Tommy, everybody's bein' screwed, it's deadly.' Then Richie told Malone about no less than three, 'three for Christ's sake', good bank jobs that had to be called off. 'There's just too many cops about. The fuckers are swarmin' all over the place.'

Malone listened with a sinking heart. Then he finally heard what worried him most. The general opinion among fellow hoods, according to Richie, was that the sooner the baby was handed back the better.

'The Gards are puttin' on so much pressure, some bloody eejits are tellin' anythin' to get them off their backs,' he complained. 'A lot of hot information is leakin' out and a lot of hot heads are gettin' rightly fed up. If anybody hears who's got this baby they're gonna dob them in. Rattin' or no rattin', this kidnappin' is fuckin' bad news for business. Anythin' I can do for you?'

'Nah, I was just checkin' that's all. Just checkin'.'

Just after three o'clock a very worried looking Tommy Malone walked out from the Davenport Hotel towards Merrion Square. He glanced at his watch. There was still a lot of time to kill before he met Moonface again. He looked around and noticed he was standing near the National Art Gallery. He tried to walk past it, but felt himself drawn inside. He looked at his watch. I'll kill a few minutes in here. I'll have a look at that paintin' again by yer man.

Tommy Malone had become an ardent Caravaggio fan. After his first unsettling visit he'd returned to the National Art Gallery on a number of occasions to see if there were any other paintings that might be worth stealing but soon
decided the security was too strong and not worth the effort. On one occasion to make his visit look legitimate he'd bought a glossy catalogue detailing Caravaggio's life and works. He'd flicked through it idly as he sized up the security system, but becoming astounded and delighted with what he read. Caravaggio had been a bit of a thug himself, Malone learned, and had been in trouble with the police of the day. Now
that's
my kind of painter.

He read further that Caravaggio was in and out of fights and arguments regularly and knew how to lie to the rozzers. 'Once, when interrogated while bedridden with sword wounds,' the catalogue recalled, 'Caravaggio had replied, "I wounded myself with my sword in falling on the streets. I don't know where it happened, and no one was present."' Ah fuckin' brilliant, Malone had crowed to himself. A fuckin' brilliant painter is yer man. Then he read that Caravaggio had had to flee Rome after killing an antagonist in a brawl. Tommy Malone didn't know what an antagonist was exactly but felt the bollox had deserved all he got if 'yer man' had done it. 'Yer man' was an okay painter in Tommy Malone's eyes and he went back to his masterpiece and studied it in greater detail.

And as he looked and squinted he came to one earth-shattering conclusion. That Judas shoulda bin fuckin' crucified himself. Years spent in gaol listening to cellmates complain how they'd been let down by some snitch reinforced powerfully the fear of betrayal. He'd even wondered if one day he too would be let down by a Judas.

He sat in the coffee shop smoking Sweet Aftons one after the other, ignoring the disapproving glances from adjoining tables. His mind was in turmoil, wondering how the 'big wan' was all going to end. He stared out the window at the pouring rain. He felt very uneasy. Something inside was sounding alarm bells. The kidnapping had been a mistake. I'll give it wan more day and then we'll bail out he decided as he stood up to leave. Just wan more day.

Moonface had completed all the drops by three o'clock despite the rain. He'd watched the dark grey clouds form and swirl in over the city but decided to run with the job anyway. Dripping wet he'd delivered one envelope to the TV studios of RTE in Donnybrook, another to the front desk of the
Daily Post,
the rest to various post boxes, media sources and even Fitzgibbon Street Garda station. He dropped his bike and courier gear back at the lock-up then checked his watch. Fuckin' great, he thought, plenty of time to kill. He decided to nip home and collect his supporters' gear for the big match, in case he had to go direct from Kilcullen. On the way he bumped into one of his buddies, sheltering from another shower in the porch of a pub. 'Howya Martin, havin' seen ye for days, where've ye been? Fancy a pint?' 'Just the wan.' 'How's the crack? Anythin' happenin'?' 'Jaysus, wait'll ye hear.' Moonface broke Tommy Malone's first golden rule and had a pint. In fact he had a lot more than one before he remembered Malone's words. But by then it was too late. By then he couldn't give a stuff.

Sam Collins had had enough. Gordon O'Brien's screeching seemed to penetrate the depths of his brain. Peggy Ryan was desperately trying to quieten him, pacify him, settle him, anything him but what he was doing. Anything but that screeching, that loud piercing screeching of pain. The screeching of colic and hunger and fear and terror and lack of comfort and where's-my-mother screeching. All that was just too much for Sam Collins. And he just couldn't stand coming round the corner into one of Peggy Ryan's personal conversations with herself, it unnerved him no end. Gordon O'Brien was too much for Peggy Ryan as well but he was her baby, so to speak, and it was up to her to shut him up. But those screeches just bounced off the cottage walls and finally Sam Collins angrily ordered her outside.

'Take the little bollox down the lane for a few minutes and see does that shut him.'

'Jaysus, Sam, it's freezin' ou' there.'

'I don't give a stuff. Get him outa here before I lift him one.'

The sudden blast of frosty air took the baby's breath away and he actually stopped screeching. He actually stopped for a moment. Then another spasm gripped and he filled his lungs, letting roar again. His screams carried across the quiet country fields on that freezing February afternoon. The very definite and unmistakable screeches of a baby who shouldn't have been out in that sort of weather at all. In a field nearby Brian O'Callaghan could hardly believe his ears. A baby outside in the bitter cold? He had just finished cleaning a newborn lamb with straw and had wrapped it in rags, planning to take it back to the shed for the next few days. Then he heard the screeches, carried so clearly across the fields. He set the lamb down gently and set off in search. He nestled down at the side of the hedge separating his property from the laneway leading to the stone cottage and watched Peggy Ryan walking the baby up and down, up and down. The baby's cries settled, eventually, as the shivering Peggy grew tired from all the jiggling.