Scalpel (36 page)

And he found himself drawn, dragged in the opposite direction.

At the exact time that Tommy Malone started his lonely journey, in the paediatric Intensive Care Unit of the Central Maternity Hospital Gordon O'Brien showed the first signs of rallying.

Sandra O'Brien was staring into the incubator, whispering to her baby. 'Come on Gordon, Mummy's here. Your Daddy's here too, Gordon. You're back with us again.
You're going to be all right. Mummy won't let you out of her sight again, don't you worry about that. You're home to stay, home to stay with me and your Daddy. But you'll have to get better, Gordon. You'll have to keep fighting and not give up. We're waiting for you.'

She'd been saying variations on that same theme ever since Paddy Holland had sat her and Big Harry down earlier. Harry O'Brien was holding his son's hand and stroking his head. Every now and then he would reach down and kiss the child's forehead. But as he watched his heart was silently breaking.

The first movement was no more than a stir, the kicking of a foot for the briefest of seconds. Neither Big Harry nor Sandra noticed it. But Liz Egan, the intensive care nurse on duty, most certainly did. She glanced at the monitors recording the baby's vital signs and felt a slight stir in her stomach. The too rapid pulse rate had slowed, the too rapid breathing had slowed, the oxygen level was improving. Trying very hard to look as cool as possible she checked Gordon O'Brien's temperature. Ignoring Sandra and Harry's intense stares, she recorded the reading in a chart at the bottom of the incubator. Then she checked the temperature again.

'Everything okay?' Sandra asked anxiously, hoping against desperate hope that the nurse wasn't recording the signs of a decline in Gordon's condition.

Liz Egan smiled slightly. 'Maybe a bit better. I'm just going to get Dr Holland. I'll be back in a moment.' She left ICU before she was interrogated any further.

Paddy Holland listened closely to the nurse's report, then followed her quickly back to the ICU. Sandra and Harry stood up slowly as they watched him come in. Neither wanted to ask a question in case the answer would devastate. Holland checked the same monitors Liz Egan had checked only minutes before, then pulled a chair up beside the incubator, opposite to where Big Harry and Sandra were sitting, and sat down himself. He stared down intently at the small baby, noting his chest movement as it rose and fell with each
breath. He followed the breathing pattern to the child's sunken belly, then jerked his head quickly back up as he sensed movement. Gordon O'Brien's head had moved ever so slightly. The movement was barely perceptible but Holland and Nurse Egan both spotted it. Then Holland gently placed a paediatric stethoscope onto Gordon O'Brien's chest and listened. The bell of the stethoscope moved in half-inch steps along the front and side of the chest, pausing at each move.

Barely able to believe what his eyes and ears were registering, Holland straightened up and began pressing at buttons on the monitors. An ECG trace flickered across a screen, an oxygen-saturation level flashed up, the previous three minutes' pulse, respiration and blood pressure appeared and were read. Sandra and Harry O'Brien watched with an anguish and fear that was almost palpable. Is this the end?

Paddy Holland tore an ECG strip from its monitor and ran his finger along the tracing. Then he turned to the ashen faces opposite and smiled. 'He's getting better. He's getting better. He's turned the corner.'

45

3.27 pm

Merrion Square, Dublin 2

Merrion Square was one of the jewels in Dublin's crown. It was an elegant square of fine architecture surrounded on each side by wide, well-kept roads lit at night by ornately carved street lamps. On three of its sides stood high Georgian buildings, once town homes for the Dublin aristocracy, now mainly used as offices and flats. In the middle was Merrion Square Park with its beautifully kept and carefully planned gardens. There was rarely a scrap of litter on the many meandering lanes where one was likely to suddenly come across a statue or piece of sculpture. There were magnificent heather beds and occasional natural wood carvings.

On the East side of the park was a children's playground and open spaces with wooden benches to rest on and admire the beauty of nature as it changed all year round. Spring bulbs, summer roses, winter pansies. The park was surrounded by wrought iron railings where amateur painters displayed their wares each Sunday. Then the square and park would be busy with families, children wanting to use the playground, parents wanting to look at the gardens or paintings.

The Irish National Art Gallery stood on Merrion Square West, set back from the road and behind high, black wrought iron railings. As a building its architecture blended well with its neighbours. There was a small, well-tended lawn in front of the entrance with a number of wooden benches beside a
statue of George Bernard Shaw, one arm resting on the other as he stared thoughtfully into the distance.

Which was more or less what Tommy Malone was doing at three thirty on Wednesday, 19th February 1997. The day that came to be known later as Black Wednesday.

Tommy lit up one of his cigars and sat, huddled for warmth, on the wooden bench, watching the traffic and people. The duffle bag rested by his side on the bench.

It was decision time, big decision time.

As the cigar burned to the end, Malone ground it underfoot and reached inside the bag. With a quick furtive look around to make sure he wasn't being watched, he lifted the Smith & Wesson out and stuffed it inside his waistband. Then he stood up and made his way towards the front entrance of the building.

I'm gonna have one last look at that paintin' by yer man.

He checked the duffle bag into reception security and slowly made his way to room eighteen.

There it was. Caravaggio, 'The Taking of Christ'.

Malone sat down on the bench and stared.

There's Betty, with her Judas kiss, and there's me in the middle. I don't have the long hair, or the beard or the moustache, but that's me in the middle, with the snatch squad comin' to get me, to crucify me. Well, I'm fucked if they will.

The glint of light on the soldiers' armour, the expressions on the faces, the darkness of the painting was all too real and Malone reached inside his waistband to check his gun. I can't keep runnin' for ever. The whole country's agin' me now. They'll crucify me now, if they get me. And I'm fucked if they will.

Malone stood up slowly, gradually becoming aware of the attendant's open-mouthed stare. It was written all over his face. That's him! That's the fella they're all looking for. That's yer man, what's his name? Christ, what did they call him? It's him! Definitely. I better call the Gardai.

Malone sensed all this and sighed deeply, a deep sigh of resignation.

He looked again at the face of Jesus, meek and mild, subdued, hands clasped together, resigned to His fate. And He knew what was comin'. That's the bit I can't figger out, He knew what was comin'. And
still
He let them, without a fight, without as much as a struggle. Well, fuck ye, is all I can say. Fuck ye, but they're not gonna take me like that.

He collected his duffle bag, very much aware of the stares, knowing only too well the word was out. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed two security men approach. They weren't big men, but strong enough looking and he just knew they were trying to be heroes. He pulled his Smith & Wesson out and let off one round over their approaching heads, damaging the delicate plasterwork behind. Everyone ducked and ran for cover. Except Tommy Malone, who walked slowly and deliberately out the main entrance, across the road and into Merrion Square Park.

He found a quiet bench to sit on, noticing daffodil and tulip bulbs coming up with some in early flower. The snowdrops looked well past their best. He opened the duffle bag, took out the radio and turned it on. Then he uncorked the Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1983. It was a good year for Chateau Mouton, not that Tommy Malone knew. He cleaned the glass with a piece of the mauve paper so lovingly wrapped around it, poured himself a liberal measure and took a sip. Not bad, not bad at all. I'd prefer a pint meself, but it's not bad at all. He took a long deep slug, then laid the gun beside him, checking the chamber was ready for firing. In the distance he could hear sirens. Tommy Malone sat back and waited. They're comin'.

He poured another glass, knocking it back in one go, then poured one more, set it down on the bench, double-checked the gun, and had another sip. He lit up his last Monte Cristo, blowing smoke rings into the frosty air around him. A cold breeze wafted the smell of roasted malt from the Guinness brewery and Malone smiled briefly. Jaysus I could murder a pint right this minute.

On the square outside the park he could hear car doors
being slammed and shouting, loud angry shouting. Out of the corner of one eye he noticed a young mother with her toddler and baby in pushchair being dragged away by a dark suited man wearing a black peaked cap.

They're comin'. The soldiers are comin'. I can see the glint on their armour.

Jack McGrath briefed his team. They were all flak-jacketed, faces blackened and wore black woollen caps. He spread them out in a circle along the park while other uniformed Gardai ran like frightened rabbits around the rest of the paths rounding up any innocent bystanders who had come for a quiet walk and unwittingly wandered, instead into a potential blood bath.

Office doors on all sides of the square were hammered on and the occupants told to keep away from the windows which only made them crowd at them, determined not to miss anything. From their vantage points they could make out a lonely looking man, sitting on a bench in the middle of the park, with what looked like a bag at his side. 'Do you know,' said one, 'I think he's drinking something. I can see a bottle and a glass, I'm sure of that. Who is he?'

McGrath had his men in position, he was ready. They nodded and acknowledged one another over their two-way radios.

Tommy Malone turned the volume up on the radio. He was coming to the end of his cigar, there was only a quarter left in the bottle, the rest inside, warming him on the bitterly cold day. He noticed movement in the bushes not far from him and picked up the gun.

McGrath watched his every movement and ordered the team to get ready. Safety catches were unslipped, fingers rested on triggers. Just give us an excuse, Tommy, just give us an excuse.

'We interrupt this programme to bring you a news flash.' Malone was only half-listening, more concerned with the dark shapes closing in. 'Reports are coming in from Garda headquarters that there has been an incident at Mountjoy
gaol involving Sam Collins, the man arrested yesterday for the kidnapping of baby Gordon O'Brien. While the initial reports are sketchy and unconfirmed it appears that Collins was set upon by a group of prisoners and badly beaten. He was transferred to the nearby Mater Hospital and is undergoing emergency surgery there for extensive head wounds. There will be a further update on this and other stories in our next bulletin on the hour.'

The report finally penetrated Malone's consciousness and he stared at the ground for a moment, then looked up. The dark shapes were closer again, moving in and around the bushes and trees. He could hear twigs break underfoot and the crunching of gravel.

They're comin' to crucify me. And crucify me they will if they get me.

If
they get me.

He placed the gun barrel slowly and deliberately inside his mouth, tasting the metal for an instant.

Jack McGrath stood up. 'Holy Jesus!' For a fleeting moment his eyes met those of Tommy Malone, who now had two inches of the barrel inside his mouth.

McGrath started running towards him. 'Don't! Don't! Do…'

Tommy Malone's eyes fixed on McGrath's and the weariness and resignation was obvious. He shook his head slightly. It's no use, I'm goin' to sleep.

He pulled the trigger.

46

5.03 pm

The Greystones Gardai broke down the door of number thirty-three Roselawn Heights just after five that afternoon. They arrived with Sharon after she checked the house from all angles and still couldn't make out what was going on. The doors were firmly locked, but the curtains and blinds were drawn in an unusual way, unusual for her mother anyway. She'd never leave the house like that, Sharon worried. But her car was gone. Sharon asked the neighbours and it was Nebby Nora, as usual, two doors down who spotted everything. Nothing much happened in Roselawn Heights without Nebby Nora, as Betty had called her, knowing. And it was Nebby Nora who had seen Tommy Malone get into and drive away with Betty's car earlier that morning.

'But why didn't you ring the police?'

'Because it's none of my business who comes in and out of your mother's house,' replied Nebby Nora, who wouldn't in a hundred years have known what the phrase 'not my business' meant.

Sharon called the local Garda station and within ten minutes two young uniformed Gardai cruised up in a squad car. It was one of them who noticed what he thought looked like a foot sticking out from behind the kitchen counter. It was Sharon who gave the nod for the door to be broken down, and it was Sharon's screams that echoed throughout
the house and filtered all the way down to Nebby Nora who never had such a news break in her life.

The two uniformed Gardai notified base and rang Dr Noel Dunne, asking him to attend. As if he hadn't enough to do at that moment standing as he was beside Jack McGrath in the darkness of Merrion Square Park, over the body of Tommy Malone, the area sealed off, arc lights glaring. Dunne listened on his mobile phone to the request and initial crime scene findings, nodding gravely, muttering responses as his eyes scanned the darkness of the park from where he stood. He barked instructions and glanced quickly at his watch, then gave an approximate time of arrival. He turned to Jack McGrath, knowing how well he and Tony Dowling had got on together over the years, knowing how well they had worked as a team. But he had spent all morning in the mortuary of the Merrion Hospital, performing the postmortem on Dowling. It had been heartbreaking for a man whose heart didn't break easily. He couldn't let it get to him. He knew long ago he'd never get out of bed in the morning if he let it get to him. But Tony Dowling, lying on the mortuary slab, lifeless and bloodied, was very hard to take.

'Detective Inspector McGrath?' McGrath turned. 'I want to tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your colleague last night.'

McGrath said nothing, his eyes tried to respond but his heart wouldn't allow his mouth to speak.

'However there's something else, Detective Inspector.' This time McGrath looked straight into Dunne's eyes. 'I don't think Dr Lynch has fled the country.'

Without another word Dunne picked up his bag and started towards the Garda squad car waiting to take him to Greystones.

'Neither do I,' McGrath shouted after him.

Dunne struggled into the back of the car, pulling his bag in with him. He paused and wound down the window. 'He'll try and do it again, Detective Inspector. Believe me. He'll try and do it again.'

McGrath stroked his moustache as the car drew away.

Lesley Cairns from Southside Properties stared long and hard at the front page of the
Daily Post.
Then she looked at the
Irish Times,
then the
Star,
then the
Irish Independent,
the usual quota of papers left in reception for clients. Two photographs occupied almost half the front pages of the spreadsheets and all the front pages of the tabloids: Tommy Malone and Dr Dean Lynch. It wasn't Malone's photograph she was staring at. There was something about the other face and description that unsettled her.

The man who had called on her didn't look at all like what was described in any of the papers. But it was the eyes that disturbed Lesley Cairns. Those eyes, she thought as she studied the photograph intently, those eyes. I'm telling you you'd be hard pressed not to remember those eyes. She read the description again. Nah, this fella had glasses. But then, how could I have seen those eyes so clearly? I mean they were, like, dead clear. They'd frighten the life out of anyone if you asked me. Wasn't he supposed to be renting it for an English businessman? She picked up the phone and rang the rented apartment in Booterstown. It'll be easy, she thought nervously, her hands shaking slightly, if an English-sounding voice answers I'll just ask if everything's all right and hope the apartment suits and please call again if you need similar accommodation. The phone rang out. She redialled and it rang out again. She put the receiver down slowly and picked up the
Daily Post
again, staring at the photograph of Lynch. Nah, it's definitely not him. But secretly she knew she wasn't sure. Secretly she felt she didn't want it to be him. Secretly she knew the thought that it might be him frightened the life out of her. It was easier to ignore the possibility than get involved.

The coach carrying the England soccer team threaded its way through the milling crowds making their way towards Lansdowne Road Stadium. It was followed by boos and two-finger salutes from the fans, with only an occasional
cheer and thumbs-up. A very occasional cheer and thumbs-up. Even though there would be a sizeable, usually sensible, Official English Soccer Fan presence, Gardai had strict instructions to keep the rival camps apart. So those pouring along the roads to the stadium off the buses, out of taxis and private cars, were mainly Irish fans wearing green shirts and scarves and heavy green sweaters to keep out the cold. They were chanting as they walked. 'You'll never beat the Oirish, you'll never beat the Oirish.'

The Irish team were already inside the stadium getting the pre-match hype, the psyche-up so intense one or two felt they'd be going over the trenches when the whistle blew. Let me at those bastards. Football match me arse, this is war. Just let me up and at them.

The coach outside inched closer to the stadium and twin doors opened to allow it inside. Tom Dalzell just couldn't resist. He'd waited too long for this night, dreaming of playing for England against Ireland in Dublin, the home of IRA terrorists, according to his ex-SAS father. 'When you kick a ball, think of it as the head of one of those IRA scum who nearly killed me,' he'd advised. Tom Dalzell had the strongest kick in the FA Premiership League and now he was on enemy territory. His kicking boots just ached to lash out. As the coach passed inside the safety of the stadium doors, Dalzell lifted up a Union Jack and waved it tauntingly at the crowds behind. SAS was clearly written on it in big letters. He two-fingered the crowd. A small group broke free and rushed the retreating bus, enraged and baying for blood. Fortunately for Dalzell enough stewards were on hand to restrain them, allowing the double doors to close.

The stadium terraces were full. Just before seven o'clock the stewards estimated there were about twenty-two thousand genuine Irish fans and about seven thousand genuine Official England Soccer fans. The rest, they decided and reported to the Gardai crowd control centre, were troublemakers. Two hundred Gardai were positioned inside the stadium, all in riot gear, with shields and long batons, helmets and perspex visors.

Inside the media commentary boxes there was an unusually strong national and international presence. Because of other events in the city over the previous ten days, a large number of foreign commentators were on hand to explain to their viewers and listeners the complexities of the fixture. 'We're all looking forward to a great match with hopefully none of the dreadful scenes we've witnessed before,' commented the RTE soccer correspondent. Which wasn't really why there were so many foreign correspondents present. If they thought all they were going to see was a soccer match they'd have stayed in their hotel bedrooms and watched it on the telly.

6.53 pm

'Mummy? Is that you, Mummy?'

'Hi Rory, yes it's me. How are you?' Tears streamed down Kate Hamilton's face.

'Mummy, where are you? Grandad said you'd be home after we came back from the zoo.'

'Rory, I've had a little accident and I've had to go into hospital for a few days but I'll be home soon, really I will.' She could hear him crying down the other end of the line. Oh don't, Rory, don't. I'm in enough pain, don't, please Rory. 'Now Rory, don't start crying. The doctors said I'll be home tomorrow or the next day.'

'Can I come and see you?'

'Not tonight, darling, it's too late. I'm too tired. Let me get some sleep tonight and then Grandad'll bring you in tomorrow.'

Down the line she could hear more sobs, uncontrollable sobs, unconsolable sobs. In the background she could make out Grandad's desperate attempts to comfort the child, without much success.

'Rory, can you hear me? Rory, listen, stop crying. Can you hear me?' A feeble and weak 'yes' came back through all the sniffles and suppressed sobs. 'Rory, if you're a good
boy and do exactly what Grandad says, when I come home we'll maybe get a puppy.'

The line went silent.

It was too easy. Rory was no fool, that puppy had been held back for a long time. There's something up. In his own little mind he sensed something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. 'Mummy, are you all right?'

'Of course I am.' I've got an intercostal drain in my upper chest, an intercostal drain in my lower chest, an IV line in both arms, I'm minus three pints of blood and a large chunk of flesh from my left arm. I've never felt better, she thought bitterly as the tears poured freely.

'Mummy, when are you coming home?'

'Tomorrow, Rory, I'll be home tomorrow.'