Scalpel (38 page)

A fleet of ambulances waited outside to transfer casualties. The first were driven up to the doors of the Accident and Emergency department of the Merrion Hospital just as the teams went in for half-time. Sirens heralded their arrival. Dean Lynch made his way through the car park, waiting briefly until the first were unloaded, some on stretchers. No one paid any attention to the small, dark haired man with the thin, black moustache, bulky framed from the heavy sweaters underneath his new white shirt and tie. When the third ambulance arrived he was there on hand to open the doors and assist the still cursing and swearing and even fighting soccer fans. He chose one who had blood streaming from a head wound and directed him to the waiting room, sitting him down and rushing inside the casualty department for a wadge of cotton wool to stem the flow. Still no one paid the slightest attention to him.

The casualty department resembled a battle ground with
about twenty opposing fans in supporters' colours, in various states of concussion, bleeding and general disarray. Some were squaring up to each other and twelve hospital security men sweated under the lights as they struggled to keep the peace and allow the doctors and nurses to get on with their jobs.

There were sixteen screened-off cubicles occupied with casualties. Nurses ran from one to another with suturing material, cotton wool, bandages, syringes, needles, local anaesthetic, eye pads, the lot. Doctors moved briskly from cubicle to cubicle, assessing, ordering, laying on hands to assist the less experienced staff, trying to gauge time and resources versus the anticipated overall load.

'If this is only half-time what sort of a night are we in for?' one of them voiced out loud. No one dared guess. No one would know until it was all over.

By then it would be too late.

Dean Lynch moved coolly and casually, peering past curtains, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, looking as preoccupied as the rest of the white coated doctors. All anyone could remember later was the small, dark-haired man, with the thin moustache and the glasses. They all agreed he had seemed so pleasant.

It took almost twenty minutes before an opportunity arose. The noise and the lights and the crowds heated the department up quickly and it wasn't long before one of the doctors slipped his white coat off, wiped the sweat from his brow on a rolled up sleeve and went back inside a cubicle to stitch up a deep wound on a baton-scarred head. He never noticed until the next day that his identity badge was missing.

Dean Lynch quietly lifted it off and slipped it inside his own white coat pocket. Then he moved from cubicle to cubicle until he found exactly what he needed, an unattended patient beside a stainless steel trolley on which lay a small instrument tray, in which lay a scalpel handle. It disappeared into his white coat pocket. Lynch had discovered where the nurses went for fresh equipment and, in
an unguarded moment, he slipped inside, emerging with a
handful of scalpel blades. They were all size twenty-three,
the widest and the strongest.

'What's the score?' he asked one of the doctors joining
to help, noticing him stuff his Walkman earphones into his
pocket.

'One all. Micko equalised just before half-time.'

'Brilliant,' enthused Lynch and he made his way along the
corridor, out from the Accident and Emergency department
towards the main hospital building. Closer to where Kate
Hamilton lay.

8.00 pm

Lesley Cairns hated soccer, hated it. She was one of the few in the country not watching the big match that night. She had gone home to wash her hair and watch a bit of telly. Which is what she was doing at eight o'clock exactly, the Sky news bulletin carrying the latest from around the world, but especially from Ireland. Tommy Malone was dead by his own hand but there was still no sign of Dr Dean Lynch. Police on mainland Britain now did not believe he actually had taken the Stena Line crossing. All reported sightings had been checked carefully and nothing found to suggest he'd left Ireland. Gardai had issued a computer enhanced photo-fit of what Dr Dean Lynch might look like if he tried to disguise himself. And the third photo-fit nearly lifted Lesley Cairns out of her seat.

'That's him,' she almost screamed at the television. 'Oh my God, I'm sure that's him.'

She scrambled in her handbag, finally finding the business card stuck in between her own credit cards. Hands shaking, she dialled the Southampton number. It didn't ring out. She dialled the Hammersmith number. It didn't ring out either. She checked with the operator.

'Quick, please check this quickly. It's very important. Are you sure? Sorry, no I'm sorry, it's just that it's so important.
You're absolutely sure? God!' She hung up and began scanning the telephone book, her hands by now almost uncontrollable. Garda, Garda, Garda… here it is. Blackrock. Steadying her trembling fingers just enough, she punched in the numbers and waited for what seemed an eternity.

'Hello, Blackrock Garda station.'

'Look officer, I may be wrong, but…'

8.10 pm

The second half was underway with the commentators almost hoarse from trying to shout above the roar of the crowd. It was even Steven all the way with Tom Dalzell shadowed like a hawk by Dinno Regan, Ireland's veteran centre back. 'A man plagued by injuries, though none of them to himself,' as the BBC soccer pundit reported drily. There were plenty of early attempts at goal and some great saves at both ends. It was settling down to become a cracker of a match.

Inside a cubicle in a toilet beside radiology, Dean Lynch carefully cut open the back of the stolen identity badge, holding the plastic in both hands. He gently slid his recent photograph up against the one currently in place and cut the correct shape. He lifted it back and pared a little more away, then checked again. It was perfect. With the merest trace of super-glue he stuck his photo in place, waited until he felt it had dried, then placed the plastic inside its outer cover. It, too, was super-glued back into position. He waited again, this time for almost five minutes by his watch, before checking. It looked perfect. He then clipped the new identity badge onto his pen-stuffed top pocket, flushed the toilet, started humming and unlocked the cubicle door. He washed his hands at the basins, inspecting the result in the mirror. The toilet door unexpectedly opened and another white-coated doctor came in, barely acknowledging Lynch. He began washing his hands at the basins and glanced at Lynch, who was still checking himself.

'It's gonna be a rough night by the looks of things.' Lynch smiled. 'Yes, it looks like it, doesn't it?' When the door closed again, Dean Lynch knew he had successfully completed stage one. He emptied his pockets into a small plastic bag and stuffed it behind a radiator. He gently patted the side pocket of his white coat. Scalpel handle, scalpel blade, a few pens and doctor's pocket book, pen torch and patella hammer. He had everything to make his disguise look authentic. He was a careful, meticulous planner.

Unwrapping a size twenty-three scalpel blade from its foil, he admired the light glinting against its steel before snapping it into place on the scalpel handle. Finally he looked back at the mirror above the basins, not quite sure which he admired most. His disguise, or the scalpel.

Don't worry, Dean boyo, they're both important tonight. For stage two.

He cleared his throat and spat into the sink, taking deep breaths in and out. Then he walked over to the toilet door, paused and opened it.

At the official public enquiry chaired by Chief Justice Terence Kearney, Detective Sergeant Tom Delaney of Blackrock Garda Station explained how and why the delay occurred.

'The call was logged at 8.12 pm and we immediately scrambled a patrol car and team of officers. There was a manpower shortage that night because so many uniformed Gardai were deployed at the international football match being held in Lansdowne Road Stadium. Also, because of traffic restrictions around the stadium, there was a lot of diverted traffic on the main Rock Road, along Booterstown Avenue, even as far as the Stillorgan dual carriageway. There were four Gardai in the patrol car, including myself. Three of us were armed with standard issue .38 Smith & Wesson handguns. They were loaded and ready for use. We met Lesley Cairns in the car park of the Stillorgan Park Hotel as arranged. It was about eight thirty by then. She was under strict instructions not to go
near the flat herself. We proceeded to the apartment complex, arriving at eight forty-two exactly. Exactly, yes exactly. I remember checking the time on the car digital clock.'

8.42 pm

Tom Dalzell came down inside the penalty box and the whole England team appealed for a penalty. The French referee, after a thirty-second pause, pointed to the spot. There was an immediate scramble on the field. 'The fucker dived,' screamed Dinno Regan, but Monsieur Perdieux pretended not to understand. The Irish team, including goalkeeper, crowded around.

As they did, Dean Lynch was walking along the bottom corridor of the Merrion Hospital towards the lifts. In his right hand he held a large orange-coloured hardbacked envelope containing X-rays which he had stolen from the radiology waiting room. Written on the front in thick black felt-tip pen was the name Kate Hamilton. From inside the wards the turned-up TVs recorded the chaos at Lansdowne Road. Patients who were classified as too unwell to even go to the toilet sat up on their beds shouting obscenities at the referee. Those who couldn't shout mouthed while those who couldn't mouth rattled their drip sets.

'Fucking frog!' was the general opinion, followed by 'that bollox Dalzell!' and a number of carefully chosen suggestions as to what would happen to him if the viewers could only get hold of him.

It was unfortunate the excitement spilled out onto the corridors. Unfortunate for Kate Hamilton. Very fortunate for Dean Lynch.

The lower lift went unguarded for only a minute as the armed Special Branch officer had a quick peek at the nearest TV. And one minute was all Dean Lynch needed. He was inside the lift and had punched the button for level five within those few unguarded seconds.

LEVEL FIVE IS OUT OF ACCESS UNTIL FURTHER
NOTICE. The message, written in thick red felt-tip pen, was held firmly in place with sellotape. Lynch acknowledged with a smile, watching as lights lit up when each level was reached.

'We reached the front door of the flat at about 8.45, certainly within minutes. We could hear the TV on inside so we rang the bell three times in quick succession. I think we waited a minute, then we hammered loudly. Then Ms Cairns opened the door with her company keys We were all inside within seconds. I remember exactly the time we finished searching because the match commentator on the TV was going on about the Irish team still protesting about the penalty award. It was Detective Sergeant Nolan who noticed the hair-dye material and scribbled diagram of the Merrion Hospital.'

'What did you do then?' asked the Chief Justice.

'I telephoned the Merrion Hospital immediately.'

8.47 pm

The penalty area had been cleared and the players restrained from taking further chunks out of one another. Another melee on the terraces settled as fans watched the unfolding drama on the field. Tom Dalzell was squaring up to take the penalty. In the commentary boxes reporters spoke in muted tones as the stadium hushed. Even the Irish supporters quietened with only an occasional voice from the terraces trying desperately to distract.

The lift to level five opened and out stepped Dean Lynch.

Protection duty in any police force is boring. Gardai Special Branch detectives on regular protection duty often complain about the boredom. 'It's ninety-nine per cent boredom, only very occasionally relieved by one per cent excitement.' The difficult part with protection duty is trying to decide when that one per cent of action is likely to arise.

It proved too difficult for the officer on duty at the lift on Black Wednesday at exactly 8.49 pm. He was listening to the match on a Walkman, ear plugs firmly in place, heart racing as he tried to imagine the scene and excitement on the pitch and in the stadium. The radio commentator had his listeners worked up to a frenzy. 'Dalzell definitely dived. It's an outrage, a disgrace, the most disgraceful piece of refereeing I've seen in years. We can see it here clearly on the action replay and it's obvious to anyone with two good eyes in his head that Dalzell dived. The referee was miles away and the linesman didn't lift his flag either. It's really quite disgraceful.'

'And you had difficulty getting through to the hospital?'

'Yes. It took nearly a minute for an operator to reply.'

'
'But that's not long really in a busy hospital.'

'I'm afraid it was, your Honour, on the night in question.
I asked to be put through immediately to the ICU.'

'And?'

'The line was engaged.'

'Was there only one line to the whole of ICU?' The Chief
Justice found this very hard to believe.

'On the night in question, yes.'

'How long did it stay engaged?'

'I
believe, in total, it was almost seven minutes.'

It was eight. The sister in charge was discussing with the senior casualty surgeon on duty the possibility of allowing one serious head wound up to the ward from Accident and Emergency. She blocked the move. 'We have strict instructions to keep this floor clear until that detective is transferred. She's our main responsibility. If anything happens to her I may as well commit suicide.'

Lynch was given only a cursory inspection at the lift. He flashed the X-rays at the Special Branch man, pulling one out for effect. 'Have to check her chest drain,' he mouthed, noticing the
Walkman. His identity badge was noted, his pockets frisked. The scalpel handle and blade went unnoticed, stuck down the spine of one of the pocket books. He was nodded on. Lynch smiled acknowledgement and turned down the corridor. To his delight he discovered it empty, the only noise coming from a TV.

'What did you do then?'

'
I
immediately telephoned HQ in Harcourt Square and asked for the mobile phone number of the officers on duty at the hospital.'

'How long did that take to get.'

'About a minute, maybe two.'

8.51 pm

Dalzell's rocket penalty shook the cross bar and rebounded onto the back of Dinno Regan's neck who was standing with his back to goal, unable to watch. An English foot stabbed the ball back goal-wards and suddenly the penalty area was a mass of scrambling, seething, flashing boots and arms. The terraces erupted and TV cameras flashed from one area to another, the commentators unable to keep up with action on and off the field.

At that exact time, on level five of ICU, the sister was still on the phone and the nurse and female Special Branch officer were glued to the TV.

Dean Lynch was inside the intensive care unit.

For a moment he just stared at the figure in the bed, the only figure in the four-bedded ICU. The other three beds were empty. The head was heavily bandaged and there were two IV lines connected to arms that were covered by bedclothes. Two tubes reached to the chest level, one showing blood-red fluid draining. An oxygen mask was strapped to the face and the gentle hiss of the gas could be heard.

Dean Lynch smiled.

The figure didn't move as he entered and still didn't stir as he approached. A pity, he thought briefly, no fight. What a pity.

He reached inside his pocket and slipped out the pocket book, dropping the scalpel onto his free right hand. A glint of light danced briefly off the wide stainless steel blade. Gripping the handle firmly he edged closer, glancing quickly at the door to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed. He could see the mist on the face mask, the blood-red staining on the head bandage, the jet-black hair beneath the bandage.

With one vicious and decisive stroke, he slit the throat deeply.

The tailor's dummy head came off its body. It rolled off the pillow and bounced onto the floor, coming to a rest at Lynch's feet. He stood there, mesmerised, scalpel still in hand.

Then it hit him. The bitch! She's outwitted me!

Then he noticed the small receiver attached to the head, flashing red. As in red for danger.

The receiver had been primed to set off all alarms. Every officer on duty at the hospital had one and as each alarm pierced, for a split second those who heard it looked up in astonishment.

Then they ran.

From all corners of the hospital they ran, but particularly from in front of the lift and from the TV room on level five. Three entered the corridor in time to see the white coat tail of the small, bulky man with dark hair and thin, black moustache disappear into recovery.

Where the real Kate Hamilton lay. Expecting him. Her alarm had gone off too, she knew he was coming.

He was inside the room, and had slipped the lock. Outside he heard shouts and the sound of running feet along the corridor. A smile flickered across his lips.

Their eyes met.

And there she was again. Elizabeth Anne Duggan, with
her black hair pulled back severely, revealing her white face, one long thin bony hand resting on the bedclothes. Elizabeth Anne Duggan, his torturer, his tormentress.

The pounding on the doors only worked him up more, sounding so much like his own fists pounding against that door he knew so well in the orphanage, the under-stairs room. His dark room, his personal dungeon, his private hell.

It would end now, finally, with
her
death, no matter what happened to him. He didn't care if he died. He didn't care how he died, so long as she came with him.

He threw off his glasses to get a better look at his victim. And once again Kate Hamilton stared into the eyes of death. Eyes full of hate, full of rage. Full of evil. Full of intent. To kill.

As the first splintering of wood sounded on the locked door, he smiled slowly and lifted the scalpel above his head. 'Goodbye bitch.'

The pain in her chest from the two drains restricted her, but Kate Hamilton still managed to point Jack McGrath's personal revolver in Lynch's general direction and fire off one round. The bullet entered his right chest, tearing a hand's-breadth hole in the lung, and stopping him in mid-flight. He staggered back against the wall.

Outside the door was crashed against, the lock slowly giving. More wood splintered, the shouts became desperate.

Hamilton managed a second round but it drilled into the wall harmlessly. The pain in her chest seared and she struggled to sit up and get a better aim.

Lynch lay slumped, half on his knees, half on the floor, fighting desperately for air. Every strained breath only filled his lungs with blood, obstructing them more. He sensed the room becoming dark. He looked up again and there was Miss Duggan still. Sitting up on bed, smiling at him.

Kate Hamilton grabbed at the bars of the bed head with her left hand and pointed the gun weakly in his direction again. She could feel her strength ebb, the gun becoming like a dead weight. She felt it slip from her grasp and she
looked desperately at the door. She could hear the voices, the pounding. The lock giving, but not given.

And Lynch was looking at her.

At his Miss Duggan. And she was smiling at him. 'You can sleep in hell now, Dean Lynch,' he heard her say. 'You can sleep in hell.'

With an animal howl he exhausted his dying strength and staggered to his feet, blood streaming from mouth and nose. The scalpel swung in an arc through the air as he lurched towards the bed.

'Biiitttcccchhhh!'

The scalpel cut through the thin cotton sheet and Dean Lynch's dying body propelled it further.

The gurglings and grunts were the only noises Jack McGrath heard when the door finally gave way. They came from the lungs of Dean Lynch, whose body lay across Kate Hamilton, the scalpel firmly embedded between her legs. In the blood stained mattress. Not in her body.

She had collapsed from the effort and pain. But she was alive.

Dean Lynch was dead. At last.

He had gone to whatever peace his tortured soul might claim, he had fled from every Miss Duggan who'd ever tormented him.

'Sweet Jesus!' was all Jack McGrath could remember saying.