Blinding Lies Read online

  Gallagher was dressed but it looked like yesterday’s clothes – crumpled, with a wet stain on his shirt. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his hair stood on end, as though he had run his hands through it many times. He didn’t answer or invite Elise inside, just stood in the frame of the front door to his large Tudor-style home, arms bunched into fists at his sides.

  “I see your usual security men have been replaced. Feeling unwell, were they?” Elise pressed on, hoping to draw out a response.

  Gallagher continued his silent stare; he had been too well coached by his legal team to ever give anything away.

  “Do you want something, detective?”

  “The fact is,” Elise continued, “we have identified two victims of a violent crime to be the two men you normally employ in that post. They were found dead late last night. You may have heard about it on the morning news bulletin on the radio?”

  Gallagher shrugged, remaining silent.

  “Are you concerned at all that they haven’t turned up for work?”

  Gallagher was beginning to unnerve Elise now. He looked fraught, every pore in his body radiating aggression; he was practically baring his teeth. He looked like a man unravelling at the edges. Elise regretted not asking another detective to join her for this visit.

  “I see you’ve been power-washing.” Elise rubbed the stone steps on the porch with the toe of her shoe, over a faded dark patch on the grey flagstones.

  Gallagher slammed the front door in her face. Elise heard him bellow in rage from inside the hallway. She felt sure she had found the site of the murder. She would leave asking a judge to issue a warrant on a Sunday to Chief Superintendent McCarthy.

  25

  Marco was in the doghouse. He knew he brought brawn and loyalty to Tom Gallagher, but not much else. The boss had been good to him over the years and had forgiven Marco’s stupidity on more than one occasion. To show his appreciation, to make up for his own personal failings, Marco would do the unimaginable for his boss if he told him to. But that was the thing – Marco needed to be told what to do. He just didn’t have much between the ears, as his long-dead mother used to say.

  When he had told the two men to remove the bodies, he should have given clear instructions. He should have been explicit. But he had assumed they were professionals, that they knew how to have the bodies dumped in the river or at sea, weighed down and never to be seen again – with their wallets removed to prevent indentification. Above all, that they knew not to drive through the city centre! But he had been too preoccupied with protecting the boss from the Meiers; he had wanted the bodies removed quickly. And the only two men he could get in a hurry turned out to be thicker than himself. Amateurs. Ran right into a checkpoint. Marco’s oversight had brought heat to Mr. Gallagher, attention he loathed, and a detective to the door. Mr. Gallagher had been understanding. He was always patient with Marco. And he had given him a chance to make amends. A new plan, with clear instructions, which Marco was determined to follow to the letter. He couldn’t let Mr. Gallagher down.

  Alan Ainsley, the Englishman, lived over one hundred and twenty kilometres away in Waterford with his wife. He was old enough to be Marco’s father; was probably in his sixties. He wore large glasses that slipped down his nose, needing to be pushed up constantly – the movement irritated Marco. He had met the Englishman a number of times and had never enjoyed his company. Everything about the man grated on Marco – his accent, his laugh, and his stupid glasses. He was an associate of Mr. Gallagher, a middleman as Marco understood it.

  When Marco knocked on the door that Sunday afternoon and said he must join him on a drive to Cork, Alan had been packing a large suitcase. He had been reluctant to accompany Marco, said he was taking a holiday with the missus, but Marco insisted. Mr. Gallagher was waiting.

  On the drive back to Cork the Englishman repeatedly wanted to know what this was all about. He was nervous, Marco could tell. Maybe he had seen the news, heard about the dead bodies in the car, or that David was dead, and John was missing. Maybe he knew the Meiers were in town. Marco enjoyed letting him squirm. The truth was Marco had no idea why Mr. Gallagher wanted to speak to the Englishman. So, he didn’t bother to answer the man, just kept the radio volume turned up loud to hear the match results and enjoyed the drive.

  If Alan Ainsley thought it strange that Tom was conducting business from home, he kept it to himself. The house was full of people – all Gallagher’s men, all sitting in various places – the hall, kitchen, living room – every available seat was taken. They were eating, or reading notes, or watching TV. Alan had been here before, and never seen Gallagher’s street army inside the house. He knew Gallagher liked to conduct much of his work from his offices at the back of his clubs, to keep Mae removed from his business dealings. There was no sign of Mae, come to think of it. The realisation made him nervous. He wondered what she would make of all these muscle men lounging around her home, their heavy boots resting on her floral upholstery, leaving crumbs on her furniture and abandoned drinks on her coffee tables.

  Alan waited in Gallagher’s office, with Marco standing behind him in the corner. Alan had given up making small talk. He was perspiring heavily, mopping his brow and neck. His glasses kept slipping down his nose from the sweat, even more than usual. It took all of Marco’s self-control not to knock them off his face.

  After ten minutes Gallagher appeared, Murray at his side. Gallagher moved past Alan and sat down, facing the Englishman, the table between them. Murray stood just inside the door, and Marco exited, like faithful guard dogs with a practised routine. Alan had never heard Murray speak – he had no idea if he was local or not. The scar on his face and the look in the man’s eyes chilled Alan’s blood.

  The air in the room was cold, made colder when Tom entered. He was freshly showered, his hair slicked back, his shirt sleeves rolled up. But his eyes set Alan’s nerves on edge – they were red-rimmed and manic; he looked mad, yet … focused. It was the look of a very dangerous man with nothing to lose.

  Alan swallowed nervously and noted Gallagher hadn’t shook his hand as he had entered. Gallagher was a man you could rely on for gentlemanly manners. Clearly, not today. Alan had a fair idea of what was going on, and he was terrified now. Seeing Gallagher had confirmed it – Alan was in deep trouble.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Tom began, his voice soft, his eyes probing the man sitting opposite him.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Tom? Jean and I have a flight to catch in the morning, and you just order me up here? Let me tell you –”

  “You’re here because you helped my son to arrange a deal with the Meiers behind my back. Now they are in town, torturing John until I return what David was planning to sell them. Which I know nothing about.”

  Tom threw a small, blackened item at Alan, who caught it and quickly recoiled, tossing it onto the table between them.

  “That is my son’s finger,” Tom said, fire in his eyes and his voice like ice. “You had a role in this, and you are going to bring it to an end!”

  Alan sat still, fighting the urge to retch into his lap. Tom silently glared at him, waiting for him to speak. Alan had been around long enough to know there was no point bluffing a man like Tom Gallagher. He cleared his throat, willing his heart rate to return to normal so he could stay composed and controlled. He knew the game was up – he was stuck between Tom Gallagher and the Meier brothers, and needed, somehow, to wriggle out.

  “Alright, Tom, I won’t lie to you. David was keen to do something for himself, on his own. He knew you planned to leave the business to John and he wanted to impress you. He knew he was making a mess of things in the clubs. He had messed up with Natalie and the twins and was taking too many drugs. He knew he was disappointing you and he wanted to put things right. He saw an opportunity to sell information for a ton of money, and he approached me. Of course I found a buyer – there’s always a market for information.” He spread his hands wide, willing Gallagher to understand. “Believe me,
Tom, I was trying to help him!”

  Tom was quiet as he digested Alan’s words. It sounded plausible – David had been in a bad place in the months before his death but had a renewed spark about him in the few weeks before that fateful night. Tom and Mae had spoken about his turnaround, had hoped David was putting the bad times behind him. As much as Tom loved his son, and could understand him wanting to impress him, he was furious that David had shut him out. He refused to let David’s mistake cost John his life.

  “Do you know where the Meiers are hiding out?”

  “No, Tom, I swear!”

  “But you can contact them?”

  Alan swallowed hard; he really did not want to be in the middle of this. But what choice did he have?

  “Yes, I can contact them.”

  “Then do it. I’m not waiting for them to get back in touch with me. We do this on my terms. Suggest a meet-up tonight at the Oracle. Ten o’clock. Tell Meier I have the USB stick, or key as he called it, with the information he’s looking for. Tell him to bring my son to the side entrance, and once we have John on the premises, I will toss him the key. He can even use my office computer to verify it and satisfy himself. A nice public place, no more harm to anyone. Job done. Then we cut all ties. No more dealings with them, understood?”

  “Do you have it? The key?”

  Tom didn’t answer, just stared with undisguised hatred at the Englishman. “Make the call.”

  Tobias Meier was sick of County Cork. It was truly the most boring place he had ever set foot in. The farmhouse they were staying in had been uninhabited for a while before they made it their base. It was freezing both day and night and had no internet access. They barely had coverage on their phones. The area was too remote, apparently. The Meiers were accustomed to freezing temperatures and bad weather. But the lack of technology was hindering their operation.

  Tobias’s three younger brothers were restless; they longed for beers and clubs, and for women. But the town was Gallagher’s, and Tobias knew they could not venture into the centre of it to enjoy its spoils; they would certainly draw attention to themselves. Acquiring the memory key was far more important than beer and women – there would be plenty of both when they had got what they came here for.

  For far too long they had searched for the information David Gallagher had sold them. They had a buyer who had agreed to pay more money than Tobias had ever dreamt of earning. Alan Ainsley had given them a sample of the intelligence David had found, and Tobias had had no trouble finding an interested party. Tobias had set the game in motion. A game he was beginning to regret playing. David Gallagher had got himself killed and upset the whole operation. Tobias’s buyer was impatient now. A man of his nature demonstrating his impatience was not something Tobias wanted to experience. The man had already paid fifty per cent of the fee and wanted what was his. Tobias wanted the other fifty per cent and to be done with this wretched city.

  They had driven by the house of Kate Crowley several times. A steady stream of people in various uniforms were stationed there – the white forensic jumpsuit, the uniform of the beat cop, the slick suit of the detective. There was no way inside. No matter. What they needed was not there – Tobias had intelligence in many places, enough to know the memory key was not at that property. Intelligence enough to know Tom Gallagher was moving the earth itself to find Kate Crowley, and the memory key, if she possessed it. All Tobias had to do was threaten John’s life and mutilate the man to keep the pressure on his father.

  John Gallagher had been moaning all day; Tobias was surprised he was still alive really. His blood had long ago dried on the carpet floor, and he shivered with cold as he lay there, curled into a ball.

  A text message interrupted Tobias’s thoughts – he had coverage where he stood in the living room at the window. The message was from Ainsley, the Englishman. The intermediate. His role was much like Tobias’s own, in many respects.

  Tobias quickly read the message. Gallagher had the memory key and wanted to set up a trade. Tobias’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. How quickly Gallagher had found the key, when only yesterday he hadn’t known it existed! Perhaps he had found the girl, the one who had shot David Gallagher.

  Tobias would proceed with the meeting, and if Gallagher was bluffing he would lose another son.

  26

  “Janet McCarthy sends her apologies – she is in a briefing meeting regarding the political conference,” said Frank Doherty.

  “What’s new?” came a voice from the back of the room.

  A withering glare from Frank silenced the Garda responsible.

  “Fill us in and be quick about it, Taylor. Time is of the essence, as the saying goes.”

  Elise stood to address the room, feeling exhaustion wash over her in waves. It was a physical force weighing her limbs and clouding the space inside her head. She had been on her feet for close to thirty hours. Her hands shook a little as she passed out typed summary notes to the assembled detectives and Gardaí in the Cork station’s meeting room. She physically couldn’t drink any more coffee. She felt herself sway a little on her feet but dared not sit down. She had to show she was in command of this situation, to Doherty and everyone else.

  David Gallagher’s eyes bored into her from the large photograph tacked to the noticeboard at the front of the room. His shooting was still unsolved. Kate Crowley’s picture was in place beside him, still missing. Still the prime suspect.

  Superintendent Doherty stood at the front of the room, his trench coat in situ despite the warmth blasting from the electric heaters arranged around the room. He stared at Elise, making it clear he was a busy man and she had better get on with it. His wife was not happy he was working on a Sunday. If Doherty was miserable, so must everyone else be.

  Elise cleared her throat and glanced at the notes in her hand, to better gather her thoughts and put them into some semblance of order.

  “We have two males, Seán and Bill Addams, both known associates of Tom Gallagher. Both men were killed from knife wounds to the throat; preliminary reports from the pathologist state that both victims had their jugular veins severed, and the men were attacked from behind by a right-handed individual or individuals. We are looking at the possibility that there were two attackers, owing to various factors. We believe the men were killed at an unknown location due to the lack of blood at the scene. There would have been extensive bleeding, but there was scarcely any blood found in the car.”

  “So, we are still searching for the crime scene?” The question came from the back of the room. William Ryan.

  Elise met his eyes with some level of hostility.

  “Thank you for that interjection, detective,” she answered coldly. She was so tired; she wanted to get through this without any interruptions. “And to answer your question, yes, we are still searching for the crime scene. The bodies were moved to the boot after the fact. There was a Garda checkpoint in the city that night, and the driver of the vehicle was acting suspiciously, attempting a U-turn. He and the passenger haven’t said a word since their arrest. I may have made a breakthrough on the site of the murders. I visited Tom Gallagher at his residence this morning. He seemed like a man who couldn’t care less about the fact that his two security guys didn’t turn up for work – he had replaced them of course. He was quite dishevelled.”

  “Word on the street says John Gallagher is missing,” a young Garda from the back of the room interrupted. “I imagine the Gallaghers are pretty pissed off.”

  Elise eyed the Garda coldly. More interruptions.

  “Yes, I imagine they are. I told Gallagher of the discovery of the bodies and he barely batted an eyelid. There was staining on the steps to his front porch, and there was evidence of cleaning there. Power-washing, I’d say. I quizzed him about it, and he slammed the door in my face.” Elise turned to Doherty. “Superintendent, I’d like to get a warrant to search the property, to take samples from the flagstones in front of the house. It’s highly probable the men were killed there. If
anything, it gives us an opportunity to look around. Two of Gallagher’s men are dead – it’s a logical step to search the property where they were scheduled to be at the time of their deaths. I’d also like to bring Gallagher in for questioning.”

  Superintendent Doherty chewed on a blood-pressure tablet as he spoke. “There’s no way Judge Corden will give us a warrant based on a man washing his flagstones on a Sunday morning. You’ve been warned where Gallagher is concerned – if it’s not airtight, we don’t move.”

  “With all due respect, sir –”

  Doherty turned puce as he barked, “Forget it, Taylor! Unless you have cold hard evidence, Gallagher is not to be touched. That comes from upstairs – we have our orders!”

  Yes, Elise seethed, and you have your retirement to think about.

  She knew Gallagher and his legal team had caused headaches every time he had been questioned in connection with one of his many crimes, but Gallagher had laid low for a while after each interrogation and, in Elise’s opinion, it was worth the rap on the knuckles, so to speak.

  William Ryan spoke again from the back of the room. His long frame was draped casually over a desk, and he played with a toothpick as he spoke. He had a cocky demeanour. Elise had heard he’d had a breakthrough, a solid line of investigation in the recent spate of sexual assaults in Cork. The fact annoyed her.

  “John Gallagher is missing, going on five days now, apparently.” Ryan looked directly at Elise as he spoke. “And even more concerning is the arrival of the Meier family into the city. They have been under surveillance for years. They are careful – they’ve rarely put a foot wrong. What would have drawn them to Cork?” He folded his hands in his lap, rolling the toothpick around with his tongue.

  Superintendent Doherty nearly choked on his blood-pressure pills. “What’s your point, Ryan?”