Scalpel (14 page)

Day 5

22

6.47 am, Friday, 14th February 1997

The cottage, one mile outside Kilcullen, Co. Kildare

The jeep's headlights pierced the early morning darkness.

Tommy Malone and Sam Collins were delivering heavy artillery. Malone was concerned about developments at the Central Maternity Hospital and rumours that Harry O'Brien might move his wife and newborn son home. He wanted to strike as soon as possible.

Malone had turned up at five o'clock the previous day to the back door of the O'Brien Corporation headquarters in Dawson Street as arranged. Three gentle knocks, repeated at thirty-second intervals, alerted the waiting Betty and within minutes he was inside the building.

Betty had guided him well away from the night security guard and down to Big Harry's personal office. There, at the back of a large swivel chair behind a leather-topped desk, hung an aerial photograph of Beechill, the O'Brien family residence in Wicklow.

Tommy Malone had stared at it for over an hour, noting the front gates, the road leading to the front gates, and in particular the dirt track that ran along one side of the estate. He'd squinted at the gardens close to the house itself and the clumps of bushes nearby. Ideal cover, he decided. Then he'd noted the large trees, singly and in groups, scattered around the twelve-acre site. Fuckin' brilliant, even better. Betty had checked in twice to let him know he was okay and wouldn't be disturbed. When he'd left, just after six
thirty, Tommy Malone knew Beechill like the back of his hand. He also knew Big Harry and Theo Dempsey's private home telephone numbers, read off a pad inside a drawer in the desk. In his mind he'd already chosen Dempsey as the go-between and courier for the ransom. All dealings with Big Harry would be through Dempsey, the only telephone calls would be made to Dempsey's number. The rozzers, he reckoned, would bug Beechill first and only get round to Dempsey when they realised the ransom pick-up wasn't being dictated to Big Harry through his telephone.

Malone also learned something very interesting from Betty. 'He's letting all the staff off for a few days to celebrate the baby's birth.'

Malone couldn't believe his luck. 'When?'

'Tomorra. I heard wan of the security men talkin' abou' it and givin' ou' shite tha' he wasn' bein' givin' a few days off as well.'

Tommy Malone hugged her for that little gem of information.

Later that afternoon Sam Collins had driven past Beechill in a newly stolen Cherokee jeep with front ram bars and another set of newly stolen Kildare number plates. Collins had noted the large wrought iron gates attached to an entrance space in a fifteen foot high granite wall. The wall ran for two hundred yards along a small back road that connected in a semi-circle with the main Roundwood to Killiskey road. Checking no one was watching, he'd quickly jumped out and tested the strength of the gates, deciding there and then just how much Semtex he'd need to blow them off their hinges and out of the way.

Then he'd driven the jeep down the dirt track Malone had told him about. The dirt track ran from one end of the front wall down past an older perimeter wall built sixty years previously, finally ending at the water's edge of Vartry Reservoir. Collins discovered the track continued for another fifty yards past the turn off to the reservoir. As he slowly walked he'd noted the estate walls to his left, old and crumbling in places but still essentially sound. Then he came
across a wooden gate. The gate had been used for years by previous owners of Beechill as their own path to the fishing in the reservoir. In the dark Collins tested the hinges, first with the tips of his fingers feeling for rust, then with the strength of his left shoulder. He'd smiled as he felt it give slightly. As he drove back to Dublin he made a mental note to collect a sledge hammer.

The sledge hammer was the first item to be unloaded from the back of the jeep at the cottage. Next came a sawn-off double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun, two .38 Smith & Wesson handguns and a Libyan made AK47 sub-machine-gun. Collins had dipped into his IRA cache. A Smirnoff vodka box containing balaclavas, four pairs of tight-fitting leather gloves and enough ammunition to conduct a small war lay on the front passenger seat. Malone was leaning across the driver's seat to ease this closer to the other door when he accidentally pressed the steering column horn. The sudden blare nearly lifted him out of his skin and woke Peggy Ryan, now staying at the cottage full time, wrapped up in a sleeping bag.

It also woke Brian O'Callaghan.

He slipped out of bed and peered through the early morning gloom just in time to see car headlights being switched off.

O'Callaghan scratched his head and then his arse and went back to bed.

What the hell's goin' on up there? he wondered sleepily as he snuggled down, trying to find his warm spot in the bed.

'We're going in tonigh', righ',' said Tommy Malone over a mug of strong tea. 'We'll take the little bollox tonigh'. Me source tells me Big Harry's bringing him home today and has let the staff off for two days to celebrate the baby. He couldna planned it better for us if he'd tried. Righ'?'

Malone looked at Peggy Ryan and she nodded she was ready.

'That's okay by me,' said Collins. He pressed the trigger on an empty chamber of his Smith & Wesson, aiming the barrel into the distance. 'That's okay by me. The sooner the better. I'm ready.'

In Room Three, North Wing, in Dublin's Central Maternity Hospital, Sandra O'Brien had just fed her baby and was changing his nappy. She continued to croon and smile as she watched his face crease, his nose twitch and his spindly arms flail in protest at the intrusion. He cried for a few seconds and Sandra lifted him and kissed his forehead. The crying stopped and tiny eyes squinted at the blurred face above. Sandra kissed him again, then slipped him back inside his babygrow and laid him on his side in the Moses basket.

She watched his eyes flicker and stare before sleep took over and they closed again. What a beautiful, beautiful baby boy you are. Please God let you grow up to be big and strong like your father.

Outside in the corridor Sandra heard the cries of yet another newborn baby being wheeled to one of the other rooms further along. As she listened she settled back in the bed, massaging Vitamin E oil onto her operation scar for quicker healing. She had never felt more content or fulfilled in her life before.

Dean Lynch was also in the hospital at that time, earlier than usual. Not that there was much work for consultants, with the lab still out of action operations and outpatient clinics were being cancelled. Women in established labour which seemed remotely complicated were directed to other maternity hospitals, some even taken by ambulance from the Central Maternity wards.

Lynch carried with him a briefcase he made look lighter than it felt. Ignoring everyone he made his way to his consulting room.

The corridors, examination rooms and the waiting room were deserted. The library was empty.

He had decided already where the four books with their
concealed listening devices would be placed and lost no time in positioning them. Standing back from the shelves he checked they did not look out of place, that the microphones could not be seen. He grunted with satisfaction.

Back in his room he clicked the combination lock on his briefcase and laid the contents out on an examination couch. There were eight two-hour microcassettes and sixteen Panasonic LR6 replacement batteries. He was taking no chances.

The four Voice Activating System recorders and their clip-on microphones had been bought in different stores, as had the microcassettes and batteries. All had been wiped clean of fingerprints. As he checked the replacement batteries and microcassettes he wore surgical gloves.

No point taking any chances, Dean, boyo.

From his careful observation of the detectives' routine over the previous two days he had noted that they usually gathered in the library for an early morning briefing at about 8.45 am. Lunch was also held there, and he was sure they discussed progress and strategy over junk ordered from the staff canteen. There was usually a summing up at six in the evening. In between, any interviews were also held in the library.

Now he would hear every word spoken. He could watch the comings and goings through the gap in his partly closed consulting room door and replace cassettes and batteries when an opportunity arose. And a lot of opportunities would arise. Due to the lab closure the usually busy waiting room, examination rooms and corridors leading to the laboratory were almost deserted.

You can watch and listen in on your
own
little murder enquiry, Dean boyo.

What fun.

Just after eight thirty Harry O'Brien snapped off the radio he was listening to and stared at it for a moment, deep in thought. Spread out on the desk in front of him was the tabloid
Daily Post,
its lead story an 'EXCLUSIVE' and accompanied by a photograph of the Gardai yellow incident
tape across the Central Maternity Hospital laboratory door. The photo was in full colour.

'HOSPITAL IN CRISIS!' ran the banner headline.

The RTE radio early morning news programme,
Morning Ireland,
ran the hospital story as its first news item, later including a six-minute extended report.

Harry O'Brien had had enough.

A few minutes after nine Garda Commissioner Thomas Quinlan met with Chief Superintendent Michael Loughry at Garda headquarters in the Phoenix Park. A heated discussion ensued, lasting slightly over one hour and ending with the politically motivated decision to move Jack McGrath from the murder investigation of Mary Dwyer.

It was Loughry who suggested introducing a woman to take over the enquiry.

23

12.37 pm

Lecture Theatre, Central Maternity Hospital

Jack McGrath decided to use his trump card.

He was fed up playing games with the doctors.

He was worried about the lack of any half decent break in the case. The more he thought about it the more convinced he was the murderer was one of the hospital staff. The more he thought about that the more he worried.

'The bastard could strike again,' he said to Dowling. 'He could be walking the wards, laughing at our frustrated attempts to catch him. Well it's time to take the gloves off. It's time to put these bastards in their places. This may be their hospital but this is
my
murder enquiry. It's time to kick ass.'

The doctors filed in in groups. There was subdued small talk and nervous glances at the very-out-of-place-looking detectives scanning every face. McGrath had positioned his team at strategic points so that each had a good view of the tiered rows stretching back from the central dais at the front. Kate Hamilton stood halfway down the hall, leaning against the wall, trying hard to look intimidating.

Luke Conway joined McGrath at the lectern without a word and they watched as the last one or two pushed others along in the very back row. Dean Lynch sat three rows from the back, watching every move, waiting for any snippet of conversation. He suddenly spotted Hamilton and a slight
smile flickered, then died. He turned so that he had her in view all the time.

Conway spoke first.

'This is Detective Inspector Jack McGrath of the Serious Crime Squad. He is based in Store Street Garda station. Inspector McGrath and his team are investigating the incident that occurred in the library last Tuesday night.'

Incident!
thought McGrath.
Incident! The girl was murdered!
He could feel his temper rise.

'As you know,' continued Conway, 'we seem to be at loggerheads as to how this investigation should proceed in the hospital. The Inspector, understandably,' Conway paused and looked condescendingly at McGrath, 'wants to find the perpetrator of this crime as soon as possible. We, on the other hand, have to keep the hospital running. As you all know there are twenty-four-hour-a-day activities going on here. Sickness doesn't strike just during office hours, and if my own experience is anything to go by, babies do seem to have that peculiar knack of being born at the most inconsiderate hours of the night.'

A polite ripple of laughter filled the auditorium and heads nodded in agreement. Conway permitted himself a half smile.

'However,' he continued, 'we really cannot carry on our activities without a fully functioning laboratory. Inspector McGrath has seen fit to continue to keep the lab closed, for whatever reasons. But he has informed me that after our little talk here this morning, there's a good chance that yellow incident tape will come down and we can all get back to work.'

There was a small ripple of applause.

'Certainly we need to get this hospital back into action as soon as possible,' Conway added quickly. 'The adverse publicity is having a dreadful effect on patient confidence and staff morale.' He paused significantly and half turned towards McGrath. 'Only this morning I had a telephone call from the Minister for Health wanting to know what was going on and why we weren't working as normal. I had to
tell the Minister that the police investigation was stalling our best efforts to restore normality.'

He rounded on McGrath.

'I'll hand you over to the Detective Inspector who wants to say a few words.'

Conway sat down in the front row and waited.

The interruption was carefully stage managed. A side door into the lecture theatre was noisily opened and all heads turned to see Professor Patrick Armstrong stride in followed by a smaller, paunchy man in an expensively tailored pinstripe suit. In his right hand he held a rather battered brown briefcase. The two men walked deliberately in front of the dais and pushed into the far side of the second row. Others squeezed to make room.

Armstrong stood up. 'I'm terribly sorry we're late. The traffic outside is dreadful. My name is Professor Patrick Armstrong and this,' he rested a hand on the smaller man's shoulder, 'is Peter Harrington of Harrington and Partners, the legal representatives for the hospital.'

Armstrong sat down. Harrington snapped the locks on his briefcase noisily and rummaged inside. Heads strained to watch. He produced a dictaphone, making a great show of connecting a microphone and directing it towards the front. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the briefest of seconds but this was merely to start a time recorder. Harrington and Partners billed by the hour. He needed to know how much he would charge at the end of this little diversion. Money for jam, he thought to himself as he settled back to listen.

McGrath began.

'Thank you, Dr Conway. I'm not going to go into the details of this investigation, you all must know them by now. What I will say is that for the first time in the many years I have been working with the Serious Crime Squad I have come up against an extraordinary wall of silence. Requests by my men to interview many of you have been stonewalled. Calls have not been returned. Questions refused. Any information has had to be dragged out. I've learned more from the newspapers.'

A rumble of protest was building up among the tiered rows. Before anyone could interrupt, McGrath played his ace card.

'I can spend the rest of the year scouring every inch of the laboratory for clues. And it will stay closed until I say otherwise.'

The rows erupted in protest. Sitting quietly near the back, Dean Lynch smiled. He glanced towards Kate Hamilton but quickly averted his eyes as he noticed her look in his general direction.

McGrath held up a hand for silence but it came slowly, the deep mutterings continuing for minutes.

The next move McGrath had thought over for hours. It was a gamble, but it was time to gamble. He reached into a side pocket and produced a long brown envelope from which he theatrically drew a folded piece of paper. All eyes followed. McGrath opened the paper, laid it on the lectern and smoothed it out.

'Late last night we received certain information.' He paused. He would never have a more captive audience. 'As we speak that information is being checked. If it proves accurate we may be in a position to make an arrest soon.'

Gasps reverberated round the theatre.

Dean Lynch still smiled. Inside he was laughing. He had already retrieved the first set of tapes and listened to the early morning briefing: he knew they had nothing.

'However,' continued McGrath quickly, desperate to seize the opportunity, 'we cannot proceed on that information until we have screened every male staff member of the hospital. You cooperate with my men and I'll allow your lab to reopen.'

He slipped the paper inside the brown envelope and placed both inside his jacket pocket.

Dowling pulled him to one side as the theatre emptied. 'What information did ye receive last night?'

'Bugger all. The only thing on that paper was yesterday's lunch order.'

Dowling groaned.

The laboratory was cleared for re-opening at three o'clock that afternoon.

A hastily arranged photo call was held in the impressive front lobby of the hospital at five thirty that same afternoon. There was a TV crew from RTE, journalists and photographers from radio, newspapers and a number of glossy magazines. Even
Hello!
magazine had a photographer present.

Luke Conway entered the lobby first and read from a prepared script.

'Thank you ladies and gentlemen for coming along today at such short notice despite the bitterly cold weather. However we did promise you an opportunity to see the happy couple, sorry, happy
family
before they left the hospital.'

Cameras whirred, bulbs flashed.

Into view came a beaming Harry O'Brien, pushing his young wife in a wheelchair. Sandra's personal hairdresser and beautician had worked on her for most of the morning and she looked beautiful, if a little drawn. Her long blonde hair was pulled back revealing high cheek bones, full lips and a dazzling smile. Here was Ireland's most famous model, her beauty untouched by the recent pregnancy and dramatic birth.

Behind followed June Morrison carrying Gordon O'Brien wrapped in a lace shawl, his tiny face and shock of wispy blond hair just barely visible above the bundle of clothes. Morrison carefully handed the baby to his mother and she turned to the cameras.

Bulbs flashed, shutters whirred again.

Harry O'Brien then stood behind the wheel chair for the family photograph. The photographer from
Hello!
magazine switched cameras and fired off another roll.

Then the barrage of questions began.

Harry O'Brien answered as many as he could with good humour, smiling throughout. He was an imposing figure in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt and navy and white spotted polka dot tie. His curly hair was almost combed to order and in his breast pocket a dark pink kerchief hung out. Big Harry looked like a man in control and he kept both hands firmly on the back of the wheelchair as he spoke.

No, Sandra and Gordon were not leaving the hospital early because of the police investigation. The weather forecast was not good and he wanted his wife and son home in case it snowed.

No, he had not decided to move them earlier than expected because he feared for their safety.

Yes, he had full confidence in the staff of the Central Maternity Hospital. Wasn't he taking one of them down to Wicklow to help with Sandra and the baby? He pulled June Morrison over and a fresh burst of flash bulbs lit up the lobby. Morrison smiled for the cameras.

Yes, he was delighted to be a father again. He was absolutely and totally delighted to have a
family
again. He threw a big beaming smile towards Sandra who flashed one of her heart stoppers back. The photographers nearly killed one another trying to catch that moment.

Yes, he was deeply appreciative of the care and attention he and Sandra, and now little Gordon as well, had received at the Central Maternity Hospital. He was particularly pleased with the quick response of the staff when Gordon got into difficulties. He wanted to thank Dr Tom Morgan for looking after Sandra throughout the pregnancy. Morgan appeared from behind a small group of onlookers and shook O'Brien's big hand. Bulbs flashed again. Tom Morgan looked so handsome he almost stole Sandra O'Brien's thunder.

There was no mention of Dr Dean Lynch.

And he also wanted to thank the paediatric team who had played such an important role in his son's birth. The tall figure of Paddy Holland briefly joined the group for the
camera call. He ran his fingers through his short dark hair and adjusted his glasses, trying to look a little more respectable. He seemed embarrassed at all the attention and shuffled into the background again as soon as he could.

With a final thank you and wave and a few more poses for the photographers, Harry O'Brien wheeled his wife and four-day-old child back along the corridors and out to the waiting Mercedes. June Morrison would follow in the Range Rover driven by Theo Dempsey.

Dempsey felt an overwhelming sense of relief as he drove behind his boss on the hour's journey from central Dublin to the family home in Wicklow. He'd been unhappy about Sandra's safety in the hospital after he'd learned about the murder. Wicklow would be much safer.

It was the final conference for the day.

Every male staff member by now had been accounted for. Eight had no alibis for their whereabouts on the evening of Tuesday, 11th February 1997. This included five doctors and three non-medical staff. Of the five doctors two were Dr Dean Lynch and Dr Tom Morgan.

One of the detectives who checked Morgan's story was unhappy. 'He's a shifty bastard. Very evasive. Hummed and hawed a lot. Said he was at the cinema. "On your own?" I asked. He looked very embarrassed and mumbled that he often went to the movies on his own.'

'Did ye ask him what he went to see?' Dowling asked.

'Yeah. He got that right. But I'm still not happy about him. He deserves closer inspection.'

McGrath noted this. 'What about the others?'

'I checked out a Dr Dean Lynch and a Dr Paddy Holland,' said Kate Hamilton.

'And?'

'Both seemed very straightforward and reasonable to me. Lynch is one of the gynaecologists and lives alone in Ballsbridge.' She consulted her notebook. 'Flat twenty-three, the Elms. That's an apartment block just off Baggot Street.
Says he spent the whole night there, on his own, watching TV.'

'Did ye ask him what he watched?' Dowling interrupted.

'Sure did. Had to think about it but came back with a few programmes. I'll check with the TV guides later.'

'Good.'

The TV guides would confirm Lynch's story. He had set his video to record four different programmes on Tuesday 11th February. He had even looked at them since. Always the careful planner Lynch had decided long before he left the flat that if the worst came to the worst he would have his alibi set up.

'Dr Paddy Holland is a paediatrician who looks after the newborn babies,' continued Hamilton. 'He seemed a helluva nice guy.'