Scalpel (28 page)

Peggy looked up anxiously. 'There's somethin' wrong with the baby, Tommy. He doesn' look a bit well.'

Gordon O'Brien was not well, not well at all. He wasn't hungry, his breathing was rapid and shallow, he was tiring. He had bacteria in the bottom of both lungs and they were multiplying. Gordon O'Brien was developing pneumonia, thanks to the constant inhaling of Tommy Malone's cigarettes and the half-hour walk in the bitterly cold air, courtesy of Sam Collins.

Brian O'Callaghan was quite right. A tiny baby shouldn't have been out in that weather.

And Gordon O'Brien was a tiny baby, who'd had enough. He was tired of this life already. I'm too tired, too sick to carry on much longer, he'd say, if he could.

The
Evening Post
had yet another scoop. NURSE MURDERED. It carried exclusive reports and pictures including a half-page colour of the murder scene complete with yellow tape, yellow screen, white-suited forensics and Dan Harrison snapping away. A leader column made much of the state of the nation with biting comments on kidnappers, murderers, drug barons and the like. There was also a quarter-page photo of the Central Maternity Hospital, with the dramatic headline: IS THE KILLER STILL IN THERE?

This was more or less what many anxious patients in the wards were wondering themselves. They started to look at the doctors and nurses and security men and hospital porters
with an intensity that unsettled. Some mothers were putting two and two together and coming up with a hundred. And it would only take one to start the stampede.

At 6.20 the Gardai broke down the door of Tommy Malone's house in Anderson's Quay. Tommy was so used to this in the past that he never left any incriminating information or evidence. While milk cartons were emptied and their insides examined, floorboards lifted, the roof space inspected, the supervising Jack McGrath knew already he wasn't going to find anything. He left five men to continue and drove with a team of six from the Jaguar Unit to Hal's Snooker Emporium, well known as Tommy Malone's favourite haunt.

Hal was leaning against a pool table admiring the bottom of one of the female players when Jack McGrath and five of the Jaguar Unit burst inside, two of them carrying the doorman by the armpits. McGrath made straight for Hal who backed away as he watched McGrath first spot and then run towards him. Hal turned to escape but ran straight into the waiting grasp of two of the unit who bundled him unceremoniously out the door and down the concrete steps. A small crowd of the pool players ran to the windows and watched as the protesting Hal was pushed roughly into the back of a waiting squad car.

'Waddyiz wan' with me?' shouted Hal as he tried to scramble out the other side of the car. A heavy hand grabbed him by the hair and thrust him back inside.

'I'd like you to assist us with our enquiries into the kidnapping of Gordon O'Brien,' Jack McGrath said politely, his voice restrained at first. Then he grabbed Hal by the throat and shouted into his face. 'We know already, Hal, so no fucking bullshit. This is one of Tommy Malone's jobs. We know that Hal, and this is big, Hal. We're not talking here about GBH, or a bank job, or a drug deal, or anything like that. We're talking about the biggest crime ever.' To emphasise the point McGrath stuck a newspaper up against Hal's face. 'You've seen the papers, Hal, and you know every dog on the street is baying for this gang's blood. So
let me put it to you this way, you either help us or we'll put the word out that you were in on it from the beginning.' The blood drained from Hal's face. 'Waddyou say, Hal? There's a lot of hoods out there going crazy the way the place is shaking. A lotta hard men are ready to sell their grannies down the river to get us off their backs. If the word gets out that you were in on this, Hal, you'll not be playing snooker, you'll be playing the fucking harp. And it won't be in the National fucking Concert Hall.'

Hal identified Moonface and Sam Collins from a collection of mug shots at the Serious Crime Squad HQ in Harcourt Square. He didn't know who the woman was. 'I don' know. Okay? I just don' fuckin' know.'

McGrath believed him. He had enough anyway. He took the three mug shots to Phoenix Park and an emergency meeting with Commissioner Quinlan, the squad cars screaming through the late evening traffic.

Quinlan didn't hesitate. 'Release them to the press and TV channels. Get them on the nine o'clock news. I'll ring the Director General of RTE immediately and clear it. I'll ring Alice Martin as well so she can confirm this with RTE. Now go, for Christ's sake go.'

37

6.37 pm

'My name is John Buckley of Buckley and Partners, Solicitors. Here is my card. I have been asked by Dr Tom Morgan to represent him here this evening. I would like immediately to put on record that Dr Morgan has come to this station on a purely voluntary basis. After discussing the situation very carefully with him I have advised a full and frank disclosure of his activities to clear the air so that you can rule him out of any involvement in the murder of the lab assistant, Mary Dwyer. I believe that is the reason you wish to interview him?' The solicitor smiled, putting a row of uneven teeth on display.

Dr Tom Morgan was dressed in a muted pinstripe suit, unlike one of his usual Armani or Hugo Boss collection. He wore a plain white shirt, navy and white flecked quiet tie, his handsome face was still and strained and he looked as subdued as the clothes he was wearing. John Buckley sat beside him, a small, fat man squeezed into a suit he'd long grown out of.

'My client is aware the investigating team wishes to interview him in particular.' Buckley settled some papers on the formica-topped desk, followed by a thick legal textbook, pages noted by slips of paper sticking out. 'Before you ask my client any questions, I would like to make a short statement on his behalf.'

Kate Hamilton frowned. There was no mention yet of
Nurse Higgins. She decided to let that ride for the moment. Dowling and Doyle sat behind Morgan and his solicitor.

'Dr Morgan gave incorrect information to the investigating detective as to his whereabouts on the night of Tuesday, 11th February 1997.' Buckley read from a prepared text on the paper in front. 'Dr Morgan is a married man with three small children. His marriage is not a happy one and indeed has not been so for many years. Mrs Morgan is an alcoholic who has been in and out of treatment many times. She is currently going through a bad spell.' He coughed slightly. Morgan stared at the table, his face expressionless.

'On the night of Tuesday 11th February, Dr Morgan was in the company of a friend from around nine pm and spent the whole night with that person.'

'Who? Where?' Hamilton butted in.

Morgan looked up suddenly at her but just as quickly turned back to an absolutely fascinating scrape in the corner of the formica-topped table.

'Dr Morgan was in room one hundred and eleven of the Gresham Hotel with a Dutch national all night.'

'What was her name?'

Buckley coughed slightly again.
'His
name is Jan Pietersen. He is an old friend of Dr Morgan and they often meet up when he's in Dublin on business. On the night in question Mr Pietersen and Dr Morgan met in the bar of the Gresham and had drinks. They then had a meal and later went to Mr Pietersen's room for a few more drinks.'

Hamilton tried to keep a straight face, not as much as a flicker of surprise showed. Behind, Dowling and Doyle's mouths dropped open.

Buckley paused, then continued. 'Dr Morgan was too drunk to drive home and decided to stay the night in the room with Mr Pietersen. We have been trying to contact Mr Pietersen all day to confirm these details but his office in Amsterdam informed us that he is out of the country on business again and not expected back for two weeks.' He consulted another page of paper. 'He's apparently in the
west coast of America. We have sent faxes to all possible destinations but they have not yet been answered.' Buckley paused again and looked up.

Kate Hamilton maintained her Buddha-like expression.

'My client,' continued Buckley, 'recognises the stupidity of his action in not disclosing exactly his actions and whereabouts but he was trying to protect his wife and children and did not want it known that he might be so inebriated himself that he would be unable to drive.' Buckley looked up and a weak smile flickered. 'I mean it's bad enough having one drunk in the house.'

Buddha Hamilton said nothing.

'Dr Morgan would like to apologise for his behaviour and hopes that, when taken in the context outlined, it may be understood. Not accepted, but at least understood.' He stopped.

'This is off the record, Detective Sergeant, but there is no way, just no way, that Dr Morgan could have been involved in that young girl's death. While we have been unable to contact Mr Pietersen today we will be able to contact him sometime. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but sometime. And he'll be able to corroborate Dr Morgan's story. And when he does it will be patently obvious that he couldn't possibly have been in the hospital during the hours that murder took place.'

Buckley sat back on his chair, felt how uncomfortable it was, and leaned forward again. Tom Morgan had found a chip in the formica in which he was now engrossed.

'Are there any questions you would like to ask of my client at this juncture?'

Hamilton reached down and retrieved a thick brown paper bag which was resting at her feet. She placed it on the table. Buckley and Morgan watched closely, as if a rabbit was about to leap out. The bag was turned so that its open end faced towards Morgan. He tried to ignore it.

'Dr Morgan, where were you between the hours of eleven o'clock and one this morning?'

Buckley's face creased in a puzzled frown. 'I'm sorry, but what ha—'

'Forgive me, Mr Buckley, but I would appreciate if you didn't interrupt. You did ask if we wanted to ask Dr Morgan any questions.'

'Only relating to the incident on Tuesday, 11th February.'

'You didn't stipulate that Mr Buckley, and we have a separate inquiry on our hands which I would now like to discuss with Dr Morgan.'

'If you don't mind, I'd like to confer with my client first. I had no idea we were dealing with anything other than the events of last Tuesday. Dr Morgan came here on a purely voluntary basis to clear the air about the incident last Tuesday night.'

'Murder, Mr Buckley. The "incident" as you so delicately describe it was a very brutal murder.' Hamilton looked at her watch. 'Are you aware of any other incident your client may wish to discuss here and now?' She gently pushed at the paper bag, easing out a see-through plastic Evidence Bag containing a thick medical textbook. Buckley looked at it.

'I'd like to confer with my client for a moment if I may?'

Hamilton took off her watch and set it on the table in front of her. 'You have five minutes, not a second longer. Before you go perhaps Dr Morgan would like to have a closer look at this?'

Buckley looked sharply at Morgan but he had the look of a stunned mullet. Hamilton slipped on a pair of surgical gloves she had pulled from the side pocket of her navy jacket. Delicately and dramatically she pulled apart the top of the plastic bag and let the book slip onto the desk. She pulled a pen from her inside breast pocket and flipped open the front cover, revealing a cut out recess in which rested a Panasonic VAS cassette recorder with clip-on microphone extending to the spine. Buckley and Morgan stared. And stared. Their faces were scrutinised closely by Hamilton, Dowling and Doyle. Buckley quickly recovered his composure, cleared his throat and coughed nervously.

'Five minutes. Not a second longer.'

While Buckley and Morgan conferred frantically in the outside corridor, Hamilton conferred with her two colleagues. They agreed it was going well so far, but Dowling voiced a suspicious doubt that was niggling at the back of each of their minds. 'He's either a superb actor or he's clean. When ye opened that book he didn't look to me like a man who knew the game was up.'

'Let's hope he's an actor,' muttered Doyle.

'Yeah,' agreed Hamilton, but not wholeheartedly. There was still something wrong with this.

The door opened and Buckley and Morgan came back to the desk again, this time looking a lot less confident.

'I'd like to remind you, Detective Sergeant, Dr Morgan is here on a voluntary basis. I may advise him to leave at any point to seek further clarification if I'm unhappy with the way this interview is going.' Buckley had on his best stern face.

Hamilton was back to being a Buddha. Still wearing her surgical gloves she pressed the rewind button on the cassette player, watching as Buckley and Morgan followed her every movement. She pressed play and turned up the volume. The voices of the investigating team could be heard, not distinctly, but enough to get the gist of what was going on. What they heard was a discussion about Staff Nurse Sarah Higgins and how she had agreed to turn up at nine o'clock to be taken down to Store Street station to listen in on alibi interview checks.

'Where were you between eleven o'clock last night and one o'clock this morning?'

Morgan looked at Buckley who nodded. Go on, tell them, his eyes said.

'I was in Guys Club in Dodder Street.'

Hamilton's Buddha crumbled. Dowling and Doyle almost fell out of their chairs. Guys was Dublin's most notorious gay club. It was a small basement unit with tiny bar and lounge, steam rooms and saunas at the back. Indeed there were enough steam rooms and saunas for about twenty
people. The bar and lounge couldn't hold that many, so the steam rooms and saunas were in fairly constant use. One of the tabloids had done an in depth investigation on Guys and reported it as the only steam/sauna complex that had a condom dispensing unit prominently displayed.

Hamilton regained her composure slightly. Buckley had now taken to inspecting the same fascinating scrape on the formica table.

'Guys? You spent the whole night in Guys?' There was no disguising the disbelief in her voice.

'Yes.'

'On your own?'

'No.'

'Well?'

'Sorry?'

'Well if you weren't on your own, who was with you?'

'I can't remember.'

Buckley couldn't suppress the groan.

'You can't remember?'

'No. I honestly can't remember their names.' Morgan was embarrassed, as embarrassed as hell.

'Their
names. Was there more than one?'

'Yes.'

'Like how many?'

'Three.'

'Three? Male or female?'

There was a nervous cough and fiddling with tie. Stud Morgan caught out. And how.

'Male. They were all male.'

Hamilton changed tack quickly. 'Do you know a nurse who works at the Central Maternity Hospital called Sarah Higgins?'

Morgan looked real worried now. 'Yes.'

'How well do you know her?' Hamilton was leaning over the desk, towering over the once proud Adonis, now a nervous wreck.

'Well, sort of, eh… well I once had a drink with her.'

'Cut the crap. Weren't you at one time sleeping with her?'

All this was gleaned that afternoon from Morgan's wife, slurred and all as she was, and from Higgins' nursing friends at the hospital.

'Yes. But what's that to do with Mary Dwyer?'

'Dr Morgan, are you homosexual? No, let me change that. Are you bisexual? Do you have sexual relationships with men as well as women?'

The interview room went stony silent. Buckley wanted to interrupt but recognised it would be futile.

'Yes. Yes I do.'

'Dr Morgan, do you have AIDS?'

Buckley exploded. 'This is a voluntary interview,' he shouted at Hamilton. He was on his feet, clutching the edge of the desk to restrain his rage. 'If you don't explain why this line of questioning is being pursued I'll have no option but to advise my client not to answer any further.'

Hamilton sat down slowly and gently, motioning to Buckley to sit down as well. His body language showed his disgust with her but he sat down, scowling. Morgan slumped in his chair, hands trembling.

'Let me explain why I am so interested in Dr Morgan's movements last night.' Hamilton stretched her surgically gloved hands out fully on the table. Buckley and Morgan waited expectantly.

'Sometime between eleven and midnight last night, Staff Nurse Sarah Higgins was murdered. Her body was found in the boot of her car. She had been struck from behind with a hammer which fractured her skull. She was then strangled with blue binding twine.' She stopped. Buckley's mouth dropped open and he gulped, like a fish in a water tank. Tom Morgan seemed to crumple further inside his suit, like a slow puncture in a balloon.

'When we opened the boot of the car this morning, stuck into her neck was a scalpel blade. It was buried so deeply that only about an inch of the scalpel holder was visible. And that's what we found in Mary Dwyer's neck too, the
night she was murdered. And we've been wondering all day why Nurse Higgins was singled out. And now we know. Someone has been recording every word we spoke down in the library where we held our conferences. We discovered no less than three thick textbooks that had been hollowed out deliberately and inside each was a cassette recorder and microphone. And what did we find in your room today, Dr Morgan, but a hollowed out textbook and cassette with our words clearly recorded? And a scalpel and size twenty-three blade. Who was this one for, Dr Morgan?'

Buckley was on his feet again. There was less heart in his anger, though, it was more resigned. 'Detective Sergeant Hamilton, I am terminating this interview. Dr Morgan came to make a voluntary statement and I am now advising him to leave this station immediately and not answer any more questions. Come on, Tom.' He snapped his fingers and Morgan struggled like a man who'd been hit by a sledge hammer. He turned to go towards the door and then turned back. 'I didn't do…'