The Rising The Rising (Inspector Devlin #4)

by Brian McGilloway

‘No point,’ Patterson stated. ‘He’ll lawyer up and say fuck all. Dig deeper. What’s the connection with Kielty then?’

  ‘There’s the problem. If Kielty staged his own death, the focus is off The Rising. His case might not be connected here at all. Maybe he ran scared. The Rising were putting pressure on him so he took his chances somewhere else. Maybe he used the white van spotted at his house to shift his stash. Start fresh somewhere new.’

  ‘Anything on the van we can use?’

  ‘Jim Hendry managed to get a registration plate for me. I’m going to follow it up now.’

  ‘So we have Kielty for the Hamill killing at least?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘And you have no idea where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t. But if we can find his partner, Kielty won’t be too far behind,’ I concluded, before telling Patterson I was on my way back to the station.

  I’d just hung up when my mobile rang again. It was Joe McCready.

  ‘What’s happening, Joe?’ I called into my hands-free set.

  ‘Quite a lot, sir.’ McCready’s voice sounded tinny on the small speakers. ‘I’ve some news on Adam Heaney.’

  I’d been too distracted by recent developments to think about Heaney. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He arrived in this morning with a black eye and a busted lip. His father must have given him the hiding of a lifetime when he got him home.’

  ‘I take it he gave us a name?’

  ‘Murphy. He says Murphy has been selling stuff around their school, in the toilets and the playground at breaktime. Apparently he’s making quite a profit from it.’

  ‘Murphy’s not dealing cocaine by himself. Someone is supplying him. Let’s hear what he has to say for himself.’

  ‘I’m going out to pick him up now. Heaney has just finished writing his statement. We should have Murphy in custody by the time you get here, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be with you soon,’ I said. ‘I have one other thing to do before I come down.’

  I contacted An Garda traffic division and asked them to run the plate number on the white van. The chances were that it was Kielty’s, but it was still a lead to be chased, not least because the van had Southern registration plates. They promised to have something for me within the hour.

  I was making my way past Rossnowlagh when my phone rang. The caller introduced himself as a Superintendent Logue, which immediately struck me as strange, for I had placed the request with an unranked officer.

  ‘Inspector, you placed a request on a white van, registered Dublin 2008. Can you confirm the number of the plate for me?’

  I recited the numbers.

  ‘With what is this connected?’ Logue asked.

  ‘It’s an ongoing investigation, sir.’

  ‘I guessed that, Inspector. What’s the investigation?’

  The man’s tone made me suspicious.

  ‘The van in question ran a red light, sir.’

  Logue laughed quietly down the phone. ‘Is that all? You have detectives in Donegal chasing up light jumpers?’

  ‘It’s a quiet month, sir.’

  ‘It must be. Nothing to worry about, then. The van is one of ours, Inspector.’

  ‘Ours, sir?’

  ‘It’s been seconded to the Drugs Unit up there for surveillance and the like.’

  I felt the hair on my neck stand on end.

  ‘That would be Inspector Nicell then, sir.’

  ‘The very man,’ Logue said, laughing. ‘I think we can forgive him jumping the odd light, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir,’ I said, cutting the connection.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was almost five by the time I made it to Sligo. Cahir Murphy sat again in the interview room where we had spoken the previous day, his father sitting upright beside him. When I asked Murphy did he understand why he had been brought in again for questioning, he shrugged.

  ‘So you’re dealing drugs?’

  Murphy’s father laughed, forcibly. ‘Bullshit! Who told you that?’

  ‘We know that your son took a quantity of cocaine on the camping trip. Peter Williams took a combination of that coke and alcohol. In all probability, the effects of the cocaine caused Peter to enter a psychotic state as a result of which he took his own life.’

  ‘It was that wee shit Heaney, wasn’t it?’ Mr Murphy snapped.

  ‘It’s irrelevant who it was. Talk to us about it.’

  ‘He has nothing to say,’ Murphy continued. ‘You have nothing to say, son. I want our lawyer.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir,’ I said. ‘So long as you understand the seriousness of what’s happening here; we believe your son gave drugs to a boy who then died. That’s manslaughter. He may not have meant to kill him – but he did. Plus we believe he’s been dealing. In school, too, apparently.’

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ the man said again. ‘You can’t touch him. I want my lawyer.’

  His language, his manner, the clichés he used, all reflected the fact that Mr Murphy was wildly out of his depth.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said, standing up to indicate the interview was concluded, for now.

  Joe McCready and I sat in the canteen, having a cup of tea while we waited for Murphy’s solicitor to arrive.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’ McCready asked.

  ‘He’ll probably try to plea his way out. Either he’ll blame Heaney, or else he’ll offer the name of his supplier. His lawyer will know we’d be more interested in the next up the chain.’

  ‘Is that good enough?’

  ‘I suppose it depends how big a link in the chain it is.’

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for the desk sergeant to call us. I had been considering all that Jim Hendry had told me, and Nicell’s connection with the van that had been seen at Kielty’s and McEvoy’s.

  ‘I want you to do me a favour, Joe. Charlie Cunningham. Member of The Rising. I want you to do a background check on him. I want to know everything we have on him: what he’s done; who he associates with; when he served time; where; with who. Look in particular for any drug busts or for anything that looks irregular with his financial background.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll do it today,’ Joe said, just as we got the call to go back to the interview room.

  Murphy’s solicitor introduced himself as O’Hare. He complained about our having spoken to his client without legal representation, but this was no more than posturing – Murphy had not requested representation and had been allowed it when he finally asked.

  ‘This whole thing seems to have been blown out of proportion,’ O’Hare said, when I told him we had noted his complaint. ‘I understand that the mother of the young man who died is a colleague of yours.’

  ‘Was,’ I said. ‘The child’s mother was a Guard.’

  ‘The young man in question chose to take substances of his own volition. My client, if he did bring drugs with him, did so for personal use only. He tells me he did not supply.’

  ‘Though we have a statement that he supplies in his school.’

  ‘A statement from a young man who could just as easily be guilty, naming my client to spare himself.’

  ‘We can apply for a warrant and search Mr Murphy’s house, if that would make him feel better.’

  ‘I hope that’s not a threat,’ O’Hare said.

  ‘No. It’s a suggestion to your client that we can, if needs be, pursue alternative, more intrusive methods to secure evidence. His cooperation at this stage in the investigation will spare his family and himself much public embarrassment.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ O’Hare said, and I could see where he was going. ‘It seems to me that, whether my client or the other boy on the trip brought a small amount for recreational use, they are not responsible for the death of the Williams boy. I can fully understand that his mother may want someone to blame, but that’s hardly fair.’

  ‘I accept that,’ I said, glancing towards Murphy and his father, who s
at, tight-lipped, listening to the exchange. O’Hare had clearly advised them to say nothing. ‘That doesn’t mean that we are prepared to allow your client to continue selling drugs in a local school. That’s a separate issue and one which I intend to pursue with full vigour. Your client will be charged with supplying and, without further assistance from him, I’ll move on a warrant to search the family home and seize anything considered suspect.’

  ‘You’ll do no—’ Mr Murphy snapped, rising from his seat, but he was cut short by O’Hare.

  ‘It seems to me that the source – the supplier – is the person you should be pursuing.’

  ‘And Cahir would be willing to give us this person, would he?’ I asked.

  ‘Without prejudice, in return for other minor charges being dropped. Alongside this nonsense about house searches and the like. Yes, my client would be prepared to offer An Garda information about where the drugs Peter Williams took were bought. That though is not an admission that he himself bought the drugs – rather that he is simply aware of where the drugs were bought.’

  I considered the offer. I knew Caroline Williams needed someone to blame for her son’s death. I also personally wanted to see Cahir Murphy held accountable for his actions. But I also knew that, even if I pursued a case against him, it would, in all probability, be dropped by the DPP. If Murphy was prepared to make a statement against a dealer, it would take out someone higher on the scale and would provide Caroline with some sense of justice.

  ‘Your client will make a statement to that effect?’

  ‘Obviously,’ O’Hare stated.

  I glanced at Joe McCready who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Who sold to you?’

  Murphy glared at O’Hare, clearly unhappy about what he was being forced to do. His father, eager to avoid his son being charged with dealing, slapped his arm with the flat of his hand.

  ‘Tell him,’ he said.

  ‘Some guy Hamill in Rossanure Avenue,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ I asked, leaning across the table.

  Murphy raised his chin. ‘Rossanure Avenue, near the back. I don’t know the number. The one with the green door.’

  ‘No, the name,’ I snapped. ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Hamill. Ian Hamill.’

  ‘You’re lying. Ian Hamill is dead,’ I said. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’

  Murphy smiled and shook his head. ‘Must be a different Ian Hamill then. The one I know was alive and well and selling coke two nights ago.’

  A thought struck me and I retrieved the photograph of Martin Kielty from my coat pocket.

  ‘Is this the man you’re talking about?’

  Murphy took the picture from me and looked at it. He nodded and held the image up to me, as if I were stupid.

  ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Ian Hamill.’

  Tuesday, 13 February

  Chapter Thirty-One

  While Joe McCready took Murphy’s statement, I called the Letterkenny station and had them fax me down a copy of Kielty’s file. I recalled that he had had an address in Sligo and it took only a few moments to confirm that it was indeed in Rossanure Avenue. Kielty had clearly decided to use his house to keep dealing, albeit in Hamill’s name rather than his own. And I guessed he had brought his stash with him – and presumably his girlfriend. And I could guess who had helped him move both.

  ‘I want Rory Nicell arrested,’ I told Patterson when I called at his house that morning. It was just past 6 a.m. and the sky was dark and clear, the stars bright, the first glimpse of false dawn barely a sliver on the horizon.

  ‘Come in,’ he shrugged, tramping from his front door into his kitchen. He wore leisure pants and a T-shirt under his towelling robe. Dirty dishes were piled in his sink and he rooted through them to find a cup which he rinsed as he waited for the coffee machine to begin percolating.

  ‘I think I’ve found Martin Kielty and I believe that Rory Nicell had something to do with the events surrounding his disappearance.’

  ‘Is this based on anything?’ Patterson asked. ‘Beyond your usual distrust of your colleagues.’

  ‘The white van that was seen on two separate occasions – once when Kielty supposedly died and once when his girlfriend packed up house. Jim Hendry managed to get me a registration number. It traced back to An Garda, the Drugs Unit, specifically.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Someone is operating out of Kielty’s house in Sligo using Ian Hamill’s name. I believe Kielty is alive and, for some reason, Rory Nicell has helped move him to Sligo from the border. More importantly, Nicell must have known about, or actually been involved in, the killing of Ian Hamill and the staging of Kielty’s death. If we’re lifting Kielty, we need to be sure that Nicell isn’t going to fuck it up for us.’

  Patterson placed a cup of coffee in front of me though I had not asked for one. The contents sloshed over the lip of the cup onto the white Formica of his breakfast bar.

  ‘You lift Kielty, if it’s him. I’ll lead a team and bring Nicell in for questioning – if or when Kielty implicates him. You’d better be sure of your facts, though.’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘Or as sure as I can be.’

  ‘And don’t mention this to anyone,’ Patterson continued. ‘We’ve been taking enough shit recently without adding this to it. I’ve told you I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner on the phone warning us to keep our noses clean. That bullshit at the rally the other night is hammering us. We need to be squeaky clean for the next few months, until this all blows over, so keep this whole thing between us, you hear?’

  I was back in Sligo before nine that morning. McCready had agreed to gather a team of uniforms to support us in lifting Kielty. We drove in several unmarked cars into the Rossanure estate. Though it was almost 10 a.m., the morning air was fresh and the cars lining the streets washed with dew.

  The streets of the estate were relatively quiet: a few mothers pushing prams; the odd truant schoolchild risking a sneaky smoke. There was a single corner shop which, by the looks of it, had closed down sometime earlier. The front window was boarded up and a metal grille hung on one hinge from the front door.

  The housing in the estate was terraced in groups of five: squat, grey, pebble-dashed blocks. Kielty’s house was the centre house in a row, located quite far back in the estate, the block itself bordered on both sides by alleyways running adjacent to the outer houses.

  The car I was travelling in parked a hundred yards up the street from the block, while McCready split the uniforms into two teams, one of which waited along the alleyway, while the other was positioned immediately behind Kielty’s property, obscured by a hedge. I had a smoke and scanned the street. One of the houses looked deserted, though curtains still hung in the windows and children’s toys were scattered on the small front lawn. I noticed that a pair of trainers hung from an overhead cable.

  Kielty’s house looked no different from the others, except for the fact that his front door looked newer; the other houses on the row had four panels on the door, Kielty’s had two. It was PVC, whereas the doors of the other houses were painted wood.

  Our plan was a relatively simple one. As I was not in uniform, I would approach the house on the pretence of delivering a parcel. The rest of the Gardai present would take positions on either side of the doorway. Once the door was opened, they would storm the house. While I hoped that no gunfire would be involved, we knew that Kielty had killed Hamill, so we had come armed and equipped with Kevlar vests.

  I called McCready and gave him the go-ahead. His unit began to make their way across the gardens of the houses to the left of Kielty’s, crouching low under the level of the windows, until they were positioned outside Kielty’s, flush against the front of his house.

  I got out of the car and shouldered a box we had taped up in the station, before making my way across to the house. Rather than ringing the doorbell, I knocked on the door. The dull thud of my knocking confirmed my suspicion.

  ‘It’s re
inforced,’ I muttered to the man to my immediate left, Finn McCarron, who passed the word back. It simply meant we had to be quick.

  I had to knock a third time before I saw any response from the house. The curtain covering the window above where our officers were hidden shifted slightly and a face peered out. Though it was only for a second, I saw Martin Kielty, bearded now, but still recognizable from the picture McEvoy had given me.

  The curtain closed again and I heard the thud of a dead-bolt being snapped open. The door opened an inch or two, enough only to reveal the security chain still hanging in place and the soft features of Elena McEvoy.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a parcel here,’ I said, shifting the box to try to conceal part of my face, but it was too late. I saw the flash of recognition, the exclamation caught in her throat as she struggled to shut the door on me.

  I wedged my foot between the door and the jamb and shouted. The officers beside me moved quickly, throwing their weight against the door until McEvoy gave up and ran into the house screaming to Kielty. Finally the security chain snapped and we spilled into the hallway.

  Ahead of us I could see McEvoy taking the turn on the stairs. Kielty was behind her, but facing us, the pistol in his hand already levelled in our direction. He fired off one shot which spun the man to my right sideways with its impact on his vest.

  ‘Stay back!’ I shouted, as the team behind me took cover on either side of the door. But Kielty was already moving on up the stairs.

  I heard a crash from the rear of the house and three officers appeared from the kitchen, having broken in the back door.

  ‘Check the rooms here,’ I shouted. ‘We have two upstairs.’

  I started taking the stairs, cautiously. Kielty had tossed a child’s walker across the top step in a vain attempt to impede our progress. Four rooms opened out from the landing. To my immediate right was a bathroom. I reached the door and glanced in. Empty. The room to the far left looked like a junk room. Again the door was open and I saw McCready move across and snatch a glimpse around the door. He looked at me and shook his head to indicate that it too was clear.