“There, she’s down there!” Casey cried out and pointed, as he rapidly approached.
McAllister looked where he was indicating, over the guard rail into the cascade.
He went rigid as he stared into the pit. His blood chilled and a pain seized his heart at what he saw.
There, at the bottom of the “Cascade”, lay Patsy, on her back, her body twitching faintly, her mouth open and, her eyes staring upwards.
Blood oozed from a hole in the side of her head, and down onto the glistening rocks on which she lay.
This horrific, searing, numbing, tableau would forever be burned into McAllister’s mind.
The frozen cascade, growing imperceptibly, as it would continue to do for countless centuries to come, and the dying body of Patsy McBride laid out at it’s base.
The lifeless living, and the still living lifeless.
McAllister knew his world had changed radically in this instant, and that he would never be the same person again.
CHAPTER 24
DUBLIN’S TRAFFIC AT FIVE THIRTY IN THE EVENING can be very heavy in the vicinity of St. Stephen’s Green, and this evening was an instance. Buses, cars and an assortment of commercial vehicles jostled for position with each other, and lane hopping was the order of the day. But add to that, in mid August, a sprinkling of confused, motorised, tourists, with their map wielding, front seat companions and you have a recipe for real confusion - a situation in which a taste for brazen brinkmanship invariably wins the day.
A solemn faced McAllister was in no mood to play games with the macho, moustached company car drivers, who buzzed past him, as he carefully steered his faithful Sierra up Kildare Street. He had to take the wide outer loop, left, onto St. Stephen’s Green North, and then, having turned down the east side of the Green, he was faced with the task of manoeuvring across most of this five lane road to the other, before he came to the traffic lights at the junction with Lower Leeson Street.
He achieved this feat simply by taking no notice of anybody at all, and merely drifting across to the required lane.
While McAllister did it because he was preoccupied, it was a tactic well known to Dublin drivers, and, although he raised a few blasts from some car horns, this was only a ritual, because they knew, instinctively, that he must be one of their own, and that he was just having a slow day.
For Ann, sitting beside him, it was a more tense experience, because she had no control over events. However, she was in as depressed a state as McAllister and could not raise the energy to protest.
They had been to Patsy McBride’s funeral, at Glasnevin Cemetery, earlier in the day, and were now on their way to meet her husband, Liam, with an American friend, who had flown to Ireland with him.
Liam had seemed so quiet and sad that McAllister suggested they should meet for an early dinner and, perhaps, keep him company for the evening.
There were some facts surrounding the circumstances of Patsy’s death that Liam had briefly touched upon, and McAllister thought this arrangement would provide a quiet opportunity to answer his questions fully.
Having achieved the correct traffic lane McAllister drove up Earlsfort Terrace to the Hotel Conrad and turned into the underground car park. As he did so the sight of the imposing National Concert Hall opposite reminded him of the Quintetto di Lucca - they had been due to play there after their concert in Ennis. He was reminded of that wonderful night when they had played on the lawn of the Orchid Hotel, and Eileen had also played so beautifully afterwards.
Now that he knew the full background to the Quintet’s visit to Ireland, and the reason why Eileen had died, McAllister felt the anger and sadness welling up inside him.” Why, oh why, do people do such stupid things, over and over again?” he asked himself. But he knew it was greed, simple greed, which drove them on, and that there was no cure for it. The tragedy was that lovely, innocent people had to suffer for the greed of others, and McAllister found that really hard, really very hard, to take.
Ann and McAllister entered the hotel lobby. It was wide, spacious and welcoming, the hustle and bustle of business people and tourists being easily minimised, and absorbed into the overall tranquil atmosphere.
As there was no sign of Liam McBride they sank into a deep leather sofa, positioned so that they would easily spot him when he arrived.
A few moments later a man, who had been browsing at the magazine stand, which was tucked away inside the hotel shop, on the right of the lobby, approached them. He was of mid height, in his early sixties, with a deeply bronzed and weathered complexion. Although balding at the front, his remaining hair was abundant, and jet black, with traces of grey here and there. He had a broad and infectious smile.
“Hi, nice to see you. Ann, isn’t it? And John.” Both being lost in thought they had not noticed him until he spoke.
McAllister hopped up and shook hands. “Hello Ron. How are you? Ann you met Ron Bryson at Patsy’s funeral, didn’t you?”
“Yes, just very briefly.” She smiled and shook hands.
“I’m really sorry about this.” Ron went on. “I tried to get you at your home number but you were obviously on your way here at the time.”
“What’s the matter?” McAllister asked.
“It’s Liam. He had second thoughts about coming because he was feeling so depressed. I tried to talk him out of it, but the best I could do was to get a promise he would try to shake himself up and join us later. That’s if it’s alright with you folks?”
“Yes, of course, I’m absolutely ravenous.” McAllister’s appetite had not suffered despite the torment and anguish of recent days.
“I hope Liam does come.” Ann was disappointed. “It would be better for him if he spoke to us, although I know we must leave the decision to him. It must be so difficult to come to terms with a tragedy like this.”
“Yep, it’s going to be a lonely trail ahead for Liam, but I think he’ll handle it okay. Come on now, let’s eat. Dinner’s on me.”
McAllister protested that it had been his invitation but Bryson waved this aside. “My pleasure, my pleasure indeed. Lead the way.”
When they had settled themselves at a quiet corner table and placed their orders, McAllister asked Bryson if he’d had any problems making travel arrangements at short notice.
“No. No problems at all. I’ve built up very good connections through my publishing business over the years and left it all to my good influential friends. Travel visa, flights, everything. All sorted out in no time at all.”
“You were marvellous to come with Liam.” Ann smiled.
“Oh, I had to. No question about it. My, you should have seen the state he was in when the news came through. It was terrible. I made my mind up in an instant, and that was that.”
“You were golfing together in Florida?” McAllister asked.
“Yep. We were doing our Summer circuit with friends, and having a really good time. The cops were great getting to us so fast, because we were just drifting, making our plans as the humour took us. We could have done without that ‘phone call, though. I can tell you. Yes, sir, that’s for certain. No question about it.”
As they settled into their first course Bryson asked about the circumstances of Patsy’s death and what had led up to it.
“I’ve picked up bits and pieces but it doesn’t make any sense to me yet.” He looked questioningly at McAllister. “You were really mixed up in it, John?”
“Yes. It’s a bit of a story, though.” McAllister said.
“I’d love to hear it, if you didn’t mind. We publishers have a great curiosity about things. Insatiable. Yep, that’s the word.”
“Right, I’ll tell it to you as it happened, and then fill you in on the background.”
“That’s best, I think.” Ann chipped in. “You’re both flying back tomorrow, aren’t you? So you can pass on the details to Liam.”
“That’s correct.” Ron nodded. “As you probably know, Liam has no ties, or family, here, so he may as well work his way
through the next little while with his buddies. It’s best if he has company that he’s comfortable with.”
“Okay, well, it all started with my near miss at Black Head, as I was driving down to Derreen to prepare for my Summer course …………,” McAllister settled down, with that sense of purpose acquired over many years of lecturing, to recount his story.
CHAPTER 25
McALLISTER SPOKE RIGHT THROUGH THE MEAL, and through the many cups of coffee which followed.
His companions listened intently, occasionally making a comment, or asking a question. Ann to fill in a detail which McAllister had missed, and Bryson to clarify a point which he didn’t quite understand.
During the time McAllister spoke the dining room gradually filled with pre concert diners, and settled again to a moderate level of activity by the time he had finished.
Bryson hung his head, and stared solemnly at the table cloth, as he sat in silence, obviously distressed by the harrowing manner in which the story had come to an end.
“My, oh my……..,” he drawled in an undertone, without lifting his gaze, and then sank into silence again.
Eventually he roused himself “What a lousy deal. What a God awful way to die.” his voice was almost inaudible.
Suddenly looking up at McAllister, Bryson furrowed his brow in puzzlement.
“So what was this all about? Was there any sense to it?” He leaned forward. “ Was there something behind this other than plain madness?”
“Oh, yes Something very specific.” McAllister spoke deliberately, emphasising each word, as he stared at Bryson.
“But what? God damn it! What?”
“Drugs!”
Bryson drew back. “Drugs?” he repeated, wide eyed.
“That’s correct.” McAllister nodded. “A drugs ring. A large, well organised, very effective one, at that!”
Bryson was dumbfounded. “Well, I’ll be………” he drawled. “Well if that don’t…….. “ Again he hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table. “Of all the……….”
“I should have guessed it was something like that.” McAllister went on, “because nothing made sense without a very strong reason as to why so many people were acting so irrationally, and, most of all, why these crazy things were happening in the first place.”
“But there’s no way you could have figured that out from the story you’ve just told me.” Bryson reassured him. “Anyway that was the responsibility of the cops.”
“Oh indeed, that’s correct,” McAllister went on, “and as Con Curtis told me later, the Gardaí had recently become aware that something like that was happening, and were monitoring the whole area in an attempt to accumulate evidence and put all the pieces of the jig saw together. But, for instance, they saw the death of Hyland as an isolated event, and genuinely suspected Frank Holland initially.”
“Hyland’s death was associated with the drugs operation?” Bryson was puzzled. “But how?”
“Very much so.” McAllister affirmed “But, of course, as we know now, he wasn’t murdered at all!”
“Hold on there.” Bryson raised a hand to underline his request. “I think you’re losing me.”
Ann took McAllister’s hand in hers and decided to put some order on things. “He’s a very good lecturer Mr. Bryson…”
“Ron. Please. Call me Ron. There’s a good gal.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “As I said he’s a great lecturer, but only when he has his notes thoroughly prepared. Why don’t you explain first of all how the drugs ring operated , and who was in it, John?”
“Now, there’s a thought.” Bryson agreed.
McAllister was unperturbed. “Alright. Well, the centre of the operation was the Orchid Hotel, and Balfe was the nominal head of the gang here, although O’Lochlen, came to dominate him, more and more, as time went on. It was a personality thing really. Now the way the drugs were imported and distributed was very ingenious, but not, of course, unique. Balfe had a very good cover in his hotel business. His trips abroad, which were supposed to be for personally contacting tourism operators in Europe, to bring in business for his hotel, were, in fact, for keeping his contacts there, and sources of supply, healthy. You see, the Irish operation was part of a much larger one.”
“That’s usually the case, as I understand it.” Bryson nodded.
“Balfe’s trips were also to arrange details of shipments. Now these originated from various sources but always resulted in large fishing trawlers coming up our Atlantic coast according to very precise schedules. They would rendezvous, well out to sea, with a trawler operating from Doolin, and crewed by Cameron and Considine. After the transfer, our two friends would then wait for an opportunity to deposit the parcels, which were weighted and waterproofed, at Cloch an Oilc probably on a dark night, or when it was raining, in order to avoid being noticed too easily. When that was safely done, Hyland and O’Lochlen, who operated a much smaller boat from the slipway at Poll na Doibe, could pick up the stuff whenever they liked and bring it to the Orchid Hotel.”
“Very clever.” Bryson nodded. “The drugs were brought ashore in a series of natural operations which wouldn’t raise any suspicion locally.”
“Absolutely.” McAllister agreed. “The next stage of the operation was to move them, in relatively small quantities, by passing them to the “tourists” who stayed at the Orchid. They either brought them to contacts in the North, or Scotland, or Wales, or England, or passed them over in Dublin.”
“And, of course, as they were handling very small quantities, these people were very difficult to detect. I can see that.” Bryson was obviously impressed by the scheme. “I’m also beginning to see how various things, which happened to you, tie in.”
“The most obvious one was my near miss at Black Head. Those French “tourists” were carrying stuff they had picked up from Balfe and the last thing they needed was to get involved with the Gardaí. That’s why they scooted off so fast. I can see why now, but couldn’t make sense of the incident at the time.”
McAllister caught the attention of a waiter and ordered more coffee.
He paused for a moment, and then, looking reflectively at Bryson, went on. “You are probably putting two and two together on the bust up with Hyland and Frank Holland. Am I correct?”
“I have a hunch or two, but I really don’t understand why it happened.”
“Well, you see, poor Des Hyland hadn’t a lot upstairs, as they say, and became obsessed with the fact that Frank’s photography was part of a surveillance operation. Balfe and his cronies weren’t too happy about having a busy guest house near Poll na Doibe, and Cloch an Oilc, but realised it was quite innocent. They also had faith in their pick up system, and simply decided to exercise caution, as more people would be hanging around the area on occasions. Hyland got very nervous, though, and, as I said, obsessed with the additional dangers, as he perceived them, of having Holland around. The whole thing spilled over, for him, the night Frank and Susan brought me to the Orchid, for a drink. Hyland was almost senseless with alcohol, and just went for the two of them. They were objects of danger to him and he attacked them out of, what must have been, a mixture of fear and frustration. He just couldn’t control himself.”
“When you found his body after what was, apparently, his murder, it did seem to follow on from this incident. Especially with the evidence linking Frank Holland to his death. Motive seemed to have been pretty well established, wouldn’t you agree?” Bryson was absorbed in McAllister’s analysis. “But you said he wasn’t murdered, if I heard you correctly. I don’t get it.”
“Curtis has established now that O’Lochlen and Hyland went to make a pickup at Cloch an Oilc on the night of the Ennis concert. Susan and I passed O’Lochlen on our way to Ennis and, although we didn’t realise it at the time, we saw both of them collecting the parcels of drugs at Cloch an Oilc when we were returning later.”
“So. What happened to Hyland? You found his body the next day.”
“The evide
nce now shows that Hyland must have fallen over the side of the trawler when they were making their collection. Probably, shortly after Susan and I passed them. He sustained a fatal head injury on the rock, and that put O’Lochlen in a dilemma. What was he to do with the body? He had to think very quickly.”
“And he framed Holland!” Bryson declared. “Now I see it.”
McAllister nodded agreement. “It all fell into place for him. O’Lochlen had seen Susan and I set out for Ennis, without Frank, and that must have given him the germ of the idea. That, together with the motive, of which he was only too aware. He hadn’t time to rationalise the whole scheme, but it was worth a try.
O’Lochlen brought Hyland’s body to Poll Salach by sea and planted it there. He carried out the gruesome task of making wounds in Hyland’s body with his Swiss knife to make the Gardaí suspect murder, and then, unfortunately for him, lost the knife there -you know the remainder of that particular story!”
“When you found the knife you must have dropped sharply on his list of favourite people.” Ann smiled, and Bryson nodded.
“O’Lochlen completed his scheme with the planting of paint from Frank’s car at Poll Salach, and the bloodstains on the boot of the car. It wasn’t very scientific but, as I said, worth a try. He had a bit of luck, too, when it emerged that Frank had slept in a room to himself. That increased the suspicion, naturally. It gave him opportunity, on the face of it, and that’s always a key consideration in cases of suspected murder. Curtis had to arrest Frank, initially, but the evidence fell to pieces under expert Garda analysis. Curtis didn’t go into this in any great detail, for me. Mainly because I wasn’t particularly interested at the time. I was too preoccupied in my mind by the more immediate issues, such as contacting Liam, and making the funeral arrangements for Patsy. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the broad outline of the story, which I’m giving you now. However, Curtis was able to find inconsistencies in O’Lochlen’s planted evidence and released Frank when he had done this. Quietly, and without fuss, because he thought, rightly, that the incident brought him a step nearer to his larger quarry, and he didn’t want to make waves, as they say.”
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