Dead Ringer (The Eddie Malloy series Book 6)

by Joe McNally

  ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Uneventful.’

  ‘Your shack okay?’

  ‘It hadn’t blown over the cliff. What remains of my heart lifted when I saw its creaky outline and crooked chimney against the western sky, and heard the sound of the waves in Hell’s Mouth.’

  ‘Why do sailors scare the shit out of themselves by naming coves Hell’s Mouth? What about Heaven’s Haven, or something?’

  ‘That’s for townies with no sense of drama. Any more news from your bookie woman?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I told her about the meeting with Mac.

  ‘He stole the patents from a kid?’

  ‘The ideas, he says.’

  ‘Sounds plausible.’

  ‘It does. Let’s assume somebody set Shanahan up. Could he have opened an offshore bank account in Shanahan’s name without him knowing.’

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘Okay, how’s this? Shanahan’s kid is real. When the kid finds out Shanahan has stiffed him over the patents, he starts working out how he can get revenge. Magultry has this child abuse charge hanging over him. If the kid finds some proof, like images on his PC, and blackmails him into taking the same implants as Watt and Kilberg, he’s then got control of Magultry.’

  ‘Makes sense so far.’

  ‘Right. He gets the horse from Magultry and moves it to Watt. He tells Magultry to buy the shares in Nequitec and leave the horse in his will to Shanahan, then he activates the cyanide implant, eats half the apple, injects the remainder with cyanide, and leaves it beside Magultry’s body, a la Alan Turing.’

  ‘If the cops exhume Magultry, get them to check the teeth marks. If the apple survived, that is.’

  ‘Good point. How does the rest sound?’

  ‘Well when you add it to the fact that the kid, if there is one, also stands to win millions and, if he is a kid, and if he eventually gets caught, he’ll know that by then Shanahan will have confessed to stealing his patents. Suppose he’s twenty-two, and he gets fifteen years in jail, it’s hardly the end of the world to come back out at thirty-seven with millions in the bank from his patents.’

  ‘If he got fifteen, with good behaviour, he could be out by the time he’s thirty.’

  ‘He could. Now all you have to do is prove it.’

  65

  It was almost eight o’clock before Ishrat rang. ‘Sorry, Mister Malloy, I shouldn’t have tempted fate last night by promising to call you at a more sociable hour. Are you okay to talk just now?’

  ‘Sure, what have you got?’

  ‘Those campaigns against Father Magultry, or ex-father Magultry, if you prefer, were organized by a teenager called Finbarr Quaidd.’

  ‘Teenager? What age, do you know?’

  ‘He was sixteen when he started and was still campaigning after his seventeenth birthday.’

  ‘Precocious for a public campaigner. Was he accusing Magultry of molesting him?’

  ‘His father. He was campaigning on behalf of his father, Kegan Quaidd. He claimed Magultry’s abuse of his father when he was at a seminary as a young man in the nineteen sixties, ruined his life.’

  ‘So when did young Quaidd give up?’

  ‘About four years ago. His last public statement was that he’d dedicate himself to protecting children from paedophiles. Two years ago he set up a company called The Raglan Unit on Raglan Road in Dublin.’

  ‘What is it, like a drop-in centre for kids or something?’

  ‘It offers counselling and support for people of any age who’ve suffered sexual abuse. Open twenty-four-seven all year.’

  ‘How is it funded?’

  ‘Quaidd’s company, The Raglan Unit Limited, sells implants to third world countries. He holds the patents on several hi-tech inventions.’

  ‘Any idea what these implants do?’

  ‘His main revenue comes from ones which protect livestock in Africa from disease. There are trials going on with them in humans. So far the trials have been a hundred percent successful in protecting against malaria and typhoid.’

  ‘A go-ahead young man. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of him. He sounds a classic youth hero for the media to feed on.’

  ‘He keeps a very low profile. Puts his father up for interviews and as spokesman for the company while he concentrates on the tech side, although he spends each Sunday at the unit helping out, talking to people.’

  ‘Have you any pictures of him?’

  ‘None recent. Only from his campaigning days.’

  ‘Can you email them to me?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got your details. I’ll do it as soon as we finish this call.’

  ‘Ishrat, you’ve been brilliant.’

  ‘I’m just a coordinator, Mister Malloy. The team in Ireland deserves the credit.’

  ‘You’re a brilliant project manager. I give you the vaguest of requests and you come back with the most comprehensive results I could have wished for.’

  ‘Ha! All in a day’s work.’

  ‘Listen, will you ask the team to find out all they can on Miles Shanahan, who owns a company-’

  ‘Nequitec. We’re already on that. I thought you would want something on him. Should be ready tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re way ahead of me. I need as much factual stuff as possible. I know there’ve been plenty rumours about Shanahan. Your guys might be able to get evidence to back those up. I’m guessing they’ve got contacts who wouldn’t speak openly to the police?’

  ‘We’ll get what you need. Is there anything else for now?’

  ‘Just those pictures, please.’

  ‘I’ll send them within two minutes.’

  She did as promised and I sat staring at a ginger-haired, stern-faced boy, half a head taller than the adults around him. He carried the same banner as a dozen of his supporters. It was properly printed; none of your rough paint and bad spelling: “Arrest Sinful Priests”.

  And I knew then that five years or so after that press picture was taken, this kid had sent a signal across the Irish Sea on a late December evening activating a cyanide capsule that killed Jimmy Sherrick.

  66

  On Sunday morning, February 2nd, Rory Moran, driving a blue Toyota, picked me up at Dublin Airport. Ishrat had arranged it. Moran was the head of the Irish team the bookies had commissioned. On the drive into the city, he told me of his history in the Garda and in what he called the Irish security industry.

  He told me too about Miles Shanahan, a man he’d known for many years. Yes, Shanahan had commissioned DDOS attacks on major UK bookmakers fifteen years ago. No, he hadn’t murdered two prostitutes in north Dublin in 1997. Shanahan would never risk anything like that. He had plans to be a politician. But he’d had the girls murdered, and their weighted corpses dropped into the sea.

  The girls had tried to blackmail him when he’d announced his intention to run for office. He was questioned by the Garda but never arrested. A year later, Shanahan’s wife was killed in a fall when they were on an Alpine holiday. Shanahan said they’d been walking in the mountains when Alice had strayed onto a cornice which collapsed. There were no witnesses other than her husband, and he withdrew from politics then, citing ‘a grief that would never leave him’.

  Moran told me the burden of grief was lightened considerably by an insurance payout of half a million Euro. Shanahan used it to help fund the purchase of the company now known as Nequitec.

  He dropped me on Raglan Road, about a hundred yards from The Raglan Unit. ‘Want me to wait?’

  ‘If I’m not out in five minutes, you can go, and come back in an hour if that’s okay?’

  ‘Grand. See you then.’

  I walked the tree-lined road and stopped outside the three storey redbrick with arched doorway. I counted a dozen steps, my hand on shiny black railings. The door was closed against the winter. A sign said: ‘Don’t ring, come in!’ I turned the brass handle and walked into a warm hall, with what looked like old school benches on either side. Coats hung on long wall racks. A tar
tan bin held umbrellas, and a long mat led to a desk as old as the benches. A man and two women were talking. I could smell fresh coffee as I approached them, but could make out little of the conversation, the accented words too fast for me.

  A dark haired woman with a welcoming smile said, ‘Come in. Take off your coat, and warm yourself here by the stove. Will you have some tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be nice, thanks.’

  ‘Are you a milk and sugar man?’

  ‘Black would be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Sit down, now, and I’ll bring it over.’

  I sat. A straight staircase went up, and to its right, one went down. I was conscious that Moran was waiting along the road. The woman brought the coffee. ‘Well, January’s behind us. We’re on our way to summer,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘No trouble. I’m Dolores. Shout if you want anything.’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to Finbarr.’

  ‘He’s downstairs. I’ll give him a shout. Should I say who’s waiting?’

  ‘Just a friend…from England.’

  She nodded, still smiling, and went downstairs. A minute later she was back, the smile as wide as when she’d left me. ‘Finbarr will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I’d no doubt there’d be a basement exit, but I could hardly go racing down there. If he left, Rory Moran would probably spot him.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs, and turned to see first a clump of curly red hair shining under the lights, then blue eyes, then the long narrow face of Finbarr Quaidd. Watching his feet as he climbed, he seemed doleful, then he looked at me and smiled and held out his hand as he approached. I stood, He was at least six-three. The smile was genuine as he looked down on me. ‘Eddie. Nice to meet you.’

  We sat in his office. The walls held pictures and posters of what I took to be African villagers and their cattle. Letters and postcards and children’s crayon drawings were pinned and taped around the place. Some of the pictures featured a very happy looking Finbarr with squads of black, smiling children.

  ‘You’re a popular young man,’ I said.

  ‘With some.’

  I nodded.

  We watched each other.

  He spoke. ‘I wasn’t quite sure you’d get here. I thought I’d done just about the perfect job.’

  ‘I have some very clever friends.’

  ‘You do. You do indeed. But not clever enough to bring you this far. Give yourself some credit.’

  ‘I also have a dead friend.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you kill Jimmy, or was it Bayley Watt?’

  ‘I did. I told Watt and Kilberg Jimmy had killed himself and that they should go and stage the hanging to convince the police not to ask too many questions.’

  ‘You killed Jimmy for money.’

  ‘I suppose, yes. I had to make a decision on it, and make it quickly, after he spoke to you on the phone about meeting him.’

  ‘And how did you balance out that decision, against all your good deeds?’ I gestured toward the walls.

  ‘Jimmy had weeks to live. He was determined not to tell his dad, or anyone close to him about the cancer, though he broke that in an effort to get Amanda back. But he’d have died a horrible death on his own.’

  ‘Cyanide poisoning doesn’t seem a particularly peaceful passing, either.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a lot quicker than pancreatic cancer. Jimmy’s had been diagnosed too late. It had spread to his liver. It’s likely it would have reached his bones and maybe lungs.’

  ‘What was he planning to tell me that night?’

  ‘About the ringer, I think.’

  ‘I thought he was in on it?’

  Quaidd shook his head and his thick bright curls swung. ‘No. I didn’t think he’d agree. Watt believed he would. I told him to leave it and see how Jimmy reacted after Stifles in Spur won.’

  ‘Fruitless Spin on his second run?’

  He nodded. ‘The one where we’d find out if Jimmy had sussed it or not.’

  ‘You don’t know much about jockeys if you believed he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I thought he would, but that he’d kid himself for a while. He’d told Bayley about the cancer, to give him a chance to start planning who his next jockey would be. Then he blew his top after Stifles in Spur.’

  ‘And that’s when you offered him a potential cure?’

  ‘That’s right. Through Bayley Watt.’

  ‘So why did Jimmy change his mind and decide to talk to me?’

  ‘I don’t know. He kept asking Watt when the symptoms, the pain from the cancer should start easing.’

  Tears rising in my eyes surprised me and I raised a hand to my forehead.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could have found another way. I’m working on a cancer cure through implants. It’s a long way off, but the money I raised from those bets will be a big help in getting us there. Well, would have been a big help, I suppose I should say. I’m sorry, Eddie.’

  I felt like the kid in the room, with Quaidd the adult. He was moving through the stages of explanation as though it were some technical project.

  He scooped a Kleenex from a box on his desk and offered it. I took it and dried my face and looked at him. ‘This all seems just matter of fact, to you.’

  He smiled slowly, shaking his head. ‘I’ve done all the pain and the heart-searching and questioning. Been through it with my dad since I was old enough to cry only because I saw him crying. That was what my life was, and that’s all it would have been if I hadn’t decided to change things.’

  ‘How did you find out about Watt? Had he been involved in the abuse of your father as well as Magultry?’

  ‘No. When Magultry bought those two horses, that’s when I started thinking that there must be paedophiles in racing, same as in any other walk of life. I hacked the database of the DVLA in the UK. Almost everyone who’s been on the sex offenders’ register in the UK changes their name. The only national agency they formally need to notify is the DVLA. I ran a query on current trainers, jockeys and vets. All I got was Watt and Kilberg.’

  ‘Kilberg was American.’

  ‘Kilberg was born in London. He never lived abroad. He was a vet who ran a small animal practice in Yorkshire, where he set up something called Happy Saturdays for kids to supposedly learn about raising pets. It was a cover for child abuse. He served three years and changed his name from Kevin Rudging, then started moving around the country.’

  ‘Watt?’

  ‘Real name Quentin Rudyard Collins. Been abusing since his teens. Ran a kid’s animal farm in Cornwall, in one of the busy holiday areas. He left the local children alone and preyed on the holidaymakers. He got away with it for nearly ten years. He served six of an eight years sentence. Changed his name, moved to Scotland for five years and worked on the oil rigs to get the cash together to buy a couple of horses and get himself a permit to train.’

  ‘You had that info plus images from their PCs?’

  ‘Correct.’

  I watched him. He was calm, confident looking.

  ‘What happened with Shanahan?’

  ‘I was looking for funding to develop the implants. I’d read about Shanahan and his fancy talk about plans for the community when he was getting into politics. Then I saw he’d bought this company, so I went to see him and offered him a share of profits if he’d help me develop the ideas.’

  ‘And he stole them?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Did you threaten him when you found out?’

  ‘No. I called him to ask what was happening. He’d been ignoring all my emails since our meeting. He told me on the phone to check the patent register and to count myself lucky he’d taught me a relatively cheap lesson so early in my life.’

  ‘And what did you say to that?’

  ‘I told him it was a lesson I would remember for a long time,’ he smiled.

  ‘Shanahan’s told the police about you.’

&n
bsp; ‘I knew he would. At least I get the patents back. They can fund The Raglan Unit while I’m in prison.’

  ‘What about the three million in betting money?’

  ‘It was six. Six million.’

  I recalled my meeting with the top guys and realized they’d put me away. If word of the scam had leaked, it would sound only half as bad.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Safe. It’ll be there when I come out.’

  ‘How much is in the account you opened for Shanahan?’

  ‘Half a million. Just in case the police did manage to get into it somehow.’

  ‘Where’s the horse, Colossus?’

  ‘He’s in a livery yard near the Curragh where the owner’s waiting for another letter from Mister Shanahan on where his inheritance is to be sent for training.’

  ‘Another letter?’

  ‘The police should find a letter emailed from Shanahan along with a bank transfer from Nequitec for five thousand Euro. Advance payment for livery fees.’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘You did a very, very neat job.’

  ‘Not neat enough. I knew you were on it. I knew you had top grade help. I still didn’t think you’d crack it. What let me down?’

  ‘Those word game apps on your phone.’

  He stared at me. ‘My phone is unhackable. How did you know about those?’

  ‘A guess. I knew you liked word games. My genius of a partner sussed that.’ I pulled the press photo from my pocket and laid it on the desk. He looked at himself carrying that banner. I said, ‘Fruitless Spin. Spiritless Fun. Fissure Splint…Sinful Priests.’

  He smiled, partly in surrender, partly, I think, in admiration.

  I stood and picked up a cardboard coaster from his desk. It was green with gold letters: The Raglan Unit. ‘Can I offer you another, Finbarr?’

  ‘Go on.’ He watched, unblinking. I tore off the top section, leaving Raglan Unit, and laid it down. ‘Alan Turing.’

  His smiled widened and he nodded slowly.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  67