by John Mooney
Even from his hideaway in Amsterdam, Gilligan could see the public reaction to the killing was inspiring an anti-crime wave the likes of which had never been seen before. There was nothing he could do. He was having enough problems running his drugs business. Warren appeared to be suffering from post-traumatic stress, waking in the middle of the night shivering with fear. If arrested he would be easily seduced into making a statement. Shay Ward found that he too couldn’t forget the terrible events. He couldn’t bear to hear Guerin’s name mentioned. He would walk out of a room if her name was referred to in his company. Bowden, Meehan and Mitchell, however, seemed unaffected.
But what caused Gilligan the most concern was Geraldine. The sound of her voice told him that she was under tremendous pressure. And it was his fault. The press was not yielding. When they couldn’t find him, they turned on her, writing about Jessbrook, in the process destroying the reputation afforded to its excellent livery facilities. The business she dearly loved collapsed overnight. The show-jumping arena had been due to host a number of equestrian events—all were cancelled within 24 hours of the murder. He was somewhat sheltered from the consequences of his impulsiveness, but she wasn’t.
In the foolish belief that he could alleviate the campaign, unexpectedly, he decided to talk to the media. Liz Allen was a journalist with the Sunday Tribune. Like many of her colleagues, she travelled to Jessbrook in the hope of contacting Gilligan there. Everyone carrying press identification was refused admission, but she persisted, eventually managing to speak directly with Geraldine, who said she couldn’t help, but if her ex-husband rang, she would gladly pass on the message. She sounded so genuine that Allen was taken aback.
The journalist received a call from Gilligan within hours. She made arrangements to fly to Schiphol Airport on Monday, 2 July, for an interview. She was accompanied by photographer Bryan Meade. Before the flight departed, she went into the ladies’ toilet to use her mobile telephone. ‘It was quite noisy in the departures lounge,’ she said. As she went to dial, it rang. It was Gilligan.
‘I know you’re on your way. I know what you are wearing, you have long, blonde hair and you’re wearing a red jacket,’ he said. She thought it was her boyfriend joking and was about to ask him to stop fooling around until she recognised the voice. She looked at herself in the mirror, as much as to confirm what he said was true. She did not panic and said she’d speak with him face to face in a few hours. Meehan, she would later learn, had been directed to the airport by Gilligan to see if she was travelling alone. He was sitting in the same departure lounge, waiting to catch a flight to London and had phoned through her description.
On arrival in Amsterdam, she made her way to the Hilton Hotel where, as promised, Gilligan was waiting with a bunch of white lilies. He smiled as if participating in a civic lesson and assured her she would come to no harm. He said he didn’t want to speak in the foyer, so the party checked in. The interview was conducted in a hotel room where in the most convincing language she had ever heard he proclaimed his innocence.
‘I had no hand, act or part in her murder. I swear to fucking God I don’t know. If I knew I would go after them myself.’ He ran his hands over his face, acting out the part of an innocent man. ‘I’m finished in Ireland. They’re saying the Provos will get me. They’ve set me up. Jesus, I’ve been blamed for this and I am finished now.’
There was a purpose to the interview. Earlier that day, as expected, Traynor won his case prohibiting the Sunday Independent from publishing Guerin’s story. That she was dead was irrelevant. The Coach stayed away from the court, allowing his solicitors and barristers to represent him. In his affidavit, he made himself out to be a victim, though no one believed a word of it. His affidavit quoted from imaginary conversations he claimed took place. Guerin was portrayed as a self-serving manipulator; he an innocent victim. ‘I know you’re not involved in heroin but I have to print it,’ he claimed she said. ‘It’s your lifestyle. You have a boat worth a quarter of a million pounds and a string of race cars in Mondello.’ Mr Justice Barron, with no other option, granted the injunction the following day.
Gilligan was kept informed of the events as they unfolded. Offering outright lies in one hand and truths in the other, he began to fight back through the medium of the press in a pincer movement that complemented the bogus allegations levelled by Traynor.
After the interview concluded, Gilligan asked Allen if she wished to go gambling in a nearby casino. ‘He said he’d show me just how much money he could make in one night,’ she said. Smiling, she declined the offer and said goodbye. He thanked her for giving him the opportunity to put the record straight. The evening ended in the same strange circumstances it had begun. After he had left the room, Allen noticed her interviewee had forgotten his briefcase, a metallic Samsonite. Tempted as she was to inspect its contents, she decided to leave it untouched. She handed it in at the reception desk.
That weekend, John Gilligan, criminal par excellence, introduced himself to the Irish public for the first time. The portraits Meade took made him look suave, almost Italian.
The interview was a foolish decision, for later that week the assault case against him collapsed when it came to court on 9 July. It never occurred to him that the public would now have a face to put to the name of the defendant in the assault case, which was destined to collapse because of the untimely death of the principal witness.
The garda prosecuting the case, Superintendent Brendan Quinn, stood up before Judge John Brophy and asked that the charges be struck out. When the matter was concluded, the judge asked the court and the journalists in attendance to stand for a minute’s silence in memory of the ‘lady who was the principal State witness in the case.’
‘The reason why it can’t go ahead is because there is no effective evidence that could be offered in a court of law because of her untimely death within the last two weeks,’ he said. ‘Remember the hymn at Dublin Airport Church, “Be Not Afraid”. If you are afraid then the barons and the major gangland people in this country will take away your rights and freedoms which this country has fought for over decades.’ The judge didn’t name Guerin until making his closing remark. ‘I hope other people in the media will follow on in her tracks.’ The case ended on that note.
Months before the murder, Patrick Culligan, the Garda commissioner, had announced his retirement, sparking off a covert contest among his senior officers for the job. None of the competitors showed the ability that his deputy commissioner, Pat Byrne, did to canvass for the job. Byrne was appointed deputy commissioner in May 1994, taking control of all anti-terrorist and drugs operations. From the outset, he made a point of making the right impression with anyone that crossed his path, particularly political representatives, whose thoughts he scrutinised. In another life, he could have been a theatrical performer or indeed a politician, such was his ability to entertain a captive audience.
Weeks before the murder, he addressed the cabinet, delivering a polished speech on drug trafficking and organised crime in preparation for Ireland’s presidency of the European Commission. Owen would later say he used the opportunity to interview himself for the job.
‘He made a very clear presentation to the cabinet when we were coming up to taking the presidency, because we knew we were making the whole fight—international drugs and crime—one of our major planks in the presidency. His briefing to the cabinet was very frank and upright. In a way he gave information to my colleagues that I would have had, but they wouldn’t have had—the networking of the drugs—and he gave facts and figures. It was a very graphic display of understanding and knowledge of the situation.’
His endeavours paid off on 10 July when Owen announced that he would succeed Culligan. With the new commissioner ready to take control, Owen put the Revenue and Garda under pressure; she wanted them to work together. At the same time, officials in her legal department were working unnatural hours rewriting O’Do
noghue’s bill, which they renamed the Proceeds of Crime Act. Other laws enabled the Revenue to disclose information on tax and contribute to the envisaged agency which she called the Criminal Assets Bureau, CAB for short. The necessary laws were drafted in preparation for 25 July. Then just days before the emergency debate, the Government decided that a separate bill would be required to establish the Bureau on a statutory basis.
The crime debate commenced that afternoon in the Dáil with virtually every TD in attendance. It was a heated exchange in which the police and judiciary came under attack. Gay Mitchell, the Minister of State in the Taoiseach’s Department, was the most vocal. Many of his constituents had suffered at the hands of the drug barons; he was enraged. The crime problem, he said, was associated more with order than with law.
‘While the police should be fully supported we are entitled to require from it that its members behave in a totally impartial, non-political manner and keep their noses out of politics, whether they are members of Garda management or Garda trade unions. I would say publicly to the new Garda commissioner that I wish you well. You have a very difficult job, but please keep away from high-society receptions. We do not want to see you there. I want to see you out meeting the ordinary people in the community.’
The drama didn’t end there. ‘The judges have got away with murder for long enough. They have a well-remunerated, difficult job and are honourable, but they must be called to account. They should get out among the people whom they do not live among. We have had enough of their interfering with the legislature and the executive. The tail will have to be wagged a bit, and judges will have to change the way they do their business,’ he said.
There was no visible show of support for his speech, but there was a general consensus that what he was saying was what everyone thought, but hadn’t the courage to say. Across the road, in Buswell’s Hotel, the Dublin City Wide Campaign Against Drugs had gathered. Drug addicts and their parents from the communities worst ravaged by heroin made them-selves available to meet the Oireachtas and explain the roots of the crime problem. The meeting was a sincere and honest gesture wasted on the political establishment. Only 56 of the 226 legislators—a quarter—made the 30-yard walk across the road to the hotel.
Inside the Dáil chambers, things were a little more productive with six pieces of anti-crime law processed without any opposition. Four were passed, making the day’s sitting the most productive ever.
O’Donoghue, never a man to miss an opportunity—a common Fianna Fáil trait—reprimanded Owen. The Minister, he said, had made so many promises that ‘her long finger resembles Pinocchio’s nose’. Perhaps when he opened the next morning’s papers, where it was announced that Fachtna Murphy, the former head of the fraud squad, would front the CAB, he felt slightly embarrassed. Murphy was one of the few policemen capable of investigating serious financial fraud, though at that time his expertise was being wasted. In the age-old tradition of police bureaucracy, when he was promoted to the rank of chief superintendent, he was dispatched to Dún Laoghaire in south Dublin, where his talents at dissecting complex financial fraud were all but wasted. He only learned that Owen had earmarked him for the job when he opened the morning newspapers. He made a great effort not to enquire with his superiors to see if the reports were true, lest they view this as blind ambition.
Barry Galvin, the State Solicitor for County Cork, had already been approached to act as a legal advisor to the new squad. He had a satirical sense of humour, a typical trait for a lawyer, which masked a true sincerity for the victims of the drug epidemic. He had spent much of the previous two years campaigning for more Customs patrols of the south coast and for Garda management to deal competently with the drug barons. His correct analysis of the prevailing crime problem had made him a thorn in the side of police management, who were more than content to write him off as an agitator. For this reason, the Department of Justice reckoned he would be invaluable because he genuinely believed in retribution. His practice also specialised in debt collection.
The investigations into the murder were meanwhile gathering pace. Gilligan knew this was happening. His men on the ground scrutinised all media reports, they watched television bulletins and collected newspaper reports, which they phoned through to the boss daily. The object of the exercise was to establish the identities of those who were taken in for questioning. Once their identities were confirmed, Meehan would pay them a visit to ascertain what was said. The visits were also a form of intimidation and sent out a clear message. Gilligan may have been miles away in Amsterdam but he was still in control, albeit from the shadows.
The Guerin investigation had developed a high profile in the media through leaks to selected journalists aimed at putting the fear of God into the prime suspect. The truth was, it was going nowhere. Hickey was exhausting every avenue of investigation and getting no results. Then at the end of July it came together, accidentally.
Meehan had dumped the bike used for the assassination in a shallow stretch of the Liffey along the Strawberry Beds. He followed instructions to the letter and broke up the bike. In the summer months, the river swells and submerges with the release of water by a hydroelectric plant upstream. Notwithstanding this, wildlife flourishes on the river, which draws walkers, anglers and joggers who spend their spare time on the banks. On the morning of 29 June, the river was particularly low, and a habitual walker who strolled down the riverside paths saw a motorcycle immersed below the waterline. When he got home he rang the gardaí in Lucan. They took the details, thanked him for the call but did nothing. After two weeks of police inaction, he decided to take the bike out himself. He went down to the river on 9 July, entered the water and lifted the parts on to the bank. Someone saw him and, suspecting he was up to no good, called the gardaí who arrived minutes later. He recounted his story to them. They took the bike away to see if it had been reported stolen. Tracing the bike’s owner in the police stolen-vehicle register took time.
More important than this development, though, was the secret work being carried out by detectives from Crime and Security, the Garda’s spying department. They were charged with tracing calls made from Gilligan’s mobile telephone in the days proceeding 26 June. There were hundreds of calls, some to local numbers, others international. The detectives sifted through this labyrinth of numbers, eventually compiling a comprehensive picture of the people Gilligan talked to.
This element of the inquiry was kept secret from the press, as were the workings of Operation Pineapple, which had gathered so much intelligence on Gilligan that Carty decided to mount an all-out strike. He was aware that Geraldine had started withdrawing hundreds of thousands of pounds from her various accounts before they could be frozen. The Pineapple team had served orders under Section 3 of the Criminal Justice Act on the Bank of Ireland in Lucan obliging them to reveal details of the accounts. The documentation the detectives received made shocking reading. Between 24 and 29 July, she withdrew in four transactions IR£85,000 from one account she held in her maiden name, Matilda Dunne. This left a balance of IR£472.69.
She withdrew IR£10,000 and IR£40,000 from two separate accounts on 26 July. Three days later, on 29 July, she withdrew IR£21,000 in two transactions from the same two accounts.
After four months of working in absolute secrecy, the Pineapple team arrived at the gates of Jessbrook at 9 a.m. on 30 July. They cordoned off the roads, took over the equestrian centre and prepared for an assault. When everyone was in place, one detective pressed the intercom button at the main gates, awakening her from her sleep. When she answered, a small convoy of unmarked patrol cars flanked by squad cars flew up the driveway. At the same time, a dozen officers entered the house without saying a word or giving her time to ask questions. They began sifting through every drawer, box and cupboard. They found financial records, account files, commerce books, diaries and bank statements—items of significant importance. The equestrian centre was ransacked. Accounting
files and receipts were removed and put in clear plastic bags marked ‘evidence’.
She didn’t make any attempt to interfere. She decided her best course of action was to play the fool. When one garda noticed a photograph of Gilligan and Traynor pinned to a wall in the kitchen, he asked Geraldine if she knew Traynor. She fumbled for her glasses before asking, ‘Who is it?’ For good measure, she returned to the Bank of Ireland the following morning and transferred IR£49,988.11 into one account opened in the name of Jessbrook. She then closed down the account.
The Money Laundering Investigation Unit took the papers found during the search because CAB was not functioning as the Government wished. For one, Murphy didn’t even have an office. With Galvin by his side, they worked furiously to get CAB operational. Murphy also had no staff, although he knew the type of team he wanted. He approached the commissioner and asked if he could hand-pick a team. This was a bold move, for in the Garda, senior officers rarely make demands or seek autonomy. Byrne, however, obliged. The list Murphy had compiled was made up of detectives who worked in the Money Laundering Investigation Unit. Others were taken aboard because they happened to be in the right place at the right time.
Officials from the State’s Social Welfare and Revenue services were not that enthusiastic about joining. Revenue found it difficult to get applicants for the job, which civil servants considered dangerous. The Department of Finance offered a financial incentive of IR£1,600 annual allowance to encourage people to apply.
