by John Mooney
Paul Ward had found himself under suspicion because of his connection to the gang. He sought refuge in the Green Isle Hotel on the Naas Road. By chance, Ronanstown gardaí were searching for a man with a similar name in connection with an armed robbery. A tip-off to detectives resulted in his being arrested at gunpoint while he slept at the hotel early on 8 October. He was taken from the hotel and driven to Ronanstown Garda Station, arriving at 1.50 a.m. Overcome by shock, he said nothing, waiting for the inevitable. Then he was released at 2.45 a.m. He was told he was the wrong man.
The next day at 7.15 p.m. he rang John O’Neill at Tallaght Garda Station. They agreed to meet later that night. Ward gave him two passport forms and four photographs of his brother Shay, whom O’Neill immediately recognised, having charged him years before. Ward told O’Neill he believed he was going to be arrested for Guerin’s murder as part of the general round-up. They agreed to meet four days later at the Cuckoo’s Nest on the Greenhills Road at 8.20 p.m.
O’Neill did as he was told. He arrived for the meeting in his Land Rover. Ward was waiting inside and on seeing O’Neill, walked out and sat in the front passenger seat. O’Neill, never a man to worry about security, switched on the car’s internal light and handed some papers to Ward, who threw his eyes over the paperwork. O’Neill had stamped the passport applications as instructed. Neither of the conspirators took much notice of the people coming to and from the pub. They should have done.
When they finished their business, Ward jumped out and O’Neill drove home.
It was the least he could do for the gang. They had completely corrupted him. He had solicited bribes and allowed himself to plunge into criminality. When it was established that O’Neill had abandoned his moral senses, Hickey instructed the team to intercept the passport applications through the Department of Foreign Affairs. If the gang managed to reach the continent, they could disappear, possibly forever. He wanted to avoid a lengthy extradition process at all costs. He had another message for O’Neill and Ward—he ordered his officers to arrest them both.
The morning of 16 October was cold and overcast. Paul Ward’s miraculous release from custody the week before had, if nothing else, given him a sense of false security. The surprise that day was that he had returned home where he was found. Elizabeth, his mother, and Vanessa Meehan, his girlfriend, were also detained at exactly the same time. Ward was placed in a squad car and driven to Lucan Station. His girlfriend was sent to Ballyfermot, his mother driven to Cabra.
The suspect was formally registered 20 minutes later. He demanded to speak to a lawyer and requested medication. He told the police he was a heroin addict. He needed physeptone. With no preparatory talk, the police called a doctor. His name was Lionel Williams. He arrived later that day after the interviews had started. When he arrived at the station, Ward asked to be examined to see if he had injuries. The doctor did as requested but found nothing. He gave 40 milligrams of sedative in liquid form to a garda to give to the prisoner. The interviews commenced.
O’Neill heard through the grapevine about Ward’s detention but thought nothing of it. He was the most surprising of men, for it never crossed his mind that he too was in trouble. Over time, he had managed to hypnotise himself into a surreal world. He was quickly brought back to reality when at 7 p.m. the next night six gardaí arrived at his door armed with a search warrant. Detective Inspector Jerry O’Connell knocked at the door of his home in Kingswood Heights in Tallaght. A stunned O’Neill answered the door. As the detectives made their way in, O’Connell asked him if he had anything illegal in the house.
‘No. No, I don’t have anything in the house. Why would I have anything in the house? I’ve only got a sawn-off shotgun. It’s upstairs in the wardrobe,’ he said. Minutes later, the search party found the weapon. It was an air pistol. Beside it was a file marked ‘courts’. Wearing plastic gloves, detectives opened the file. Inside was a bench warrant for a girlfriend of Meehan. O’Neill was arrested and brought to Naas Garda Station where he confessed to corruption. Later that Friday night, shortly before 9 p.m., Paul Ward was charged with Guerin’s murder when he appeared before Dublin District Court. He was later convicted for the offence but this was quashed on appeal.
The gardaí proceeded to arrest others who they suspected might have information about O’Neill’s dealings with criminals. More than anything else, police management feared a scandal emanating from within their own ranks. There were persistent allegations of corruption, which through an assortment of friendly journalists were denied. They were now in the precarious position of having to charge one of their own officers. O’Neill had sung like a canary, naming the criminals who bribed him. He said he had met Paul Ward through Martin Ryan, a nightclub manager he once worked for. Ryan was questioned at Terenure Garda Station. He was one of several people who knew nothing about organised crime but had to be interviewed by the gardaí. Paul Ward had been monitored calling to his home.
Sergeant Cormac McGuiness and Garda Pauline Reid, the officers conducting the interview, got straight to the point. ‘Why did Paul Ward call to your house on Tuesday, 15 October 1996?’ asked McGuiness.
‘He just dropped in. He said he was meeting someone in the Cuckoo’s Nest. He was very agitated. He said he was meeting a bloke and he wanted to leave him dangling. He said he had five minutes to spare. He appeared to me to be in a bit of limbo. He didn’t seem to know whether to keep the appointment. He appeared to want to come into my house.’
Ryan managed the System Night Club on South Anne Street in Dublin. Meehan, Paul Ward and Mitchell were regular patrons. In an interview the next day Sergeant Michael O’Leary and Garda Andy Manning took over the interrogation. This proved more productive. He inadvertently linked Holland to the gang.
‘There’s another guy, they call him “Gene Wilder”. He’s about 50 years. He’s very thin, about 5 foot 5 inches. His name is Gene. He’s very grumpy and I tried to stop him at the door one night. He was with Aidan, Brian Meehan and a few other girls and I think “Git”. Aidan said that he was with them so I let him in. He used to come in on his own after that but he would always be with Brian Meehan and Paul Ward. Ward would come in at least once a week. They always got on well, having the craic. Sometimes “Gene” would come in with a guy called “Kellyer”. He looked like a junkie.’
‘Why did they call him Gene Wilder?’
‘´Cause he looked like him when he had the hair out frizzy. He normally has his hair tied back in a ponytail. The ponytail is shoulder length, so when it’s out it looks real frizzy.’
‘Can you tell us anything else about Gene?’
‘No, not really but he’s easy to pick out. He has a fat nose—it’s lumpy, very red and pointy. He wasn’t very clean, always T-shirts and jacket, navy or black, and trousers.’
The officer asked Ryan if he knew any gardaí. He wasn’t aware that O’Neill was in custody.
‘I know another guard from Tallaght, he’s known as “Buffalo”. He’s John O’Neill. I was at his house in Kingswood. We called to his house to get a parking fine fixed. He wasn’t in when we called but I met him on the Greenhills Road near the Cuckoo’s Nest.’
‘How many times have you been in contact with John O’Neill?’
‘About six times.’
‘What was the reason for these contacts?’
‘He was always asking me for money. I’d give it to him sometimes. He’d call to my house.’
‘What is your connection with Paul Ward and John O’Neill?’
‘John O’Neill is a great friend of Paul Ward. I don’t have anything to do with them. They have an arrangement with them and Brian Meehan. They look after him for whatever, information I suppose. I don’t like O’Neill, he’s dirt, a sponger.’
Ryan is said to have been horrified by what had happened to Guerin and had been misfortunate enough to have met Gilligan’s gang, something which had led
gardaí to his door. However, O’Neill was charged the next night at a special sitting of Dublin District Court. He had resigned from the force while in custody. The hearing took less than ten minutes. The charges prompted Meehan, Mitchell, Shay Ward and Holland to leave the State immediately. The gardaí had put the Passport Office under surveillance to see if they would collect the passports O’Neill had stamped. But they never showed up.
News of the charges was communicated to Gilligan. He was trying to fight his own battle. The British authorities moved him from Wormwood Scrubs to Belmarsh High Security Prison. He made an application for bail on 23 October but lost. The Crown Prosecution Service objected to bail and won. He was further remanded to 14 November.
The sheriff arrived with his men outside the gates of Jessbrook at 9 a.m. on 20 November 1996. His men were burly and wore masks and overalls. Some of them wore dark glasses, baseball hats and scarves to conceal their identities. The number plates on their vehicles had been removed. Behind them stood half a dozen gardaí drawn from the Louth/Meath division. They were there as back-up. A small number carried firearms. When John and Geraldine Gilligan failed to respond to their respective tax bills, the CAB instructed the county sheriff to seize their property. The day had come.
Geraldine was at home with Darren, Tracy and her daughter Shannon. She saw them coming, but there was nothing that she or anyone else could do. Frank Lanigan, the county sheriff, knocked at the door and explained his business. His men entered the house. The Gilligans put up no fight.
They took everything, lifting furniture and everything else as if they were removal men. Geraldine was lost for words. She spent much of her time during the raid sitting on the floor. At other times, she was possessed by a strength that made her appear outwardly unwavering in the face of such adversity. What affected her more than anything was the removal of her beloved horses. When she saw the sheriff’s men lead them one by one into horse trailers she broke down. For the first time since the murder, it all became too much. She was stunned. All they left was a child’s pony and four horses that she didn’t own. The seizure of the animals brought her back to her senses, and in a bold move she walked out the gates and spoke to the media for the first time. The dogs followed.
She had only one message. ‘I couldn’t answer any tax assessments because the police have all my documents of returns, and everything else, so I didn’t have any documentation to answer with,’ she said. Asked how much was sought in the tax assessment she received, she said: ‘Mine was IR£882,000, but the one that I got on the 14th of this month has gone up with interest to IR£1,292,000.’ She came across as a genuinely wronged woman, almost breaking down crying.
The sheriff’s men left at 5.10 p.m. It was bitterly cold and almost dark by the time they had removed everything. During the course of the day, detectives from the CAB made an inventory of the property seized. This was handed to Geraldine who ran her eyes down the list. There she noticed a Nissan Micra car. She remarked to the detective that no one in the family owned a Micra. ‘Oh, that’s John’s girlfriend’s,’ the detective responded, with a smile.
She said nothing. Once inside the door of her bare home, she fell to the floor and started crying. She had no choice. There were no seats or furniture left to sit on. Everything was gone. Darren and Tracy comforted her, and her friend Jean Bolger wiped away the tears.
The press were everywhere outside. Eventually, they started calling to the door. She refused to answer it. She cried all night. She couldn’t believe that Gilligan had a girlfriend, young enough to be her daughter. She asked how he could do this to her. Then when sense began to prevail, she asked how he could have a relationship with such a young girl. ‘It’s not her I’m annoyed with. It’s him,’ she said.
Tracy was more direct. She wanted to go straight to Rooney’s house and tell her what she thought of the relationship. ‘My ma’s been crying all night because of her. I could kill me fucking da.’
Carol Rooney was the least of her worries. Public unrest began to manifest itself with vigilante attacks on Jessbrook. Her car windows were smashed. People started sending her pornographic hate mail in the morning post. The gates to Jessbrook were vandalised. ‘Drugs bitch out’ was sprayed on the walls. In an attempt to give her side of the story, she spoke to the press, painting a rather bleak picture of her existence.
‘I still believe John had nothing to do with the murder. The papers have made him out to be a killer,’ she told the Sunday Business Post.
‘My life has been turned upside down, so much so that I can’t describe it. It’s just all gone. All that’s left for me to do is just die, then everyone will be happy. I’ve even lost my brothers and sisters. It kills me to think that my family wouldn’t even stand by me, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. You know last week a newspaper article said my life ended when the sheriff and police came, but my life really ended when Veronica Guerin was killed.’
Though her interview was polished, she could not explain her wealth. She carefully avoided mentioning the cash withdrawals, or where the money was now. ‘I’m not interested in what people think. The money came from gambling as far as I am concerned. I don’t believe John was involved in the drugs trade. If people believe that you can’t win money gambling there would be no bookies’ shops. Are the people of Ireland telling me that you can’t win money gambling? John even had limits placed on his bets in some bookies. I have never seen any evidence which made me believe that John was involved in drugs.’
Making herself out to be a victim, she said her separation was legitimate: ‘I wish it wasn’t because I still love him in some way. The media pressure has brought us back together again. Our marriage started to fall apart when we moved to Meath in 1994 because I was engrossed in my horses and he was into gambling. A lot of our problems were caused by the lack of space in the house. When John would show up, all my friends would be staying so we had no time to ourselves. In ´95 we called it a day because I had more time for my horses than I did for him. The separation agreement was that he would finish the construction of the centre. It was an unorthodox split up because we remained friends.’
Then, in a direct reference to Gilligan’s relationship with Rooney, she said: ‘John and I are separated; he is free to do his own thing.’
The interview lasted for three hours during which time a helicopter hovered above the centre carrying a film crew. Finally she avowed that she had never been a bad person.
‘I want to see Veronica Guerin’s killers caught. I watched her husband on The Late Late Show and felt the same as everyone else. I know he doesn’t want to hear that, but it’s the truth. I so believe that John had nothing to do with it. The papers have made him out to be a killer. The reason why I’m giving this interview is because papers are printing stories about me and John which are not true. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. The media don’t know me so how can they write about me? The future holds nothing. I don’t think anyone wants to see me get justice. It’s as simple as that.’
The Criminal Assets Bureau attracted a great deal of controversy due to the anarchic laws empowered in it. Fachtna Murphy was acutely aware of this and refrained from prosecuting cases where there was little or no hard evidence to link cash to drug trafficking. But the powers invested in CAB still caused genuine concern among civil rights activists and people like Ó Siodhacháin, who was still in regular contact with Geraldine. He didn’t like CAB for ideological reasons more than anything else. In one of his many meetings with Geraldine, he advised her to speak with Michael Grimes in Cork. He was a man who would help, he told her.
Grimes was a spindly little man who revelled in trouble. He introduced himself as a tax expert—at other times he was a liquidator. ‘It depends on what day of the week you get me,’ he said. Without having any formal legal qualifications, he is revered for his highly tuned legal mind, which has struck the fear of God into those who have crossed sw
ords with him. Geraldine, out of desperation, said she wanted to meet him. A week later, she did.
They met in his office in Cork. Grimes studied her case paperwork. He looked Ó Siodhacháin straight in the eye and said, ‘I can see the way their minds work.’
Grimes later said, ‘I reached the conclusion that she might have a claim for half the property, but in my view she didn’t because the money she used was his. On the face of it, she seemed hard done by, because she said she was separated from her beloved, though at that time she didn’t quite use the word beloved.’
Geraldine Gilligan didn’t know what to make of the eccentric Cork man but, left with no other choice, asked him to help.
‘Then she asked if I would look after John’s representation and my viewpoint on that was it was an English case, it dealt with English law, it was highly specialised and there was no point in involving Irish lawyers of any kind. She then asked me if I would go see him.’
She left the meeting content and dined with Ó Siodhacháin that evening, before catching the 6.30 p.m. train home. She didn’t know what to think of Grimes. ‘I don’t know if he’s mad or what,’ she said. Meanwhile Grimes went to see Gilligan in prison.
‘Belmarsh gave us our own room. You presume everything is bugged, so we wrote little notes to each other. His was, “I don’t fucking care if this room is bugged.”’
They discussed Gilligan’s case strategy, the CAB raid on Jessbrook and the murder.
‘As far as he was concerned, he was going to be out in three weeks, it was a terrible mistake,’ said Grimes.
‘I was quite blunt with him. I realised that even if I wanted to defend him, I wouldn’t last 20 minutes because nobody who disagreed with him got anywhere. He knew exactly what he was going to do, because he was totally innocent of everything and he never heard of people like Paddy Holland or Brian Meehan. Now when he tells you straight to your face that he never heard of these guys, well you know what you’re up against.’
