by John Mooney
Grimes subscribed to the belief that in court, people should never ask questions they don’t know the answers to. Gilligan struck Grimes as a dogged and determined person.
‘John had a habit of deciding something, which was totally unreal. The real problem with him and Geraldine is facts don’t influence anything. Once they decide something is true, well that’s the end of it. The fact that the facts scream to high heaven to the opposite is neither here nor there. John would say that it was really her property and it was her decision. And she would say you’d have to ask the boss. So between the two of them, you never got an answer to anything. Not that he would give you an answer to anything.’
Grimes, who speaks with an alarming bluntness, later concluded that Geraldine was the person he should talk to. ‘She was the cleverer of the two. John was plain stupid. John’s only answer to everything was, “I’ll bump him off.”’
Grimes set about devising a method to halt the CAB in its tracks.
Gilligan was in the act of fighting a losing battle at Belmarsh Magistrates’ Court. Customs and Excise were pressing ahead in conjunction with the gardaí. The murder inquiry arranged for Dunne to be flown to London to testify for Customs in a move also aimed at frightening the rest of the gang who were operating from the shadows. When Gilligan heard that one of his own was going to give evidence, he was dumbstruck. He didn’t really believe it was going to happen until Dunne took the stand. Gilligan watched from the dock in disbelief while Dunne told the judge that he never knew he was importing drugs.
‘I was not told what was in the containers. I was not told what was the weight of them. There was no discussion.’ It was comical. ‘There was something not quite right,’ he said with a degree of smugness.
Gilligan’s lawyer, Clare Montgomery, saw through this and tore the witness to shreds, prising apart his evidence.
The case lasted for three days. The media had arrived en masse. Many of the journalists assembled were startled to discover that Gilligan was a small man. He took no notice. He sat back smiling. Sometimes he fiddled with his glasses while generally surveying all about him. At other times, he stared up at the ceiling, leaning back on his bench to rest his arms behind his head. He was outwardly jovial.
On the third day, the chief prosecutor told the court that Dermot Cambridge, a van driver innocently duped into the conspiracy by Dunne, was refusing to travel to England to give evidence because he had received a number of threatening phone calls and was ‘frightened for his life’. Cambridge said anonymous callers were threatening to kill him, his girlfriend and his child.
Gilligan was remanded in custody until 20 February.
The Sunday Times announced to the world that Grimes planned to reopen Jessbrook a week after the committal hearing had ended. Grimes, by a miraculous stroke of coincidence, said he had been hired by Joseph Saouma to retrieve a IR£4 million loan given to Gilligan. Grimes had also, without anyone’s knowledge, been appointed by a British court as receiver to Gilligan’s assets, including Jessbrook and two houses in Dublin.
‘It is my intention to reopen the equestrian centre. It is the finest in Europe, it holds 2,800 people in an indoor arena,’ he said, adding that he never worked for Gilligan. The CAB didn’t know what to make of it all.
The Gilligans in the meantime were waging an all-out legal battle to stop the CAB. Immediately after the raid on Jessbrook, Geraldine sought a High Court injunction preventing the Bureau from selling off her property. The CAB contested the injunction but lost. It was a temporary setback. Seven days later, on 12 February, lawyers acting for Gilligan failed to prevent the State from appointing a receiver over his properties. It was another blow to the cartel. But Gilligan was granted permission to challenge the constitutionality of the Proceeds of Crime Act 1996.
The tide turned six days later when Geraldine initiated an appeal against the seizure of her property. Her case centred on her claim that she was not liable for Gilligan’s taxes.
‘If I was taxable, then every separated wife in the country would be taxable for their ex-husbands. It made no sense to me.’
Her lawyers argued that she was a married woman and that she and Gilligan were living as husband and wife at the time of the tax assessment. Because neither had opted for a separate tax assessment, it was her husband who was chargeable under the tax laws.
The CAB reaffirmed that she was a chargeable person, claiming that in the period of assessment, she had bank accounts with substantial sums in her own name. This was income in her own hands. The judge reserved judgement. The news came on 23 February that Geraldine had won her case in the High Court, which ruled that she was not liable for the massive tax bill of IR£1.6 million. She could not believe her ears. Mr Justice Morris, in delivering his judgement, said it was clear that significant consequences might flow from his determination of the issues, but it was no part of his function to consider any such consequences.
In the meantime, Gilligan was sent forward for trial in Woolwich on 17 March, St Patrick’s Day. David Cooper, the stipendiary magistrate, outlined the case against the gangster during a 20-minute written submission to the court. Gilligan, he said, did have a case to answer before a jury, but the prosecution had not established a case beyond reasonable doubt.
On 20 February, at 1 p.m., there were crowds everywhere on Upper Street in Islington, allowing Detective Constable Patrick McElhatton to blend in easily. He was undercover, following a target with a covert operations team drawn from the South Regional Crime Squad. The target walked briskly, which caused his followers to do likewise. He headed into the public entrance of Angel Street tube station.
McElhatton watched as his subject and his girl-friend moved towards the south side of the entrance. Then there were three of them—the young couple and a much older male.
‘The younger male was six foot tall, 30 to 35 years old, medium to heavy build, wearing spectacles. He was wearing a light-brown suede jacket,’ McElhatton noted.
Bowden was looking smart for a fugitive on the run. He had just been released from Mountjoy Prison and skipped bail, taking Juliet Bacon with him.
McElhatton didn’t know the identity of the man they were meeting but noticed he had a distinctive misshaped nose and was carrying a newspaper in his right hand. He moved in closer to hear their conversation.
‘Don’t say fuck all about me, I’m telling you, I’ve me alibi sorted.’ The older man spoke loudly. There followed another conversation, which the policeman couldn’t hear. The group walked off.
The third man was Patrick Holland, who had decided to face the music and return home. He called the incident room and said he’d present himself at Lucan Garda Station with his solicitor. On the morning of 9 April, Garda Marion Cusack, a streetwise member of the Drugs Unit at Store Street Station, was monitoring passengers arriving at Dún Laoghaire ferryport. The night before, Holland had telephoned the incident room to say he would be arriving on the ferry.
Cusack saw a red Volkswagen Polo car alighting from the ferry driven by a woman with a male passenger in the front seat and a boy in the back seat. She approached the passenger and asked his name.
Holland revealed his identity. He was immediately arrested under Section 30 of the Offences Against the State Act, on suspicion of having a firearm, and was taken to Lucan where he was interviewed at length. By chance a garda searching through his belongings found what appeared to be a walkman among his possessions. Out of curiosity, he put the headphones on and heard what sounded like his colleagues interviewing Holland. He rushed into the interview room. The suspect was searched. Nothing was found. Later, his shoes were torn apart. Inside the police found two tiny transmitters. He had tried to record the interview.
Bowden was arrested in London and agreed to return home voluntarily. O’Mahony and Hanley flew to London City Airport to collect him on the night of 11 April. He apologised and told the police
he’d testify in court.
Chapter 16
Fighting Back
‘I’ll send someone to kill you and everybody around you if he goes Turk.’
BRIAN MEEHAN THREATENING CHARLES BOWDEN’S GIRLFRIEND, JULIET BACON
John Gilligan had been remanded to the maximum-security wing in Belmarsh Prison on the outskirts of London. Belmarsh Prison is built near the site of the wartime arsenal at Woolwich. It was opened in 1991 and is used as a dispersal prison. It accommodates 901 inmates. Houseblock No. 4 is where the maximum-security prisoners are held. Life there is a harsh regime where prisoners like Gilligan are confined for longer periods in their cells.
With no way of escaping and locked up for most of the day, Gilligan resolved to fight the prosecution every step of the way. His strategy took two forms, both aimed at bringing about the same conclusion. His first stratagem was to denounce the prosecution every step of the way. From this starting point, he instructed his lawyers to appeal every decision pertinent to his extradition. The instructions were based on his own interpretations of extradition and constitutional law which he formulated through reading law books, massive manuals on extradition, criminal law and constitutional issues. The second, but far more effective, method of hindering the prosecution case, was the threat of extreme violence against anyone who considered testifying against him. Meehan saw to this.
The first of many hearings got underway on 17 March 1997, the feast of St Patrick, when Gilligan’s lawyers sought a judicial review of his committal. It was supposed to be a routine hearing—and it was, until the prosecution announced that a further 54 Irish witnesses were available to give evidence.
The figure startled Gilligan. Even if most of the new witnesses were gardaí, the news signalled certain trouble.
But he wasn’t just fighting the British authorities. Back in Dublin he was mounting a legal challenge against the constitutionality of the Proceeds of Crime Act 1996. This complex legal case commenced on 18 March. It ran for three days. The powers invested in the Bureau were described as ‘the creation of a police state’. The CAB defence, however, was simple: the State had a right to confiscate the proceeds of crime. Judgement was reserved.
Gilligan, who with inspirational zeal was fast learning the mechanisms of criminal and constitutional law, was briefed on the developments. He believed there was real hope. After all, Geraldine had won her case against the Bureau notwithstanding the odds.
But what Gilligan could not see was how Geraldine’s life had changed irrevocably since Guerin’s murder. The woman he gave everything to was no longer the lady of the country manor. What few friends she ever had no longer took her calls or enquired about her wellbeing. There were no more extravagant parties at Jessbrook. But Geraldine was a survivor. She took everything in her stride: Nothing fazed her. Least of all the garda raids, court actions or pressure from the media.
Her daughter was the same. Darren, however, was different. He did not possess the same inner strength as his mother or sister. The pressure of the Garda investigation into his father’s criminal empire secretly impacted on him. He turned to heroin to escape. He became an addict. None of the family realised this until he was charged at a special late sitting of Dublin District Court on 2 April with a number of crimes, including burglary. He had committed the crimes while high.
Prison was supposed to neutralise Gilligan, but it did no such thing. The gardaí hoped Gilligan’s arrest would strike fear into the gang, forcing them to go their separate ways. It was an idle hope, wishful thinking on the police’s part. The gangster’s arrest had the opposite effect. Meehan and Holland, more than the others, allegedly resolved to dispatch those planning to testify against them. Holland, intelligence reports alleged, sincerely regretted not killing Bowden when he had the chance in London. It was now too late. Bowden was in Arbour Hill Prison, under 24-hour armed guard for his own protection. Warren was just as safe. Gilligan had no idea he was helping the police. Warren met his handlers at clandestine locations. It was a dangerous game but one he played carefully. Dunne was also protected. His home in Cork lay surrounded by an impenetrable cordon of armed police. The threat against them was still very real.
Thomas Coyle, Gilligan’s loyal friend, was desperately trying to find an assassin inside Arbour Hill willing to kill Bowden. He suggested mixing crushed glass or poisons in his meals. His preferred method of assassination, though, was a knife in the back while he showered. The reward he offered was IR£2 million. Coyle approached former IRA men but to no avail. In one confidential memorandum, which Todd O’Loughlin, a senior officer on the case, wrote to Hickey, he outlined his fears for the safety of all concerned. It was headed ‘Security of Witnesses in the Veronica Guerin murder investigation’.
It is the consensus of opinion at the incident room at Lucan that the security of witnesses discussed hereafter should be given urgent consideration. Reports from a number of confidential sources indicate that the principals in this murder who are still at large, namely Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell and Patrick Eugene Holland have come to the conclusion that the only way to stop the witnesses testifying against them, and to re-establish their control over these people, is to kill one or more of the witnesses. Their primary target at the moment is Charlie Bowden: statements attached.
The gang are particularly annoyed at Charlie Bowden and profoundly regret not having killed him when he recently absconded to Britain. Attempts are now being made to find somebody who can kill him in prison. He is presently in Arbour Hill Prison as his security could not be assured in Mountjoy Prison. There is also grave concern for the safety of Juliet Bacon, who is Bowden’s common-law wife, and is not in custody at the moment.
In the case of Russell Warren, the threat is not imminent as his evidence has not yet been served and the Gilligan gang is not aware of the extent of it. Immediate consideration would need to be given to the position of Juliet Bacon and [another criminal informant] who seem to be the most vulnerable at the moment.
Hickey needed no convincing. If any of the witnesses came to harm, it would be a disaster. Not only would the others be too afraid to testify, there would be a knock-on effect. With the absence of any formal protection operation for State witnesses, the realisation that Gilligan’s gang was perhaps even more dangerous than ever entered his thoughts. There was no other solution—the situation required the creation of a witness protection programme. The assistant commissioner sent a letter, with the word ‘confidential’ stamped on top, to C Branch, the force’s intelligence section, on 4 April 1997.
‘It is significant that intelligence indicates that the main players think that the absence of a witness protection programme in this country is to their advantage. There is no doubt but that they will resort to murder to prevent witnesses giving damaging evidence in court. I agree with inspector T. O’Loughlin’s assessment that Juliet Bacon and [another criminal informant] are most vulnerable at the moment and should be provided with protection in the short term. I think that we should review the situation following consultation with the DPP and if necessary set up a witness protection programme, as all the vital witnesses will be under severe threat if statements are served, and under prolonged threat if, and when, they give evidence.’
His analysis was correct. As he was writing, the gang was quickly coming to the conclusion that Bowden was now a sworn enemy. Their worst suspicions were partly confirmed when they dis-covered that Bowden was no longer being held in Mountjoy Prison but had been transferred to Arbour Hill. This suggested that Bowden was either in solitary confinement or, more likely, had turned supergrass.
Gilligan was losing his patience. He couldn’t distinguish the lies from the truth in the coded messages relayed to him over the phone. Meehan and the others were equally confused. All they could do was wait for Bowden to make contact.
At 4 p.m. on 11 April 1997, Juliet Bacon walked into the Hole in the Wall pu
b on Blackhorse Avenue in Dublin. She was accompanied by five armed gardaí. One attached a recording device to the public phone in the pub. She made a few calls. The first was to a wrong number. The second reached a business contact of Gilligan’s. She asked this man to call Meehan and tell him to get in touch. She hung up. Five minutes later, the phone rang. She got straight to the point.
‘Charlie is going fucking mad, he wants to know what the fucking story is.’
She enquired about Holland’s arrest at Dún Laoghaire. Meehan told her it was of no concern to Bowden. Trying to compromise him further, she continued: ‘He said they nicked him . . . He got told that someone ratted that he was coming on the boat or else they said they had surveillance on the boats.’
‘He has nothing to do with what Charlie got done for.’
‘I know, he’s just wondering, just worried what the story is, that’s all,’ she said.
‘But it’s got nothing to do with the murder and it’s nothing. He’s clear on the murder, he is, because they didn’t do him with it, cause they’ve no evidence, right.’
Bacon enquired further, asking Meehan out straight about Holland’s court appearance on drugs charges. She referred to this as ‘the drugs thing’.
Meehan didn’t need anyone to tell him that she was up to no good. Now he got straight to the point.
