“Who’s the vet then?” Hays said.
“That’s Mr Carlyle over beyond Spratton on the way to Teeton. He specializes in horses he does. Nice fella. He looks after them proper,” Malcolm said.
“And has Mr Carlyle always looked after the horses here?” Hays asked.
“Oh yeah, ever since I can remember anyways.”
Hays finished his tea, thanked the lad for his hospitality and made to leave.
“I’ll be sure to tell Mr Ashton you called. What was your name again?”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with him at the next show.” Hays beat a hasty retreat before the lad could enquire further.
Chapter Ten
By mid-afternoon Lyons was getting impatient to move things along. She called the team together to see what progress had been made.
“You first, John. What did you get from Ellis’s PC and the cards in his wallet?” she said.
“Very little, Inspector. There are a few fairly bland emails, and some document files, again quite inconsequential. So, I’ve started digging a bit deeper. I popped open the cache on the laptop and found references to Word documents that aren’t on the hard drive. It looks as if he had some other storage device that he plugged in and then removed for security. I have the banks digging around for information from the various credit cards, but you know what they’re like, it will be a day or two before we get anything. And that membership card we found – there’s no such association, it was pure fake,” the young Garda said.
“Terrific. So basically, you’ve got nothing at all useful then,” Lyons said, letting her frustration show more than was usual for her.
“Sorry, Inspector. I’ll keep at it. Maybe something else will show up,” O’Connor said, unhappy that Lyons appeared to be displeased with his work.
“Eamon, are you sure you didn’t miss anything in his room out at Ocean View? If there’s another storage device he might have hidden in the room,” Lyons said.
“I’m pretty sure the room was clean, Inspector. Of course, I didn’t pull up any floorboards or anything, but anyway, if I was him I wouldn’t have hidden it in the room in case the nosey Mrs Curley came across it,” Flynn said.
“So where would you have hidden it then, Eamon?”
“Probably in my car. That way it wouldn’t be too far away from me at any time, and there would be less chance of it being discovered,” Flynn said.
The others nodded encouragingly at what their colleague had proposed.
“Right, well then get onto Sinéad Loughran and get her to pull that car apart. Tell her what we’re looking for and for God’s sake get her to get a move on. The trail is going stone cold while we’re all sitting around doing bugger all!”
“Sally. What’s the news on Weldon?”
“Turns out he’s quite an important player in the whole Connemara pony scene. He breeds them, and he shows up at any sort of gathering involved with the animals, and it’s not just Connemaras he’s into, he does thoroughbreds as well. And he’s well connected too. There are lots of photos of him with the Mayor of Galway, the head of the Lyons Club, various local politicians, and even one of him at a dinner with our very own Superintendent Plunkett,” Fahy said.
“All well and good, but we need to get behind all that flim-flam. Try to see if you can get any financials on him – you know, grant applications, property deals, that sort of thing. He was decidedly uncomfortable in our presence out in Clifden, and I’d like to know why!” Lyons said.
* * *
Hays left the Ashton’s and headed on towards Spratton. It was a glorious day in rural England, and he was enjoying the trip a lot. He had checked the web on his mobile phone to locate Carlyle’s veterinary practice, which was, as the stable lad had told him, on the far side of the village.
As he drove through the chocolate box village of Spratton, he noticed the King’s Head pub on the corner with a sign hanging out announcing “Food served all day”, and he decided that he would call in on the way back from the vets to sample the fare.
The veterinary practice was easy to find. A large sign-written wooden board giving details of surgery hours and proudly boasting “Vet on call 24/7/365” was fixed to the gate, and up along quite a short drive Hays could see a number of buildings. He drove in and parked in front of a long low “L” shaped building that looked as if it was the business end of the operation. Several other vehicles were parked there too. Off to the right, standing behind a beautifully manicured lawn, was a large bungalow that Hays calculated must run to well over three thousand square feet, with an expensive navy-blue Jaguar parked in front.
Hays got out and entered the low building via a door marked “Reception”. Inside, an atrium with a tiled floor, brightly lit by a large overhead skylight, accommodated two reception desks behind each of which sat a dark-haired girl. The girls were both in their twenties.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the nearest one said in a cheery voice, “how can I help you?”
“I was hoping for a brief word with Mr Carlyle, if that’s possible?” Hays said.
“I’m sorry, sir, he’s out on call just now. Can one of the other vets help?” she said.
“No, it’s OK thanks. Will Mr Carlyle be back in this evening?”
“Yes, he’ll be here in about half an hour for evening surgery. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?” the girl said, apparently not at all fazed by the fact that Hays didn’t appear to have an animal with him.
“No thanks, it’s fine. It’s just a small personal matter. I’ll catch him again, don’t worry,” Hays said.
The girl started to ask who she could say had called, but Hays made swiftly for the door and let himself out before having to identify himself. The two receptionists looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
Outside, Hays got back into his car and drove out of the premises. He turned right at the exit, and parked up about fifty yards from the gate in a small layby where he had a good view of any traffic entering or leaving the vet’s place. Fifteen minutes later he was rewarded when a shiny, newish Range Rover came towards him going a bit faster than was sensible for the narrow B road, and turned into the gateway. The single occupant was a man in his fifties with a good crop of greying hair and dark rimmed glasses. He appeared, from what Hays could see, to be dressed in a dark green boiler suit.
Hays followed the Range Rover up the drive and intercepted the man as he was getting out of the car.
“Mr Carlyle? Sorry to pounce on you like this, my name is Michael Hays. I’m with the Irish police. I wonder if I could have a quick word with you – unofficially, of course?”
Carlyle looked at his watch and said, “Well if you can be quick, Mr Hays, I have surgery in a few minutes and I need to clean up first.”
“I won’t keep you long, I promise,” Hays said, smiling as broadly as he could without making himself look like a total idiot.
“I understand you look after the animals over at Jack Ashton’s yard,” Hays went on.
“Yes. That’s right. I’ve known the Ashtons for years. Nice people,” the vet said.
“Indeed, if a tad unfortunate. I believe they have lost at least three horses in almost as many years,” Hays said.
“Yes, yes they have. But there’s nothing untoward going on, I can assure you. I did the post mortems on those animals myself. It sometimes happens like that. These animals are very highly bred, and that quite often throws up congenital defects which are a bugger to spot before it’s too late. But it looks as if their run of bad luck is over for now anyway. Why the interest?” Carlyle said.
“Oh, you know, just pursuing enquiries. A case I’m working on back at home, a few threads pointing in this direction. But thank you for your help, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my call to Jack or Mrs Ashton, it’s all very much off the record you see,” Hays said.
“No worries. Mum’s the word. Now I really must get on,” Carlyle said.
“By the w
ay, I understand that Ashton’s dead horses were all cremated. Is that normal in these instances?” Hays asked.
“Oh yes, perfectly. A horse is a very big animal to bury, so they either go for dog food, or are cremated. Mrs Ashton didn’t like the thought of them ending up in tins of Lassie!”
Hays had years of experience interviewing suspects from all walks of life. He had developed a keen sense of when a person was lying to him, or at least being economical with the truth, and he could see in Carlyle’s eyes that he was not being forthright.
Chapter Eleven
Maureen Lyons was still at her desk when her mobile phone sprang to life.
“Hiya Mick. How’s things?” she said.
“Great. I’ve just had a delicious meal at the King’s Head in Spratton. Roast duck with all the trimmings – mmmm.”
“You bastard! I had a stale cheese sandwich at lunch and now I’m bloody starving. I’m still at work you know,” she said.
Hays went on to describe the events of the afternoon and what he had discovered about the very high mortality rate among the horses at Ashton’s yard.
“Do you think there’s something in it?” Lyons asked.
“Well, it’s a coincidence, isn’t it, and you know me. I don’t like coincidences. Anyway, what are you up to?”
“Trying to find out something – anything at all would be good – about the deceased. So far, apart from his name and address – nada. And I’m getting rightly pissed off with it,” she grumbled. She went on to tell him about the delay in getting the banks to respond, and the presence of the fake membership card for the Association of Photographic Journalists that they had found in his wallet.
“Easy tiger. Why don’t you go home and open a bottle of wine and chill for a bit? It will all be still there tomorrow, you know.”
“Ah, I dunno. Home isn’t the same without you, Mick. I’m as well off here causing trouble for a while longer. Can’t wait to get you back to Galway though, show you what you’ve been missing!”
“How do you know I’ve been missing out on anything?” he said, teasing her.
“Just get back here tomorrow, Inspector, and don’t be late!”
“Before you go, there is one angle you could try. I know one of the sub-editors on The Journal – Tom Scanlon, or “Scally” as we used to call him. He’s sound, and he’ll deal with you off the record if you ask him. Give him a call and see if he’s ever encountered your mystery man, or heard of that photographic crowd. And tell him from me if he breathes a word, he’ll have fifty speeding tickets before the month is out!” Hays said.
“Nice one, Mick. That’s breakfast in bed for you on Sunday if that pans out,” Lyons said.
“What? Just breakfast?”
“Well, maybe an extra grilled tomato, or a rasher then, we’ll see. Go on, will ya? Text me this Scally’s number. Goodnight.”
Lyons’ phone pinged a few seconds later and Tom Scanlon’s number was inserted automatically into her contacts.
Lyons was just about to call him when Sinéad Loughran knocked on her door.
“Come in Sinéad. You look happy. What have you there?” Lyons said.
“Found it in Ellis’s car. Hidden in a matchbox on the parcel shelf. Hiding in plain sight, as it were,” she said beaming.
“Great. But what is it?”
“It’s a thumb drive for a PC. Tiny, but believe it or not it holds 128 gigabytes of stuff. That’s almost a whole PC’s worth,” Sinéad said.
“Cool. That’s terrific. Well done you. But I think it’s best to wait till John comes in tomorrow before we connect it up, unless you want to have a go? Knowing my luck with technology, I’d probably wipe the whole thing clean,” Lyons said.
“Probably best to leave it till tomorrow. I’ll put it in the evidence room for the night for safe keeping,” Sinéad said. “Fancy a drink?” she added.
“Sinéad, there’s no longer any doubt – you’re officially a genius. But give me a minute, I have one phone call to make first,” Lyons said.
“Oh, OK. I’ll wait outside.”
“No, stay where you are, it’s grand,” Lyons said, indicating with her hand for Sinéad to stay put, “I won’t be a minute.”
Lyons dialled the number Hays had sent her by text.
“Tom Scanlon,” said the voice that answered after two rings.
“Good evening, Mr Scanlon. My name is Detective Inspector Maureen Lyons from Galway. I’m a colleague of Senior Detective Mick Hays. He gave me your name,” she said.
“Ah, yes, Mick, the rascal. What’s he up to these days?” Scanlon asked.
“We’re investigating a sudden death out here in the west, and Mick was wondering if you might have heard of our victim, David Ellis? He may be somehow connected to the bloodstock industry,” Lyons said.
“Ellis, Ellis, let me see. The name seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. Give me an hour or two and I’ll have a root around, see what I can find. Is it OK to call you later?” Scanlon said.
“Sure, thanks, Mr Scanlon, that would be great. But of course, this is completely off the record, is that all right?”
“OK, understood, and call me Tom by the way, Inspector. Any friend of Mick’s, well, you know. Chat later.” With that he was gone.
Lyons held the phone away from her face and scowled at it.
“Hmph. Funny bloke. But he could be helpful,” she said out loud.
“OK. Let’s go. I have a thirst I wouldn’t sell for a tenner!” Lyons said, picking up her handbag, slipping on her navy-blue suit jacket and flicking her hair out from under the collar.
“Doherty’s?” she said to Sinéad as they made their way out of the by now largely deserted building.
“Do you mind if we don’t? Liam ‘the groper’ Dempsey from the drugs unit will be in there with his cronies, and you know what he’s like. After a few pints he thinks he’s God’s gift. I’ve had to fend him off a few times,” Sinéad said.
“Jesus, Sinéad. I thought he had a partner, and didn’t they have a baby recently?”
“Yes, but that’s all the more reason to stay in the pub surrounded by fawning young constables keen to curry favour with the more senior ranks. Beats dirty nappies and yarking babies any day,” Sinéad said.
“For fuck sake, Sinéad!” Their laughter could be heard echoing through the empty corridors of Mill Street Garda station as they headed for the door.
The two women made their way across the river at Bridge Street, turned right into Cross Street and then left into Middle Street. At the corner of Middle Street and Buttermilk Walk stood an old stone-built pub called “An Béal Bocht”, which is Irish for “The Poor Mouth”. The ground floor of the pub was jammed with a mixture of tourists and late-night shoppers, but the upstairs lounge was still more or less empty at this hour, so they made their way upstairs.
“So, is Mick still away in the UK?” Sinéad asked when they were settled in front of their drinks in a quiet corner of the lounge.
“Yeah. He’s back tomorrow, thank heavens.”
“Do you miss him a lot?”
“Yes, I do to be honest. It’s not just the company either. I feel safe when he’s around, and I do my job better too with him there backing me up. He’s got so much experience, and I have so much to learn,” Lyons said.
“Seems to me you’re doing pretty well, Maureen. Look at that thing last year. Not many female officers would have taken out that McWhatsit character like you did. I’m surprised they didn’t give you a medal,” Sinéad said.
“Ah, away with ye. That was more good luck than anything else, and McFadden wasn’t exactly a master criminal.”
“But I don’t know about Mick and me,” she went on, unprompted, “you know I’ve kept my flat down by the river just in case he throws me out. I have it rented to a fresh-faced young Garda just out of Templemore on a six-month lease.”
“God, Maureen. I thought you and Mick were a permanent fixture,” Sinéad said.
“We
are, I think. But there’s just something niggling me about it. Some detective I am. You’d think I could get to the bottom of whatever it is, wouldn’t you?”
“I think that’s cool. You don’t take him for granted. There’s that hint of unpredictability about it. That’s good,” Sinéad said.
“Anyway, enough about me. How are you getting on with James?” Lyons said.
“God, I don’t know, Maureen. He has, shall we say, certain skills that are very pleasing for a girl, but he’s boring. Give him a pipe, a pair of slippers and a copy of The Irish Independent and he’d never move away from the fireplace again. I’m not ready for that!”
“You’ll never be ready for that girl, but it’s good that you’re getting something out of it,” Lyons said.
“Maybe we should swap!”
“Feck off, Loughran. Anyway, Mick prefers brunettes.”
“Yeah right. That’s what he tells you.” They both laughed out loud.
Lyons was just starting into her second glass of cabernet sauvignon when her phone stared chirping in her handbag. She rooted around in the bag, retrieving the phone on the fifth ring, just in time to stop it going to voice-mail.
“Lyons,” she said.
“Hi, Inspector. It’s Tom Scanlon. I managed to dig up a bit on your mystery man, David Ellis. I knew the name rang a bell. He used to work for the Irish Press newspaper here in Dublin, but when that folded he went freelance. Lately, he’s been doing a bit of investigative stuff into crimes of one kind or another. He writes under the name Dionysus and we quite often carry some of his seedier stuff. Is that any help?” Scanlon said.
“Yes, indeed it is, Tom, that’s terrific. Thank you. You don’t happen to know what he was working on recently do you?”
“No, sorry, haven’t a clue.”
“Oh well, listen, that’s very helpful, thanks a lot,” she said.
“No bother, and give my best to Mick, the rascal. Bye.”
The Galway Homicides Box Set 2 Page 6
