“Inspector, oh I’m glad I caught you. I was on my way home when I saw a small poster in a shop window. It’s her, isn’t it, the girl I found out at Ballyconneely?”
“Yes, that’s her. What’s up?”
“Well, I think I know her, in fact I’m sure I do. Her name is Lisa. We were in college together, and we ran an event for charity before she stopped attending.”
“I see. How come you didn’t tell us this before, Ciara, it could be important?”
“Well I didn’t recognise her in the dark, and the condition she was in. But it’s her, isn’t it? Oh God, this is terrible.”
“Were you in touch with her recently?” Hays asked.
“No, not for ages. I may as well tell you, you’ll find out in any case. We had a row. I was going with a boy from college, and she kind of took him from me. I was pretty upset at the time, I thought he loved me. But I’m over it all now for ages.”
“What was this lad’s name?” Hays asked.
“Brian, Brian Leddy.”
“Are you still in touch with him at all?”
“No. He finished college same time as me, and he went to Australia I think. I haven’t seen him for ages.”
“And there’s definitely nothing more you want to tell me, Ciara?”
“No, no, of course not,” she said.
“Well, OK. You’ll have to come in and amend your statement at some stage, and we may need to speak to you again. You’re not planning any holidays, are you?”
“No, no, of course not. When do you want me to come in?” she asked.
“We’ll be in touch, Ciara.”
“Oh, OK. If you want to see me, just give me a call. I’ll give you my mobile number.” She called out her number which Hays wrote down on his notepad.
After the phone call, Hays finally left and drove home to his house in Salthill. Although he was very self-sufficient, managing his domestic affairs with ease – the mundane matters of keeping his clothes fresh, stocking the larder, cooking and keeping the house in some sort of basic order – he was lonely all the same. He had never known the welcoming smile of a wife or partner, nor the chaos and noise that a family of young children bring to a home. Although he convinced himself that he was fine, he knew deep down that his solitary life was missing a lot of potential happiness that sharing can bring.
Chapter Eight
Friday, 9:00 a.m.
Hays and Lyons were both in early and had spent some time going over the information on James McMahon.
McMahon was a successful architect who had set up practice in Galway some twelve years ago. He had timed it well. Galway was undergoing a mini-boom all of its own, and there were lots of projects involving the refurbishment of old buildings, hotels, and pubs, as well as a good number of new-build offices going up.
McMahon, together with his junior colleague Brian O’Reilly had quickly established the practice as the “go to” firm for all things architectural. The practice expanded rapidly, and now employed twelve people – a mixture of draughtsmen, quantity surveyors and junior architects, as well as a compliance officer and of course the inevitable pretty twenty-three-year-old receptionist and an equally pretty female office manager.
McMahon was a native of Athenry. His parents were farmers and machinery contractors and were fairly well heeled. When he had completed his Leaving Certificate, McMahon had been sent off to Bolton Street College in Dublin to learn his trade at the age of nineteen. During the four years that he was studying, he stayed with an uncle and aunt in Raheny, and pursued a pretty good social life while making sure that he came near the top of the class in his exams.
Armed with his new qualification, at twenty-three he moved to England and entered the building trade. He was soon buying ‘fixer-uppers’ and doing them up, selling them on at serious profit which allowed him to amass a goodly amount of precious Sterling.
Soon after returning to Galway, he had built a very spacious house out by Kilcornan Wood a few kilometres outside the city on the road that had later become known as ‘millionaires row’.
Along the way he married a Galway girl, and between them they had produced two children, a boy and a girl. He had also become a leading light in the Galway Lions Club which allowed him to share some of his considerable fortune with the less well-off and was also very helpful to him in a business sense.
“We’re going to have to tread really carefully here. This guy is connected. God knows who he is in with. I think I’ll run this past the Super before we go charging in,” Hays said.
“Have a look and see if there is any record at all of any interaction with us. Any signs of previous violence towards women in particular. Oh, and check with the UK too, they may have something. Then maybe we’ll go and have a wee chat with our friendly architect.”
Lyons dug around in the Pulse database but could find nothing at all on McMahon. He appeared to be squeaky clean. She then called a contact that she had in the Met in London and asked her to have a snoop around to see if there was anything there.
Hays returned twenty minutes later having spoken to the superintendent about James McMahon.
“He said to go ahead and interview McMahon but go easy. The Super knows him from the Lions, and says he can be quite prickly,” Hays said. “Are you up for it?”
“Sure, no bother. Might as well get fired for upsetting one of the Super’s mates as anything else. I never really liked this job anyway,” she said, smiling at Hays.
* * *
The offices of McMahon and O’Reilly – written with a plus sign on an aluminium plate outside the building – were ultra-modern with lots of glass, grey marble and brushed metal on display. The building itself was tall and narrow, and occupied three floors in a courtyard just off Dominick Street.
The front door opened onto a small reception area with a desk and a comfortable-looking black leather sofa packed in between two tall indoor plants that looked rather thirsty. The pretty receptionist was seated behind the desk and a name plate indicated that her name was Irene Weir.
“Hello Irene. We are here to see Mr McMahon. My name is Inspector Hays and this is Sergeant Lyons from Galway Garda,” he said, holding out his warrant card.
Irene seemed only slightly fazed by their request, and responded as they assumed she would: “I’m afraid Mr McMahon is in conference with a client at the moment, but they’ll be finished soon. He has another meeting in fifteen minutes,” Irene said in quite a posh, but genuine, local accent.
Boarding school, Maureen thought to herself.
“Can I get you a coffee while you’re waiting?” she asked.
“Thank you. Two white coffees no sugar,” Hays replied, and the two detectives took up their seats beside each other on the leather couch.
The coffee was good – nice and hot, and not bitter, but the drink was let down a little by the thick white mugs with ‘McMahon + O’Reilly’ printed on them in which it was served. No biscuits were offered. Maureen assumed that they were reserved for paying clients and not mere police.
At five minutes to eleven a thick and solid cherrywood door at the end of the reception area opened and three men emerged. It quickly became obvious that the two in front were the clients, and the man standing behind them ushering them out of the office was McMahon.
When he had seen his clients out, he turned quizzically to Irene as if to say, “Who the hell are these two?”
McMahon was tall, probably six-one or six-two, slim with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair and a tanned angular face. He was dressed in an immaculate and expensive grey suit which fitted him perfectly, set off with a pristine blue shirt and an expensive silk tie.
He approached the two Gardaí who by now were standing, extending his hand towards Lyons.
“Good morning folks. What can I do for you today? Wife been parking on double yellow lines again!” he said with a smirk.
“Could we have a few minutes of your time in private please, Mr McMahon?” Hays asked.
“
Sure, come into my office. I haven’t got long though, I have another appointment at eleven,” he said.
Hays gave Lyons a look that said, “We’ll see about that,” and they went on into the office.
The office was quite sparse. McMahon’s desk was a little too large for the room. He sat with his back to the window, facing the door. A glass-fronted bookcase was filled with architectural texts, and a framed certificate on the wall confirmed McMahon’s status as a member of the Royal Institute of the Architects of Ireland, RIAI for short.
Against the only remaining wall stood a chest with ten shallow, wide drawers which looked as if it was used to house architectural drawings. On top of the chest was an old theodolite, all brass and lenses, which presumably was just for decoration.
His desk had a photograph of the man himself with a blonde woman of about his own age and two small children of maybe five and seven. There was a modern telephone, a small stack of trays for papers, and a diary, but no sign of any files or drawings.
McMahon gestured the two detectives to sit in front of his desk.
“Now, what’s all this about?” McMahon asked.
Lyons opened the proceedings.
“May we ask where you were on Tuesday afternoon, between say three and seven, Mr McMahon?” she asked.
McMahon flicked the diary back a page or two and consulted it.
“Actually, no,” he mused, “I wasn’t in the office on Tuesday. I remember now. I had to go and see a client at the Golf Club. We had a meeting at four-thirty.”
“And which Golf Club would that be?” Hays interjected.
“I’m a member out at the Connemara club near Ballyconneely, you know it I’m sure.”
“And did you meet your client?”
“Actually, no. He didn’t turn up. The weather was really bad. Lashing rain and wind. In fact the place was more or less deserted,” McMahon responded.
“So, what did you do then?” Lyons asked.
“I had a cup of coffee at the bar. Tried to call him, but there was no signal. I hung around for about three-quarters of an hour in case he turned up, and then drove back to town.”
“Did anyone see you there?” Hays said.
“No, as I say, the place was pretty well deserted, except for Liam at the bar of course. He served me.”
“And what time did you get back to town then?” Lyons asked.
“It must have been around six-ish. I remember the traffic was awful. I came back to the office and did a few hours before I went home.”
“Can anyone confirm that you were here at that time?” Lyons asked.
“Of course not. They all go home at five-thirty. Look, what’s this about?” he said looking at his watch.
“Do you know a girl called Lisa Palowski?” Lyons said.
“No, I don’t recall the name. Who is she?”
“Are you sure, Mr McMahon?”
“I said I didn’t know her, didn’t I? Do you not believe me?” he snapped. He was becoming quite agitated now just as Lyons had hoped he would.
“May I see your mobile phone please, Mr McMahon?” Lyons persisted.
McMahon reached into his jacket pocket which was now draped over the back of his chair and fished out an iPhone 6 which he handed to Lyons, protesting all the way.
“This is getting silly. I’ve answered your questions. I’m extremely busy today and my next appointment will be waiting in reception. Have you quite finished?”
Lyons had given the phone to Hays who was scrolling down through the call history and contacts looking for Lisa’s number. He caught Lyons’ eye and shook his head slightly.
“Not quite, Mr McMahon. If you prefer we could continue down at the station,” Hays paused for a moment and went on, “with your lawyer present.”
Hays reached unobserved into the side pocket of his jacket and pressed the green button on the front of Lisa’s Nokia. Almost at once the muffled sound of a mobile phone began to chirp.
The phone rang three times before Lyons said, “Aren’t you going to answer that, Mr McMahon?”
McMahon went red in the face. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a small black phone and looked at the screen, which clearly identified the caller as Lisa.
Hays took the Nokia out of his pocket and held it up for McMahon to see. He pressed the red button on the phone and the incessant chirping stopped.
“Now, Mr McMahon, we can do this one of two ways. I can arrest you here and now on suspicion of the murder of Lisa Palowski. That gives us the right to search these premises, your home, and seize your vehicle for forensic testing. All very public and quite unpleasant for your family and employees. Or you can agree to come in voluntarily, provide a DNA sample, and start helping us with our enquiries and stop lying to us. Which is it to be?” Hays said.
“Look, yes I lied about knowing Lisa. But you have to understand, you know what she is. I have my reputation to think of, my standing in the community. And Jennifer – good God what would she think? I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll cooperate. I never harmed the girl, I swear,” he stuttered, all of his composure gone.
“Mr James McMahon, I’m arresting you on suspicion of…” Hays began.
“No. No. Don’t do that. I’ll come with you. I’ll do whatever you want, just keep it low key for heaven’s sake!” McMahon interrupted.
“Right then. Get your things. Maureen, bag up the black phone please, it’s evidence. And bring your diary please, Mr McMahon, we need that,” Hays said.
McMahon’s next appointment was waiting in the reception. He apologised to the man, saying that something urgent had come up, and Irene would re-arrange another appointment.
The receptionist was aghast at seeing her boss departing with the two Gardaí, but kept her composure and said nothing.
On the way back to the station Lyons engaged James McMahon in conversation about his architectural practice. She pointed out a few buildings and allowed him to prattle on about the work he had done on them. This was her way of interrupting his thoughts so that he couldn’t spend the time weaving another story to try and get himself out of the hole he was in. It worked too. The man was vain and delighted in telling Lyons all about his massive achievements around the town.
* * *
The team got together once again in the incident room. Lyons had already posted a photo of James McMahon on the board, which now had three pictures – Lisa Palowski, Ciara O’Sullivan and James McMahon.
Hays addressed the group. “Before we get started on McMahon, I had a phone call from Ciara O’Sullivan last night just before I left. It turns out she knew Lisa Palowski too, from college. Seems they had a row over some college stud, so she may not be as innocent as she seems, though Dodd did say that Lisa had been hit by a man. O’Sullivan is pretty tall though, so you never know. I need a volunteer to go over to Hynes’ Yard car park and have a look at her car, see if there’s any damage. John, could you do that while we deal with McMahon – her reg. number is on file?”
“Sure, boss, I’ll head over there now.”
“Right guys, we need to get busy now with this. McMahon is here voluntarily, and he’ll be itching to get home in a few hours, so we haven’t got long, unless we arrest him,” Hays said.
“John, before you go, will you get on to Sergeant Mulholland and ask him to drive out to the Connemara Golf Club? He’s looking to interview Liam, the barman. See if he remembers McMahon being there on Tuesday around half past four. Get Mulholland to take a statement, and ask him to do it now, not later, and not tomorrow. He can phone it in when he has some news,” Hays said.
“Oh, and when you’ve done that, get back to Lisa’s phone company. See if they have managed to dig up any more of her contacts from the numbers in her phone.”
“Eamon, will you and Maureen go and interview McMahon? Get him to give up a DNA sample, and fingerprints. See if you can get his car keys too,” Hays added.
“I’ll go and update the boss, and get forensics working on the
vehicle when we get hold of it. Let’s meet back at four – and we need some results.”
* * *
Flynn and Lyons spent over an hour grilling James McMahon. He had refused a solicitor on the grounds that he had nothing to hide, and in any case his lawyer was a family friend, and he didn’t want to involve him at this stage for obvious reasons.
At half past three they took a comfort break, McMahon demanding the right to go home as he had nothing more to say. He had stuck to his story about driving out to Ballyconneely to meet a client on Tuesday.
During the short recess Lyons’ phone rang. “This is Mulholland here, Sergeant,” he boomed. “I did as you asked. I drove out to the golf club and spoke to Liam, the guy behind the bar. He told me that there was no one at all in the place Tuesday afternoon. The weather was dreadful, so bad that he locked up at about half past three and went home. But he was certain that there had been no one at all in the bar that day,” Mulholland reported triumphantly.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” Lyons said and hurried off to find Hays with the news.
“I see,” said Hays. “This changes things quite a bit. I’d better come down with you myself now. We may need to charge him.”
“Well, Mr McMahon,” Hays said addressing the man in a serious tone. “It seems you have been spinning us a right old yarn, so it does.”
McMahon started to say something but Hays held up his palm to silence him before continuing.
“It appears that you’ve been telling us a right load of lies about your whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon. You weren’t at the golf club in Ballyconneely at all were you?” Hays demanded. He let the question hang in the air. McMahon looked him dead in the eyes and waited for a full thirty seconds before replying.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Look, Mr McMahon, I don’t think you really understand the seriousness of your situation. You have fed us some tall story about where you were when the girl was murdered. You had the opportunity, almost certainly the means, and I can easily guess the motive,” Hays went on.
Holding up his forefinger and thumb barely a centimetre apart, Hays said, “I’m just that close to charging you with the murder of Lisa Palowski, and unless you start telling me the entire truth within the next five minutes, that’s exactly what I will do.”
The Galway Homicides Box Set Page 5
