this, the guy who takes your place knows we’re not kidding.’
The depot manager nodded, his face pale. He tapped a couple of buttons, then raised the phone to his ear.
At Castlepoint Garda Station, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg shook Bob Tidey’s hand and said, ‘No point sitting down – conference is due to start in a couple of minutes.’
Tidey had never worked with Hogg, but knew him by reputation. Ambitious, a ladder-climber, but a solid enough policeman. Hogg said, ‘We’re down the corridor,’ and led the way out of his temporary office. Walking behind Hogg, Tidey noted that the rumours were true. He dyed his hair.
‘Colin rates you highly,’ Hogg said.
‘We worked together, back in the day. He rose to the top, I’m still knocking on doors. I think he feels sorry for me.’
Hogg’s smile was rueful. ‘We could do with another experienced hand on this case, but if there’s one thing we didn’t need it was a whole new line of inquiry.’
Tidey said, ‘How big’s the team?’
‘At its core, handpicked by Colin, seven of the best detectives we have. Well, perhaps six. But that’s OK – every investigation needs someone to make phone calls, coffee and witless remarks. Plus the usual filers and statement takers.’
Hogg gestured towards a door. ‘In here. Listen and learn – you’ll get a thorough briefing later.’
The room wasn’t made for nine people, and it felt cramped. Hogg stood, the rest of the detectives found seats or the edges of desks. Tidey sat on the side of one of the desks, next to a fat, red-faced detective.
The case conference was mostly a run through the Jobs Book, noting assignments completed, none of them apparently fruitful. An analysis of questionnaire results, a background report on the husband of some woman who was apparently romantically involved with the victim. A lot of disconnected facts that didn’t make much sense out of context. Tidey spent some time trying to work out which of the detectives was the Homer Simpson. They all sounded like they knew what they are doing. Hogg kept things moving, prodding detectives where they were too sketchy, cutting across them when they rambled. It was a daily base-touching exercise, ticking off a handful of tasks from what was obviously a long list.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey, Cavendish Avenue. He’s here this morning on the instructions of Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe.’ Hogg made a take-the-floor gesture. ‘Tell them why you’re here, Detective Sergeant.’
Bob Tidey opened his notebook. ‘The best part of eighteen months ago, a young man named Oliver Snead was murdered in Glencara – a hit job, in front of the block of flats where he lived. Oliver lost some drugs he was supposed to deliver – small-time stuff, but enough to piss someone off. He was trying to pay them back, but not fast enough. Two bullets in the chest, one in the head. We recovered the cartridges. And according to the ballistic report on the Emmet Sweetman killing, Technical got a match – same striations, same gun.’ Tidey checked his notebook. ‘The bullet was a .45 ACP, most probably fired from a Browning M1911 – it’s a fairly common weapon.’
The only woman on the team, sitting close to the door, said, ‘Any suspects?’ Bob Tidey had worked with her briefly a couple of years back. He shook his head. ‘I knew the kid – knew his grandfather – I put a lot of time into that case. I eventually got a name – Gerry FitzGerald, a known hood. A tout picked up a whisper, but not enough to bring to court.’
‘You pulled him in?’
‘Name, rank and serial number.’
Hogg said, ‘What matters is this – how come a forty-two-year-old millionaire banker and property speculator, a man at the heart of the property bubble, a man who was murdered in the doorway of his Southside mansion, got shot dead with the same weapon that killed a minor mule on the Northside Dublin drug scene? It opens up a new line of
The depot manager nodded, his face pale. He tapped a couple of buttons, then raised the phone to his ear.
At Castlepoint Garda Station, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg shook Bob Tidey’s hand and said, ‘No point sitting down – conference is due to start in a couple of minutes.’
Tidey had never worked with Hogg, but knew him by reputation. Ambitious, a ladder-climber, but a solid enough policeman. Hogg said, ‘We’re down the corridor,’ and led the way out of his temporary office. Walking behind Hogg, Tidey noted that the rumours were true. He dyed his hair.
‘Colin rates you highly,’ Hogg said.
‘We worked together, back in the day. He rose to the top, I’m still knocking on doors. I think he feels sorry for me.’
Hogg’s smile was rueful. ‘We could do with another experienced hand on this case, but if there’s one thing we didn’t need it was a whole new line of inquiry.’
Tidey said, ‘How big’s the team?’
‘At its core, handpicked by Colin, seven of the best detectives we have. Well, perhaps six. But that’s OK – every investigation needs someone to make phone calls, coffee and witless remarks. Plus the usual filers and statement takers.’
Hogg gestured towards a door. ‘In here. Listen and learn – you’ll get a thorough briefing later.’
The room wasn’t made for nine people, and it felt cramped. Hogg stood, the rest of the detectives found seats or the edges of desks. Tidey sat on the side of one of the desks, next to a fat, red-faced detective.
The case conference was mostly a run through the Jobs Book, noting assignments completed, none of them apparently fruitful. An analysis of questionnaire results, a background report on the husband of some woman who was apparently romantically involved with the victim. A lot of disconnected facts that didn’t make much sense out of context. Tidey spent some time trying to work out which of the detectives was the Homer Simpson. They all sounded like they knew what they are doing. Hogg kept things moving, prodding detectives where they were too sketchy, cutting across them when they rambled. It was a daily base-touching exercise, ticking off a handful of tasks from what was obviously a long list.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey, Cavendish Avenue. He’s here this morning on the instructions of Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe.’ Hogg made a take-the-floor gesture. ‘Tell them why you’re here, Detective Sergeant.’
Bob Tidey opened his notebook. ‘The best part of eighteen months ago, a young man named Oliver Snead was murdered in Glencara – a hit job, in front of the block of flats where he lived. Oliver lost some drugs he was supposed to deliver – small-time stuff, but enough to piss someone off. He was trying to pay them back, but not fast enough. Two bullets in the chest, one in the head. We recovered the cartridges. And according to the ballistic report on the Emmet Sweetman killing, Technical got a match – same striations, same gun.’ Tidey checked his notebook. ‘The bullet was a .45 ACP, most probably fired from a Browning M1911 – it’s a fairly common weapon.’
The only woman on the team, sitting close to the door, said, ‘Any suspects?’ Bob Tidey had worked with her briefly a couple of years back. He shook his head. ‘I knew the kid – knew his grandfather – I put a lot of time into that case. I eventually got a name – Gerry FitzGerald, a known hood. A tout picked up a whisper, but not enough to bring to court.’
‘You pulled him in?’
‘Name, rank and serial number.’
Hogg said, ‘What matters is this – how come a forty-two-year-old millionaire banker and property speculator, a man at the heart of the property bubble, a man who was murdered in the doorway of his Southside mansion, got shot dead with the same weapon that killed a minor mule on the Northside Dublin drug scene? It opens up a new line of
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