Cold Steel (10 page)

13

7.45 pm

Frank Clancy was in ward three checking on his patients. The duty sister stopped him before he reached Harold Morell. 'He's not great,' she warned. 'He's spiked a temperature again, his mouth is severely ulcerated and he's had three rigors in the past hour.'

Clancy took the bedside chart and studied the basic thirty-minute observations. Morell's vital signs were ominous, high swinging fever, fast heart rate, low blood pressure and poor urinary output. He walked slowly to the special isolation unit outside the ward where the seriously ill man had been moved. Morell lay slumped on high pillows, cannulae in both nostrils delivering oxygen, drips delivered fluids and antibiotics into each arm. A long tube drained urine from inside his bladder. The man lying on the bed was a mere shadow of the big, strong builder of better days. Clutching his right hand was his wife, a tall, plumpish woman with streaked grey hair. Her face was wracked with worry and strain, she wrung and unwrung a once white linen handkerchief. The moment Clancy looked at his patient he knew he was going to die. He moved closer to the side of the bed, avoiding Morell's wife's questioning stare.

'Harry,' he half shouted into the man's left ear. Harold Morell opened his eyes briefly, moistened his lips and tried to speak, then shook his head. 'Harry,' Clancy pressed,
despite his patient's weakness, 'I need to ask you about the tablets you were taking before you came into hospital.' Morell nodded a fraction. 'I know you were on Adizem and D/N Aspirin, weren't you?'

'Yes, he was, doctor,' Mrs Morell cut across. 'I always look after his tablets, he can be so forgetful.'

Clancy turned to the woman. 'Is there any chance he took more than what were prescribed for him? You know, by mistake, maybe he got confused?'

'No, doctor.' Mrs Morell was emphatic and Clancy sensed a woman well on top of such matters. He'd come across patients who wouldn't have known a tablet from a bar of chocolate, others who read the instructions incorrectly. Mrs Morell was not of that sort. She seemed like a woman who guarded her husband's health with strict vigilance.

'I always keep them inside a small pillbox and only put out each day's dose. The rest are kept in the medicine cabinet.' She spoke with a flat north Dublin accent.

Clancy smiled at her attentiveness and fiddled with one of the drip sets to give him time to think. 'Were there just the two tablets?' he asked, now adjusting the nasal cannulae.

'Oh yes,' replied Mrs Morell, emphatic as ever. 'The pinky-blue capsule for his blood pressure and the little blue one for his blood.'

'You don't happen to have them with you?' Clancy was now adding a useless note to the bedside chart.

'No, I'm sorry, doctor. I didn't think you'd need them. They're at home.'

Clancy smiled at her before he left the room. 'Perhaps you'd bring them in with you when you visit tomorrow?'

'I will, doctor, I'll make a knot in my handkerchief to remind me.' She tied the knot immediately. 'There,' she held the handkerchief up, 'I won't forget.'

'Thanks very much. Bring them all. Don't leave any behind.'

'I won't, doctor,' promised the diligent Mrs Morell.

Clancy took the ward sister's elbow and walked her to a corner. 'Louise,' he said quietly, rummaging in the pockets of his white coat, 'would you order those two files up here for me, please?'

The sister took the slip of crumpled paper and read the scribbled names. 'Mary Hyland… James Murphy?'

Clancy nodded and directed her attention to the chart numbers he'd written beside both. 'They're both dead,' he added, glancing round to make sure no one could overhear, 'so the notes should be in the DECEASED section in medical records.' The ward sister's eyes never left the names. 'See if you could get them here for me by tomorrow. I've a mountain of paperwork to deal with before I go home. Tomorrow would be great, if you could manage it.' He forced a hopeful smile.

As the troubled blood specialist began sifting through a series of test results on his other patients, above in the Heart Foundation offices Linda Speer was on the phone. The door to her suite was locked and the blinds were drawn.

With no sign of Michael Leo Kelly by ten thirty on the evening of Wednesday, 13 May, Jim Clarke made the operational decision to storm Hillcourt Mansions at dawn the next morning. He left Molloy and Kavanagh in charge of selecting the snatch squad and exact location of the suspect.

Back home he slumped into bed and tried to sleep. But sleep would not come. The pain, the drive to arrest Kelly, the possibility of closing the case in one dramatic swoop pumped his adrenalin. He tossed and turned all night, watching the digital clock flick the minutes towards dawn.

At police headquarters, Molloy and Kavanagh could not
sleep either. They had drawn up a list of twenty-six men and primed them for the morning raid. As they played poker into the small hours, smoking and gossiping, they kept an eye on the clock, itching to get on. Kavanagh sneaked away for five minutes to tip off
Post
crime correspondent Barry Nolan.

'We've codenamed it "Operation Storm the Barricades",' he gleefully informed. Nolan spent the rest of the night cramped in the back of a mini-van near the mansions. He brought three cameras, two with telephoto lenses, and enough film to capture a small war. He'd earlier agreed a hefty fee for a separate report to the
Boston Globe.

At her home in the Dublin suburb of Sandymount, Joan Armstrong was wide awake. The needle tracks on her arms were more difficult to camouflage than she'd expected. She hadn't been able to get near the phone without being overheard. Then Tony Molloy had called to the house at six thirty. His parting words were heavy with menace. 'Maybe there's something you've forgotten, Joan? I'm going to call again tomorrow. Maybe you'll have remembered something by then, no matter how small. Okay?' She'd had to change her sweat-soaked pyjamas twice already, and the night was quite cool for a change.

In his flea-infested room in Hillcourt Mansions, Micko Kelly was asleep. The sleep was disturbed by unusual and distressing dreams. Kelly rocked on the mattress. In his drug-induced mania he found fire-breathing animals following him, reaching out to grab his arms and legs. He screamed for help. On a heap in the corner, undisturbed from the moment he'd discarded them, lay his blood-spattered trainers and bloodstained white T-shirt. If Hillcourt Mansions had gone up in flames Micko Kelly couldn't have cared a damn. The dragon had Micko and the dragon was in control.

In New York, the city that never sleeps, the price of Cynx Pharmaceutical shares rose to $17.22, up $1.82, after unexpected buying from an unknown European source.

14

5.30 am, Thursday, 14 May —

'Operation Storm the Barricades'.

'The gloves are needle-proof. They're awkward but safe, that's the main thing.' In a small quadrangle at police headquarters, Tony Molloy was briefing his twenty-six-man snatch squad. The grey light of dawn was edging over nearby Georgian buildings while vans loaded with morning papers played 'skip-the-red-lights' on the streets outside. The smell of roasted malt from Guinness's brewery hung in the still, cold morning air. Distant burglar alarms vied with barking dogs as wake up calls.

'There are needle-proof jackets and leggings as well. They'll itch but you won't be in them for long.' Molloy looked over his squad. They're tough-looking, right enough, he thought. Most had crew cut hair, physical bulk with intimidating faces. All were above six feet tall, he'd insisted on that. Ten were from the elite Rangers Command, trained in anti-terrorist and urban conflict duties. The ten would split into two groups of five. The first would go in after Micko Kelly, the other five would protect the outside landing of the tenement complex. The rest of the squad would disperse to strategic positions along both stairwells, blocking any attempt to get up or down. Molloy didn't want a melee with his men being attacked with every conceivable weapon imaginable.

'
The moment we're inside the courtyard it's enemy territory and you better believe it. I don't want any Rambo
antics. Don't taunt or intimidate, don't rough anyone unnecessarily. Our job is to get Kelly and nothing else.' He stared at the impassive faces in front, knowing full well some would love to get stuck into the scag-heads. They were so psyched up they'd have stormed an army barracks just to vent their pent-up aggression.

'Kelly mustn't be hurt. I want one man for each arm and leg and one for his head. Don't let him bite. Carry him face down. Don't put anything over his mouth to stop him shouting. He's going to be taken immediately to a holding centre for questioning.' The cold air frosted at his lips as he spoke. He noticed the rapid breaths of the snatch squad. The more he briefed, the more psyched up they were becoming. He sensed he'd have to let them off the leash soon. 'It's important he's not hurt in any way.' No one spoke. 'He'll be paraded before the press and I don't want a mark on him.' The squad listened silently. 'As soon as he's out there'll be a forensic team after you to bag any evidence. They must be protected. We need evidence, understand?' The silent heads nodded.

'Okay,' Molloy ended, 'get into that gear. We're outa here at six exactly.' He checked his watch and motioned the men to do likewise. In the morning gloom twenty-seven handwatches fixed the time at five forty-eight. Twenty-six men moved inside a training shed and began donning protective gear. Not a word was exchanged, not even eye contact made. The silence was intimidating. Molloy murmured into a walkie-talkie and within minutes heard the gentle rumble of four transit vans. They pulled up in front of the shed, front and back windows protected by steel mesh. The vans were black with POLICE painted in large white lettering on both sides and roof. Four drivers sprang from the front cabs as one and slid the side panel doors open. The doors were so well greased the action was noiseless.

'Okay, let's go,' Molloy ordered and the group split. All were wearing black riot helmets with visors flicked up for
the moment. All were dressed in needle-proof jackets and leggings underneath black tracksuits. All held onto their black needle-proof gloves, waiting until the last moment before donning.

6.00 am

The doors slid shut and the four vans drove out onto Harcourt Street where Jim Clarke sat waiting in the back of his unmarked squad car. Moss Kavanagh sat in the driver's seat. The left-side passenger door was open and the running figure of Tony Molloy soon appeared. He jumped inside just as Kavanagh edged the car in behind the convoy.

'They're ready,' he announced grimly, 'and as keen as mustard.'

Clarke leaned forward, his bad leg pushed to one side for ease. 'You warned them not to rough him up?'

Molloy didn't turn, his eyes fixed on the back of the last black van. 'I did, don't worry, I did. They know exactly what to do.' He twisted the rear-view mirror with his right hand. 'We'll be in and out in ten minutes,' he promised. 'Ten minutes.'

The convoy sped rapidly through the deserted streets, along St Stephen's Green and down Dawson Street, past the Mansion House. Pigeons and magpies fighting among litter bins scattered in their wake. Clarke hadn't felt so keyed up for years and clutched tightly onto the hand rest of the car door. In the rear-view mirror he could see Molloy's worried frown and turned to look out the side window. Shuttered shop fronts flashed past as the convoy turned into Nassau Street, picking up speed as it headed towards the Hillcourt Mansions complex. One mile before, a black-windowed, steel-reinforced police car with the forensic team pulled out from a side road and followed in line.

6.15 am

They reached the entrance to Hillcourt Mansions in good time with no traffic delaying. All engines were switched off as the convoy glided noiselessly inside. The tenement was deserted with only the litter of takeaways, tin cans, bottles and drug dealing blowing aimlessly in the breeze. The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by run-down and graffiti-covered flats, with two end stairwells. There wasn't a movement along the corridors, the scag-heads asleep or comatose.

6.18 am

The van doors glided open and from inside sprang the snatch squad. Clarke watched from the safety of his car, parked in a slewn-across fashion at the entrance, blocking any getaway. He wound the window down quickly lest his breath mist the view. Twenty-six black-uniformed figures raced across concrete to their pre-arranged positions. The Ranger Command unit was at the head and the lead five were already on the second-floor landing, eyes scanning door numbers as they rushed. One stopped suddenly and motioned his colleagues forward. Each checked the number and location and a final nod agreed the target location. Micko Kelly's whereabouts had been betrayed the night before for twenty pounds, less than he spent on an average hit. As the door crashed off its hinges the first dustbin lid alarm sounded.

6.23 am

Kelly was already awake. He was sitting half upright on the mattress, fumbling for a fix. All night in his mind he had battled with demons and lost. His brain was in turmoil, he
felt shaky and agitated. His eyes could barely register the bits and pieces scattered around the room. He felt invisible. He lifted one hand up and waved it in front of where he sensed his eyes might be. He couldn't see it.
I'm fuckin' invisible.
His ears registered the sudden crashing of the flat door, the high-pitched wailing of the drug-addicted baby, the curses of the drug-addicted mother as she tried blocking the outside corridor with her wasted body. He scrambled for a knife but couldn't find one. The demons were back, larger than ever. They were inside the room and coming towards him. He watched with a mixture of mesmerised horror and intense fascination as the black-suited figures came closer. He stared as the black-uniformed arms and black-covered hands reached out for him. But Kelly felt invisible.
They can't see me, they can't take me, I'm invisible.
He started to grin, the half cocked, stupid-looking grin of a man not sure what was going to happen next and believing it couldn't happen to him. Hoping. The first grip shook him to the core. He started roaring.

6.25 am

'Get the bastard.' Two commandos grabbed his long, dank hair and pulled his head back severely. Two sets of eyes drilled through visors. 'Open your fucking mouth and your head comes off.' Just as Kelly's first roars disturbed the junkies in the flats to the side and below, his arms and legs were up in the air, his torso spun violently, his face suddenly staring at the ground. He was out and over the flat door where it rested on the floor in the outside corridor. His passage was so quick and forceful the drug-addicted mother was knocked over and stamped by the charging feet. Her screaming curses were suffocated by a rough hand as she was thrown inside a toilet and the door pulled shut. As Kelly was carried into the weak morning light the
forensic team pushed inside with evidence bags. The second five commandos positioned themselves to protect. They stood like aliens from another planet with the darkness of their uniforms and visors, their physical bulk, their batons drawn and ready.

6.37 am

The first junkies to spill out along the corridors and corners stopped and stared for minutes, uncertain what was happening. The contrast was stark. Wasted faces, dishevelled clothes, bewildered expressions. Then shouts further along alerted them. This was a raid. Heads craned over the landing walls, taking in the sight of Micko Kelly being carried across the courtyard while another six black-suited henchmen protected, their movements jerky and agitated. Already a small group of the flats' residents on the ground floor had spilled out, shouting abuse. They started edging closer. Rocks were thrown, the cacophony of the bin-lid alarm urging on the crowd. The first scuffle had already broken out as one of the braver challenged the team protecting the forensic squad. A baton snapped sharply across his head, drawing blood and curses. His howls encouraged more outside and within minutes the complex was teeming. Battle had commenced.

Clutching their now full evidence bags the forensics rushed onto the landing and the protection of the commandos. Crab-like, the unit edged and bludgeoned their way towards the stairwell, dodging rocks and bottles which rained on them from all sides. As they passed a flat door it would suddenly burst open and a hand clutching a dirty needled syringe would jab down. Nothing penetrated. Uniforms were cut, spat on and grabbed, but nothing gave way. The protective underlay held fast. Within minutes they were down to ground level and crouching together for the final sprint along the concrete nightmare.

'Go,' urged Molloy over a megaphone. 'Everybody back in the vans.'

The black uniforms edged towards safety, followed at baton's distance by the angry mob. Tempers were fraying all round, blood was boiling. The bin lids continued to beat their jungle rhythm, more rocks and bottles were hurled through the air. The courtyard had become a riot zone. The snatch squad could see only angry, bloodshot eyes; see knives and syringes drawn. They flailed at the grasping hands. The sudden noise of police klaxons momentarily stunned the mob, allowing the squad to leap to the safety of the vans. Thirty-six minutes after the doors had slid open they slammed shut again and the convoy screeched out the entrance and away from the baying horde behind.

6.54 am

Micko Kelly was officially cautioned and placed under arrest. He didn't understand a word being said.

The convoy sped through early morning traffic, sirens scaring all in front and leaving traffic chaos in its wake. One of the unit clutched an unopened can of Heineken. 'Jaysus they had the goat up right enough,' he smirked, 'throwing full cans of beer.' The others grinned.

At a pre-arranged point one van and one car peeled away and headed towards the holding centre. Inside the van a bemused and frightened and shaking and agitated and
how the fuck did they get me, I'm invisible?
Micko Kelly lay face down. His feet and arms and head were restrained by rough, strong hands. His forehead never once bounced off the floor along the pot-holed side roads, the grip on the back of his neck vice-like.
What the fuck's goin' on?

Just after eight o'clock on the morning of Thursday, 14 May, while bright sunshine lifted the city mood, Kelly was brutally thrust into a single holding cell on level two of
Bridewell Gaol. The cell had been cleared earlier and nothing, not even a blanket or pillow remained. As the steel door slammed closed, Kelly crawled into a corner and slumped down on his behind. He drew both knees up to his chest and rested his chin. He dragged his arms over his head and pulled them down tightly. He was shaking violently and felt agitated. He was sweating and his own smells began to irritate. His teeth were chattering. He was beginning to feel withdrawal symptoms. His belly ached with gnawing pains.

Jimmy, where are ye? I need some scag, quick. Don' fuck me about, Jimmy. I need a fix badly. Have ye any scag?

But there was no Jimmy. There was only the silence of the cell and the torture of his drug-destroyed mind. Micko Kelly was in trouble. Again.

'I want to see Arnie Leeson.' Jim Clarke stood at reception of the Forensic Science Laboratory in Dublin's Phoenix Park. He'd followed the forensic team like a tracker dog, not letting them out of his sight.

'You're up bright and early.' Arnold Leeson, director of the laboratory, was a tall, lean man in a scientist's white coat, breast pocket bulging with pens and bits of paper. His thinning hair was totally grey. He glanced at the flustered group and decided this was no time for pleasantries. 'What's going on?' His voice had dropped from welcoming lilt to growling business-like. 'What's in the bags?'

The Forensic Science Laboratory occupied one level of a new office complex beside older Victorian buildings. There was plenty of natural light from windows overlooking playing fields. Each department had different functions, one dealing with narcotics, others with firearm patterns, another with trace evidence such as fibres, blood and semen. As Clarke followed the team along the corridors, he noticed bulging evidence bags strewn inside the many corners. Finally they reached a sealed door which was quickly unlocked. Inside was a small, well-lit room
with worktop benches. Jennifer Marks' clothes had been laid out, markers identifying the case number. A space had been created to allow note-taking and a Dictaphone lay in the middle. An opened box of surgical gloves was propped awkwardly in a corner, one latex finger poking out provocatively. Clarke quickly scanned the clothing then closed and locked the door. Further along another empty room awaited Kelly's belongings. Inside the evidence bags were laid down and their seals broken.