Gangster (15 page)

Warren was astonished. Gilligan then said he would murder him, his family and parents if he ever made a statement against him. Warren thought it was a joke, but Gilligan didn’t smile. Neither did Meehan, who looked directly at him with an expressionless face. His voice steady, Warren mustered up the courage to ask if he had done anything wrong. ‘Just keep it in mind,’ answered Gilligan. ‘Just keep it in mind. Don’t think I won’t do this. No matter where you are I’ll get you.’

He dropped Warren off and said he’d be in touch. Warren immediately returned to McGrath’s house and started repairing the bike. Warren bought two new rear indicators for the bike in a motorcycle shop for IR£16. He purchased new number plates. He also got petrol. Finally it was fitted with modern Euro plates.

On the evening of 21 June, some members of the gang assembled in Meehan’s apartment in Clifton Court. They often met there on Friday nights to discuss business; how much money they had made and the events of the past week. Gilligan rarely attended these criminal conferences. Shay Ward, Bowden, Meehan and Mitchell sat around the table. Meehan got straight to the point. ‘The little fella,’ he said, was ‘pissed off.’ They all knew what he meant by this. ‘Gilligan’s upset about her, something’s going to have to be done about her. If he’s sent down for the assault, the whole operation will fall apart,’ he said with authority. ‘He’s the only one that knows the people to get the gear.’

Bowden said nothing. Mitchell nodded in agreement. They left it at that. Bowden shrugged it off. He’d heard such talk before. Every second week, either Meehan or Gilligan would plot someone’s murder. The conspiracy, however, would inevitably be made redundant within a few days. ‘It was,’ as he would later remark, ‘the way they went on.’

Except this time the gang was deadly serious. A reputable assassin had already been hired. Meehan had in fact offered to carry out the shooting, but they decided against this; Meehan had already botched Foley’s execution. If Guerin survived, it would be a disaster. However, Meehan would oversee the assassination and was entrusted to arm, collect and deliver the killer to the scene.

That weekend, the gang met to finalise their plans. Meehan drove towards the Phoenix Park, up the back roads along the Liffey Valley into the Strawberry Beds. The talk was of cannabis and guns. Meehan asked Bowden where the Magnum was. He said he’d searched the hiding spot, in a grave in the Jewish cemetery, but it wasn’t there. ‘I told him that we were using more than one grave,’ Bowden would later say. He directed Meehan to another grave.

At 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday, 25 June, Gilligan attended what was to be his last appearance before Kilcock District Court. He arrived in the company of his solicitor, Michael Hanahoe. It was supposed to be a routine fixture where Judge Brophy would mention the case as arranged. It lasted no more than a few minutes. After Judge Brophy had finished dealing with the case, Hanahoe emerged. The trial now looked as if it would proceed sometime in July. The solicitor was concerned about aspects of the case. If he familiarised himself with Jessbrook, he could get a clearer picture of what happened with his own eyes. Could he go there at once to look around? Gilligan said he’d take him there. The two drove in Hanahoe’s car to Jessbrook where the lawyer viewed the scene and its surroundings.

Gilligan, always the opportunist, said he had to catch flight EI 608 from Dublin Airport leaving at 3.35 p.m. for Amsterdam. He had purchased the ticket to depart nine days earlier. Rooney was flying with him. Hanahoe offered him a lift. He was heading back to Dublin anyway and was just being courteous by offering the lift.

That night Meehan, accompanied by Mitchell, arranged to meet Warren in the car park of the Terenure House. They collected Warren and drove to St Enda’s Road. Meehan wanted to test drive the Kawasaki. They arrived as it got dark. In one arm, Meehan carried a new motorcycle helmet.

‘We drove up to the end of the lane. I went to the garage and Brian joined me later. Brian had a new silver full-face helmet and gloves. He put those on and drove the bike away for a test drive,’ said Warren.

The bike was ready as ordered; Warren had fitted it out with new lights and false plates should any passing police car notice it. But Mitchell wasn’t impressed. ‘It wouldn’t be my first choice but it will have to do,’ he said.

While Meehan was gone, Gilligan called Warren on his mobile phone. Warren was due to fly to Schiphol the next morning to deliver money. Even before he could ask where in Amsterdam Gilligan wanted to meet, he was interrupted and told that he was needed in Dublin instead. ‘I want you there,’ said Gilligan. His words came as a complete surprise. Now he knew that something serious was going on.

Meehan returned minutes later. When he dismounted, he asked Warren if he knew what Veronica Guerin looked like. Warren said he didn’t. He said nothing as Meehan gave him a description. ‘He said that she was between 30 and 40 years old, small build and I think he said greyish short hair. I didn’t know who she was and he didn’t mention anything about her being a journalist or anything to do with papers,’ he recalled. Warren felt he was sinking into a mire, but he remained clear-sighted. He listened to Meehan attentively and said goodbye. As soon as they left, he took a can of petrol and wiped the bike of his fingerprints.

Meehan drove straight to Greenmount where he rendezvoused with Bowden. The moment Bowden walked in the door, he noticed the Magnum. It was placed on a shelf with six individual pieces of ammunition. The gun looked dirty. Bowden picked it up, wiped it clean, rubbing off excess oil from the polishing he had given it before hiding it away in the grave. ‘I loaded it with six rounds and left it on the table with six other rounds.’ He didn’t need anyone to tell him Guerin was going to be shot.

Meehan woke the next day at 7 a.m. The morning was bright and sunny with little cloud cover. The sky was a clear, bright blue.

Mitchell collected him around 8 a.m. at his apartment and drove him to Terenure to collect the motorcycle. He was due to rendezvous with Warren at 9 a.m. Warren was already waiting to meet them when they arrived at the rear of St Enda’s Road.

‘As far as I can remember I got a telephone call on my mobile telephone from Brian saying that he was delayed and would ring later. I went into Stephen’s house and I had a cup of coffee.’ McGrath had no idea what the gang was planning.

Meehan arrived between 9.20 a.m. and 9.45 a.m. He looked at the bike. It was in perfect running order, just as he’d left it the night before. He said he’d be back later for it. Meehan then ordered Warren to drive to Naas. Without asking Meehan himself, what happened next can only be surmised. After he drove away from St Enda’s Road, he either went and collected the gunman chosen to pull the trigger or returned on his own, then met with the hired killer.

The caretaker at Naas District Court, John Kelly, had, like Meehan, risen early that day. He arrived for work at 9 a.m. The caretaker for more years than he cared to remember, he made his usual rounds, opening the relevant offices and doors. One of his chores was to erect the tricolour that flies from the top of the court structure; 26 June 1996 was just another day.

Guerin had risen early that morning in preparation for her court appearance. She arrived at the courthouse around 9.45 a.m., giving her plenty of time to get her story right for the judge. She parked outside a hotel next door to the courthouse.

Traynor had also known about the plan. He didn’t care one way or the other. He too had had enough. Whether Guerin died or not was irrelevant to him now. At that moment he was racing at Mondello racetrack. Always mindful of giving himself an unquestionable alibi, he decided to stage a crash. Minutes after 11 a.m. he overturned his car. When rescuers ran to the scene, he asked that an ambulance collect him. He was rushed to Naas General Hospital. Warren set off for Naas. He drove down the Long Mile Road and turned off on to the Naas dual carriageway. He arrived in the town about 10.30 a.m. ‘I drove through the town and parked up near the centre of the town. I got out and walked looking for the courthouse and the red sports car.’

Meehan called him, wanting to know if he had found Guerin’s car. The calls lasted only a few seconds. Warren shouted into his mobile phone, which was conspicuous by its large size. A passer-by noticed him making the call. The size of his mobile phone caught her eye. It seemed strange to her that anyone would carry such a clumsy device. As she continued about her business, Warren walked off in the direction of the Newbridge Road. He parked his vehicle in a position that allowed him to monitor the journalist’s Calibra.

Her case was called around noon and by 12.30 p.m. it was over. She was fined IR£120. She walked out of the building elated, for the prospect of losing her driving license would have been too much to bear.

‘I then rang Brian Meehan on his mobile. He asked me who was in the car. I told him there was only one person. He told me to follow the car,’ Warren said. When Guerin pulled away, he picked up her trail. Minutes later he called Meehan, who by this stage was parked on a lay-by on Blackchurch Road, outside the village of Rathcoole. ‘She’s on the way,’ he said.

Warren followed the car as it headed towards Dublin city, along a route that cut short her trip by avoiding traffic lights and traffic. Warren noticed that she drove at a steady speed, making telephone calls along the way. But he was more interested in ingratiating himself with Gilligan’s gang. He pressed his redial key as she passed the Airmotive complex on the Naas dual carriageway. ‘She’s at Airmotive, passing now,’ he said, his voice raised to compensate for the lack of volume.

Meehan, catching his first glimpse of Guerin’s car, said: ‘I see it.’ He sped off.

Meehan followed Guerin for about four miles from Rathcoole to Clondalkin.

Warren maintained a discreet distance behind Guerin’s car, following at the same speed in the same lane but keeping a distance of four cars. A red light appeared at the junction to the Boot Road in Clondalkin, forcing the traffic to stop. When it did, he saw Meehan drive past. The bike pulled up alongside Guerin’s car and the pillion-rider produced a gun. What happened next was a bloody carnage.

Although it all happened in the space of a few seconds, it seemed like an eternity for Warren. ‘I froze. I went to get out as if I could help. I just stopped. It was like slow motion. I realised what we were after doing.’ He drove away at speed. Witnesses mistook this for blind fear.

Gilligan called him minutes later from Amsterdam where he was with Rooney. She overheard the conversation, which lasted no more than ten seconds.

Warren went home, then arranged to meet a friend for a drink to give himself an alibi. Meehan, in the meantime, made quick his escape, driving up the Belgard Road, on to the M50 roundabout and down a slipway which brought him to a safe house in south Dublin.

Meehan is said to have started boasting seconds after he walked in the door. He threw the Magnum into the bathroom sink. He didn’t waste time with conversation—speed was of the essence in order to establish an alibi.

Peter Mitchell and Shay Ward were waiting at the house. The latter was given the job of driving Meehan into Dublin. Mitchell had a similar role, but he was charged with getting the killer to safety. The news was still not on the airwaves. Trying to stick to their original plan, which had so far been carried out with military-like precision, they left.

Mitchell, although no one thought it, was in shock. Nerves caused him to drive with the skill of a lunatic, overtaking cars and honking his horn. Some minutes later, at 1.25 p.m., he was seen by an off-duty policeman who spotted his car heading towards Walkinstown. The garda gave chase but could not keep up without endangering the lives of fellow motorists. He took note of the time and driver.

Shay Ward delivered Meehan into Dublin city in quick time, dropping him off on Aungier Street at 1.30 p.m. By chance, Detective Sergeant John O’Driscoll, the head of the North Central Drugs Squad, was sitting in a car parked across the street waiting for a colleague. When he saw Meehan jump out of a small van driven by Shay Ward, his first instinct was to reach for his notebook. He took note of the registration and of the fact that Meehan was talking into his mobile.

Mitchell made his way into the city where he regrouped with Meehan. They made straight for Bowden’s hair salon on Moore Street and, according to plan, were seen by a garda patrol.

News of the murder hadn’t reached the general public, and so life inside the hairdresser’s was normal, with no talk of the murder among the women inside. Meehan knocked on the window through which he could see Juliet Bacon working. The time was now 1.40 p.m. She stepped out through the door. He asked where Bowden was. She didn’t know, but said he shouldn’t be long. Meehan smiled and said he’d be in Fallon’s restaurant and to tell Bowden.

He had just sat down when Bowden arrived. They ate nothing, just sipped tea and coffee. The aftershock of the adrenaline caused by the shooting was still affecting them. Meehan was excited. ‘It was a good job this morning,’ he told Bowden. ‘I thought he was only going to fire one or two shots at her but he emptied it into her. Fair play to him. We legged it up the Belgard Road on the bike.’ To evade prosecution, it was essential that each showed no emotion, especially when the subject of Guerin’s murder surfaced.

As one might expect, the details of Guerin’s ghastly execution impacted hard on the staff at Naas Court. John Kelly was particularly reminiscent. Guerin’s murder preoccupied his mind as he untied the tricolour and pulled it down for the night. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ he thought to himself while he carefully folded the flag. Turning to walk back into the court, he noticed through the corner of his eye that someone had been on the roof—the slates were disturbed. There had been a second person monitoring Guerin’s movements.

That night, Meehan, Mitchell, Bowden and his girlfriend Juliet Bacon assembled in the Hole in the Wall pub on Blackhorse Avenue in Dublin. The European Championship games were playing on the television. Meehan was in particularly jovial form. The beer flowed and Meehan took some cocaine to sedate any anxieties he possessed.