Gangster (18 page)

Then he dropped a bombshell when he said he had amassed a personal fortune of IR£15 million, which lay in offshore bank accounts. ‘The gardaí will never get their hands on it.’

That same morning, as Geraldine read over the interview, Carty received a fax message from the headquarters of Europol in The Hague. The correspondence was telexed from the Dutch Desk, which was relaying a report from its domestic National Criminal Intelligence Service. The fax read: ‘After the successful CD-Operation in WEDGE-case last weekend we have more good news. This time it’s the PINEAPPLE-case. Last Thursday, August 11, Mr Simon RAHMAN was arrested by the special police-team of The Hague. Mr RAHMAN was driving a car in which was hidden 204 kg hashish and 20 false banknotes US 20 dollars. In a shed, situated in Zoetermeer, that belongs to Mr RAHMAN, the investigators have found another 1.040 kg hashish. Mr RAHMAN was accompanied by a man, who is living in Rotterdam. In his house the investigators have found 45 kg hashish and DM 17,000. Also this man was arrested. At this moment the investigators are examining the administration of Mr RAHMAN and all the other papers. When we get more information we [will] inform you asap.’

Chapter 14

Breaking the Code of Silence

‘I might as well tell you everything.’

CHARLES BOWDEN

Traynor relocated to the Costa del Sol. He saw the writing on the wall and pulled away from Gilligan and the cartel. In less than two months, his entire life fell apart. He was living away from his wife, mistresses and children. More than anything else he was bored. He was the epitome of the Dublin criminal; you could take the creature out of the slum, but you couldn’t take the slum out of him.

He missed the city. He was also afraid of Gilligan, who instructed him to talk to the press, to distract attention away from him if nothing else. Traynor knew the power of the press. In fact, he decided to talk to as many journalists willing to listen to him as possible. His lies were impossible to distinguish from the truths. He told the
Sunday Business Post
how he learned about the killing.

‘I was in hospital when my phone rang. Someone rang to say a woman had been shot. I took no notice of the call. When something like that happens, the lads just make a few calls to let everyone know what’s going on. Ten minutes later a man rang to say a woman had been shot in a red Calibra. When I heard about the car I started to get anxious because Veronica drove a Calibra. I was walking back into casualty when one of the lads phoned to say Guerin was dead. He had heard it on the news. I just thought, “Shit, this is going to be ten times worse than the injunction.” That’s why I left Ireland.’

He conducted this interview in downtown Malaga in a small coffee shop off the Alameda Principal. ‘I didn’t do it. I’ve never organised a shooting in my life. You can’t go shopping for it. I couldn’t order that sort of intimidation because I’m not that well connected in the underworld. I have a fair idea who was responsible, and I know the reason why, but that’s my business. I’m a straight businessman. I think they think I shot her to stop her writing a damaging story about me, but it wasn’t me. I’m straight. I’m not involved in crime any more. I suppose that doesn’t tally because I know John Gilligan and was friendly with Martin Cahill, but I grew up with those people. They were just my friends.’

For the first time since the abduction, he acknowledged he knew what had happened. But his foolishness knew no boundaries. Those pointing the finger of responsibility for Guerin’s murder at him were all wrong. ‘If I was going to shoot her I would not have spent IR£3,000 on an injunction before I ordered it. I haven’t seen this J-district report or heard this tape. Veronica told me that I was involved in heroin dealing because she had read it in a Garda report. She quoted the report, which is now known as the J-district report, as saying that I was laundering money for Thomas Mullen. I wouldn’t have anything to do with those scum. I don’t know why I was being mentioned in the report because I’m not a drug dealer and I’ve never been questioned about drugs by the gardaí.’

He slammed down his hands on the table. He was agitated. He continued to lie, saying the IRA had never questioned him. ‘The tape recording is nonsense. She was going on about this confession which she couldn’t produce. The IRA was supposed to have interviewed me after the Widow Scanlon’s attack. I was never questioned by the IRA.’

He was equally convincing in his denials of ordering the first shootings of Guerin at her home. ‘I was arrested under Section 13 and questioned about the attack. When the guards picked me up I said I’d answer everything, which I did. I was released about nine hours later. They know I had nothing to do with it. If they thought I did it they would have kept me in for the full 48 hours.

‘I did tell people I ordered it because they started ringing me up congratulating me for it. I told some people that it wasn’t me, but before I knew it everyone believed that it was, so I let them. You could say it improved my street credibility. If people sit back they should see that I didn’t want the publicity and people would have known that getting her killed would bring the house down. I had nothing to fear against the allegations because they were untrue. Why go to court and get an injunction when the obvious thing would have been just to get her killed and have no injunction?

‘To be honest I did feel hard done by and I still don’t know why she turned on me but I wouldn’t kill her for that. I didn’t know her movements; I hadn’t spoken to her in six months. I didn’t know she was in court on a speeding charge. I was not involved.’

He did his best to sound honest. He recounted how he first met the journalist in September 1994. ‘She wanted a copy of a Garda file, which Martin had stolen before he died. I thought she was a naïve journalist, nice but naïve, but in some ways streetwise. She knew what was going on but her stories were based on rumour. Dublin’s underworld is like a rumour factory—you can’t believe anything you hear. She was nice but had two personalities, one was righteous, the other one was friendly. I used to meet her every few weeks, sometimes three times in one week, then I might not see her for a month.

‘I did supply her with some stories, though not the ones the papers claim. For example I introduced her to a chap who was kidnapped by the UVF in Walkinstown after clearing it with him first. I knew the lad. I also cleared it with the IRA. It made a good story. I also gave her other stories, always with the consent of the people involved. I never discussed hard information with her. In fact she told me far more than I ever told her. I gave her the story on the garda running business with criminals. Some journalists got that mixed up and made out that the garda was working with me. Then she started coming out with all the drugs stuff and I went for the injunction. You know the rest.’

This was his life. Denying and lying. Weeks of hearing fumbled and exaggerated reports of what was being said about him had slowly turned him into a fantasist. Although he followed the story from afar, watched the television, read newspapers and wrote letters, he believed the press was calling him a child molester and publishing stories of his sexuality.

‘I’m not a child molester. I’m not homosexual. I never had a sexual affair with a garda and I did not make videos of prostitutes with businessmen. Where are the people who are making these allegations? Let them come forward and show their faces. Where are these videos of prostitutes and children? It’s funny no one is able to produce them because they don’t exist.

‘I regret 100% that I ever got involved with Veronica. Her death has put me out of business. It has brought shame on my family and friends. I don’t want to be thought of as a scumbag who murders women. Newspapers have jumped the gun. What they print one day is taken as fact the next. I believe the police are plundering to break through the investigation because they are being led by the media.

‘The gardaí never called me a suspect or ever requested to talk to me about the murder. Now I’m a suspect because of newspaper reports.’

That September marked the beginning of the end for the cartel though the gang had some successes. The Gilligans transferred all their liquid assets out of the State. Geraldine in particular cleared her accounts of cash. All that was left was loose change. This agitated Fachtna Murphy. Moreover, Gilligan himself bragged in his
Sunday Business Post
interview of having transferred IR£15 million to offshore accounts at a secret location where he said the gardaí would never lay their hands on it.

Garda management wrote off the remark as wishful thinking. They tried to fight back, leaking dubious information to the more faithful journalists following the story, who duly reported that Gilligan could not have amassed any significant wealth. The truth contrasted starkly. The force knew Gilligan was a multimillionaire. They also realised that as long as the Proceeds of Crime Act was not incorporated into Irish law, they were powerless to intervene. The following logic prevailed; if headquarters repeated the myth that Gilligan wasn’t asset rich, eventually someone would believe it. ‘It was all about PR,’ one officer later recalled.

It was a desperate situation, exacerbated because it was clear to all that Gilligan was winning the battle. Murphy viewed the situation with an astute eye. The CAB could not freeze any bank accounts, especially ones they did not know about. The Bureau had no powers. The Proceeds of Crime Act was due to become law within weeks, but this was of no use. He did his best to improvise. The CAB might not be able to apply the draconian Proceeds of Crime Act, but they could pursue the Gilligans for tax evasion under the existing laws. It was the only solution.

The Bureau took possession of the financial intelligence gathered by Operation Pineapple. Murphy looked through the paperwork. His detectives searched through records held by the Department of Social Welfare and Revenue Commissioners. There was an injection of life into the department. The appraisements were made under Section 19 of the Finance Act, 1983, in respect of earnings, the sources of which either were not known to the inspector or were known to have arisen from an unlawful source of activity. It was a simple solution but a novel idea.

They calculated that Geraldine Gilligan owed over IR£800,000 income tax for the year 1994-5. Gilligan himself owed IR£1.75 million for the same period. If they didn’t pay, the Bureau would seize their belongings in default. However, at that moment, just when everything appeared to be going according to plan, trouble presented itself. Murphy was told that not one of the tax inspectors seconded to the Bureau would sign the demand, which was obligatory. This was a real crisis. The assessments were dependent on an inspector’s signature. No one thought to ask if the civil servants were worried for their own safety. Murphy was placed in a grave dilemma. He would not order any member of his staff to do something they didn’t want to do.

Murphy was always decisive but this time he felt as if he was trying to achieve the impossible. Galvin came back at him with an inventive solution. He said he would sign the demand after he was appointed a temporary inspector of taxes. Murphy picked up a phone and called Cathal MacDomhnaill, the chairman of the Revenue Commissioners. He outlined the problem and said he needed to talk urgently, face to face. They arranged to meet later that day in MacDomhnaill’s office in Dublin Castle.

Galvin went along. He articulated in simple words the course of action needed. The urgency in his voice convinced MacDomhnaill. Later that same day, on 16 September, Barry Galvin, chief legal advisor to the CAB, attached another title to his name, inspector of taxes. He signed the two giant assessments and they were dispatched to Jessbrook. The game was on.

Geraldine Gilligan could not comprehend the bill. She called Gilligan at once on his mobile and told him what had arrived in the post. He exploded with rage. He rang the author of this book and screamed down the phone. ‘You’re not going to believe what they just did. They sent me and Geraldine bills for tax,’ he said. ‘How can they say that my firm earned this and that and then tax me on it? What’s the fucking world coming to?’

‘Are you going to pay it?’ I enquired.

‘Am I going to what? Do you want to come over and take pictures of me burning it? They’re gone fucking mad.’

Geraldine was decidedly more grounded in her response. She sought legal advice. Her solicitors wrote to CAB querying how the amount was calculated. The lawyers pointed out correctly that their client had been unable to lodge a return of income for 1994-5, or even appeal the assessment because her accounts had been seized. The matter rested there.

No one thought for a moment that Gilligan would dare return home at the height of the murder investigation. But his arrogant nature and the fact he was homesick did not allow him to stay away. He chose to sneak back into Dublin in time for Geraldine’s birthday, which fell on 21 September. He took a senseless route, flying into Belfast Airport, then catching the train to Dublin. He decided it would be foolish to attend a small drinks party Geraldine’s friends planned to throw in the Spa Hotel in Lucan on the outskirts of Dublin. The gardaí would be watching, he reckoned. So he went to Carol Rooney and then to Jessbrook. Geraldine was ecstatic, the children overjoyed.

Earlier that morning, Donal Ó Siodhacháin and Pat Herron travelled to the capital from their home in Scartaglen, County Kerry. They arrived in Dublin shortly after 10 a.m. Like most days in Ó Siodhacháin’s life, it was long and arduous and involved several meetings with people he chose to help in complex legal cases. Without any invitation, he decided on impulse to pay Geraldine a visit. He pulled up outside the avenue, stepped out of his Volvo and pressed the intercom.

Geraldine answered. ‘Come on up,’ she said. Her voice sounded jovial on the crackled intercom line. The gates swung open and he drove in. She was waiting at the door with her Old English Sheepdogs. These jumped on Ó Siodhacháin when he stepped out of the car. It was a cold night, so he headed straight in the door without waiting for a verbal invitation.

Standing there before him was Gilligan with his hand extended. ‘Hello Donie.’

Not knowing what to say, he exclaimed in amazement: ‘Jesus, what are you doing here?’

Ó Siodhacháin didn’t know how to react, but he didn’t delay in asking the questions that troubled his mind.

They sat down in front of the fire, Gilligan answering each one methodically but denying everything. His version of what happened was entirely different. Of course he admitted he was a criminal. ‘There’s not a good bone in my body,’ he declared ‘but I didn’t do it. I’m not involved with drugs. If she thought I was involved in heroin or drugs she’d kill me herself,’ he said about Geraldine who, overcome with excitement, had gone to bed. According to Gilligan, Guerin’s murder was an elaborate ploy to destroy him.

They talked all night, till sunrise the next morning. Ó Siodhacháin did not know what to believe, but for the first time allowed a shred of doubt about Gilligan’s innocence to enter his mind. He left the next morning. Gilligan shook his hand and wished him well. Exhausted, he walked to his car under the watchful eye of gardaí from the National Surveillance Unit camped out among the hedgerows. Gilligan left later.

Days later, Gilligan received a call from a man he didn’t know. It was Father Peter McVerry, a Jesuit priest from Dublin, famous for working with young homeless boys. He was one of the best-known charity workers in Ireland. He had dialled Geraldine’s number, but was redirected to Gilligan. The priest had a message for Geraldine and asked Gilligan to pass it on. The IRA, he said, were going to harm her or kill her. It was imperative that she leave Jessbrook at once.