Gangster

The Biography of International Drug Trafficker John Gilligan

John Mooney

Prologue

August 1996

TERMINAL ONE, HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

He smiled confidently, exchanging courtesies with his fellow travellers as they filtered into the airport’s arrivals lounge. Wearing a blue sports jacket, shirt, pressed trousers and standing just over five feet tall, he looked an unlikely criminal.

‘You must be the journalist. Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a flat Dublin accent, whilst shaking my hand.

‘How did you know what I looked like?’

‘Oh, I just saw you there and you fitted the bill. Come with me, I don’t like talking in public places.’ He pointed to a restaurant which overlooked the airport lobby and signalled to follow.

‘This place is good. There’s only one way in and out. Let’s get something to eat,’ he said, whilst ushering me towards a table situated in a dimly lit corner, not easily visible from the doorway.

The restaurant was full of businessmen from the four corners of the globe, but Asians were the main clientele, all dining on roast duck, the speciality of the day. A waiter approached with two menus tucked under his arm.

‘Would you like to order a drink while you wait, sir?’

‘No, two hamburgers with large fries and 7-Up. That okay with you, John?’ He eased back into his chair.

‘Let me tell you this. Anyone can get anyone killed if they have the money. You don’t have to be a criminal. I could have ordered Guerin’s death but I didn’t. I had no hand, act or part in it. That’s the truth.’

His words sounded rehearsed, but were considered and spoken with authority.

He leaned forward again, making a point of not breaking eye contact. ‘I have been dragged into this because I threatened her before she died. If I was going to kill her I would hardly have advertised it by threatening her. I mean, that’s not the way things are done.’

He was interrupted in mid-speech by the sound of my cellular phone ringing. The caller was a republican contact who had helped arrange the meeting.

‘Is he with you now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you all right? Is he giving you any trouble?’

‘No, he has just arrived.’

‘Put him on to me.’

‘It’s for you.’

He looked across the table with a blank expression on his face, took the phone and held it cautiously to his ear and listened attentively.

‘He wants to talk to you now,’ he said returning the phone.

‘I’m going to ring you on the hour, every hour, to make sure you’re okay.’

The line went dead.

‘You won’t have any problems with me; I’ve no problem with you. Ask me what you like, I’ll answer any question,’ he said confidently.

‘Did you threaten to kill, kidnap and rape her six-year-old?’

‘Yes I did. But it isn’t the way you make it out. I knew she didn’t fear for herself so I used a tactic, which we used on screws [prison officers] who caused us problems. If a screw’s house got turned over, he would get sympathy from his neighbours. They would say, “Look at the poor prison officer, he’s only doing his job keeping criminals locked up.” So somebody, I don’t remember who, came up with the idea that you worked the next-door neighbour over, so nobody talked to the screw or his family in case they were next. Instead they blamed the attacks on the screws. It was only a tactic I used to try to frighten her off, that’s all.’

Although I could not have imagined it at the time, I was sitting with one of the most dangerous criminals ever to emerge from the Irish underworld. In the hours of conversation that followed, he spoke about drug dealing, hijackings, gunrunning and racketeering, his background and his separation from his wife. Crime, he proclaimed with a degree of smugness, had earned him close to IR£15 million.

But it was the public’s reaction to the cold-blooded murder of a crime reporter on the streets of Dublin, the Irish capital, six weeks earlier that preoccupied him. He kept returning to the subject of the shooting, saying he wasn’t responsible, that the media was unfairly targeting him by labelling him chief suspect. The assignment of blame and guilt was passed to others.

‘I’m not as black as they portray me although I am a criminal. This is hype by journalists. That’s all,’ he proclaimed.

When the interview concluded hours later, I asked if he had any objections to his photograph being taken. He looked nervous.

‘Can you get one off another newspaper?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s better that I take one now.’

After much persuasion, he agreed and I pointed the camera in his direction. As I focused the lens, I noticed he was staring at the ground.

‘Could you look directly at the camera?’

‘No, I’m fine like this,’ he said, looking uncomfortable and agitated.

I took two photographs before he stood up and said, ‘That’s enough.’

The camera annoyed him, and he found this difficult to hide.

‘You don’t like your picture being taken?’

‘No, it doesn’t bother me too much. Did you see the pictures of me in the papers last week, the one with me wearing the sunglasses?’ he enquired, smiling once again.

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

‘What did you think of them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think I looked good? Everyone said I looked cool. Some of the fellas from home even rang. They thought I looked cool, like a guy from the Mafia, a real gangster.’

Chapter 1

The Murder of Veronica Guerin

‘We know who killed her—and he’s untouchable.’

HEADLINE FROM THE IRISH INDEPENDENT

The assassin held the .357 Magnum revolver with both hands and fired five shots at point-blank range through the side window of the car. He shot once, then twice, before discharging another three shots into his victim. The sound of the gunfire reverberated in the hearts of those watching the nightmare unfold. The victim had seen her killer stride towards her car, but had no time to escape. Overcome by fear, she raised her right arm to shield herself from the bullets, which ripped through her arms, torso and upper body, killing her within a matter of seconds. It was 12.54 p.m. on Wednesday, 26 June 1996.

The victim was Veronica Guerin, a crime reporter for the Sunday Independent newspaper. She was 37 years of age, a wife and mother. The scene of her slaying was the traffic intersection which adjoins the Boot Road to the Naas Road in Clondalkin, a suburb that lies south-west of Dublin city. The main road is known as the N7.

She was travelling to her office in the city centre from the town of Naas in County Kildare, where she had appeared earlier in court on a minor speeding charge. A red light temporarily halted her journey. When she stopped, a powerful motorcycle carrying two men pulled up alongside her red Opel Calibra sports car. The rider and the pillion passenger both wore dark clothes and full-size helmets, which concealed their identities. Neither she nor the other drivers stopped in the traffic took much notice of them. That was until the pillion passenger dismounted.

It wasn’t until the last moment that she noticed her killer. Guerin was forever on the phone and just before her killer struck, she was leaving a message on a friend’s answering machine. The call was to say she had not been banned from driving, and the answering machine recorded her last words. ‘I did very well. Aah, fined a maximum of IR£150 . . .’

Her voice was interrupted in mid-sentence by the sound of a crack, followed by the sound of a mobile phone key being pressed, and then a second crack, the sound of gunfire. Many people witnessed her death.

Michael Kirby was giving a driving lesson from the passenger seat of a lorry parked in the traffic. ‘I heard what sounded like a crack, followed by a few more. The driver’s window was open. I looked out and saw what was taking place. This guy was shooting somebody in the car. I saw the gun. It was like something you would see on TV,’ he remembered.

Brian McNamara and his wife were also present; sitting parked in the traffic, he heard what he thought was a car backfire. When he looked to his right, he saw a gunman shooting into a red car, Guerin’s car. McNamara later recalled how the gunman ‘seemed to lean over with the gun for the last few shots’ before stuffing the weapon into his jacket, jumping back on the motorcycle and speeding off. McNamara ran to Guerin’s car to see what had happened. When he looked in, he saw a woman lying slumped over the passenger seat. She was covered in fragments of smashed glass and blood. McNamara ran back to his wife and told her someone had been shot.

When the traffic lights turned green, Brenda Grogan stepped out of her car to see what was causing the delay. Grogan was on her way to a nearby hospital where she worked as a nurse. As she approached the victim’s car, she saw a woman slumped over the passenger seat and went to administer first aid.

‘I felt for a pulse on her neck. We were joined by another nurse. We moved her to try to clear her airway. We put her upright in the driver’s seat,’ she said.

The other nurse was Michelle Wall. She too tried to administer first aid. As Wall felt for a pulse, she noticed a small, black hole at the back of the victim’s shoulder and another hole in her blouse. She moved the car seat down to alleviate the pain, but it was too late.

Guerin was dead.

A combination of shock and haemorrhage caused by multiple bullet wounds, which lacerated her lungs and the artery supplying blood to her right arm, caused her death. A 999 call was made to the emergency services, which in turn relayed the call to Garda headquarters. It was a matter of minutes before armed gardaí arrived on the scene and Clondalkin was swamped with patrol cars, but there was no sign of the assassins. They had long gone, vanishing into the afternoon traffic. All that was left was bullet-shattered glass, blood and the victim’s body.

Passers-by screamed, some went into a state of shock and panic. Witnesses pointed arriving gardaí in the direction of Tallaght, saying the assassins had headed towards the sprawling housing scheme that lies at the foothills of the Dublin Mountains. Police detectives arrived and took details and descriptions of the killers from anaesthetised bystanders. The descriptions of the killers were sketchy but left no doubt that the shooting was a professional hit. The crime scene was sealed off immediately and forensic experts wearing white jump suits arrived and began an inch-by-inch examination of the scene. They painstakingly searched for the usual clues: blood, hair, spent bullet cases, torn fabric—anything. They erected a steel frame around the journalist’s car, which contained her body, covered only by a crimson blanket. People gathered and stared in disbelief at the macabre sight.

Pat Byrne, a deputy garda commissioner, arrived at the scene. He had known the victim. ‘I spoke to the detectives. I was in shock, I couldn’t believe what had happened. And I couldn’t look at the body,’ he said. ‘I was too afraid.’

From his office window in Scoil Mhuire National School, Father Heber McMahon saw the commotion and wondered what it was about. He walked over to the carnage and was told the news. Years earlier, in 1985, the priest had officiated at Guerin’s wedding. ‘It says an awful lot about freedom of speech, doesn’t it? I just feel so awful for her family.’

Stricken by a deep sense of sadness, he told reporters at the scene that he had received a Christmas card from Guerin. He had written back to her, berating her for writing articles about Bishop Casey’s passionate love affair. ‘I said if she was looking for a third clerical candidate, she should come out here to Clondalkin.’

News of the murder soon reached the news desks of Irish television and radio stations. Journalists in the Sunday Independent broke down in tears, mourning the loss of their colleague. An unofficial news blackout on the killing was put in place. Ending that day’s lunchtime news programme on RTÉ, presenter Seán O’Rourke announced that a woman had been shot but that he could not disclose the identity of the victim.

And with good reason: Guerin’s husband, Graham Turley, her six-year-old son Cathal and the couple’s family were unaware of her murder.

The first family member to learn about the killing was Turley. He was visiting a construction site in Malahide on Dublin’s northside when his wife was gunned down. The gardaí had called his office and were told of his whereabouts. Detective Inspector Cathal Cryan of Coolock Garda Station raced to the site. He knew the couple personally and made the initial approach to Turley in the most humane way possible. Speaking on the Irish chat show, The Late Late Show, Turley later recalled what happened.

‘I was in Malahide, and a guard, a friend of ours came into the site and I sort of said, “How are you doing, Cathal?” And he said, “Not good.” And I said, “What’s wrong, sure it was only IR£150.”’

He was referring to the fine imposed on his wife for speeding. ‘“Oh no, it’s a lot worse, there’s after being another shooting.” And I said, “I don’t believe you,” and he said, “It’s not good, it’s not good at all. I think we should go to Coolock Garda Station.” So I got into my car. I wouldn’t go with him because I wanted to go and see her, to see that she was all right. And I drove to Coolock Garda Station. And I was there for about 10 or 15 minutes and then they came in and told me Veronica was dead.’

Nora Owen, the Minister for Justice, was on the far side of the Atlantic when the journalist was gunned down. She was in New York attending a United Nations conference on international drug trafficking. She was standing in the lobby of Fitzpatrick’s Hotel when her private secretary John O’Dwyer pulled her aside. He said, ‘I need to speak to you privately, very quickly.’ She knew there was something wrong.

The two stepped into a lift and O’Dwyer pressed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed and he told her what had happened. Dumbstruck, because the two women had been friends, Owen stepped out of the lift and walked to her room. ‘To be honest I went into the room on my own and just cried, I was absolutely in bits about it and I then rang home. I was told that she’d been shot at traffic lights. I knew immediately I had to go back.’ She called Turley. ‘He was absolutely devastated, and he was only after hearing the details of it. I just felt the blood, and every bit of my life, draining out of me with the horror of what had happened.’

O’Dwyer arranged for Owen to fly home immediately, but before she could leave she had to deliver a speech on organised crime to the United Nations as President of the Council of Ministers of Europe. She arrived at the United Nations building two hours later and delivered a highly charged address. Her voice trembling, she went off script and spoke about Guerin. ‘I said I had just received information that a young woman journalist had been shot dead by a criminal gang. I brought it right home. Afterwards I was surrounded by ministers from dozens of countries. I was in a terrible state of shock, what they were saying was going in one ear and out the other.’

Guerin’s body was still in her car at the time because the State Pathologist, Doctor John F. Harbison, was attending an inquest. It could not be moved until he arrived and carried out an examination. This happened at 5.30 p.m. Guerin’s remains were removed to James Connolly Memorial Hospital, Blanchardstown, at 6 p.m. Accompanied by his friend, Father Declan Doyle, Turley travelled to his wife’s parental home where he sat with Bernadette Guerin, the victim’s mother, and her family. They consoled each other before Turley left for Blanchardstown to formally identify his wife’s remains later that evening. Father Doyle and a brother-in-law went with him.

‘Until ten o’clock that night, in the morgue in Blanchardstown hospital, when I saw Veronica, or I had to identify her for the first time, it was the first time that it started sinking in. That it was Veronica there. I was hoping that somebody had taken her car, or something different. Because you can’t kill Veronica. That was my policy, she was too hard to kill. And she never will be dead as far as I’m concerned.’

He travelled to his own mother’s home where his son was staying. The child was asleep, so he was left to rest for the night and was told the next morning as he played with Lego. Father Doyle was present when Turley broke the news to his son. Turley later recounted the story to Seán O’Rourke on RTÉ radio.

‘I sat down on the chair and said, “How are things?” and he said, “Grand, Dad.” He had been kept away from the television and the papers and nobody had said anything to him. So I said, “Cathal, do you remember the last time Mum was shot? Well it’s happened again.”

‘And he said, “Yeah? Where was she shot this time?”

‘And I said, “Shot in the heart.” And he came over and sat on my knee and he comforted me. And Declan said to him, “Cathal, can you make a courthouse?” And Cathal said, “Yeah.” And we made the courthouse in Naas, and we made two cars and a motorbike, and then he asked, “Who was on the motorbike?” And I said, “Well, there were two men on the motorbike, and they seem to have been wearing black helmets. And they pulled up, alongside Mum, and they shot into the car and hit Mum.”

‘“Where did they hit Mum?”

‘And I said, “They hit Mum three times around the heart, and they hit her in the neck.”

‘“Is Mum coming home?”

‘And I said, “No, she’s not coming home, but she’s going to be here minding us, because remember we talked about this before.”

‘“Oh I got it,” he says. “She’s with God now, and she’ll be looking down on me and everything I do from now on.”

‘And it’s been like that ever since, that everything we discuss, Mum has always been there and always will be. And we left there, my mother’s house, and we went to Stafford’s funeral home, and Veronica was there, and we had a chat, a cuddle and a laugh, like we always did, the three of us together. And we talked, and Cathal was saying, “Mum, you’re very cold,” and things like this. And then we left.’

The assassination of the journalist was formally announced at a packed press conference in Lucan Garda Station on the outskirts of the capital at 4.30 p.m. During the press conference, Superintendent Brian O’Higgins of the Garda Press Office said he had known the victim extremely well and that this made it all the more difficult. He described her assassination as ‘cold, callous and planned’.

News of the murder prompted a wave of revulsion and public outrage. Among the many atrocities that had convulsed Ireland, this murder stood out as by far the most despicable and cruel. Ireland was in the grip of organised crime that manifested itself in the cold-blooded murder of a journalist. The idea that gangland killings were never solved prospered in the underworld and the notion that the drug barons were untouchable was injected into the national consciousness.

In the Dáil, the Taoiseach, John Bruton, described the killing as sinister to the extreme. ‘Someone, somewhere decided to take her life and almost certainly did so to prevent information coming into the public arena.’ He went on to describe Guerin as a ‘particularly gifted and professional investigative journalist’ who had written about the unacceptable face of life. ‘She did so with care and with compassion. In doing so, she made an important contribution to the public life of this country. Without the work which she did, much of the recent public debate on crime would not have been as informed as it was.’

The Tánaiste and leader of the Labour Party, Dick Spring, stood up and told the hushed Dáil chambers that her murder was linked to her work. ‘That she should be shot down in this fashion is an attack on all of us and on the values that democracy and democratic politics are based on. It is an outrageous attack on the freedom of the press and the invaluable work that journalists do.’

The leader of Fianna Fáil, Bertie Ahern, expressed his shock, saying he hoped no effort would be spared to find her killers. But it was Mary Harney of the Progressive Democrats Party who made the most poignant tribute: ‘The greatest liberty we have is the liberty of free expression and the greatest guarantee we have of that liberty is a free press. Veronica Guerin died because she fearlessly pursued the truth. She was no ordinary journalist. She was a woman apart. Today the criminal underworld decided that in order that they could continue with their activities, she had to be murdered. In a matter of seconds, that enormous talent was taken away, and she had no chance.’

In the following days, papers devoted pages upon pages to the life and work of Veronica Guerin. The Irish Independent, a sister newspaper of the Sunday Independent, carried the headline ‘OUR DARKEST DAY’. In a front-page comment piece, the paper’s leader writer proclaimed: ‘Veronica Guerin knew no fear. She was attacked and threatened, but she carried on bravely in the noblest traditions of her craft with her work of investigating and exposing the crime barons. Now the barons have silenced her by depriving her of her right to life, the most fundamental right of all. They have shown themselves as much a threat to free speech as any totalitarian regime or terrorist organisation.’

There was an outpouring of grief by the Irish public, the likes of which had never before been witnessed. Ordinary people queued outside the offices of Independent Newspapers in Abbey Street to sign a book of condolences. Many voiced their anger over the airwaves, demanding that action be taken to jail the drug barons. Ordinary people arrived outside Government Buildings with floral wreaths and children’s toys and laid them at the gates along with letters written to the murdered journalist. ‘May our TDs show a fraction of your courage, Veronica. Rest in Peace . . . God comfort your family,’ read one letter attached to the stem of a single red rose.

The National Union of Journalists (NUJ) described the murder as a barbarous act designed to intimidate the media. ‘Veronica Guerin paid the ultimate price for her pursuit of the truth,’ the NUJ statement read. Editions of both Irish and British newspapers the next morning vowed never to give in to intimidation and resolved to implement a set of guidelines, aptly called the Guerin Principles. Dedicated to her memory, the principles stated that a fair, free and independent media was essential to democracy.

‘The State must ensure that a constitutional and legislative environment exists to facilitate freedom of expression and a free media,’ the principles urged. And in a final acknowledgement to the courage of the murdered journalist, the principles stated: ‘Media workers resolve to resist any attempts at intimidation in whatever form and from whatever quarter.’

The body was removed from Stafford’s funeral home to the Church of Our Lady Queen of Heaven on the Malahide Road, beside Dublin Airport, two days later, on the following Friday. The funeral cortège left at 6 p.m. and arrived 30 minutes later to a packed church.

Three weeks earlier, Guerin and her husband had attended the funeral of Detective Garda Jerry McCabe who was shot dead by the Provisional IRA in Limerick during a hijacking. While attending the mass, Guerin had told her husband that if she was ever killed, she would like the hymn ‘Be Not Afraid’ sung at her funeral. In accordance with her wish, the congregation sang the hymn while her coffin was brought quietly into the sombre church and received by her friend Father Doyle and more than a dozen priests. When the coffin arrived at the altar, Cathal and his father slowly reached out and touched the casket.

An air of calm descended on the church, and as Father Doyle commenced the ceremony, Cathal left his seat and went alone to the church sacristy. He returned a short time later and handed his sorrowing father a glass of water. Father Doyle summed up the mood as a ‘very sad and lonely day for all of us’.

‘Veronica’s death is one of those events when a nation stops, when time stands still, when we look at ourselves as a society and ask: Where are we going? This time of questioning is a special moment in history. The frame is frozen. It is a time of change in Irish society, a time of decision and debate and thought. Where is Irish society headed? What forces are vying for power? What is the future of our country? And all of this prompted by the death of Veronica.’

She was buried the next morning in Dardistown Cemetery, a sacred ground adjacent to Dublin Airport. There was a short sermon in the church and Turley addressed those gathered in a moving tribute to his beloved wife. ‘The best day I ever had was 21 September 1985, the year myself and Veronica promised to love, cherish and honour each other “till death do us part”’. He spoke a few more words and walked to his seat. As he did so, the entire congregation stood and applauded.

Placed on her coffin were items which marked out her life. A football, a pair of Manchester United gloves and a programme from the FA Cup semi-final were there. Her cherished photograph of Eric Cantona, the Manchester United footballer, standing alongside her was there too. The picture showed a youthful and vibrant woman looking more like a schoolgirl posing alongside her favourite pop star. There were her national and international media awards and, of course, her wedding photograph. Before her casket was removed, her sister Claire read from the Book of Wisdom and recited the words: ‘Over wisdom, evil can never triumph.’

Turley, carrying his son in his arms, followed the coffin out of the church. Cathal carried a spray of lilies with a red rose in the centre. On the way out, the child wrapped his arms around Mary Robinson, the Irish President, hugging her like a friend. ‘He was very good,’ the immensely proud father told the President whilst clutching his son’s tiny hand.

The two men in Guerin’s life stood at the side of her grave and kissed her coffin before she was finally laid to rest. Cathal stood on the side of the grave and knelt down to say a Hail Mary. His father crouched down beside him, holding his waist and fighting back the tears. When the child finished saying his prayer, he blew his murdered mother a kiss. ‘Goodbye Mummy.’

There was a sense of foreboding in Dardistown that day as the crowd departed from the cemetery; anger and rage filled the air. Nora Owen, like many others, felt it within. ‘I was vicious about these bastards who had done this, and you know my sense of effrontery, how dare they attack somebody like this, and really attack one of the organs of our democracy which was a free press. You kind of felt you wanted to get them by the throat and throttle them. They were not feelings I wanted to have. I knew I had the responsibility to make sure this never happened again.’

Who was responsible? Who had left a young man widowed and a young child motherless? What sort of person would do such a thing?

One man’s name was on everyone’s mind. John Gilligan.

Chapter 2

Life Cycles of Violence

‘John had an awful, terrible childhood.’

Geraldine Gilligan

The planets of war and conflict were clashing and colliding when John Joseph Gilligan entered the world. The orbital paths of Saturn and Neptune had crossed to the north-east of the skies, leaving Venus, Jupiter and Mercury in ascent, which in celestial terms destined anyone born on that day to a fiery and violent future.

Gilligan was born in Dublin on 29 March 1952 under the star sign of Aries, the masculine fire sign. It is said that Aries characters have many positive traits, of which passion and enthusiasm are two. But their negative tendencies are anarchistic, a quickness of temper and selfishness that makes them want to succeed, regardless of the consequences; another unique Aries trait is the deep distrust of authority.

The symbol of the ram, used to express the characteristics of Aries, is one of the New Age traditions. The symbol used in the Chinese lunar calendar is far more appropriate; Gilligan was born in the Year of the Dragon. Persons of this sign tend to intimidate those who cross them and, although colourful, are irrational by nature.

The story of John Gilligan began years earlier in the Dublin of the early 1940s. His father was a miscreant youth from Dublin’s north inner city who had a fondness for drink, gambling and getting into trouble with the law. ‘Johnno Gilligan’, like his father before him, who worked as an engineering smith on the Dublin docks and by night plied the trade of a petty criminal, found theft and crime more attractive than hard labour. Not that he was a professional criminal; he just stole when opportunity came his way, which was fairly frequently. Easy money could be made by robbing, and he subscribed to the belief that living life as a law-abiding citizen was a waste of time—in other words, crime paid.

Occasionally he did manage to earn an honest living by legitimate means. In 1944, at the age of 21, he started working as a bailer attendant at a factory in Dublin. As far as anyone knows, romance had not featured in his life until this time when a chance encounter brought him into contact with a girl called Sarah Teresa Howard. She was the pretty 20-year-old daughter of Henry Howard, a local CIÉ signalman.

What attracted her to Gilligan’s father was his manner. He was young and had wild ways about him; he did as he pleased and winked at so many girls that they believed him to have wealth far beyond him. Her blissful innocence and looks overwhelmed him. She was in the bloom of youth and would fall in love at the drop of a hat. The young couple started courting, much to the consternation of Henry Howard, who could see the inevitable life that lay ahead of his daughter should Johnno propose and she accept.

The young girl, however, did not think this way and agreed to marry her beau when he mustered up the courage to ask. There was nothing her father could do or say to dissuade his daughter. The Rev. Donald Quinnlivan married the couple on 5 August 1945 in the Church of Our Lady of Good Counsel on the Mourne Road in Drimnagh, Dublin. The ceremony was a small and dignified affair attended by friends and neighbours; the groom’s brother, Thomas, was groomsman, while one of Sarah’s childhood friends, Veronica Sweeney, was bridesmaid. Johnno spoke with affection to his young bride, but Henry Howard did not need a fortune-teller to realise his daughter had made a mistake. He was in time proved right.

The newlyweds moved into a house on Galtymore Road, and for a time Johnno went straight, which seemed a miracle to anyone who knew him. But he was not a man who could go without a drink for long, and in the space of a few months, he had virtually destroyed his marriage through alcohol, gambling and squandering what little cash he had on failed racehorses.

Even when his young wife got pregnant it didn’t put a stop to his random visits to the bookmakers and local hostelries. He became even more intolerable, beating his wife and taking out his aggression on those around him. If he had no money, he would break into his neighbours’ homes or nearby shops where he would help himself to whatever he could sell in the local pubs. In this whirlwind of drunken violence, his young wife somehow managed to keep her life on track.

The prosperity of the post-Second World War years caused a labour boom in Dublin, particularly around the docklands where cargo ships laden with coal and oil created a demand for cheap labour. In part to be nearer this potentially lucrative source of employment and partly because of the constant trouble that Johnno Gilligan was causing around Ballyfermot, the couple moved north across the Liffey to 15 Prussia Street. Prussia Street was a rat-infested slum where neighbours shared a single toilet —hygiene and sanitation were luxuries the residents simply could not afford. It was here on the night of 29 March 1952, that Sarah gave birth to John Joseph, whom she named after his father.

In her lifetime, she would give birth to nine children—five girls and four boys. In those days, women traditionally gave up their jobs when they married; therefore she was reliant on her husband’s income, which in turn was reliant on crime. She was trapped in a vicious circle, deploring the source of her husband’s income whilst urging him to provide more for her young children.

The marriage entered into further difficulties, which threw Sarah into bouts of depression. At night Johnno would arrive home drunk, pass out in the kitchen and snore all night. His wife would leave him in his drunken stupor and be careful not to disturb him. Such were the problems in the Gilligan household that she did not even register John Gilligan’s birth until the following August—some five months later.

Dublin Corporation at the time were trying to clean out the city and had embarked on an ambitious project to build 10,000 houses in Ballyfermot where the people of the slums could live. Gilligan’s young mother needed no encouragement from her husband, but mustered up the courage to apply for one of the new homes under construction. Her husband took no interest in her plans, nor in his young family for that matter, so she signed all the tenancy paperwork herself, much to the bemusement of the corporation clerks. Sarah and her children, including her eight-month-old baby John, moved into 5 Lough Conn Road, Ballyfermot, on 6 December 1952.

Gilligan’s father went missing for the move, so the neighbours helped her move what few belongings she had to Ballyfermot. If her marriage was in difficulty before she took control, from this point onwards it got decidedly bleak, with her husband spending more and more time away from home. His gambling problem continued to intensify as he moved between jobs.

The turbulence in the Gilligan household had an immense effect on the young John Gilligan, although it did not manifest itself until early adulthood. He would later feel cheated of his youth and become obsessively protective of his own children.

Inside 5 Lough Conn Road, life was miserable, and as John Gilligan grew up, he did so at the mercy of his father’s whims. His father would often arrive home and send him to the local bookmaker’s to place bets on horses doomed to lose. When the young Gilligan would return home with the inevitable bad news, he would be beaten black and blue. As was his mother. Despite Sarah’s best efforts, the family often went without dinner—though Johnno rarely went without a drink. In a home martyred by violence, the young John Gilligan found the calm and security he needed in school.

When the Gilligans first moved to Ballyfermot there wasn’t even a school, so the young Gilligan was shunted for lessons between the Louise Convent on the Drumfin Road, which was run by the Sisters of Charity, and Johnstown House run by the Christian Brothers.

In 1960, Mary Queen of Angels National School opened, encompassing Lough Conn Road in its catchment area. The school was run by the Catholic Church, which appointed Canon Troy, a brash cleric from Listowel in County Kerry, as manager, whilst Joe Doherty, a young teacher from Clontarf was appointed principal.

Gilligan’s home life did not affect his education to the degree that one might imagine. Gilligan, although not highly intelligent, was not slow to learn. He was an average child who interacted well with his fellow classmates and teachers and avoided trouble. Driven perhaps by the sheer turmoil of home life, Gilligan liked the time he spent in Mary Queen of Angels, where he received a good all-round education in maths, English and Irish. Daily life in Mary Queen of Angels was good for Gilligan.

Barrack Yard Drill (BYD) was one part of his education to which he applied himself with zeal. BYD was run by Mick O’Neill, a retired soldier who used to visit the school every week and put the children through their paces in the school playground, lining the students up and instructing them in a military-like way to touch their toes, stretch and stand to attention. O’Neill had a great rapport with the young Gilligan and his classmates, who rewarded him by throwing pennies into his hat.

Mary Queen of Angels gave Gilligan confidence. It was a place where he could develop as a child, while at home he was given jobs and subjected to violence. In school he could do as the other children did, play marbles in the spring, relivio in the summer and conkers in the autumn when the chestnuts would fall. Friends of his from that time say he excelled at spinning tops, a game where the children pitched coins at a wall and whosever landed the closest got the money. Gilligan’s interest in gambling commenced early on in his life.

The young Gilligans went without comics and luxury items like toys because of their father’s fondness for alcohol; all they could do was dream about action men and toy soldiers while music was something they occasionally heard on the radio. Television was a novelty sometimes seen in the homes of privileged neighbours.

By the time Gilligan was 12 years old his father had become a burglar who was well known to members of An Garda Síochána; but it was in the north inner city that Johnno was most notorious. There he recruited youngsters slightly older than his own children to steal from local shops.

‘Old Johnno had this knack of hitting his backside off the door to break the lock,’ remembered Maurice Ward, one youth from his gang. ‘He was such a small man that we used to wonder how he did it. He would rob anything, sweets, money, anything. A big thing with him was Gillette razor blades. He would sell them around the docks.’

In life, Johnno’s brothers had fared much better than he had. His brother Thomas had joined the British Army, while Frank had become an important figure in the Seaman’s Union of Ireland, a position he used to secure Johnno menial work on the Britain & Irish Line. Sarah Gilligan did not want her sons turning out like their father, so when John Gilligan left Mary Queen of Angels without any qualifications at 14 years of age, she sent him to Uncle Frank who got him a job with the B&I Line.

Frank was fond of his nephew and started him off working as a cabin boy in the hope that he would join the merchant navy and get a decent career. For a time, he worked on the ferries that crossed between Holyhead and Liverpool; he is remembered as being a ‘good little worker who gave no cheek’.

Gilligan kept in touch with the staff of Mary Queen of Angels and often returned to the school to look for advice and to say hello. For this, he is still remembered.

A year after he left school, John Gilligan had his first brush with the law. He was not yet 15 when he appeared in Rathfarnham District Court on 3 March 1967 charged with larceny. He was given probation and warned not to get into trouble again by the judge.

But Gilligan was destined for a life of crime. He also lived in the shadow of his father’s reputation; nothing seemed to work for him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake off his father’s reputation for being a drunkard, although he himself rarely consumed alcohol. He spent the next few years at sea moving between various jobs on ferries and merchant ships that travelled between Ireland and England.

He later joined the merchant navy and travelled the world, making 36 trips to far-flung destinations. He worked on the now-defunct Canadian Pacific line that travelled between Montreal and Liverpool. His seaman’s record book, numbered E10214, describes his conduct as ‘very good’. He was formally discharged as a seaman on 31 July 1980.

Like most of the youngsters he grew up with, Gilligan never moved out of home and left his possessions at Lough Conn Road. When on shore leave, he would return to Ballyfermot to visit his family and meet with friends and talk at length about rock ‘n’ roll, his travels at sea and, of course, girls, one of whom he was developing a keen interest in.

Matilda Geraldine Dunne was the ‘besotted girl next door’ who developed a crush on John Gilligan when she was just 14 years of age. She remembered: ‘I think I was skipping or playing with my friends and I saw him. I thought he was great—just gorgeous—and fell for him. He was just a happy-go-lucky sort of fella. He was a nice fella and that’s why I liked him.’

What she saw in him, no one knows. Gilligan was certainly more mature than his admirer. The two also came from diametrically opposed backgrounds. Her parents were a respectable family who lived on Kylemore Drive; her father Martin and mother Martha, née Lynch, were highly regarded by their peers and neighbours. Geraldine’s father worked as a boilerman for CIÉ. It is said that she was the black sheep of his brood, leaving school at 12 to work as a trainee dressmaker in a shop called Abbot’s Belts, Buckles and Buttons.

The Gilligans were an altogether different family. But love works in strange ways and work it did. Gilligan took more than a passing interest in the girl. The two started courting. The only thing that prevented them from getting married was Geraldine’s young age.

As time passed, the relationship became more serious. She eventually started working as a chef on the ferries, accompanying Gilligan on voyages. Her father was powerless to intervene, although he had serious doubts about his future son-in-law’s suitability. If he said no to the romance, the girl would have taken flight, and he feared she would not return.

Her parents pressed the young couple to get married in the Catholic Church. Two days before John Gilligan’s 22nd birthday, on 27 March 1974, Father John Wall married them in Ballyfermot Church. Six months later, on 11 September, Geraldine gave birth to a daughter, Tracy. The couple also produced a son, born on 13 September 1975. It was Geraldine who decided against calling Darren after his father on the advice of Uncle Frank.

‘Frank told me not to call him John because he would have felt he had to live up to his father. I think there were four generations of John Gilligans, and Frank said it was time to break the chain. All the Johns had ended up as criminals. That’s why Darren wasn’t called John after his dad,’ she once recounted.

The young bride’s in-laws liked her. They saw her as a stabilising influence on Gilligan, who was fast developing a deep interest in crime and robbery. The newly weds couldn’t afford their own home and so they moved into the already-overcrowded 5 Lough Conn Road with Sarah Gilligan and her growing brood. Their presence added to the sheer turmoil of the house. They wanted privacy but couldn’t get it in a house filled to capacity with people. Geraldine pushed her husband to get a house or flat; anything away from the sprawling housing estates of Ballyfermot.

Eventually Gilligan found a flat on Charleville Avenue in Dublin’s North Strand. It was small and cluttered but at least the newlyweds had privacy and could come and go as they pleased. The couple lived between houses until 1977, when they moved into a council house at 13 Corduff Avenue in Blanchardstown in west Dublin.

But John Gilligan followed the life path already determined for him by circumstances. He stopped working on the ferry line and turned to crime like his father before him. Gilligan, though, changed his world to accomplish what his father could only dream of—the notoriety of being a multimillionaire gangster and the most dangerous man in the underworld.

Chapter 3

The Wild West

‘Those were the best days of my life.’

John Gilligan

From 1896 to 1901, Robert Leroy Parker and his sidekick Harry Longbaugh, forever known as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, roamed the desolate plains of Wyoming, Utah and Colorado with a gang of ten or so misfits, robbing whenever the opportunity arose. They were collectively known as the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang and, under the tutelage of Parker, pioneered the art of robbing banks, mail vans and stagecoaches, using means other than armed confrontation. Instead, the outlaws would blast their way into bank vaults using dynamite stolen from the Union Pacific Railroad and help themselves to whatever they could get away with. Almost a century later, history repeated itself when a similar bunch of misfits came together in Dublin.

They too called themselves the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Only this time, they roamed the industrial estates of west Dublin in stolen vans and trucks, breaking into warehouses, hijacking mail vans and freight containers laden with goods destined for supermarket shelves. They too entered premises by making a hole in a wall, only their technique involved brute force: smashing down bricks and mortar with sledgehammers. These men also looked up to a leader—a devious and cunning young man who was meticulous in his approach to crime. Like all gangster figures, he was given his own nickname by the press—they called him Warehouse John. The police called him John Gilligan.

When his seafaring career ended, Gilligan chose to become a criminal. ‘If you want to get rich, why work when you can rob? Why get up at eight in the morning when you can go out at eight at night and get anything you like?’ were words he repeated to friends. This became his philosophy. From 1980 to 1990, Gilligan’s Hole-in-the-Wall Gang wreaked havoc, plundering the industrial estates lying scattered off the motorways that take travellers from Dublin to the cities of Cork and Limerick. They would steal anything they could lay their hands on: trucks, cars, refrigerators, animal-health products, computer games, vacuum cleaners, sweets, chocolates, power tools—anything that could be sold. Gilligan orchestrated hundreds of robberies that netted him hundreds of thousands of pounds, most of which he squandered gambling. He knew every square foot of his stomping ground: every road; every warehouse; every fire escape; every side entrance; every waste ground; and so he knew where to strike, when to strike and how to escape.

‘They were the good old days,’ he once remarked. ‘I used to tell people that I lived in the “hereafter land” because when I arrived in the industrial estates I would say, “This is what I’m here after” and the Garda Síochána would say, “We’re here after Gilligan.” They were great days. There was loads of times when we’d get chased, sometimes we’d get something, other times we’d get nothing. I got a great buzz in those days. Nine times out of ten the owners wouldn’t have known we’d been in. In some cases, the owners were happy because they got insurance on devalued goods. I wasn’t into bank robberies because that involved firearms and I could get shot. When we’d go down for a stretch we’d write to the other lads, messing, pretending to sell the rights to steal from other industrial estates. It was great fun because we knew the prison officials saw the letters. We were like the Mafia.’[1]

Although his flat Dublin accent and shabby dress code bore no similarity to the suave gangsters of the Cosa Nostra he watched in films, his criminal operation was just as sophisticated. The truth was that in the space of a few years, by the time he was 30 years old, Gilligan had become a major figure in organised crime. By day he would act out the part of the family man, the hard-working loyal husband and father. This persona lived in Corduff and travelled into Dublin city centre where he ran a second-hand car salesroom. Here, he sold second-hand Ford Capris and other cheap models to anyone unfortunate enough to venture on to his forecourt. Unfortunate because if the car broke down, Gilligan simply wouldn’t entertain them.

It was at night that the true criminal in Gilligan came to life. Whilst the city slept, he would emerge with his band of thieves and set about plundering warehouses. Accompanied by one or two of his lieutenants, he would drive south across the city to his turf, the Robinhood or Cookstown industrial estates. Like a cat burglar, he would reconnoitre his surroundings, looking for ways to break and enter; he would search for an entrance in the perimeter fencing and for ways to bypass security systems. ‘We would sit there all night, waiting for the security guard to arrive, time how long it took the guard to check the locks, what doors he checked, how thorough his checks were and see which way he approached,’ remembered Maurice Ward, who went on to join the gang.[2]

Gilligan would then scout around looking for rubbish. ‘Get me some pallets, we need to light a bit of a fire,’ he would say. He would build a bonfire against the side of the warehouse and set it alight before retreating back into the undergrowth.

The raiders would return the next night. ‘Right, lads, we know what we’re here to do. Everyone into position.’

They would act with military-like co-ordination. Two men would run towards the industrial estate entrance, walkie-talkies at the ready should a passing garda patrol stumble upon the heist. With professional skill, another two men would approach the warehouse and skirt around the wall until they found the section scorched by the fire Gilligan had set ablaze the previous night.

‘Come on lads, faster, faster,’ he would shout.

With resolute body co-ordination, they would attack the wall with sledgehammers. The heat from the fire would have dried out the mortar and the brickwork, so it would just crumble away, leaving a gaping hole for the thieves to enter.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .

‘We’re through, boss.’

Gilligan would inspect the demolition work. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Security systems in those days were humble devices designed to act as deterrents. Alarms were mostly battery operated, so Gilligan would simply knock them off the walls and take out the batteries. Once the ‘security system’ was disabled, he would set about the warehouse, stocktaking, compiling a mental inventory of the goods on offer. Once this was done, he would order one of the gang to prepare the trucks. Walkie-talkie in hand, he would give the sign, and they would arrive within minutes, entering the warehouse via the goods entrance.

‘Remember, lads, what’s my favourite saying?’

‘Why leave anything, boss?’

‘Get to work,’ he would shout.

Entire warehouses and factories would be cleared. Nothing of any value was left. ‘We would spend hours just loading up our own trucks and making sure we left no fingerprints or evidence. He would take everything, paint brushes, boxes of nails—he even robbed the spare tyres off lorries and the tools. If it was worth anything, he would take it. I never saw anyone like him. Ropes, hammers, nails, car batteries—everything would be taken,’ recalled Ward.

The Hole in the Wall’s stomping ground lay between the industrial expanses that surround Tallaght, Clondalkin and Ballyfermot. Businesses located in the Robinhood and Cookstown industrial estates were particularly affected because of Gilligan’s familiarity with the area. He believed that even if the gardaí caught him robbing a factory here, he could escape.

At that time, the Garda Síochána concentrated all its efforts and resources on combating the Provisional IRA and the other paramilitary organisations. Organised crime was considered something ephemeral in Garda headquarters; men like Gilligan didn’t rate in the general scheme of things. The Government and the Department of Justice were categorically told there was no organised crime problem in Ireland. This belief filtered into all sections of Irish society and was quoted verbatim by the media at large, with the exception of some individual journalists. There were, of course, some gardaí who could see what was happening. Gilligan’s small stature, devil-may-care attitude and churlishness towards authority didn’t fool them. They were watching a petty thief turn into a master criminal before their eyes. There was no stopping his gang.

Gilligan expanded his operation to rural areas. By 1985 he felt confident using weapons and extreme violence. Warehouse robberies were no longer his speciality—he targeted mail vans and payroll deliveries. Violence was something the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang had no problem dispensing.

The Garda found it was near to impossible to combat his criminal operation. Gilligan had so much regard for gardaí and the lengths to which they would go to charge him with a serious offence that he never took the same route twice, discussed crime over the phone or left any piece of evidence that could link him to a crime. He made all the arrangements for the gang so that no one could betray him. If he had to meet someone, he went to them. Under no circumstances did they arrive at his front door. He never held any stolen property at his home in Corduff, and so the Garda knew there was no point in raiding it.

His extensive connections in the business world were more than willing to allow him to store stolen goods in their warehouses. And because he sold his loot at knockdown prices to ‘reputable businessmen’, he slept assured that his products were laundered into the system fast, making it almost impossible to trace them.

Even when the Garda did manage to catch him red-handed, he always seemed to find a loophole to beat a charge, as happened in the Nilfisk case.

There wasn’t a star in the sky when Niall McClory closed the door behind him and locked up his premises. Grey clouds, the type that seem to float in suspended animation over Dublin’s skyline, blotted out the moonlight. Cookstown Industrial Estate was lifeless; the familiar sounds of forklifts and delivery trucks, which normally deafened those working there, were absent. It was 2 January 1986. The managers and factory workers were still on holiday, recuperating from the Christmas and New Year celebrations. It was McClory’s first day back at Nilfisk. He had to return early to take delivery of 850 new vacuum cleaners that had arrived from Germany. What better way to start off the year than with a new delivery, he thought to himself as he walked to his car parked outside the warehouse. He had just got in when he saw a masked man approach wielding a baton.

‘Get out of the car,’ yelled his assailant.

More men suddenly appeared. ‘Open the door. Open the door.’

McClory was overcome by fear. His assailants had come from nowhere; he had no way of escaping in any case, so he opened the door.

‘Get down on the floor. If you don’t co-operate we’ll shoot you. Do you understand?’

He could not see a weapon, but fearing they had a gun and would shoot him dead, he obeyed the command. One of the gang handcuffed his hands behind his back and the factory’s security man was forced to lie in a similar position. They were made to look down. The next few hours seemed never-ending and the atmosphere was tense as the two hostages wondered if they would be freed. Wearing a balaclava, Gilligan stood with a two-way radio clenched in one hand, shouting instructions to the others. ‘Send in the truck.’

From his position, McClory could hear a truck arriving and the sound of the factory’s forklift starting up, then reversing and moving to and fro. Gilligan and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang were cleaning out Nilfisk, stealing the vacuum cleaners that had just arrived. When every one of the boxed vacuums was loaded, the gang left, vanishing as fast as they had arrived. The alarm was raised almost immediately afterwards when McClory managed to press a panic button in the office.

Gardaí arriving on the scene set about making inquiries, but they had only one suspect in mind: John Gilligan.

It was inconceivable for Gilligan to travel far with such a massive cargo of stolen goods. Gardaí would be mounting checkpoints looking for the stolen vacuums, so he arranged to store the vacuums in a warehouse located nearby, at Unit 22, Weatherwell Industrial Estate in Clondalkin. From here, the vacuum cleaners would be sold off in small lots by the gang, one of whom was a young criminal and new addition to the gang, 23-year-old David Weafer.

The Nilfisk heist was to work as follows. The loot would be divided in seven; Gilligan and two others would take the lion’s share, while the rest, like Weafer, would receive a smaller amount of vacuums to sell themselves. Gilligan correctly envisaged that he would not be able to fence the load all at once because Nilfisk would issue a general warning or possibly offer a reward for the return of the goods. Therefore, whenever one of the gang wanted access to their share of the vacuums, they would ring Gilligan and arrange to meet. Gilligan held the keys because it was his hiding place and he would ensure that everyone got their fair share.

Gilligan’s prediction that Nilfisk and the Garda Press Office would highlight the robbery proved correct. Two days after the raid, the Irish Independent carried an article warning housewives to beware of door-to-door salesmen selling cheap vacuum cleaners. Nilfisk’s managing director, Pat Murphy, told the Independent that the vacuums would not be sold through established outlets.

‘It would be very difficult to get them into electrical shops. The only alternative would be door to door. Somebody somewhere should be able to give us a clue. I am as intrigued as you are as to how the gang is going to get rid of these machines. I would love to know what they are going to do with them,’ he said.

The vacuum cleaners were being sold door to door, but faster than the gardaí could have imagined. Weafer in particular was selling more than the others, more than his allocation, unknown to Gilligan, who had given him the keys of Unit 22 to help himself. Fearing that he would ‘vanish’ should Gilligan find out about his ‘sales drive’, he leaked information about where the stolen vacuums were being kept to the gardaí. If they raided Unit 22 and found the vacuums, Gilligan would never find out about his double-cross. But the gardaí wanted Gilligan, and so placed Unit 22 under surveillance with the intention of arresting him red-handed with the stolen property.

Weafer co-operated and arranged to meet Gilligan at Unit 22 a week later, on 9 January. Gilligan didn’t want to go near the haul—the gardaí were running a major operation looking for the vacuums and would no doubt be monitoring his movements. But Weafer insisted, saying he needed to get more vacuums to sell, he needed the cash. The two met at Weatherwell Industrial Estate, which, unknown to Gilligan, was surrounded by armed detectives.

On approaching the warehouse door, Gilligan became suspicious. Years of avoiding the gardaí had taught him to take various precautions. In this case, he had affixed a small wooden stick to the side of the entrance door which would snap should anyone but he enter. The stick had snapped, thereby indicating someone had been inside.

He turned to Weafer and asked if he had been near the vacuums, taking more than his fair share. Weafer denied this and said he was in a hurry to return home. Gilligan took a small key from his pocket and opened the lock that secured the door and the two went inside. The detectives could not believe their luck—here was Gilligan himself handling stolen goods. Once Gilligan was inside, the gardaí moved in just as the two began unloading boxes of vacuums from the truck used in the heist.

‘Armed Garda. Don’t move,’ shouted one officer. The two criminals put their hands up in the air before being handcuffed and driven away to be charged with offences including the robbery of the vacuums and the theft of the trucks found in the warehouse. The vehicles alone were valued at IR£45,000, whilst the vacuum cleaner consignment found in Unit 22 was worth IR£54,000, making the charges extremely serious. Gilligan and Weafer were charged before the Dublin District Court.

The case came up for hearing over two years later in March 1988 in the Circuit Criminal Court before Judge Gerard Buchanan. Gilligan’s future looked bleak. He would certainly be convicted and sentenced. In his opening address to the jury, prosecuting counsel Erwin Mill Arden, BL, said the evidence before the court would link all the items with the accused and the vacuum cleaners. The accused, he said, was not charged with the theft of any of the items but with receiving them knowing them to have been stolen.

The court heard evidence of how Gilligan’s fingerprints had been found on a can of paint that had been used in one of the stolen vehicles found in Unit 22. Detective Inspector John Anders of Tallaght Garda Station also gave evidence of finding Gilligan and Weafer unloading cartons containing the stolen vacuums from a lorry. Gilligan, he said, had thrown away a key before he was arrested under the Offences Against the State Act. The key fitted the padlock on the unit’s small door, which Gilligan had been seen opening. The inspector went on to say a search order had been obtained under the Offences Against the State Act because it was suspected that a firearm or firearms used in the raid in which the vacuum cleaners were stolen might be found. The prosecution’s case appeared to be going according to plan until day two when the receiving charge was withdrawn after legal issues were raised about ownership of the vacuums. The delivery docket for the vacuum cleaners apparently hadn’t been signed; hence ownership of the vacuums couldn’t be established. It was a legal technicality.

Gilligan couldn’t believe his luck; this was too good to be true. But he still faced charges of receiving three vehicles and a hydraulic tailgate found in Unit 22. These charges were eventually withdrawn, as were all the charges connected with the case.

But the gardaí kept up the pressure.

Immediately after his arrest on the Nilfisk charges, Gilligan and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang went back to business, stealing and robbing. The fear of prison, however, had made him all the more haphazard; believing himself to be destined for jail in any case, he developed a lax attitude to security, which proved to be his downfall. It was not long before he slipped up. Gilligan temporarily stopped carrying out raids down the country, for if he were to be arrested while on bail for the Nilfisk heist he would certainly be held on remand. But his familiarity with the factories of Robinhood Industrial Estate eased him into a false sense of safety. Having spent hundreds of hours prowling around the industrial estates in the mid-night hours, he had managed to convince himself he was untouchable once he stayed in Dublin. He deluded himself into believing the gardaí could never catch him, that he was too clever, that he could outwit them. He believed they had got lucky with Weafer, but that the rest of his team was solid and trustworthy. The gardaí would never get that close again, or so he believed.

It was approaching Easter, April 1987, when Gilligan decided to rob the Rose Confectionery premises at 23A Robinhood Industrial Estate. He assembled two of his most trusted lieutenants, and they broke into the factory on Good Friday, 17 April. It was meant to be an easy job—break in, steal sweets and chocolates and sell them off. He would have no problem selling such items, not with Easter approaching. The gang assembled at the usual rendezvous point outside the industrial estate and made their way to the sweet factory. Once inside, Gilligan started helping himself to jelly babies, toffees and chocolates of all flavours. ‘Check and make sure everything is okay outside,’ he ordered one of the gang whilst stuffing his mouth full.

‘Yes, boss.’

While Gilligan continued to wolf down the sweets, the raider walked over to the office window and opened the blind, only to see a security guard staring back at him. Not knowing whether the guard had realised that he was a thief, the raider shouted and alerted Gilligan to what had happened.

‘Did he look back at you?’ Gilligan enquired.

‘I don’t know, he just looked at me and kept going,’ the raider responded.

‘You’re probably just on edge. It will be all right. No one would notice us in here,’ Gilligan responded.

The security guard had indeed seen the thief, but rather than tackle him on his own, he drove on and radioed for help and the gardaí. Gilligan had made a fatal mistake and within a matter of minutes Rose Confectionery was surrounded by gardaí, some of whom, knowing his ways of old, suspected Gilligan might be inside. The gardaí approached the warehouse and shouted at whoever was inside to come out. By this stage, the gang was in a state of panic. Gilligan, however, reassured them, saying they had stolen nothing and would only be charged with breaking and entering. He wasn’t too concerned, even if he was convicted; he thought he would be going to prison anyway because of the Nilfisk charge. The two sentences would run concurrently. One of the gang tried to hide but couldn’t find a suitable place. Gilligan thought this was funny and asked if he jumped in with the jelly babies, would the others put the lid back on the jar. He knew he was caught red-handed.

Although he had rehearsed various escape routes out of Robinhood hundreds of times in his mind, this time he couldn’t escape. He gave himself up, walking out the door with his hands placed on his head to the astonishment of the gardaí. Never expecting to beat the Nilfisk charges, he pleaded guilty and was released on bail. His case came up for hearing the following May in the Circuit Criminal Court when he appeared before Judge Frank Roe. Detective Inspector John McLoughlin gave evidence of having known Gilligan for 15 years and told the court he was the leader of a gang which robbed warehouses all over the country. Gilligan, he said, was one of Ireland’s biggest players in organised crime, and his only source of income was from crime. Details of Gilligan’s extensive criminal record were read out to the court. Burglary, attempted larceny, stealing and receiving, the list went on and on. Gilligan was physically sick—he had hoped he would get a suspended sentence, or a ‘bender’, as he called it. Two months previous, he had walked away from the Nilfisk heist a free man; now he was going to jail for stealing sweets.

Judge Roe sentenced him to 18 months in Mountjoy Prison, despite hearing evidence of his good character from the director of a riding centre where he stabled three ponies. This woman described him as a kind, generous and considerate person who placed his ponies at the disposal of disadvantaged children. Although things hadn’t gone his way, he felt reassured going into prison that he would have plenty of cash when freed. The gangster had made thousands stealing from warehouses; thievery had proved to be a lucrative occupation for him. Little did he know he would get to play a pivotal role in the biggest robbery in the world.

[1] Interview with the author.

[2] Interview with the author.

Chapter 4

The Bonds

‘He was a little Hitler.’

IRA member talking about Gilligan

Gilligan opened his eyes and wondered if his captors were going to murder him—shoot him through the side of his head to make sure he died. He sat with an expressionless look on his face. It seemed unthinkable that the Provisional IRA would kill him now. He probably contemplated an escape. He could run, maybe overpower one or two of his abductors and head off into the night. He figured there were about four of them and possibly two more outside keeping watch. What if he made a run for it? He probably pictured the escape route in his mind and thought about how long it would take him to get to a safe house. But he knew they would catch up with him; if not on that night, it would be some other when he least expected it. That was the way the IRA worked. There was no escaping them; they would catch him eventually. Gilligan likened them to birds of prey. They moved silently above, occasionally plunging on unsuspecting prey. If they didn’t kill, they would make demands that had to be met. No criminal ever stood up to them because they had strength in numbers, and if you took on one, you took on them all. When people working the streets talked about the army, they talked about the IRA.

Gilligan could never deal with the ‘politicos’, as he called them. The IRA did what they did out of belief; his only belief was in financial rewards. He had no interest in their war and hated the way they threw their weight around.[1]

Although he was not the enemy, as in some British soldier or Special Branch detective, he knew he was in danger, having overstepped the mark. His kidnappers had repeated to him what they wanted over and over again, but he refused to give in, declaring they would have to kill him because they were not getting what they wanted. Now his captors were thinking about doing just that. Shooting him dead for IR£77 million worth of stolen bearer bonds.

Gilligan was resolute; the bonds were worth dying for. He was about to find out whether the IRA felt the same. For a criminal protagonist like Gilligan, republicanism meant nothing; the IRA was merely another organisation he and his ilk had to deal with occasionally. Years before, he had tried to ingratiate himself with the leaders of the Provisionals’ Dublin Brigade by allowing an old garage he owned in the Crumlin area of Dublin to be used for storing stolen vehicles, weapons and explosives.

Inside Gilligan’s garage, the cars stolen by the IRA would be prepared for use in a bombing, robbery or assassination. The vehicles would have false registration plates fitted along with industrial shock absorbers to conceal the weight of the explosives or mortars hidden in their boots. The arrangement worked well until Gilligan started to tell anyone who crossed his path that he was an IRA sympathiser whose garage was being used for the cause. He had good reason to let this be known publicly. His adversaries would be far less likely to cross him if he had strong IRA connections. But the IRA had other ideas—once they heard about his loose talk, they were gone. What past favours he had done for the Provisionals were irrelevant now. They wanted the bonds.

On 2 May 1990 at 9.30 a.m., John Goddard, a 58-year-old messenger with the financial brokerage Sheppard’s, was taking his usual route along King William Street in London’s financial district. He had travelled the route many times previously with no security problems, delivering certificates of deposits and treasury bills to the financial houses.

On that particular morning, Goddard was carrying 301 bearer bonds worth IR£292 million in his satchel. These were in bearer form and as good as cash to anyone in possession of them. There was nothing unusual in Goddard’s satchel. Every day London’s financial houses borrowed and loaned money using certificates of deposits, or CDs and treasury bills used by the Government—bearer bonds. He suspected nothing when he saw a young black youth approach him on the street, until he produced a knife and demanded he hand over his satchel. He hesitated, but fearing for his life, the courier handed over the pouch.

By 11.20 a.m. that morning, investors, banks and stock traders across the world were made aware of what had happened. Goddard’s assailant had escaped with 301 bills, many of which were made out for IR£1 million each. Immediately after the mugging took place, the Bank of England notified financial institutions across the world, warning them not to accept the bonds in business transactions. The serial numbers of the bonds were circulated. The Bank of England purposely released inaccurate information through spokesmen who announced the bonds couldn’t be cashed and were useless—this was propaganda. The bonds were as good as cash.

Such was the fear among the international financial community that Sheppard’s felt compelled to take out an insurance policy with Lloyd’s should the thief try to cash the bonds. The premium cost the courier company IR£750,000. The detective squad at Bishopsgate in London was given the unenviable task of locating the stolen goods. They hoped against hope that the theft was just the work of a mugger, and the bonds would be found thrown away. Within the space of a few days, they realised this was not the case, and Operation Starling was born.

Some ten days later, they got their first break when a faxed copy of a stolen bond arrived from a source in Northern Ireland. Then one of the bonds was lodged in a branch of the NatWest bank in Glasgow. The person who lodged it was deemed an innocent pawn.

The Operation Starling team traced the source of the bond back to a small syndicate of criminals who had come together for the theft and had planned to launder the stolen bearer bonds in Liechtenstein. But the thieves decided against this plan for various reasons. Operation Starling was making inroads into their organisation and investigators hired by Lloyd’s were also searching for the bonds, whilst the Bank of England was using its influence to have the bonds returned. Those behind the theft resorted to plan B; this involved Gilligan. Details of his involvement in the conspiracy have remained a well-guarded secret to this day.

Gilligan’s involvement in the biggest robbery in the world happened through his association with Thomas Coyle, a mastermind criminal who lived in Drogheda in County Louth. Coyle was a fence, someone Gilligan used to sell stolen goods. He was reliable, managed to avoid the gardaí and ran a smooth criminal organisation, although no one has ever been sure how. He mixed with loyalist paramilitaries in the Ulster Defence Association (UDA) north of the border whilst managing to maintain contacts with the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) and, to a lesser extent, the Provisional IRA.

Anyone else would have been murdered for mixing in rival circles, but not Coyle. No one in the Irish underworld expected anything else of him. He had connections everywhere and was regarded as being good at his job. Therefore, it came as no surprise that he acquired 80 of the bonds to fence within weeks of the theft. Coyle was shrewd enough to know that he wasn’t capable of laundering the bonds single-handedly, so he enlisted Gilligan.

‘They didn’t really understand what they had. The whole thing was a non-starter. But Gilligan had what he believed was stolen gear worth IR£80 million, and he went around trying to get anyone to buy one of the bonds,’ explained an IRA source.

Laundering such valuable documents into the international banking system was a crime Gilligan simply didn’t have the intelligence to carry out. Instead, he tried to sell them to fellow criminals, fraudsters and the like.

‘He came to me with a photocopy of one of the bonds. That was proof that he had them. He wanted IR£10,000 cash for each one, then 10% of whatever they fetched when they were fenced. These things were for a million. No one could fence something like that, so no one did the business with him,’ recalled one fraudster who was offered the bonds outside the Four Courts building.

Gilligan then turned to Jim Beirne, a businessman with international criminal connections. Beirne was known as The Danger and came from County Roscommon. He specialised in fraud but would later enter into the world of international drug trafficking.

Beirne had the connections in the United States to launder the bonds. His connection came through John Francis Conlon. Born in Westport, County Mayo, Conlon was somewhat of an international figure in the intelligence community, having worked for the Israeli intelligence agency Mossad and the Central Intelligence Agency, as well as British Intelligence and US Customs and Excise. He moved between Norfolk, England and Miami, America. He was an associate of Monzer al-Kassar, the world’s biggest illegal arms dealer, who sold weapons to terrorists. He also sold arms to Colonel Oliver North, a deal that would later spark off the Arms-to-Iran crisis. Conlon was effectively a double agent. He came to prominence in the intelligence community during the Middle Eastern conflict.

Among the three men, a conspiracy emerged to smuggle the bonds to the United States, where Conlon felt his Mafia connections could launder anything. Gilligan and Coyle trusted Beirne’s credentials and left everything to him. All they would have to do was go along with his instructions. Fuelled by a lust to make it big, however, all the participants in the conspiracy let their guards down. With the exception of Conlon and Beirne, all were dabbling in unfamiliar territory and didn’t see the warning signs of informers in their ranks.

Arrangements were made to have the bonds smuggled to Miami on 29 May, the day Operation Starling scored its first blow. The official version of what happened is that Customs officers accidentally intercepted a suitcase full of bonds as a result of a random search and later arrested three men. The arrested men were Thomas Coyle, his brother-in-law Anthony Rooney and Edward Dunne, who had departed from Dublin Airport earlier that morning. Coyle had hidden the bonds in one of the group’s suitcases, which were all tagged to Dunne. Neither Dunne nor Rooney knew the bonds were concealed in the luggage. They were completely innocent.

Dunne’s flight went ahead as scheduled, whilst Coyle’s and Rooney’s was delayed. All three were due to fly to Heathrow where they would catch a connecting flight to Miami, for the purpose of buying a racehorse. But on his arrival, Dunne was stopped by Customs and taken into custody. Coyle and Rooney arrived shortly afterwards and were also stopped. An examination of Rooney’s baggage revealed 80 bonds. Rooney and Coyle said they had never seen the bonds, did not know what was in Dunne’s suitcase and told investigating police this was all a mistake.

The newspaper headlines the next morning announced that three men were due in court charged with attempting to handle the stolen bearer bonds worth IR£77.3 million. The names of the three were released and they were charged that on or before 29 May 1990 they attempted, within the jurisdiction of the Old Bailey, to handle stolen property, namely Treasury Bills and Certificates of Deposit, which if misused could have caused the owners a loss worth IR£77.3 million. The charges were made under Section 11 of the 1977 Criminal Law Act. Coyle and Rooney were charged separately from Dunne.

Their case went to trial in February 1991 before Knightsbridge Crown Court in London but collapsed on a legal technicality. The prosecution had claimed the bonds were part of the stolen IR£291 million haul from the mugging. Coyle and Rooney maintained their defence, claiming they didn’t know what was inside the case. Rooney certainly didn’t. He was innocent. But after hearing several days of evidence, both Rooney and Coyle were freed when their trial judge instructed the jury to acquit them because they hadn’t handled the bonds in a British jurisdiction. Coyle couldn’t believe his luck. The Crown Prosecution then offered no evidence on a conspiracy charge. The prosecution case against Edward Dunne fell apart after it emerged that he had not signed the docket accompanying his baggage, which he was legally required to do. He was freed.

In an interview with the Sunday World after the acquittal, Coyle said the cockroaches in his cell were as big as mice. ‘I feel very hurt that at this stage in our lives we had to spend months inside for something that we knew nothing about. For fellas like us, who had never been in prison before, you can imagine what it was like to be thrown in with murderers, child molesters and peeping toms.’

Rooney described his ordeal. ‘I made the tea for all the officers and Thomas was the head cleaner. We had to do something to get out of that cell, otherwise we would have been behind bars for 23 hours a day.’

Coyle concluded the interview, saying: ‘Our biggest fear was that we would be arrested again. We just couldn’t trust the British system, and the feeling when we touched down in Ireland was just unbelievable. At last we knew we were home safe and sound.’ Years later, Coyle would boast of his escape. He even purchased a racehorse which he named 77 Mill.

The police assigned to Operation Starling went on to intercept more bonds. In Cyprus, 80 bonds were retrieved whilst the FBI in Miami intercepted more. But it was the manner in which these were intercepted, or the story behind them, that proved dangerous for the criminals involved. Those responsible for the delivery of the bonds to Miami said they were working with the Provisional IRA and were filmed saying this by the FBI.

Acting on intelligence, US Customs agents intercepted the 71 British bonds worth $18 million inside a package being sent on an outbound Air Perú flight destined for Lima. The bonds were concealed inside two hollowed-out phone books.

The sheer scale of the theft had naturally aroused the interest of the British media, and it wasn’t long before allegations of IRA involvement made it into the press. What caused the upset was the linking of the Provisional IRA to loyalist paramilitaries, from whom earlier consignments of bonds had been seized. Television programmes proclaiming the IRA were involved with the UDA were broadcast, whilst newspapers in Britain started saying the IRA and UDA were co-operating to launder the bonds. The IRA launched an inquiry that led straight to Gilligan. One of his interrogators wanted to shoot Gilligan, but was overruled by his superior who ordered that Gilligan be released.

‘I think our own people realised it was all a non-starter. Here were a group of Dublin criminals trying to launder IR£80 million, which was way out of their league. When it emerged that they had been telling people that they were working with the IRA, then that was different. At one point it got way out of hand, the British press were running wild with stories about our involvement with the bonds. The truth was that we had never gotten them.’

As was usual in Gilligan’s criminal career, he was not brought to court for his role in this serious crime but instead went down for receiving stolen tools worth a mere IR£3,000.

The goods had been stolen from Bolger’s Hardware and Builders Providers in Kilcannon, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, months earlier. The warehouse gang had been busy and had cleared out the family business. The goods were recovered days later by the gardaí, following a surveillance operation that resulted in Gilligan’s arrest.

Gilligan was charged before the Special Criminal Court where Judge Robert Barr described him as being ‘involved in serious crime for many years’. Gilligan, whose address was given as Corduff Avenue, Blanchardstown, Dublin, was found guilty of receiving assorted hardware items worth IR£3,000 between 26 and 28 January but was cleared of the theft of IR£15,000 worth of stolen goods. The court was told that Gilligan had been arrested after gardaí had staked out a lorry parked on the Ballymount Road in Dublin. The lorry contained the proceeds of the Wexford robbery, and Gilligan and three others were seen removing the goods from it in two vans.

When Gilligan was convicted, Detective Sergeant Felix McKenna told the court that Gilligan had 12 previous convictions and was the leader of the gang. Barr sentenced Gilligan to four years. Although the conviction was a huge success, it would have unforeseen consequences. No one standing in the courtroom that day could have predicted that Gilligan was about to undergo a metamorphosis, transforming himself from a street wise thief into a career criminal. This transformation occurred in the maximum-security wing of Portlaoise Prison over the next three years, with unimaginable consequences for the system that put him there.

[1] Interview with the author.

Chapter 5

Portlaoise

‘He was a natural-born networker.’

BRIAN KENNA, FORMER OFFICER COMMANDING OF THE PROVISIONAL IRA PRISONERS HELD IN PORTLAOISE PRISON, TALKING ABOUT GILLIGAN

The video footage shows a small man smiling at the camera, shaking hands with some of Ireland’s most infamous gangsters. He is cordial and is greeted with respect; the type shown by sons to their fathers. He looks nervous in front of the camera, ill at ease about being filmed, but manages to continue smiling as if he has not a care in the world. John Gilligan was networking. He shouts at Dessie O’Hare. The INLA gunman, forever known as the Border Fox, is walking through the frame looking solemn.

‘Dessie . . . Dessie . . . Dessie . . . come here.’

O’Hare ignores him, stares straight ahead, and walks away. Gilligan runs towards him and embraces him whilst cajoling him into smiling at the camera. Then he’s off, shaking hands with other prisoners, patting them on the back, congratulating some on playing well whilst commiserating with others. He is everyone’s friend.

The inmates of Portlaoise Prison had just organised an inter-prison soccer tournament, the final of which had been filmed on video for posterity. Below the barbed wire and watchtowers, soccer teams drawn from the prison population competed against each other to secure a place in the cup final. Because he was not a good footballer, Gilligan was nominated to provide a running commentary on the qualifying matches as they were filmed. That his vocabulary was limited and his words were spoken in guttural tones that seemed to melt into one another didn’t dissuade his appointment. Some of his commentary when later played was impossible to decipher. Oddly, at times when O’Hare was playing he spoke with clarity—although he repeated himself constantly.

‘The Border Fox has the ball. Good kick by Dessie O’Hare, the Fox to Hippo Ward . . . Nice pass to Larry Dunne . . . Larry Dunne. Good man, Larry.’

It was late in the summer of 1991, and Gilligan had just begun serving his sentence in Portlaoise Prison, yet he was the centre of attention—greeted like a patriarchal figure. In the grey confines of the prison, Gilligan had the power without the throne. He slept in the same type of cell as the other prisoners, ate the same food, awoke at the same time and was told when to go to bed. The only thing that set him apart was his ability to network. It was here that he created a coterie of trusted sidekicks who would later give him the muscle to become a major player in the world of crime. Far from rehabilitating himself for society, Gilligan metamorphosed from a thief into a gangster.

Gilligan arrived in Portlaoise Prison courtesy of the Special Criminal Court on 7 November 1990. The prison itself was built in 1850 and lies in the centre of Portlaoise town in County Laois. The jail is divided into two wings—D Block and E Block, each wing four storeys in height. D Block holds delinquents jailed for car theft and other such misdemeanours. E Block is a prison within a prison and is partly reserved for those the system deems a serious threat to the security of the State.

The ground floor of E Block is called E1 and is home to a select group of criminals, some of whom the Department of Justice regards as being involved in organised crime. The second floor is called E2. The Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) used to share this floor with the Provisional IRA volunteers whose ranks also accounted for the cells on E3 and E4. Gilligan lived on E1, and it was here that he evolved in criminal terms.

It is said that Gilligan could always make people feel comfortable. He might smile at them, give them space when required, talk to them as if they were his best friend but, most important of all, listen without interrupting. He possessed an ability to pay attention; he had a knack of listening to monotonous conversations without appearing bored. It was this talent he used to full effect in the prison, making friends with criminals that would be of use to him on his release. His secret was giving off the impression that he was just another criminal. No one who encountered him during this period considered him anything but a thief. He was a small man who smiled continuously, knew a few tricky businessmen and looked forward to his wife’s visits. Gambling was his only character flaw.

In prison, he gambled on everything. Whether he was on the prison landings or in the exercise yard, he would produce a deck of cards to passers-by. He would bet on two flies crawling up a wall. ‘Pick a card, buy a Crunchie,’ he would say, holding out a shuffled deck. Two cards would be drawn. Whoever chose the lowest would be obliged to buy a Crunchie in the prison tuck shop. But this was a front, a persona he created for life behind bars.

With perfect cunning, Gilligan managed to become a central figure on E1, effectively representing the prisoners to the authorities but at all times staying in the background. He nominated others to approach the Governor on issues relating to their living conditions.

Brian Kenna was the then Officer Commanding of the Provisional IRA volunteers gaoled in Portlaoise at the time. ‘Gilligan became like a spokesman for the prisoners down in E1. In a lot of cases others would go and argue with the Governor, but it was under the direction of John Gilligan. The others didn’t seem to be bothered one way or the other. They didn’t seem to care who represented them or whether they were represented at all. If they had a problem, they would go see the Governor themselves. Gilligan seemed to be the main mover,’ he said.

In other words, Gilligan directed manoeuvres from a discreet distance. This was an indication of Gilligan’s organisational skills. ‘You could see him getting organised; he was also clever enough to keep a distance between himself and the Governor so that he wasn’t seen to be rocking the boat,’ said Kenna.

By fighting for better conditions in the prison, Gilligan ingratiated himself with his fellow inmates. Because he was a natural-born networker, he devoted his energies to getting to know everyone inside. If this was part of some grand plan to build a coterie of accomplices around him, it is known only to him. But this is exactly what happened.

Prison prepared him for a life of organised crime and drug trafficking. Housing violent criminals in Portlaoise Prison alongside the likes of Gilligan was, Kenna says, a recipe for disaster.

‘Men like Gilligan were the nearest thing Ireland had seen to organised crime—they had the gangs, contacts in the gardaí, prison system, social welfare, the courts, basically extensive networks on the outside. Or, in some cases, they had the ability to develop networks. They were career criminals.

‘Gilligan was introduced to strong or hard men in Portlaoise, men he was able to manipulate. A lot of these were in awe of Gilligan. It was easy for him to manipulate these people, who frankly mightn’t have had an awful lot between their ears. They were just fellas who got involved in crime but would never have made much money. But when these were introduced to people like Gilligan, who could scheme long term, the prison system effectively gave him foot soldiers,’ he added.

While Gilligan resisted joining an established criminal gang, he certainly learned from them, particularly the concept of how to run a paramilitary organisation. He watched the INLA and how they operated, and listened to Dessie O’Hare’s ramblings about revolutionary and guerrilla warfare. Although most of what he heard was defunct nonsense, Gilligan did gain insight into how groups like the INLA hand-picked men to perform certain tasks. He also learned about how to structure a criminal organisation into cells.

‘The top criminal brains were housed on the one landing, and so they compared notes. That’s where Gilligan came into his own. He sat back and identified people in any particular area, whether it be someone with a van, someone with a yard, someone who could get registration numbers checked. He met them in Portlaoise and recruited them,’ explained Kenna.

It is easy to conjecture how this happened. Kenna saw Gilligan as having a remarkable ability to learn from others. ‘He could pick everybody’s brains, even without having to talk to them, by just sitting there and listening to them. He used everyone’s skills. He was like a personnel manager, for want of a better word. He was good at managing people on a one-to-one basis for a bigger picture. And he obviously did that very effectively.’

High-profile prisoners serving sentences usually avoid each other in prison to lessen confrontations. Portlaoise Prison, however, forced some of the State’s most hardened adversaries to talk.

‘You had 40 top-profile prisoners confined in a small space that couldn’t break out, control, subvert or bully anyone. You had the most unruly criminals in the State, and republicans keeping them in line. Did they run amuck?’ Kenna asked rhetorically.

True to form, most of the criminals on E1 did keep to themselves. Some of the younger, more impressionable ones looked up to Gilligan. He would talk to them as if he were their father, defend them when necessary and help them out. They would eat breakfast, lunch and tea in his company and follow him around the exercise yard.

One of Gilligan’s devotees was Brian Meehan, who was a protégé of Martin Cahill, the gangland criminal known as the General. Cahill had recruited Meehan as a youth and turned him into a highly skilled getaway driver. Meehan had a number of dysfunctional character flaws and no sense of family values. As a boy, he lived with his parents on Stanaway Road in Crumlin, but hung around the run-down, drug-infested Fatima Mansions complex. With 15 convictions under his belt, he was serving time in Portlaoise for his role in an armed raid on the Allied Irish Bank on Grafton Street in central Dublin. He and Paul ‘Hippo’ Ward, a miscreant youth who grew up in Windmill Park in Crumlin, would discuss crime with Gilligan in his cell, sometimes for hours.

Gilligan never said much, recalled George Royal, one former inmate. ‘They would all be sitting in the cell. Meehan would be the loudmouth, going on about how one fella he knew was making thousands selling drugs. They’d be all looking at each other saying, “How can he be making that much from selling dope?” They would say, “Sure he’s a fucking eejit. If he can do it, so can we. Think how much we could make, with the backup we have.”

‘This was all talk with Meehan, but Gilligan would sit there and listen. He never said a word, he just listened, but was taking everything in. Make no doubt about it, that’s where it all started,’ said Royal.

Not everything about prison life proved positive for Gilligan. Contrary to what he would have everyone believe, he was deeply insecure with regards to his personal life. Fear of losing his wife perturbed him greatly: he lamented that he was not with his wife and at home to see his two children through the turbulent teenage years. He felt ill at ease about his marriage, often convincing himself that she would leave him for another man or simply seek a separation or marriage annulment, although this seemed only a potential reality to him. It fuelled an intense hatred of prison, and this festered in his psyche. It played on his mind, annoyed him and thwarted whatever sense of logic he possessed. A desire for release absorbed his energies and consumed his mind.

By the summer of 1992 this craving for freedom began to eat away at him. He missed his wife and the home they shared. He would write long letters to her, exposing his innermost secrets in the full knowledge that the prison authorities would see his softer side. One of the letters showed the tender side of their relationship.

Portlaoise Prison,

Dublin Road,

Portlaoise,

Co. Laois

10 August ´92

Dear Geraldine,

Just a line or two to say I love you so very, very much and that you looked so beautiful today, your [sic] lovely. I’m so proud to be your husband and best friend so I am. Ger I really had a nice day. I hope it was half as good for you. I will find out tomorrow when I am going up to Dublin and then let you know on the phone this week or the weekend ok. Geraldine tell Darren I said thanks for been [sic] so good, so good for you, he is a good son thank God.

Well honey I can’t wait to get Christmas over with its less than 20 weeks away and as soon as its [sic] over with we will be only counting the months that I have left (agree) ok but for now lets take it at a week at a time agree.

Geraldine I know I ask you to do a lot for me but as you know I would do the same for you. Geraldine I think this letter is after going from a love one to a do this or do that (agree). I’m sorry love its [sic] just I want things to go right for you as you could do with the money They all owe me ok love.

Geraldine do you still love me I know I know its hard. I’m just lovesick. Sure head I would die for you, I love you that much. Geraldine I will say good night and god bless you, you’re my dream come true so you my love are.

From your loving tea maker HA. HA.

All my love your

Husband and best Friend, I love You Billions

Love John

XXXXX

Inside the prison environs, when not absorbed in dreams and private thoughts, Gilligan was an al-together different man. He made unreasonable demands on the prison service. He turned into a difficult person; in essence a problematic prisoner. This irrational behaviour continued unabated and culminated in his attacking Tom Dormer, the Chief Prison Officer in charge of E1, on 22 October 1992. Gilligan had requested that the prison authorities supply him with copies of confidential records he wanted to give to his wife. He knew he was not entitled to prison files but had made the request anyway. At 4 p.m. Dormer approached him on the prison landing to tell him his request had been denied. When he turned his back on Gilligan, the prisoner lashed out, punching him from behind. The blow loosened Dormer’s teeth and left his jaw bruised. The prison authorities transferred Gilligan to Cork Prison immediately. He was held there in solitary confinement for the next two months without privileges.

The gardaí were called in to investigate and took a statement from Dormer and another warden who witnessed the attack. Gilligan declined to make any comment to the police.

Solitary confinement affected him deeply. Solitude broke him and he became dispirited, unhygienic, dirty and lacking in any self-respect. Realising that he was slipping into a depression, Geraldine travelled to him. She urged him to do something about his situation, to take redress through the courts.

Her endeavours prompted him to take an appeal to the High Court seeking his return to Portlaoise. It was here that Gilligan first met Donal Ó Siodhacháin and Pat Herron from Paralegal and Technical Services (PATS). Ó Siodhacháin was a former member of the Sinn Féin Ard Chomhairle and the Provisional IRA. He met Herron, whom he describes as a fiery redhead, whilst seeking help for a complex legal case, and the two went on to set up PATS in 1985. Neither were solicitors, but both had a good understanding of the courts system and judicial process.

‘We’d prepare briefing documents for solicitors and help people fight cases against the Garda, ESB, corporation and the like,’ said Ó Siodhacháin.

The meeting with Gilligan was purely accidental. ‘He was in the High Court and had just made an application to the judge, but he wasn’t able to get across what he wanted. He was in very bad shape physically. He was being held in Cork in solitary confinement. He looked shell-shocked, he wasn’t wearing any stockings in his shoes,’ remembered Ó Siodhacháin.

The judge delayed hearing Gilligan’s application, so he took a seat at the back of the courtroom where Ó Siodhacháin was sitting. ‘He was anything but the figure he was made out to be later. The prisoner officer handcuffed to him dozed off to sleep, and I passed a card under his nose. I’d written on the back of it, “Apply for a two-week adjournment, ask for legal aid under the Attorney Generals Act and do you want our help?”’

Gilligan did not know what to make of him but nodded to all three. Ó Siodhacháin pointed to his red-haired companion, Herron, who visited him the following day. Ó Siodhacháin was dubious about Gilligan, having no idea about his background and his story. Because of these fears, which he kept to himself, he arranged to meet Geraldine.

‘We asked about their income. They were living in Blanchardstown, and she produced photographs of the land in Kildare with a few buildings on it. This was long before they built Jessbrook. She had photos of it, and it looked run-down and grotty. In fact, it was so bad at that stage that when she tried to get some grant to upgrade the stable, it was condemned as being not fit to keep horses in it,’ recalled Ó Siodhacháin.

Unknown to them, they were dealing with a man who was a serious criminal. They put a briefing document together for Gilligan to approach a solicitor. ‘We had no idea he was such a heavyweight criminal.’

By this stage, Gilligan had been charged with common assault in Portlaoise District Court on 5 February 1993 and was convicted. He was sentenced to six months in jail, which was subsumed into his sentence. But he was still being held in Cork Prison.

Ó Siodhacháin soon realised that his best intentions were being lost on Gilligan. Having succeeded in being removed from solitary confinement, Gilligan pulled a stunt.

‘We prepared the legal papers for him and he got a further adjournment. Our mistake was to include a judicial review. When he saw how it was done, he photocopied the papers and started passing them around to other cronies, and they all went applying for judicial reviews, and he was put back in solitary confinement.’

It was Geraldine who approached them once again begging for help, prompting Ó Siodhacháin to take action again. ‘On the information she gave me, I went before a judge in the High Court and was granted a habeas corpus application. I gave notice to the Governor of Cork Prison to bring him before a court within 24 hours.’

In spite of his efforts, Gilligan would not listen to their advice—in short Ó Siodhacháin believed he was a liar and would cut a deal behind their backs, or anyone else’s for that matter.

‘In our experience of dealing with criminals, they would sell out their own mother, so I asked Geraldine out straight, would he deal straight and would she deal straight? She said she would, but that he would cut a deal. So once I knew he would do this I pulled away.’

Ó Siodhacháin would later get the occasional call from Geraldine to say thanks. ‘My recollection of Geraldine at that time and afterwards was that she was fed up with criminality and the situation. This was going to be the last time she stood by him and that she was going out on her own. They were separating, that was it,’ he recounted.

‘That’s what she said from day one to me. That she wanted to get on with her life and develop this place in Kildare to do a bit of a riding school, bring people out from the city. I think she believed she could make a go of it financially. I had no reason to disbelieve her. She displayed none of the trappings of wealth. We were doing this on a voluntary basis, we had no reason to disbelieve them.’

Gilligan was eventually returned to Portlaoise Prison. He had lodged an appeal against the assault conviction by sending a letter written in his own illegible handwriting, but he later withdrew it. He settled back into prison life, even managing to get temporary release in the run-up to his release date. He was permanently released from Portlaoise Prison on 15 November 1993, having served just three years of a four-year sentence.

He emerged a professional criminal with a master plan and the determination to carry it out. Whatever crimes he had committed in the past were about to pale into insignificance. He learned a great deal in Portlaoise. He learned much from his fellow inmates. He learned the essentials of crime: how to run an efficient criminal organisation using a cell-structured system, how to intimidate—and most importantly of all he had the bones of a new gang, a young and improved version of the warehouse gang. Its members respected him, regarded him as a father figure and could be trusted. But most importantly of all, and most staggeringly, they looked upon him as the boss. He didn’t have to soften his tone around them; they were willing to follow his instructions without question.

In criminal terms, Gilligan was now light years ahead of his contemporaries and was about to show society just how far he’d travelled. Perhaps the best indication of this could be seen in the video made of the soccer tournament played in 1991 that featured Gilligan’s narration. It later became something of a tradition for inmates to receive a duplicate video on their release as a keepsake. The prisoners who edited it could have been successful in many occupations but not as video editors. They overdubbed the soccer matches with music and in naming the players gave them nicknames like Dessie ‘The Fox’—unsuitable names for undesirable characters. Only one was appropriate because of its foreboding nature. They called Gilligan Mr Big.

Much of what follows is based on evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trials of Brian Meehan, Patrick Holland and John Gilligan.

Chapter 6

A Whirlwind of Crime

‘No one even knew it was happening.’

a Detective speaking about the Meteoric Rise of GILLIGAN’s Gang

Having spent over three years in jail, Gilligan wasted no time getting back into crime, creating the illusion that he was still someone to be reckoned with. The truth, however, was far removed from what he had people believe. He was cash starved. He no longer had surplus funds, hidden stashes of hard cash or stolen property to sell. Not since his childhood had he been so vulnerable. With no money and a lengthy criminal record under his belt, his future looked bleak. He and his family were poor and they had no future.

The warehouse gang was now a defunct gang of ex-convicts, incapable of carrying out the spectacular heists of previous years. The fearsome reputation afforded to Gilligan in the ’80s was all but a distant memory. Crime had changed. Companies took security seriously. They installed systems that were not easily bypassed. Drugs, contraband, computer chips and arms, rather than stolen washing machines and tools, were the new currencies of the black market. A new generation of hoodlum had arrived, and they did not yield to the threat of violence; they readily embraced it. Armed confrontation was their first resort.

Nevertheless, Gilligan was clear-sighted about his situation. He wanted back into crime. He knew drug trafficking was the gateway to certain riches and he wanted his slice of the burgeoning market. Listening to Meehan and his tales of the wealth that narcotics could provide had convinced him of that. But he had three obstacles: lack of cash, muscle and a partner.

John Traynor was one of Dublin’s most celebrated criminals. Gilligan had known Traynor since his youth when the latter worked for Irish Shipping, later getting involved in the Seaman’s Union whilst Gilligan was at sea. Traynor, in Gilligan’s view, was a militant criminal and had the trophies to prove it. For a start he was wealthy. He was also a man who could be relied upon because of his impeccable criminal credentials. The Coach, as he was sometimes called, had been in trouble with the law all his life. He was first charged for housebreaking at nine years of age and he went on to amass over a dozen convictions, ranging from housebreaking to possession of firearms and ammunition in the following years. He was a portly looking man who maintained many mistresses whilst supporting a wife and family. He could socialise with anyone from the petty thief to the banking executive. With his middle-class accent, large frame and casual appearance, he could carry off elaborate deceptions. Duplicity was an art form at which he excelled.

His most glorious moment as far as Gilligan was concerned had come years earlier when he relieved the Revenue Commissioners of close to IR£1 million. Traynor had recruited an insider who stole confidential lists containing the names and addresses of people due to receive tax rebates. His magic trick was simply to change the address of the payee to the address of his laundry on Aungier Street. No sooner would the cheque arrive than it would be endorsed and cashed at another location—a pub, shop or bank. When the gardaí finally caught up with him he responded by issuing threats.

Detective Garda Dominic Hearns, who investigated the crime, named him as being the brains behind the scam in a subsequent court case. ‘Traynor is a major fraud criminal known to travel the world and is away at present,’ he said. That he was named in court was bad enough, but when his name appeared in the following morning’s newspapers, Traynor’s impulsive nature prompted him to call Hearns directly and issue threats. He was in hospital at the time and made the call from his bed, specifying that he would kill the policeman if he should ever mention his name again.

Gilligan approved of such recourse. He saw in Traynor a viciousness coupled with respectability. Of course, what Gilligan could not see was his dual personae—that of the informer, a criminal willing to negotiate his way out of anything. This was the secret side to Traynor.

In 1992, he was asked by Scotland Yard and the gardaí to ‘assist’ with their inquiries into the theft of art from Russborough House in Wicklow. Martin Cahill, the criminal forever known as the General, had stolen the paintings.

The Coach was just two years into a seven-year sentence imposed for handling when he was mysteriously granted a weekend pass from prison. Once released, he quickly made his way to Dublin. The gardaí soon began locating the stolen paintings. Traynor was also instrumental in securing the safe return of some 145 files stolen from the offices of the Director of Public Prosecutions, files of a highly sensitive nature that Cahill had also stolen. These were ‘found’ in a disused launderette in Arbour Hill in Dublin.

All this was lost on Gilligan, although he was certainly aware of Traynor’s unusual sexual habits. The Coach engaged in several relationships with prostitutes. The affairs were not simply of a sexual nature; they were perverse. His girlfriends worked in brothels where they offered a variety of sexual services to clients, whom Traynor secretly filmed. He told friends the films were for blackmail purposes, but anyone familiar with his private life knew they were for his own gratification. ‘He always had prostitutes around him. I don’t think he was gay, but I think he got blowjobs from fellas in prison,’ Gilligan would later remark.

Traynor could always be relied upon to seize an opportunity and he embraced Gilligan’s idea. With Traynor in position, the gangster’s next move was to ingratiate himself with Dublin’s criminal hierarchy, some of whom were unaware that he was a free man. He was also looking for work, any means of raising cash.

His first port of call was to the General, the undisputed No. 1 gangster in Ireland. The two men knew each other of old, having taken part together in several robberies. They were first introduced by George Royal about three months after Cahill heisted the O’Connor’s jewellery factory in Harold’s Cross in July 1983, a crime that netted him IR£2 million. Cahill and Gilligan, helped by one of the latter’s Ballyfermot neighbours, George Mitchell, hijacked the ADC cigarette factory in Johnstown, County Kildare. They got away with IR£100,000 worth of cigarettes, which Gilligan fenced.

‘Cahill didn’t trust Gilligan because he was always shouting his mouth off, giving orders, telling people what to do. He was an arrogant little bastard. But Cahill knew he had the contacts to sell anything and that’s why he worked with him,’ said Royal, who participated in the ADC heist.

From his cell in Portlaoise Prison, Gilligan had watched Cahill’s reputation reach staggering heights; Cahill fascinated the press and public. Newspapers devoted pages upon pages to the elusive criminal, declaring him unstoppable, a cunning genius who not only outwitted the law but taunted it. The General was the ultimate antihero.

The truth, which Gilligan and everyone else who worked with Cahill knew, was far different. Cahill was a fat, balding diabetic. He had been caught carrying out an armed robbery early in his career but escaped incarceration through a legal technicality. The truth was that he should have been in jail when he committed the catalogue of crimes for which he later became famous. Yet he was a dangerous adversary. Anyone who got in the way was shot or threatened. Dr Jim Donovan, the head of the Government’s Forensic Laboratory, was the subject of two assassination attempts. His first escape happened in December 1981 when a bomb planted under his car failed to detonate. Weeks later, in January 1982, he wasn’t so lucky. His left leg was completely blown off when his car fireballed, blown up by a booby trap.

‘He did it to impress other criminals,’ believes Donovan. ‘It would have been like another feather in his cap. It’s only when misfortune, pain and suffering come to your door that you know his reality.’

Always mindful of a bullet with his name written on it, Cahill told Gilligan he was planning on early retirement. He still had in his possession parts of the Beit art collection and asked whether Gilligan would like to fence the paintings. With his scruffy dress code, hard accent and small stature, Gilligan made an unlikely art dealer. The General himself had failed on numerous occasions to sell the collection and in his endeavours to get a monetary return from the theft, he was nearly arrested in undercover police operations mounted by the gardaí in conjunction with Scotland Yard. Before his incarceration, Gilligan had shown himself to be able to sell anything, so why not paintings? He accepted the offer.

But Cahill also had hard cash at his disposal and offered to loan Gilligan any amount to set himself up in the drugs distribution business. The General accepted Traynor as a guarantor. Gilligan asked for IR£600,000. Cahill said he’d be in touch.

A stroke of good fortune then came Gilligan’s way when one of Traynor’s contacts acquired hundreds of stolen bank drafts and cheques, worth hard cash to anyone who could launder them. Just weeks out of prison, Gilligan was strapped for cash and offered to rub the drafts through a friend from Tallaght, John Bolger.

Bolger was a fool of a man. He was greedy, asinine and incapable of bettering himself; in short, he wanted to get rich quick through crime. He was 31 years old and married with three children. He had not accomplished much else. He had several convictions, mainly for petty crime, but saw himself as a serious player in the underworld. He knew Cahill, and this was his only claim to fame.

When Gilligan asked him to launder or sell the consignment of stolen bank drafts, he could smell the money. Gilligan knew Bolger of old and made him an irresistible offer. The bank drafts made an ideal commodity for fraud. All you have to do is either lodge them in an account or cash them. Gilligan wanted Bolger to find a buyer for the drafts or to set up a deal whereby another firm would get the drafts cashed. They would then return a percentage of the proceeds to Bolger who would pass it on to Gilligan. The trick was to convince people with legitimate bank accounts to lodge the drafts. Bolger accepted the deal and approached the Provisional IRA leadership in Dublin offering the blank drafts.

‘He arrived up to the house with copies of these drafts offering them to us. He wanted us to either buy them for a fee or launder them and give him a cut of the money,’ recalled one IRA figure. ‘I was looking at the drafts, then Bolger mentioned Gilligan’s name. We told him to fuck off. There were suspicions that Gilligan was an informer. We weren’t getting involved.’

Drafts in hand, Bolger went to the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA). He approached the organisation’s commander in Dublin. This man knew as much about left-wing politics as Gilligan did. He was a bully and, under his control, the INLA became nothing more than a criminal outfit available for hire. It was a perfect match. Bolger and the INLA cut a deal whereby all three parties would get a third of the profits.

All the paramilitaries had to do was recruit locals to lodge the drafts in their bank accounts and withdraw the cash. The deal was sweet for everybody concerned. Gilligan took a back seat, content to allow Bolger to front the operation. Because bank drafts are effectively cash, once they were lodged, the account owner could draw money from his credited account without having to wait for the draft to be cleared. Bouncing or kiting drafts was all about sleight of hand. The immersion stage where the draft is passed over is vital. If the person passing the draft looks penniless or nervous, the conspiracy comes unstuck.

The fraudsters also had to convince those lodging the drafts that they would inevitably be arrested because their identities would be exposed. Gilligan prepared for this, telling Bolger to instruct the people lodging the drafts to have a cover story when cautioned by the police. Under no circumstances was his name to be mentioned; he was paranoid about being implicated for fear of ending up in Portlaoise. Then again, the INLA felt confident that no one would betray them for fear of reprisal. And they were right—no one did.

The drafts were put through a cycle of transactions to obscure their origins. No sooner would one of Gilligan’s stolen drafts be lodged than it would be endorsed and cashed at another location. By the time the bank discovered the draft was fraudulent, the identity of the people who lodged it was obscured, or they would have prepared a cover story for investigating police officers.

The scam got under way with Gilligan, Bolger and the INLA earning thousands between them. It was the perfect crime. There were no victims—just the banking institutions. Everyone was happy. Everyone was making money. In the following weeks, Gilligan and Traynor got to know the INLA staff. The two criminals were firmly apolitical; they knew nothing of left-wing politics, republicanism or the vicious internal feuds within the Official IRA that had caused the birth of the INLA. Nor were they interested, for that matter.

Gilligan, though, was at least able to converse with the paramilitaries on their own level. He had served his sentence alongside influential republicans, one of whom was Dominic McGlinchey, a man with an unequalled reputation for extreme violence. In his dealings with the INLA, Gilligan came to understand the concept of a cell-structured organisation and the importance of staying three steps removed from the scene of a crime. All this was irrelevant, though. Only one thing was important as far as Gilligan and Traynor were concerned. It was brutally simple: the INLA were a force to be reckoned with, they would do business and they could be manipulated. This prevailing wisdom would, in time, bring about an unholy alliance, with Gilligan and Traynor becoming de facto commanders of the INLA in Dublin.

The scam also brought Bolger prosperity he could only have dreamed of. The INLA were, in theory, involved in an effort to generate cash for their armed struggle north of the border.

‘It became the biggest joke. I’d say a fifth of what they made was redirected to Belfast,’ remarked one of the team. ‘If they got IR£10,000, they would send a message to GHQ in Belfast and someone would be sent to collect the cash in Drogheda, which is close to the border. But Dublin [Brigade] were just spending it on themselves. There were about six of them involved and they were all living it up. They were buying clothes, watches and drugs with the cash. I remember one occasion, where they turned up with a couple of hundred left out of IR£10,000. There was no discipline in the organisation because McGlinchey had just been shot and no one was in charge. It was a free-for-all. And Gilligan capitalised on it.’

Gilligan trusted Bolger to the degree that he allowed him a free rein. Once he wasn’t costing him money or inviting attention from the gardaí, the boss, as Bolger named him, was blithe. He had more pressing business interests preoccupying his mind—drugs.

There is no doubt that Gilligan thought long and hard before taking his first step into the lucrative world of drug trafficking. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was scared of the consequences, particularly fearful of the IRA and the odium that drug dealing attracts. He had seen people overdose from heroin and children turn themselves into addicts, selling their bodies for their next fix. For all his immorality, Gilligan’s mind told him to say no, but his greed urged him to say yes. The lure of easy money for Gilligan was more addictive than heroin. Cahill, as promised, had produced the IR£600,000 loan, allowing Gilligan and Traynor to enter the big league.

Traynor was at the time already importing small consignments of heroin from Liverpool, later sold through a network of dealers protected by the Tallaght Brigade of the INLA. Gilligan, with an intense craving for power, saw this as small time. If nothing else, his instinct told him it would end in failure. The threat of the gardaí didn’t perturb him much; it was the IRA that did. Should his name be associated with heroin, of all drugs, he would be a target. Traynor, ever the fool, could not see his partner’s logic.

Gilligan had other plans. He believed it would be better to change the product from heroin to cannabis or cocaine and start supplying the suppliers. The distinction was important as far as he was concerned. First, the gardaí rarely went after international traffickers, instead concentrating on jailing local dealers. His second reason was more practical; if Traynor kept importing heroin, he would inevitably cross swords with the IRA. Gilligan stood firm on this point, and Traynor conceded. Anyway, they had Cahill’s money to deal with the serious players.

In this whirlwind of crime, Gilligan went to the young criminals he had taken under his wing in Portlaoise Prison. They were now free men. They too found the capital a transformed city, bustling with business, money and new-found prosperity. Youth culture had undergone a transformation; dance culture was no longer an underground trend but the mainstream choice. The idea of a DJ playing to a frenzied crowd of clubbers dancing to the repetitive rhythm of hard house music under a canopy of strobe lights and flashing colours was the celebrated image. The music, which had a tempo slightly faster than the human heartbeat, was the driving force behind this new fashionable trend.

House music had first established itself in the gay clubs of New York where it became synonymous with a new drug called ecstasy. Methylene Dioxy Methamphetamine (MDMA), to give it its proper title, was originally invented for use as slimming pills in 1912 by two German scientists. In the late ’70s, pharmaceutical companies started selling it as a slimming tablet. Few used it to lose weight though. Instead, people out partying swallowed it because it made them want to dance. MDMA soon became an essential ingredient for the enjoyment of dance music, in much the same way that LSD became an intrinsic part of the ’60s hippie culture. The narcotic swept through Ireland, crossing the social divides, introducing teenagers to the notion of recreational drug use.

It was into this environment that Meehan was released. They flung themselves into the subculture, partying five nights a week to make up for lost time. Meehan, more than the others, was enamoured of the scene. For the first few months of his release he lived the high life. Clubbing and cocaine became his routine. Like the ecstasy pills he swallowed, he crossed the social divide and mixed, mingled with and bedded socialites. He supplied cheap cocaine to impressionable young women who, impressed by this new breed of gangster chic, were only too happy to return the favour between the sheets. ‘We’re talking about dozens of women here,’ one of his friends later remarked.

During such early nocturnal outings, Meehan met Peter Mitchell, a clumsy, overweight pusher from Summer Hill, in Dublin city, who was capitalising on the burgeoning dance economy. Ecstasy was earning him serious cash, far more business than he could handle. In the false belief that he could open a distribution ring in Crumlin through Meehan, he got him involved in the dealing, asking his advice and taking him into his confidence. Meehan, however, soon took control. Within months, he was flagged by Garda intelligence as one of the biggest dealers in the city.

Gilligan realised the drugs business operated through the people involved; the most prolific dealers, he realised, were the ones who always showed themselves adept at finding the people they needed. When he met Meehan, he outlined his future plan and enquired if he would be willing to sell hashish. He trusted Meehan. First, he had proved himself, having served time in Portlaoise Prison. That he was already dealing was an unexpected bonus. Gilligan could place himself at arm’s length from the product while reaping the rewards. Meehan readily agreed. All that was left for him to do was find a supplier.

Gilligan looked to Amsterdam. The city has a long history of broad-minded liberalism and toleration. Coffee shops serve cannabis, although many do not even sell alcohol. Prostitution is legal. But the Netherland’s liberalism has been worn thin by violation. The city of Amsterdam has through time become a Mecca for organised crime, a city where illicitness flourishes. Its location makes it a strategic point for smuggling to any part of Europe. The fact that Rotterdam is the largest entrepôt in Europe, with thousands of freight containers arriving each day, makes trafficking narcotics easier than in most ports.

In his life, Gilligan showed himself prone to proverbial good fortune. And it was a stroke of good luck that paved his way to the suppliers in Amsterdam. While he was endeavouring to get an introduction to a supplier, one of his associates in Dublin was arrested with a small consignment of hashish. Once he was charged, the associate thought it prudent to disengage from the drugs business, at least for the time being. But he offered to introduce Gilligan to his supplier.

His supplier’s name was Simon Rahman. He was born in the Paramaribo district to Moroccan immigrants and therefore spoke English with a slight Arabic accent. Trafficking in arms and hashish allowed him to climb the social ladder, buying an expensive house in the district of Meedervoot in The Hague. Although Gilligan didn’t know it at the time, Rahman represented the interests of a pan-European organisation that smuggled cannabis and guns from suppliers in Morocco and Tunisia via an assortment of routes into Europe. Several criminals, who like Gilligan bore the status of wealthy businessmen, controlled the organisation, which had representatives in Denmark, Belgium, Spain, the Netherlands and England.

A 32-year-old Dane who lived on Palmones Algeciras, a fashionable road in Madrid, held authority over the others. He dealt in cannabis by the tonnage. Naturally he was a wealthy man whose lifestyle was opulent. He owned all the toys—a BMW convertible and a yacht, and was, of course, married to a beautiful Spanish woman. The cartel had a man in Copenhagen. Another man, a robust 44-year-old from the tax-haven island of Curaçao, was the link in Belgium. He lived between two addresses to avoid surveillance. If he suspected the Belgium police were watching him, he left his home in a small town on the Dutch-Belgium border and drove across the border into the Netherlands where he owned a modest apartment in the Heerlen district.

The Dane, though, was the boss. He sourced hashish from wherever he could. He bought from North Africans living on the Costa del Sol, and if they could not meet the demand, he would fly to Agadir in Morocco and buy directly from producers who farmed cannabis plants in remote villages in the mountains. If he could not bribe a trawler captain to smuggle the load across the Mediterranean, he would send it to the Gambia, where it would be concealed inside shipments of rice and smuggled directly to Rotterdam or Antwerp.

The associate arranged a meeting and Gilligan flew at once to Amsterdam. Rahman was more than willing to supply, and the two struck a deal that would see Gilligan buying up to 100 kilos of cannabis every second week at IR£1,200 a kilo. Rahman said he could package the cannabis whatever way he liked. He could also provide whatever documentation and invoices were required, but passage to Ireland was his client’s problem.

After he returned to Dublin, Gilligan set about finding a safe way of smuggling drugs into Dublin. Transporting hashish in articulated lorry containers, he believed, was a precarious method of smuggling. The chances of shipments being intercepted was high, given that any truck en route to Ireland would have to pass through Britain or France before clearing the Irish port authorities, thus doubling the risk.

Around the same time, he was given a chance introduction to a transport manager living in Cork. John Dunne was a 38-year-old married father of three from Middleton in County Cork. Dunne worked for a reputable freight company called Sea Bridge. He first crossed paths with Gilligan in the Silver Granite Pub in Palmerstown. Dunne was drinking with a friend when Gilligan walked in.[1]

The stocky little man made an impression on Dunne. They chatted and had a drink. Before he left, Gilligan asked for his telephone number. A few weeks later, in early November, Dunne was working in the Sea Bridge offices when his mobile telephone rang. It was Gilligan. He asked if he they could meet. Dunne, out of politeness, agreed and asked him when and where.

I’m sitting outside your office,’ said Gilligan.

Dunne looked out the office window. There he saw Gilligan sitting with a portly man in a green Nissan Primera. It was Traynor. Dunne walked out and sat in the car. Gilligan wasted no time and came straight to the point.

‘He asked about importing goods from the UK and Holland. Sea Bridge did not ship goods ourselves from Amsterdam, so I gave him the name of three agents in Holland,’ Dunne later recalled.

The gangster, speaking with authority, put the following proposal to him. If he agreed to transport boxes of ‘cigarettes’ from Holland and deliver them to Dublin, he would be paid handsomely—IR£1,000 hard cash for each consignment. Dunne readily agreed and explained that he would have to pay groupage fees of IR£300-IR£400 out of the cash but was more than happy. He would make IR£600 profit per consignment.

[1] Evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trial of John Gilligan.

Chapter 7

Easy Money

‘You think I’m big. He’s fucking huge.’

John Traynor Talking to Veronica Guerin about Gilligan

The first shipment of cannabis arrived in April 1994. It was 75 kilos of top-grade cannabis resin. Rahman’s gang had carefully packed the drugs into two wooden boxes, which were then delivered to one of the freight companies Dunne had advised the gangsters to deal with. Gilligan relayed the time of arrival to Dunne, who drove down to the docks in his Hiace van and collected the crates. From here, he drove straight to the Ambassador Hotel in Kildare town. When he was 30 minutes away from the rendezvous point, he called Gilligan. ‘I never gave it a thought, it was pure greed,’ Dunne would later say.[1]

When he arrived, Gilligan and Traynor were waiting, parked on a slip road. Another car was parked nearby; Charlie Bowden, one of Mitchell’s runners, drove it. Meehan had ordered him to collect the drugs. Gilligan and Traynor had no intentions of handling the load themselves. Gilligan drove into the hotel car park and as his car passed Dunne’s van, he rolled down the window and said Bowden would make the collection. Gilligan’s car, which was chauffeured by one of his runners, drove out as Bowden drove in. ‘John Dunne is up there waiting for you.’

Gilligan said nothing else. Bowden pulled up alongside Dunne’s van and helped him unload the crates.

The conspiracy went smoothly. Bowden drove back to Dublin in less than an hour. He wasn’t stopped by any gardaí. Meehan had taken the necessary precautions to make sure he didn’t arouse any suspicions. ‘They bought a car for me. I registered it in a bogus name because I was banned for drunken driving,’ he said. Even if his car had been seen by a police patrol it would have meant nothing.

Bowden delivered the drugs to a warehouse at Emmett Road in Inchicore, which he rented under a bogus name. The two boxes were made out of plywood and were rectangular in shape with metal stripping around the edges. ‘Inside there would be strips of Styrofoam around the sides and on top. The cannabis was packed in 9oz bars sealed in plastic wrapping,’ said Bowden. Rahman sprayed the bottom of the crates with hardening foam, which prevented the valuable contents from being damaged. The foam also concealed the smell should the crates be checked by sniffer dogs. There were about twenty bars of hashish in all.

And so Gilligan’s career as a drug trafficker par excellence began. For the first time since his release from prison, he was operating in the premier league, working between the INLA, Traynor and Meehan’s gang. It was an unholy alliance, held together by the lure of cash. It was the perfect crime. He bought the cannabis at a reasonable price—IR£1,200 a kilo. He sold it for IR£2,000. Meehan in turn sold it for IR£2,300 to IR£2,400. At no time was Gilligan at risk of arrest because he never even saw the drugs.

In the meantime, the bank-draft scam was still running—but not as planned. Bolger was in over his head with the INLA. He was telling people that he was a tough guy; he felt capable of taking anyone on. He couldn’t see that the INLA gang were mere criminals masquerading as militant republicans.

Gilligan was acutely aware of this danger, but Bolger seemed oblivious to the threat. If he’d handed out business cards they would have read ‘John Bolger, financial consultant to the INLA.’ He drank beer in pubs with them and socialised with them as if he’d known them for years.

‘Bolger thought he was running the INLA. He was telling us what to do, who was boss. He was a fucking eejit. Gilligan kept out of it. All he wanted was the money, he was happy to allow Bolger to do the dirty work,’ said one of the INLA gang.

Whether he knew it or not, Bolger was dealing with highly dangerous men. While Gilligan had an uncanny talent for knowing how far he could push people, Bolger did not possess such skills. His biggest mistake was his failure to realise that he was not an essential player in the fraud. Gilligan was the source of the drafts, the INLA laundered them; Bolger was just a middleman. He was disposable.

Perhaps he should have taken a leaf out of Gilligan’s book—he didn’t. But Bolger actually came to rely on the INLA for protection, albeit because he was trying to protect a young girl. The girl, a 14-year-old, had been raped by her own father, one of Martin Cahill’s associates. Bolger had offered to protect her after she agreed to testify against her father, much to the protestation of Cahill. Bolger came under serious pressure from Cahill for allowing what the General described as a ‘tout’ to live under his protection.

Cahill’s refusal to stop threatening the rape victim resulted in a stand-off between Cahill and Bolger, with the latter calling on the INLA to provide protection. Gilligan took Bolger’s side.

The atmosphere caused by the dispute raised the temperature around Bolger considerably. This rubbed off on Gilligan who believed the INLA would fight his battles. He too came to threaten adversaries without thinking twice. He knew that if anyone was to take him on, he had the manpower and weapons to dispose of his enemy. In this respect, power went straight to Gilligan’s head. He became a megalomaniac, threatening people who crossed him for the slightest reasons. Bolger developed a similar attitude.

‘They were running the INLA in Dublin. It was unreal. Here were Gilligan and Bolger telling us what to do. And [names INLA officer commanding] was telling us to do what they said,’ recalled a source.

Besides taking the INLA for granted, Gilligan correctly saw his conspirators as being less clever than him, but what he failed to recognise was their volatility. The INLA chief’s continuing support for Gilligan, who was putting thousands of pounds his way, provoked jealousy. Characteristically for the maverick republicans, one side said enough was enough, and Bolger lost his life.

At 2 a.m. on 22 July 1994, Bolger was shot at point-blank range with a military assault rifle outside the Glimmerman pub on Dublin’s Clanbrassil Street. Bolger had tried to swindle two INLA activists out of cash earned from the fraud. The police believe the INLA set out to rough Bolger up but went too far and shot him dead. The row had been brewing for some time.

Bolger’s widow, Jean, later recalled: ‘Before his death, John was receiving death threats and warnings from people whom he met on the street. There were so many threats made against John that we both started to take them for granted. In some ways they didn’t frighten us because we got used to them.’

Gilligan was enraged at Bolger’s murder. Geraldine and Bolger’s widow were close friends, and he felt responsible. He went straight to the INLA demanding action. Three young children had been left without a father.

Bobby Tohill was one of the INLA team present when Bolger was shot, but had not been responsible for the death. In compliance with Gilligan’s demands, the INLA chief set up a kangaroo court and decided that Tohill should be disciplined for using INLA weapons without permission. Tohill was born in England but grew up in Belfast where he was a member of the Provisional IRA, INLA and the Irish People’s Liberation Army. He had been convicted for terrorist offences in the Diplock court system, but these were overturned. He moved to Crumlin on his release from prison, where he resumed involvement in the INLA. The INLA command in Dublin sent word to Tohill that he was going to be court-martialled.

The car park of the Kiltalown shopping centre in Jobstown, Tallaght, in Dublin, would be the venue for punishment: 12.30 a.m. on 16 August the time and date. Tohill went for a drink with his cohorts who told him he wouldn’t be too seriously injured. He then left the pub and sat on a wall outside a nearby Chinese takeaway where he was approached by two men, one of whom shot him once above the left knee and twice below the right. He survived the attack. Satisfied justice had been done, Gilligan put Bolger’s death to the back of his mind.

By this stage, the deliveries of cannabis were arriving on average three times weekly, in wooden crates marked as machinery parts. Mindful of how useful the INLA could be, Gilligan had also started importing military weapons. It wasn’t sawn-off shotguns or small hand pistols he was dealing with, but Ingram sub-machine guns, assault rifles and an arsenal of military firearms. Some of these were donated to the paramilitary group. This served a number of purposes.

North of the border the INLA was well equipped, but in Dublin, where its membership was fluid and consisted of criminals, such weapons were seen as a godsend. That the INLA’s Dublin Brigade could acquire military weapons for free and without risking jail or running the gauntlet of British intelligence, which carefully monitored the sale and supply of arms in Europe, bolstered the unit’s standing in the organisation. Gilligan was a dream come true for the INLA renegades, a valuable asset that had to be pleased at all costs. Although he had been released from Portlaoise Prison for just seven months, he had put together a fraternity that worked along the same lines as a criminal cartel.

Cleverly, he coerced the INLA into a position where they worked for him, not with him. As for Meehan and Mitchell, they too pledged their support to Gilligan. Pulling these two potent forces together, Gilligan decided to see just how far he could go.

When Martin Cahill threatened Bolger for his decision to protect the incest victim, it enraged Gilligan. In threatening Bolger, Cahill, with malice aforethought, sent out a clear warning to Gilligan’s firm. Gilligan would later comment: ‘He was a criminal who attacked an incest victim, a girl who was raped. That’s all there is to him. Enough said. He was just a scumbag.’

Pure jealousy was also a cause of animosity. Soon after Bolger’s death, Gilligan let it be known through the appropriate channels that he did not like Cahill. In response, Cahill said he wanted his IR£600,000 back.

Traynor decided not to get involved, instead opting to stand on the sidelines. He knew what Cahill was capable of and was sure he wouldn’t accept Gilligan’s defiance, believing it was only a matter of time before the General retaliated. The truth was that Gilligan was earning such vast amounts of cash that it went straight to his head. He became intolerant of anyone who didn’t agree with him—in other words, anyone who told him the truth. He was a man who couldn’t read or write properly but suddenly found himself with money beyond his wildest dreams. His ego inflated in tandem with a festering hatred of Cahill until he decided to eliminate the General, a plan which fitted in perfectly with that of the INLA, who were also in a running dispute with Cahill.

The General had also crossed swords with a member of the Dublin Brigade of the INLA over the tenancy agreement of a flat in the south inner city. A relative of Cahill’s had squatted in the flat for a year when Dublin Corporation served an eviction notice through the Sheriff. Cahill petrol-bombed the flat to stop another tenant moving in. He didn’t know the new tenant had links to the INLA. Corrupt to the core, the commanding INLA officer of Dublin sanctioned Cahill’s killing. And so Gilligan and maverick republicans entered into a bloody deal to see the General dead. There is some evidence that Gilligan paid a gunman IR£25,000 to assassinate Cahill but if he did, it was money squandered, because the IRA beat him to it.

The IRA command in Dublin was literally gunning for Cahill. The General had made the fatal mistake of doing business with the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), albeit through Gilligan. But what brought the matter to a head was the UVF attack on the Widow Scallon’s pub in Dublin’s Pearse Street, where on the night of Saturday, 21 May 1994, Sinn Féin were holding a fund-raising event.

Martin Doherty, known to his friends as Docho, was standing guard at the door watching unmarked garda patrol cars driving by. The 35-year-old father of two from Ballymun was an experienced IRA man, having been involved in weapons smuggling and intelligence gathering for many years. Shortly before 11 p.m., as the function was drawing to a close, two men approached him at the door. They were loyalists from the UVF. One was armed with a handgun, the other was carrying an 18lb bomb in a sports bag. Doherty didn’t know them and refused to let them in. One of the bombers produced his gun and shot Doherty dead at point-blank range. There were 300 people attending the fund-raiser.

Another doorman, who was not a member of Sinn Féin, seeing the events unfold, pulled the door shut and was shot through the door. The bombers panicked and threw the bomb into the hallway, causing it to be made safe. It would have blown up the entire building if it had gone off. Their getaway car was found burned out 15 minutes later in the North Strand, which is an IRA stronghold.

The UVF attack threw the Dublin Brigade of the IRA into disarray. ‘The loyalists had not attacked Dublin in over 20 years. It terrified the Provos that the UVF felt comfortable enough to travel to Dublin. It was no secret that the UVF and UDA were doing business with criminals in Dublin, but no one thought this would ever happen,’ said one IRA source.

IRA intelligence officers were dispatched across the city to make inquiries into which members of Dublin’s underworld were doing business with loyalists. One man’s name kept popping up. He stood accused of assisting the loyalists, helping them dispose of their getaway car. His name was Martin Cahill. When approached by the IRA, Cahill politely told them to fuck off.

‘We grabbed one of his gang, who told us Cahill drank in a loyalist pub near Portadown. He was actually called a Fenian bastard in the pub by someone drinking there. We sent in the reports and the order to kill him came back,’ recalled one of the IRA squad charged with overseeing his execution. ‘Cahill had brought loyalists down to dogfights in Dublin. That’s when they first started to reconnoitre Dublin for a bombing.’

Cahill was shot dead by the IRA at 3.20 p.m. on the afternoon of 18 August 1994. He most likely knew he was about to die when he saw the .357 Magnum. His assassin was standing yards away, preparing to fire the revolver at point-blank range. If any thoughts flitted through Cahill’s mind in the last few seconds of his life, they were probably of surprise. He would not have expected death to visit him in such a fashion.

His assassin had made several attempts on his life in the previous weeks. He had followed Cahill everywhere, logged his every move, but the General proved an elusive quarry. He was saved from certain death several times when chance encounters with the gardaí forced his killers to shy away. They would later remark: ‘It was as if God was watching over him, as if there was a shield around him.’

An IRA squad comprising five people carried out the hit.

‘You have no idea how many times we tried to kill him. We must have went for him about six times but something always happened. I remember a garda appeared out of nowhere as he was about to be executed. I don’t like using the word murdered,’ said one.

His ‘executioner’ struck as he pulled up to a traffic intersection that lies between the Oxford and Charlestown Road in the leafy suburb of Ranelagh in Dublin. It was far from a meticulously planned assassination—the IRA were desperate to murder the General.

His killers were acutely aware that he would be untouchable in two weeks’ time when the leadership would declare its first ceasefire. The month of August was their last window of opportunity. On the day of the actual killing, the hitman disguised himself as a Dublin Corporation worker pretending to count cars as they drove by. Another member of the unit assigned to carry out the shooting drove a motorcycle. Yet another was perched nearby scanning the Garda frequencies with a hand-held scanner, whilst another two IRA men waited nearby to drive the killers to safety and dispose of the motorcycle.

The bike rider dressed as a courier and was charged with keeping Cahill’s corporation home on Swan Grove under surveillance. At 3.10 p.m. Cahill emerged from the front doorway of his house and sat in his Black Renault 5. He was heading to a nearby video store to return a copy of the film A Bronx Tale. He paid no attention to the courier who sped off when he stepped outside his door.

When Cahill pulled up, the Corporation worker stopped counting traffic, walked towards his car and fired directly through the front windscreen. The bullets hit their target in the head and shoulder. The first shot knocked Cahill unconscious, causing him to lose control of his car, which throttled across the road. The gunman was under orders to kill. So having spent weeks following the General, he spent a few more minutes making sure Cahill did not survive. ‘That would have been a public relations disaster for the IRA. Even if he had have been left in a wheelchair we would have had to go after him again. Once the order was given,’ said one of his killers, ‘he had to die.’

The gunman calmly followed Cahill’s car as it chugged across the road crashing into a garden wall, and fired another three shots into the General. He even put his head in through the car window to make sure Cahill was dead before jumping on a getaway motorcycle. The IRA had carried out another professional hit.

That is what police investigating his murder assumed, the radio reports announced over the airwaves and journalists wrote in the morning papers. John Gilligan thought otherwise. In his own mind, he believed his associates had scalped the General, that a paid INLA gunman had shot him dead. In the hours following Cahill’s slaying, the INLA, using a recognised code-word, claimed in a telephone call to the 98FM radio station that it had carried out the shooting. Two and a half hours later the IRA, also using a recognised code-word, said one of its volunteers had carried out the shooting using a .357 Magnum. The IRA statement said Cahill’s activities had included extortion, intimidation, robbery and drug dealing.

‘However, it was his involvement with and assistance to pro-British death squads which forced us to act. Through their association with the UVF, Cahill’s gang have endangered the lives of many more Dublin people. The IRA reserve the right to execute those who finance or otherwise assist loyalist killer gangs.’

Then came a third statement to the radio station, this time from the INLA, denying all involvement in the killing and threatening those who had made the first call.

The Garda investigation into the General’s slaying went nowhere. The detectives assigned to trace his killers were met with a wall of silence. No one knew anything. The IRA leadership who organised the ‘execution’ took all the necessary precautions to cover their tracks. They instructed an IRA member from Dún Laoghaire in south Dublin to let it be known that he had assassinated Cahill to throw the police off the scent. This information, as planned, filtered back to Garda headquarters who attributed the crime to the republican in their intelligence files. However, this man had nothing to do with the shooting. He wasn’t even in Dublin on the day.

Cahill had proverbially lived by the sword and died by it. At the time of his death, most of his friends were serving sentences in Portlaoise Prison. When news of his death reached E1, it sent shock waves through the prison. Cahill’s brother John was serving a sentence at the time. Fearful of a reprisal by the inmates, the INLA prisoners asked the IRA for protection. The request was rescinded minutes after the IRA claimed responsibility. John Cahill himself then went to the IRA leadership in the prison. He accused the IRA of doing the State’s dirty work. After being told in no uncertain terms that the General’s days of bullying and intimidation were over, he left. Later the same day, he sent a message to Brian Kenna to say the prison Mass on Sunday morning would be dedicated to his brother. Few of the criminals went to Mass, so Kenna voiced no objection, telling him that it was his own business.

But the proverb that nothing is more wonderful than faith proved true in Portlaoise Prison that week. Before the Mass began, every prisoner from E1 walked into the small church and one by one kneeled down and prayed for the soul of Martin Cahill. The mood was both sombre and tense inside the oratory; the prayers were said not so much out of religious belief, but more in an act of defiance to the IRA.

Gilligan to this day believes his associates killed Cahill. The IRA abducted all but one of Dublin’s leading crime figures after they shot the General. Many, like Martin Foley, a trusted lieutenant of Cahill’s, were dragged from their homes. They all confessed. Traynor did, George Mitchell did.

‘The rest were beating a path to Sinn Féin headquarters in Parnell Street. There was a queue of them around the corner, promising this, that and the other,’ joked one IRA officer.

But the Provisionals missed one key player—Gilligan escaped the round-up. The IRA had arranged to collect him from a house in Crumlin for interrogation purposes. Gilligan had volunteered to go. But on the night in question, fuelled by the belief that he had the INLA standing behind him, he made a number of demands. He told the IRA intelligence officer charged with overseeing his ‘arrest’ that he wanted assurances he would not be harmed. He also wanted to know when he would be released. He would not consent to a blindfold either.

His demands were phoned through to the Chief of Staff. Gilligan, he said, was to be left alone. They would deal with him later. The next day, Gilligan sent a message to the IRA apologising for his insubordination.

‘We were supposed to go back and shoot him. But we didn’t, not for any particular reason, but because we were in the middle of peace negotiations and Gilligan was way down the list of priorities. It was as simple as that,’ said one of the IRA unit.

Regardless, the series of events as they unfolded left Gilligan in a very powerful position. Cahill was dead, and his gang were now running scared from the IRA. Gilligan believed his gang had killed the most notorious gangster to have emerged from the Irish underworld, and he’d told the IRA to harass someone else and got away with it. Traynor, an influential figure in the underworld, was by his side. He was also rich.

This gave him confidence. Two years after the killing, he remarked that if the IRA stood up in a witness box and said that they had murdered Cahill, he still wouldn’t believe them: ‘I know who murdered the General, and it wasn’t the IRA.’

[1] Evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trial of John Gilligan.

Chapter 8

Invisible Criminals

‘He was a fella who suffered from mood swings.’

TONY CODY, British CUSTOMS and EXCISE, TALKING ABOUT GILLIGAN

Dublin’s north inner city was Brian Meehan’s and Peter Mitchell’s stomping ground. It was a hard area, where unemployment was high, heroin addiction among the youth spiralled and HIV was a common ailment. At the time, thousands of people lived in dilapidated flat complexes ignored by Ireland’s political parties, who turned a blind eye to the social injustices inflicted on the people living there. For the most part, heroin was the root of its misery. In 1995, if one walked 200 metres in any direction from Buckingham Street, a road that runs through the area, you could pass a house bought with the proceeds of drug trafficking. Therefore, it was one of the most heavily policed communities in Ireland; not that this ever stopped the pushers. Nevertheless, the police stationed there do their best to stop and search criminals on sight. So when Garda Dave Cherry and his colleague Vincent Marky stumbled upon Meehan driving a green Mitsubishi Colt with Mitchell sitting in the passenger seat on Dorset Street, on the evening of 24 August 1994, six days after Cahill’s death, they stopped the car and asked them to step out.

Cherry asked Meehan where he was going, then through the corner of his eye noticed a plastic bag lying on the floor. He asked what was in the bag. Mitchell, normally a confrontational criminal, looked nervous as Meehan said the bag was his, sounding as if he knew how evasive his answer was. Cherry opened the bag. Inside was hard cash—what looked like thousands of pounds wrapped in small bundles. Cherry seized the cash under a police property act. Meehan argued he had no right to take the cash and was arrested. He was taken to Fitzgibbon Street Station in Dublin’s north inner city for questioning.

The gardaí counted the cash, which came to £46,175 in Irish punts and £120 sterling. In typical fashion, Meehan refused to say anything. Later that evening he was released without charge. Hours later, he returned, only this time he was accompanied by Gilligan who stood outside the station while Meehan went inside and asked for Cherry. The garda stepped outside where Gilligan introduced himself as a professional gambler. Meehan, he said, was minding the cash for him, the profits of a day’s gambling. As the garda stood there, Gilligan produced betting dockets to support his story. He haggled with Cherry, who believed none of it. He said he would let the courts decide the matter. Gilligan didn’t give a damn. This was a temporary setback and there was no cause for anxiety—he would get the money back.

The greatest trick John Gilligan ever played was convincing society he didn’t exist. By becoming obsessively secretive, he ensured few outside of Dublin’s criminal fraternity and the police knew anything of him. Of those who did, most knew only his name. The force’s criminal intelligence section knew little about him. Few of Dublin’s young gangsters knew what he looked like, where he lived or how he conducted his business. He likened himself to the clandestine gangland figures of old. People knew only what he wanted them to know. His name was spoken in hushed voices by criminals; he was known as a man with no clear sense of what was rational, a man capable of striking out without thinking; a psychopath. Under this cloak of anonymity, he had immersed himself in the drugs trade, importing cannabis in bulk.

The business was good to him, earning him hundreds of thousands of pounds. It was also good to Meehan and Mitchell, who sold his product with the competency of shrewd businessmen. Slowly they started supplying the suppliers, effectively becoming wholesalers to the dealers. Other criminal organisations couldn’t match their prices or reliability. There was never a shortage of product, none was ever seized and Gilligan reaped the rewards. The link between money and crime was absolute for Gilligan. His life changed beyond his wildest dreams. For a start, he began combing his hair and changed his dress code. Gone were the tracksuits and jeans. He left behind his scruffy appearance and started dressing the part—suits, shirts and sports jackets. That he pretended to be a professional gambler had to be one of his most arrogant oversights.

If there were matters in life that Gilligan didn’t know about, money laundering wasn’t one of them. He understood it was the lifeblood of organised crime. He earned so much cash that he was forced to spend money to launder it. Money laundering derives its name from the practice of putting cash earned from crime through a cycle of transactions that obscure its origin, thereby making it ‘clean’. The most important thing is to make sure the owner of the cash remains anonymous. In this case, Gilligan paid a team of young couriers to launder his cash and to keep his name out of the picture. The scam was simple. He would place bets on every horse running in a race. Because one was sure to win, depending on the betting odds, he would make a return of around IR£80,000. The winnings would be paid out in cheques and could be lodged in an account without the bank feeling obliged to report the lodgement as a suspicious transaction. He wrote off the IR£20,000 he lost as a business expense. The ‘cleaned cash’ could then be used to purchase whatever he wished. This was foolproof. ‘Sheer genius,’ he would say. He targeted reputable bookmaker chains—the Power Leisure Group, Coral Racing, Ladbrokes and Boyles. None of the bookmakers had any idea that Gilligan was using them to launder drugs cash.

The Power Leisure Group was the first chain to be targeted when on 18 June 1994 he sent his minions into the chain’s shops. Between this date and 11 April 1995, people working under his instruction placed bets totalling a whopping IR£1,052,282 inclusive of tax. He won IR£880,301, showing a loss of IR£171,981. This money represented the tip of the iceberg. Between 3 March 1994 and 24 November 1995 he bet IR£342,650 with Coral Betting Group. He received a sum of IR£292,577, showing a loss of IR£50,073. Not only was he laundering dirty cash through some of Ireland’s most respected companies, but he was also fulfilling his addiction to gambling.

In April 1995 his messengers targeted Ladbrokes, placing bets on his behalf. They bet IR£721,185 till they were barred the following year in April 1996. He received a return of IR£784,461, for once showing a profit of IR£63,276. Boyles Bookmakers were also used in the conspiracy. He started laying bets in their shops in August 1995. Gilligan bet exactly IR£1,444,333 with the chain the following June. He received a return of IR£1,234,018. This showed a loss of IR£210,315. All in all, his total bets with all the bookmaker firms amounted to IR£5,371,696 inclusive of betting tax at 10%. That left a deficit of IR£537,472.

Within weeks of Cahill’s murder, he started investing in a derelict house on five acres that he had purchased in his own name for IR£7,000 in 1987, although he later added Geraldine’s name to the title. The property was located in Mucklon in County Kildare, miles away from Dublin. He decided to pump as much cash as possible into the cottage. It underwent a complete overhaul. As soon as it became habitable, the Gilligans moved from their Dublin Corporation home in Corduff.

Geraldine had great ambitions. She saw wealth she could previously only dream of. She lost her flat Dublin accent and started speaking differently, with a defined gravelly voice. She held parties at Jessbrook attended by horse breeders, dealers and society figures from all walks of life. She decorated the family home but with gaudy furniture and items. She installed a minibar in the backroom, similar to the type seen in the BBC sitcom Only Fools and Horses. She devoted herself to opening up a riding school on land adjoining the site. This she called the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre, named after a pony the couple owned, Jessie. ‘Brook’ was added to round off the riding school’s name.

Throughout their life together Geraldine had always pushed Gilligan to better himself. She now had serious aspirations of climbing the social ladder and ingratiating herself with the hunting fraternity. With ample cash coming in, Gilligan started buying up as much land as possible next to the house. In August 1994, he bought 30 acres for IR£50,000. Geraldine was registered as the owner, but she did not register the title in her name.

The couple then purchased 15 more acres, paying IR£28,000 for a parcel of fields located between Mucklon and the townslands of Mulgeeth. Another eight acres were acquired costing IR£16,000. He couldn’t buy enough land. Anything that came on the market was purchased. He bought a further four acres for IR£28,000 and finally 21 more acres for IR£40,000. In all, he would spend IR£169,000 buying land for Geraldine’s beloved horses to graze in.

He couldn’t spend enough cash. When there was no more land left to purchase, he decided to finance the construction of a show-jumping centre built to international specifications—the jewel in his crown. Professional architects, designers and building contractors were hired—all oblivious to the true source of his wealth. Over the next two years, he would spend IR£1,516,553 on this part of the development. Architectural plans for the house and arena cost IR£10,000. The renovation of the cottage cost IR£57,000. Constructing the show-jumping centre cost IR£300,000 for the building alone. Building it cost IR£107,311. Geraldine wanted Jessbrook designed to international standards so the structure incorporated steelwork that cost IR£407,000. The arena was also fitted with purpose-made seats. These cost IR£300,050. Building stables to livery horses cost IR£66,900. There were other expenses paid with cash from drugs. The windows cost IR£106,522, dry fitting IR£25,000, dry filling IR£20,000, Fiber Sand IR£21,870, polytrack IR£30,250, and IR£18,000 was spent fencing off the land. When Jessbrook was finally completed, the Gilligans bought the freehold address at 13 Corduff Avenue in an up-yours gesture to the State.

Gilligan was affected in an entirely different way. Riches changed him into a psychopath. He thought he could do anything. He saw himself as an awesome gangster in the underworld, a man to be reckoned with. He surrounded himself with people he believed he could trust and, most importantly, who believed in him.

Traynor fulfilled this role, telling Gilligan what he wanted to hear. Traynor was of a distinctly different character. He was a hopeless bluffer, a man deeply insecure about himself, his personal life and his criminal career. ‘He didn’t know whether he was a gangster or a businessman,’ said one detective of him. ‘He didn’t know his place. That’s what made him dangerous.’

Traynor was Gilligan’s confidant, a man he trusted implicitly. Few criminals could tolerate Gilligan’s irrational mood swings and arrogance, but Traynor could. He would listen and agree with everything Gilligan said. He liked the fact that Gilligan confided in him. What Gilligan didn’t know, or failed to realise, was that his confidant told his secrets to just about anyone willing to listen, and Guerin was a good listener.

Like all great journalists, Guerin had an insatiable appetite for news. This passion brought her public recognition and shaped the lives of those around her. She was born on 5 July 1958, the second youngest of five children—three girls and two boys. She had grown up on Brookwood Avenue in Artane, a solidly middle-class suburb in Dublin where the children spoke with polite accents and left school with the necessary qualifications. Her father, Christopher, was an accountant who ran a practice from a small office on Gardiner Place in Dublin city. She loved sports, playing basketball for the local team, the Killester Kittens, and was skilled enough to play women’s soccer for the Irish team. She was a supporter of Manchester United. Because she grew up in a highly political household, it came as a surprise to no one when she joined Fianna Fáil.

Politics and Charles Haughey were her passions in life. She canvassed for Haughey, knocking on doors, encouraging voters to ‘do the right thing’ and vote for her leader. Haughey saw in her a loyal supporter, and in 1982 he rewarded her by appointing her to the board of the NIHE College in north Dublin. Two years later, she became the Fianna Fáil secretary of the New Ireland Forum. This was a highly prestigious posting by any standards. She married Graham Turley, a man she met through the party, a year later in a ceremony attended by political dignitaries from across the political spectrum.

Her entry into journalism was accidental. When she left school, after finishing the Leaving Certificate in 1976, she worked as a secretary in a Credit Union office. She then worked in her father’s practice for about a year. At one point, she attempted to make a living running a small catering company, but this enterprise failed miserably. Evergreen, a small vegetable shop she opened with Turley in the village of Malahide, was her next foray into business. It shut down three months after opening. Guerin worked in a travel agency for a while, then suddenly decided to become a journalist in the autumn of 1990.

The Sunday Business Post was a relatively young publication at the time, and so she decided it should be her first port of call. She literally walked into the office off the street where she was introduced to Aileen O’Toole, the newspaper’s deputy editor. ‘She had never written an article for a newspaper before but wanted to give journalism a shot. At the time, she was doing research on the aviation sector and filled our heads with facts, figures and concerns about the unstoppable growth of GPA,’ O’Toole later wrote.

Guerin was not a particularly skilled writer, but was more than capable of getting information that no one wanted disclosed. She started writing articles, at first business articles about the aviation industry, later moving on to politics. She contributed to the paper for the next three years, also working with RTÉ.

Her next employer was the Sunday Tribune. It was here that she became, in journalistic terms, a force to be reckoned with. She delved into controversy, seeking out stories that raised eyebrows. She rejoiced in getting the impossible interviews, like that with Jim Livingstone, the head of the Revenue Commissioners Special Investigation Branch, whose wife, Grace, had been murdered.

She wrote about the General, how he had stolen the Beit art collection, and penned incisive political stories. But it was her interview with a bishop that made her famous, trebling her newspaper’s sales. Bishop Eamonn Casey had fathered a child with an American divorcée, Annie Murphy, and fled to Ecuador when his clandestine love affair became public. Guerin, on her own initiative, flew to Ecuador where she found Casey living in a clerical friend’s house outside Quito.

‘I established more or less the general area where he was. I arrived in Ecuador at six in the morning, and by four that afternoon I had found the house where he was staying. A priest answered the door, and I knew immediately that Casey was staying with him. I said, “Look, I don’t want to hassle him, I don’t want to create any difficulties. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.”

‘At half nine that night I was in bed in my hotel and I was knackered, and the priest rang from the lobby and said, “We’re downstairs.” I walked down and there was Casey. It was incredible. We spoke for five hours but I didn’t publish a word. About six weeks later he called me and said he’d give me an interview.’

It ran for three weeks, catapulting her into the public eye. Ireland’s biggest-selling newspaper, the Sunday Independent, headhunted her weeks later. These were to be the happiest days of her life. It was here that she drifted into crime journalism and Dublin’s murky underworld, seeking out informants with hard information, the stuff exclusives are made of.

John Gilligan had never attained the anti-hero status that his old adversary Cahill did. Cahill flirted with the media and enjoyed the chase, posing for photographers outside the courts and granting interviews to a select few. His extraordinary sexual activity, taking two sisters as lovers, whetted Guerin’s appetite and, in the wake of his murder, she dedicated her energies towards uncovering the General’s love life. It was in making these enquiries that she came across Traynor.

At the time, he owned two garages—one in Dublin and another in Naas, County Kildare. She called him at his Dublin office, presumably after being directed there by a garda contact. Traynor was interested. Here was one of Ireland’s most famous reporters seeking his help. He arranged to meet her in a coffee shop in Montague Lane, between Camden Street and Harcourt Street.

He later recalled that Guerin astonished him by telling him intimate details of his life. He told all. He felt important whilst Guerin got her exclusives, three in total—the first appearing in the last week in August and the last two in September in the newspaper’s Living and Leisure section.

But one caused more interest than the others. It was called ‘The General’s Two Women’ and revealed the most intimate and salacious details of Cahill’s sex life. Her mistake was to write that she was getting information from someone close to the Cahill family. Traynor became the main suspect. To cover his own tracks, he let it be known among the criminal fraternity that he would have the journalist seen to. They waited and watched with bated breath.

Guerin lived in a refurbished and extended cottage in Cloughran, a rural townsland in north County Dublin. Her house stands alone on a green site surrounded by high hedges to the front and green fields to the rear. Two rottweilers usually stood guard outside the house, but on the night of 7 October 1994 they were asleep, locked in the house.

Her husband Turley was in the kitchen whilst she typed away in her office, which lies to the rear of the house. Shortly before 10 p.m. she saved a file on her computer and walked to the kitchen. Minutes later, she heard the sound of a crack, then another. Wondering what the sound was, she walked back into the office and saw a bullet hole in the window. She then noticed a bullet lodged in a shelf above where she had been sitting.

She called Turley. They ran to Cathal’s room and called the police. Detective Sergeant Cathal Cryan, a friend of the couple’s, was alerted and raced to the house. The gunman, however, was long gone by the time he arrived. Guerin was shocked but put on a brave face. Cryan inspected the damage, noting the gunman had fired a second shot through the house’s gutter, he presumed in a fit of panic. He considered what had happened. If the gunman had wanted to kill her, he could have.

Guerin’s attitude was that the shooting was a warning. She later commented: ‘I discussed it with Graham, my husband, because he had said, “Hang on a second, if this is the type of shit that we’re going to be faced with . . . ” And so we did think about it, and it did frighten the life out of me. But I thought, what was the point in giving in to them? That’s just what they want. Then they’ll think that they can just continue doing it to everybody else. So I carried on.’

The problem was that she continued communicating with Traynor, not suspecting him of ordering the shooting. The garda investigation didn’t make any headway, but one thing was for sure—the shooting was a response to the Cahill revelations.

It was during the closing months of 1994 that Gilligan made contact with Martinus Maria Cornelis Baltus, a Dutch national from Zoetermeer in The Hague. The introduction came via Rahman who advised Gilligan to invest in a proposed holiday development scheme called Club la Costa. Baltus was seeking investors for the complex under construction in Rosendale, a town that straddles the Dutch-Belgian border. Gilligan saw the investment as a way of laundering cash while at the same time developing new connections in Holland. In the first week of December, he flew to Schiphol Airport and made his way to a hotel where he came face to face with Baltus, who was with Rahman. In the bar of the hotel, the three men chatted about the proposed holiday scheme over drinks. Baltus provided Gilligan with the plans, brochures and other material.

Meeting Baltus was a blessing. Gilligan was in the right place at the right time. He was keen on investing cash in Club la Costa. In an effort to stay sharp and befriend his new-found acquaintances, he invited them out. A little while later, when they relaxed a bit more, they got down to real business. Baltus, a man never cut out for crime, became overtly friendly. Gilligan soon got him involved in the business, setting up deals, in particular laundering cash. When he returned to Dublin that weekend, Gilligan had effectively recruited a set of eyes and ears in Amsterdam.

Back home business was booming. Meehan ran the distribution business like a legitimate company. Bowden rented a lock-up premises to the rear of Emmett Road in Inchicore to distribute the drugs. At the request of Meehan, he used a fictitious name, Oliver Bond, to rent the store. From here, Meehan, Mitchell, Bowden and the gang offloaded more slabs of hashish per week than other criminal gangs sold in a year. Gilligan found he had simply more money than he could handle. So by the end of 1994 he was forced to start smuggling cash to Europe to deposit in offshore accounts. This inevitably led to problems.

On 11 December 1994, Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise (HMCE) officers at Holyhead ferry terminal in Wales carried out a routine check of all long-haul trucks alighting off the Dublin ferry. One by one, they stopped each truck and questioned the drivers, asking about their business, destination and cargo.

Customs officer Roger Wilson was on duty that morning. He stopped a Dublin trucker heading to Belgium. Wilson checked his cargo and registration, and had a quick look inside his cab. There he saw gift-wrapped parcels. Wilson, curious to know their contents, asked him to open the presents. When he did, he saw them stuffed with cash: £75,800 in punts and £2,000 sterling in total. Wilson didn’t need anyone to tell him the money was hot. He detained the driver, who seemed taken aback, for interview. The driver explained that a friend had asked him to deliver the parcels to a truckers’ cafe near Dunkirk in Belgium. A man called Martin would rendezvous with him there. That’s all he knew.

Wilson notified his senior officer, Dave Winkle, of the find. Tony Cody, an investigator with the money laundering investigations unit of Customs and Excise in Manchester, was alerted. Customs are allowed to hold large amounts of cash found in such circumstances for 48 hours to establish the source. The money was taken from the driver and Customs waited to see who claimed ownership. ‘Just 24 hours later,’ recalled Cody, ‘Gilligan put his head above the parapet and claimed the money was his.’

Gilligan always had nerve, and when it came to his money, he had nerves of steel. He was also under pressure to continue dealing with Rahman and Baltus. He travelled to Holyhead the next day and presented himself to Wilson and Winkle, introducing himself as a horse breeder and professional gambler. The money, he said, was for Club la Costa. Customs were highly suspicious of his story. Winkle interviewed him but didn’t believe a word out of his mouth. He consulted with Cody who instructed him to seize the cash under the Criminal Justice International Co-operation Act, Section 24, which allowed the seizure of monies believed to be the proceeds of drug trafficking. They went to Holyhead Magistrates’ Court who granted a detention order allowing Customs to hold the cash for a further six weeks to examine its origins. Gilligan attended the hearing. Cody met him outside the courtroom. ‘Physically, he looked a scruffy git,’ he remembers. ‘He wore an ill-fitting suit, his hair looked like it needed combing, he was a dishevelled-looking character.’

Gilligan went mad. In his criminal career he had never lost such an amount of cash, and he wasn’t about to start now. But more than anything, he feared losing face with the Dutch. He travelled home and contacted Baltus to explain the situation. He would send the cash as soon as possible. His appeal against the seizure of the cash from Meehan by Cherry was coincidentally due for hearing in the Dublin District Court. When the case came up for hearing, it was adjourned to 22 December. He was furious but had no option but to wait.

The appeal was held in Court 31. Gilligan stood in the witness box and told the court he had entrusted Meehan with the money. ‘He is a trusted friend,’ he said. He won the case and the cash was returned. He couldn’t believe his luck. But he was still one step behind. British Customs still had £75,000 belonging to him. He had tried smooth talking, which hadn’t worked; now he reckoned a bit of straight talking might do.

In a moment of drunken impulsiveness, he called Winkle at 10:05 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, pressing for the return of his money. He was amicable at first. But when it became clear that he was wasting his time, he resorted to his old tactics of issuing threats.

‘I’m having grief. Give me back me money, I haven’t caused problems here, with me family now, I can’t get on with me business because I don’t know where I stand with me money. I don’t know how much money I have and I know where I stand, I know how much it would cost me for a barrister, and I know it will cost me to get satisfaction, if I need to get satisfaction,’ he growled in gibberish down the phone.

‘But I don’t want nobody messing me family. I don’t mind. If somebody robs my money, I’ll have them shot. And I give that to the judge, I told the judge before in the court case if somebody messes my family I’ll have them fucking shot. And then I’ll go to jail on the consequences of it,’ he shouted.

He then referred to Wilson. ‘He’s messing me about, he’s robbing my money, I’ve accounted for it, I can’t do it any more, the bank manager gets the fucking money, he faxed you, I’ve showed you where I got the money, what’s the fucking problem? He’s backed me into a corner, we can do all dirty things, it’s not a problem for me to get somebody to shoot him, I know people that have been in prison. But I’m not going back down that road, I just want my money back.’

The threat was clear and noted. In the meantime, Cody was trying to gather information to prove Gilligan was a drug trafficker. All he needed was a drugs conviction or even proof that Gilligan associated with known dealers. He ran the Dubliner’s name through SEDRIC, the British Customs criminal database. This contained little information. His next source was the British National Criminal Intelligence Service (NCIS).

‘NCIS referred us to the South East Regional Crime Squad in London. They had seen Gilligan at meetings with criminals in the Brighton area. They had an ongoing operation on these people and Gilligan had came into their operation fleetingly,’ said Cody. Gilligan, in fact, had been secretly filmed in a hotel arranging a drugs deal. To confiscate his money, Customs would need to show the footage in court or produce any surveillance photographs taken of Gilligan. But to show this, they would expose the SERCS operation. They asked the rhetorical question.

‘We asked whether or not we could use it. SERCS considered and said we’d prefer you not to. Because their operation was ongoing, we respected that. That was it. At the end of the six weeks’ detention order, we went back again to hold the money and lost.’

In a remarkable stroke of luck, Gilligan had dropped his Brighton suppliers just as the police prepared to make arrests. And in yet another bizarre coincidence, the fact that he had been monitored with them prevented the forfeiture of the seized cash. When the case came up for hearing on 19 January, the magistrates found in Gilligan’s favour and ordered Customs to return the cash. Although he wasn’t aware of it at the time, Gilligan’s criminal career had come close to oblivion. He’d almost been caught but he saw the return of the cash as a reason to celebrate. He believed he’d outwitted the authorities by producing gambling receipts in court. He believed he had devised a fool-proof method of laundering hot cash.

Cody had exhausted every avenue in trying to get evidence. ‘It was as simple as that. We couldn’t show he had a previous conviction for drug trafficking,’ he said. Cody later noted in his reports ‘an aggression’ in Gilligan’s voice.

‘He was a fella who suffered from mood swings. One minute he would be buddy-buddy with you. He’d say, “See it from my side” and all this, trying to smooth you over. Then he’d start to become a little bit aggressive and say the loss of this money was hampering his business. I think his manner fluctuated between being reasonable to being downright sort of irate and aggressive. He seemed to suffer from mood swings.’

Chapter 9

Drugs, Guns & Money to Burn

‘I got a call from the Little Man who I know to be John Gilligan. He told me that there was something in the next consignment of hash.’

CHARLES BOWDEN TELLING DETECTIVES ABOUT ARMS IMPORTS

Guerin continued writing about crime, becoming more famous than her infamous subjects. The Cahills, meanwhile, were not on speaking terms with Traynor. Neither were his former comrades—all accused him of being a fool of a man. Not only had he disgraced Cahill’s memory, but he had spoken to a journalist, which was tantamount to informing the police. The word on the street was that she had him wrapped around her finger.

It was no secret that Traynor had told Guerin a lot more about the underworld than what was printed in the paper. Not content with his information about other criminals, she started writing about Traynor himself. On 21 January 1995 she wrote what can only be described as a deeply flattering article about him. She quoted him as saying: ‘I’m the best in the country at fraud, and if I didn’t live such an extravagant lifestyle, I’d be a millionaire.’ The article didn’t refer to Traynor by name; instead she called Traynor ‘the Coach’. A lot of what she wrote was nonsense, tittle-tattle gossip that he wished was true. She even went as far as saying that his position in the underworld had grown since Cahill’s death.

Traynor was secretly smitten with his new-found notoriety, but the criminal fraternity now saw him as a threat. If that’s what she was writing, how much did she know? He soon realised he was in serious trouble. He was given the benefit of the doubt on the previous articles, but Cahill’s gang saw this as a step too far. Traynor needed to do something drastic to regain his respect. He decided to kill her.

The assassin called to Guerin’s door at 6.45 p.m. on the evening of 30 January 1995. It was a Monday night. Guerin was speaking to her colleague Lise Hand, a society journalist, on the phone. The two were catching up on each other’s lives when she heard a knock at the front door. This was unusual because everyone who knew the family home entered the house by a side entrance. Turley wasn’t at home—he was attending the funeral of a former Lord Mayor—and Cathal was staying with his grandmother.

Guerin thought someone had got lost and was looking for directions. She opened the door and was confronted by a man pointing a large pistol at her head. She froze with fear; she could barely make him out. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet with a visor and a blue sports jacket. The gunman had screwed out the bulb over the porch light. She stepped backwards and he followed. She didn’t break her stare but backed into a wall and cowered, putting her hands over her face in an effort to protect her face, pleading with him not to shoot her. She heard his gun discharge and felt a sudden pain in her right leg. With that, the gunman entered the house and ran down the corridor and out the back door.

‘The first thing I saw was the gun,’ she later said. ‘And it looked huge and the light was shining on the thing. I didn’t see him, I just saw the gun. The first thing that went through my head was that he meant it. I don’t know why but I did it instinctively, I went into the foetal position. As he put the gun to my head, I began to roar—it wasn’t a scream. And then I felt it at my thigh. I didn’t hear it shoot. And then I heard his footsteps running out. And I just said, “Jesus, I’ve been shot.”’

The hired killer had panicked and shot her in the leg. Why he ran through her house and out the back door is a mystery. But he did, past her guard dogs asleep in the kitchen. Adrenaline pumping, Guerin pulled herself to the phone and dialled 999. She struggled into a room at the back of the house where Turley had installed a bar and sat herself up.

Cryan was again the first to arrive on the scene. He had just finished work for the evening in Coolock Garda Station when he got the call. He walked into the bar and could see she wasn’t that badly injured. They exchanged a few polite courtesies, harsh words spoken among friends, and he told her she’d survive. Within minutes, the area was swamped with armed police and an ambulance rushed the injured journalist to Beaumont Hospital. News of the shooting was relayed to media organisations who dispatched reporters to the scene.

The last time shots were fired at her house, her neighbour Patrick Buckley was sitting in the front room of his house watching television. When he saw blue flashing lights outside the house he realised something was wrong and went out to investigate.

‘We did hear something the last time, and it sounded like gun shots because they were so rapid they couldn’t be anything else really. But I couldn’t see anything when I went out,’ he told reporters who arrived at the scene. ‘It was just after 7 p.m. this evening when I saw the ambulance and asked a garda what had happened. Of course we are very shocked and hope that everything is all right. The way things are going in this country, I’m not surprised at something like this happening,’ he said.

Cryan’s officers sealed off the area, leaving two uniformed gardaí standing outside the house. He telephoned Turley, told him what had happened and brought him to the hospital where Guerin was being examined. The bullet had entered her leg just below her right thigh, shaving an artery before lodging just beside the bone. The surgeon used the word ‘miraculous’ four times in his report on her wounds. It was a miracle that she was not more seriously injured.

After the initial shock, Guerin returned to herself. She welcomed hospital visitors and almost appeared to enjoy the attention. Journalists descended on the ward wanting news. Turley emerged and gave an impromptu press conference. ‘Naturally, we’re all horrified about what’s happened, but I’m glad to say Veronica is very stable and in great form. I’m not a medical man, but as far as I am concerned she’s talking away normally and she’s fine.’

Her news editor, Willie Kealy, arrived minutes later and spoke to the media. ‘We are aware, as we were all aware, that there was another shooting before, and to that extent she was cautious about her personal security,’ were the only words he could think to muster. He was fond of Guerin and he was in shock. He felt it was too early to start talking about how she went about her job, but didn’t think she would change her approach. ‘She’s a very courageous woman.’

The Minister for Justice, Nora Owen, arrived when everyone else was about to leave. ‘I went up to her in the hospital without any great fanfare. The media were all in the front hall, I came in the back door and just went in to see her on . . . it was on a personal level. She said: “Well, they’re not going to get me. They’re not going to stop me.” One part of me, as a woman in an occupation that is mainly male-dominated, one half of me said good for you, to have the courage to go on. And I left it at that.’

But that night Guerin spoke to Traynor on the phone. She did not know that he wanted her dead, that she was only alive because of his hired gunman’s incompetence. Traynor, ever willing to lie, told her he had heard the news. He mentioned an article she had just published about another Dublin criminal, saying he had ordered the attack. But he hadn’t—it was Traynor.

The next day, gardaí searching the fields at the back of her home found a pair of black slip-on shoes stuck in mud. A short distance away, they found the gun—an old, reconditioned .45 revolver. The gunman had also abandoned his jacket. Whoever he was he had literally got stuck and kept running, losing the gun in his ensuing panic. Forensic tests carried out on the bullet removed from her thigh showed it was an old piece of ammunition, primed for use. It was a dead lead slug.

Cryan did not need anyone to tell him that Guerin was now in clear danger. He wrote off the first shooting as a warning, but this was the real thing. He focused his inquiries on Traynor. But the truth was that no one knew. The investigation team made routine inquiries, all of which gleaned nothing new. Criminal informants knew nothing.

Guerin in the meantime had been released from Beaumont and put under police protection by Chief Superintendent Jim McHugh of Coolock. But determined not to give in to intimidation, she decided to personally visit each of the major gangland figures she knew. It was not a particularly sensible move but, nevertheless, she felt compelled to face down her fears.

She was still on crutches at the time.

‘When I came out of hospital, I said, “This is it, I’m going to let those bastards see they didn’t get to me.” I went to them all, just to let them see me and let them know I wasn’t intimidated. On the way to see the guy I thought had organised the shooting, I had to get Graham, who was driving the car, to stop twice, because I was physically sick at the thought of seeing him. But I felt I had to do it. I couldn’t let them know they had frightened me.’

The next Sunday, she wrote an article for the Sunday Independent. ‘I have already said, and I will say it again now, that I have no intention of stopping my work. I shall continue as an investigative reporter, the job I believe I do best. My employers have offered me alternatives . . . any area I wish to write about seems to be open to me . . . but somehow I cannot see myself reporting from the fashion catwalks or preparing a gardening column. I do not consider myself a brave woman. In deciding to continue, I am merely doing the same job as any of my journalistic colleagues . . . I am simply doing my job. I am letting the public know exactly how society operates.’

Traynor was arrested and brought to Coolock for questioning three weeks later by Cryan. He said he didn’t know anything about the attack and gave an alibi. ‘What else would he have done? We expected him to have at least that because we knew he hadn’t pulled the trigger,’ said the detective.

Guerin had made a mistake meeting Traynor, but her errors of judgement continued. Her fatal mistake was her decision to keep in contact with him, not only keeping the lines of communication open, but affording him a degree of trust. She continued to place trust in him even after she learned he had ordered the shooting. They would meet for lunch in Fan’s Chinese Restaurant on Dame Street in central Dublin. Traynor would later recall that she seemed completely fascinated and obsessed by crime and police work. He provided her with information that she turned into exclusives.

She believed Traynor to be something he wasn’t. He was a gangster, but not the significant player she made him out to be. Not any more. There were bigger fish in the pond. It became a quid pro quo agreement. He helped Guerin because she heightened his profile and standing in the underworld. After all, how many criminals were close friends with respected journalists?

The agreement worked well until Traynor started talking about one John Gilligan. ‘You think I’m big. He’s fucking huge,’ he told her. In the coming months he would tell her a great deal about Gilligan. Little did he know she would go straight to him.

By January 1995, the Gilligans had opened the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre. The secret to Gilligan’s success was the way he ran his operation. Everything was run on a need-to-know basis. His gang was structured along the same lines as a paramilitary organisation. Gilligan appointed himself chief of staff, Meehan acted as his director of operations, Traynor his director of intelligence and confidant. He dealt with these one to one. No one else was allowed meet him, nor see his face. Like all good businessmen, he didn’t invest all his cash in one single area of crime. The enterprise was divided into three separate units. One smuggled tobacco and contraband cigarettes, another smuggled cannabis, a third collected and laundered the cash proceeds.

The burgeoning drugs culture sweeping through Ireland lent itself to the gangster. He simply couldn’t import enough cannabis to supply the demand. Meehan recruited ‘reputable’ criminals. Reputable because they had convictions that ensured they were not informants or because they had proved themselves as true criminals. In other words, they were under constant harassment by the law. Gilligan wanted to front the largest criminal gang in Ireland. But he knew the larger it became, the more vulnerable he would be.

He spent most of his time laundering cash before lodging it in offshore accounts in Gibraltar, Morocco, Austria, England and the Netherlands. Baltus helped him in this endeavour. But while laundering his profits, he also invested more cash into the equestrian centre.

On 20 January 1995, he bought a Land Rover Discovery 5-door for IR£29,500. He registered this to Jessbrook Equestrian Centre. Three weeks later, on 13 February, Geraldine, using her maiden name, bought a Land Rover for IR£5,290 from the same garage. This was also registered to Jessbrook Equestrian Centre. Gilligan spoiled those around him—especially his children. He paid cash for houses for them. In November 1994, he bought a house on Willsbrook View in Lucan for IR£73,000 as a present for Tracy. He paid IR£4,000 in cash for a deposit, followed up by another IR£3,000 in cash. The balance—IR£66,000—was paid with a bank draft. He didn’t bother taking out a mortgage on the house. In December 1995, it was Darren’s turn. He got a spacious residence on Weston Green, Western Park, in Lucan. They also got their own cars. Darren was fond of jeeps. Gilligan bought him a RAV-4 Toyota. Tracy got a Toyota Carina 1.6 GLI. Gilligan paid for both cars with hard cash.

As proprietor of the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre, he assumed the persona of a businessman. He no longer travelled economy class: instead he became a card-carrying member of Aer Lingus, flying first class, mixing with the business elite. His Aer Lingus Gold Card number was 569210. The airline treated him as a VIP passenger and with good reason. He spent IR£27,091 flying between Dublin and Amsterdam. He flew 39 times on the Dublin to Amsterdam route and 33 times the opposite way, and from Heathrow to Dublin four times. His spare change was lodged in 16 accounts held by Geraldine, Tracy and Darren in Dublin. Seven were opened in Geraldine’s name, two in her maiden name, four in Darren’s name, two in Tracy’s and one under the name Jessbrook Equestrian Centre. The amount of money that passed through the accounts was huge by anyone’s standards.

Geraldine controlled one of the accounts opened on 9 March 1995 at Bank of Ireland in Lucan. This account was used for the day-to-day running of Jessbrook. The total lodgements into this amounted to IR£338,484.60. Total payments out of the account were IR£373,595.15.

Another account, opened under the name of Matilda Dunne, A/C No. 52791983 at Bank of Ireland in Lucan, was used to carry out business. Lodgements into this totalled IR£839,689.73, the bulk made up of bookmakers’ cheques. She instructed the bank to allow Gilligan to conduct transactions through it. They worked this account by transferring vast sums of cash, IR£286,939 in total, into the Jessbrook fund. Payments of IR£165,450 were also made to Gilligan himself, while Geraldine withdrew IR£193,641 in cash over a period. The bulk of the money was lodged into the accounts in cheques made out to Gilligan, bookmakers’ cheques.

The Criminal Justice Act 1994 came into force in May 1995, modifying how financial institutions handled cash transactions over IR£10,000. Among other things, it placed an onus on financial bodies to report to the gardaí any transactions deemed to be suspicious. The act introduced by Fianna Fáil also put in place a series of procedures for banks and credit companies to follow if they suspected hot cash was being lodged with their institution. The act presented a huge obstacle to organised crime, particularly criminals like Gilligan. Crime was fast becoming a thorny issue which politicians could not afford to ignore. Politicians like Owen saw themselves facing a crisis in the next election. The Minister for Justice and her ministerial colleague Ruairí Quinn, the Minister for Finance, demanded that all agencies tasked with tackling crime co-operate.

‘The lack of co-operation between Customs, between gardaí, between Social Welfare, between Revenue, was really negating the good work that each of the individuals were doing on their own,’ Owen recalled. ‘We set up meetings with Revenue, with gardaí, with Customs. There had been some unpleasant and unnecessary spats between Customs and the gardaí. I was very angry about it at the time and I spoke to the commissioner. I said, “This is ridiculous and we’ve got to solve this.”’

Owen was breaking down traditional barriers between the gardaí and Customs. Following her instructions, Patrick Culligan, the Garda commissioner, appointed Kevin Carty, the chief superintendent in charge of the Central Detective Unit (CDU), and Fachtna Murphy, a superintendent from the fraud squad, to represent the Garda at a discussion group meeting.

Owen had an idea. She wanted the Revenue to take a pro-active stance against crime by auditing criminals for undeclared or inexplicable wealth.

The Criminal Justice Act 1994 was only an enabling piece of legislation, and none of the regulations had been written, or even agreed. Even though the legislation is dated 1994, the working bits of the legislation weren’t there until Owen introduced new laws which came into effect the following May. Even then, as the tedious negotiations dragged out, the law was worthless. The banks needed to train staff in identifying and declaring lodgements that fell into the suspicious categories.

Owen’s own political career was coming under pressure. Drug dealing was evident in most towns. In Dublin it had reached epidemic proportions with dealers openly selling hashish, ecstasy and heroin on Dublin’s main thoroughfare, O’Connell Street. In June 1995, Owen held a meeting in Garda headquarters with ten senior Garda officers. Pat Byrne was there as a deputy commissioner. Carty was also in attendance. ‘I said I don’t want to hear when something goes wrong that you’re hampered because of a lack of this or a lack of that,’ she told them. ‘I want to know what are the long-term annoyances in the system that you want sorted . . . because I’m doing some housekeeping legislation every year when I’m here, that we gather together a number of things.’

The gardaí accepted her frankness and told her straight out what was required. The Revenue, they said, needed to start investigating criminals. Drug dealing now represented a significant threat to the security of the State. Without Revenue’s co-operation, the gardaí could continue investigating the dealers, identifying property owned by them, pinpointing their offshore bank accounts, but couldn’t do anything about them. Owen listened attentively. She left the meeting saying she would do what she could. Carty took on board what she had said. He had his own ideas on how to tackle the drugs problem.

Gilligan meanwhile was encountering personal problems. He and Geraldine were legally separated that summer. But a new love entered his life. Carol Rooney was Gilligan’s femme fatale. She had grown up in Palmerstown in south Dublin. He found her strikingly attractive. At the tender age of 19, she had just finished her Leaving Certificate examinations and was working part-time in a bookmaker’s office when Gilligan entered her world. He was gambling and noticed her working at a cashier’s desk. He started flirting with her and asked her out. What she saw in him, only she can say, but the two became lovers. Gilligan, behind Geraldine’s back, spoiled his young lover. He rented out a house for her in Celbridge in County Kildare, took her on foreign holidays and wooed her with gifts, including a $20,000 Cartier watch. Anything she wanted she got. Later that year, he took her to a garage and she picked out a Nissan Micra. He handed over a IR£1,600 deposit. Carol paid the balance in cash.

His renewed lust for life spilled over into the drugs trade. He began streamlining his operation. One of the first things he decided to do was relocate his distribution base. After nearly a year of distributing from the Emmett Road lock-up, he felt this would be a prudent move and so instructed Charlie Bowden to find new premises. Meehan had promoted Bowden into the senior ranks of the organisation. Bowden himself made an unlikely criminal. He had grown up in Finglas, a sprawling housing estate situated in the heart of north Dublin. When he left school after sitting his Inter Certificate exam in 1983, he joined the army and rose to the rank of corporal. He specialised in rifle marksmanship and the use of the 0.5-inch heavy machine gun. Such was his good aim that he won competitions for his shooting capabilities, including the Eastern Command Rifle Championships. Bowden, however, had violent tendencies. This character flaw surfaced in 1988 when he attacked two recruits. He beat them up so badly they were taken to hospital. He was court-martialled and asked to leave the army, whereafter he offered himself as muscle for hire. He began working as a ‘doorman’ at nightclubs, hired because he had a black belt in karate.

Working on the doors exposed him to drugs and dealers. Mitchell was his introduction to organised crime. Bowden started dealing ecstasy for him at IR£500 per week. If there is an art to peddling drugs and networking, he possessed it. He sought extra work. Meehan offered him work collecting and delivering slabs of hashish to his clients. He was paid IR£50 per kilo.

Although Bowden came from the working class, his people were respectable. He worried about the direction his life was taking and gave up dealing in September 1992, deciding to go back to school. He wanted to study history and philosophy at Dublin City University. But two years later, he had separated from his wife and two children and found himself under intense financial pressure because he could not keep up maintenance payments. The easy money that drug dealing provided beckoned once more.

So when Gilligan ordered him to find new premises, he scoured the city looking for a suitable place. His search took him to Greenmount Industrial Estate where he rented a small office space. Using the fictitious name Paul Conroy, he paid the required deposit and collected the keys.

The Holland-Cork smuggling route was functioning unhindered. Rahman was freighting the cannabis to Cork where Dunne would arrange its collection and delivery to the Ambassador Hotel.

‘This would be mostly on a Monday. We took the van from there to Greenmount Industrial Estate and transferred the drugs to the lock-up. We would then drive the van back to the Ambassador Hotel to the driver who would wait there,’ said Bowden.

On each delivery, they would hand the driver an envelope with ‘c/o John Dunne’ scribbled on the side. Bowden soon became an equal partner in the Dublin operation. ‘They increased my pay to IR£3,000 a week. At this stage there were five of us involved. From then on we split the profits five ways.’

What would later become known as the Greenmount Gang retailed the product at IR£2,400 per kilo to dealers in Dublin, Cork, Limerick and across the border in Northern Ireland.

‘Shay Ward and I would deliver the hash from there around the city. Each day I would contact Peter Mitchell or Brian Meehan and they would supply me with a list of customers to whom we were to deliver,’ he would later say. ‘I would write up the lists as I got the order over the phones and I ticked them off as the order was delivered.’

Carefully wrapped kilos of cocaine were sometimes delivered, providing Bowden with extra income. Sometimes weapons arrived with the ship-ments. Because Bowden was trained in their use, he was made the gang’s quartermaster.

‘Before the guns would come, Brian Meehan would tell us there would be something else with the hash. The first guns were two sub-machine guns and ammunition. I think 400 rounds plus spare magazines and a silencer for these guns. I unpacked them, cleaned them and oiled them.’ He continued: ‘I brought the guns in my car to Bridget Burke’s public house in Firhouse where I met Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell. They got into my car and directed me to an old graveyard up the mountain near a convent.’

The location was the Jewish graveyard on the Old Court Road in Tallaght. Meehan and Mitchell hid the weapons in the grave of Mirium Norrcuip while Bowden waited around the corner for them. The machine guns were just the start. More weapons were imported.

‘I remember another time Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell were away on holidays. I got a call from the Little Man who I know to be John Gilligan. He told me that there was something in the next consignment of hash. When this consignment came, I opened the box and found five nine-millimetre semi-automatic pistols with ammunition for them. They were also brought to the graveyard.’

On every occasion, Gilligan would call to enquire if the guns had come. ‘In January 1996, another sub-machine gun came in with the hash. There was also a .357 Magnum and 12 rounds of brass casing ammunition with silver heads which were concave. I cleaned that gun and oiled it and brought it up to the graveyard. Some of the guns were new and more of them weren’t. The .357 Magnum was a new gun. I just wrapped it in clothes and put it in a tupperware box and it was put in the graveyard by myself.’

Bowden also took possession of a .38 snub-nosed revolver and a .45 semi-automatic pistol with ammunition. Bowden was the only member of the gang who knew how to use and service the weapons, but what Gilligan did know was that the weapons were a valuable commodity in dealing with the INLA. Traynor often passed guns to the terrorists as ‘sweeteners’. Bowden recounted one story later: ‘Sometime before Veronica Guerin’s murder, John Traynor was looking for guns to give the politicals as a sweetener to keep them off his back. By politicals, I mean the IRA or INLA. I was told to give him a .9mm Browning semi-automatic pistol which had a faulty spring—this had come in one of the consignments —and a .38 snub-nose, silver colour. I left these two guns at a little monument on the side of the road near the Jewish graveyard for Traynor to collect.’

The business ran like clockwork. There were no hitches. Indeed, for all the activity, they might not have even existed as far as the police were concerned. It was the deal of a lifetime for Gilligan. Everything was running according to plan until an unexpected visitor called at Jessbrook.

Chapter 10

Fight Fire with Fire

‘It was only a tactic I used to try and frighten her off, that’s all.’

JOHN GILLIGAN

‘If you do one thing on me or write about me I’m going to kidnap your son and ride him. I am going to shoot you. Do you understand what I am saying to you? I am going to kidnap your fucking son and I am going to ride him and I am going to fucking shoot you. I’m going to kill you.’

The menacing tone of Gilligan’s voice had the desired effect, although he could not see it from the other end of the phone line. Guerin’s body trembled with fear: the possibility of her son being harmed numbed her senses. It terrified her.

‘I’m going to kill you. Are you listening to me? I’m going to shoot you and your family.’

His threat had caught her unawares, coming as a complete surprise because she was attending a meeting with her barrister Felix McEnroy. That he would call her, introduce himself by name and threaten to kidnap her child threw her concentration off balance. McEnroy could see by her demeanour that something was wrong. He stood up and walked around his desk to listen to the caller. Guerin turned up the volume on her phone. The barrister recognised the voice, having acted for Gilligan years beforehand. ‘It was like an explosive burst down the telephone. Then he spoke in a more measured and controlled manner,’ he later recalled.[1]

Determined not to give in to intimidation, she turned off her phone. McEnroy took some contemporaneous notes of the conversation and wrote down the time and date: 1.05 p.m., Friday, 15 September 1995. This would be useful to the gardaí. Guerin wasn’t one to give in to intimidation, but this time she really was afraid. Whether he was merely posturing, she could not say, but she knew Gilligan was more than capable of violence. The bruises on her face and the constant pain in her lower back that caused her to walk awkwardly were proof of that. McEnroy thought she looked like someone who had been in a fight.

The journalist must have thought back to the previous morning that started out like any other. She always considered herself a proactive journalist. She generated news—news did not arrive on her desk courtesy of public relations agencies. On that particular morning, she left her home and headed off on a special assignment. Not to meet a drug pusher in an inner-city flats complex or a fraudster sitting in the corner of a quiet cafe in downtown Dublin; no, she drove to the village of Enfield in County Meath. From here she travelled along the narrow country road that leads to the remote village of Mucklon. The signpost there pointed her in the direction of the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre. She arrived at its gates shortly before 9 a.m. and stepped out of her car. Perhaps at that moment Guerin was one of a few people in Ireland who realised why people turn to crime. Traynor was right. Gilligan’s criminal empire was huge.

In contrast to her own expectations, Jessbrook Equestrian Centre was a first-class riding school and show-jumping arena. The impression she had been given by Traynor was one of an ad hoc horse farm; she could see this was clearly not the case. Jessbrook was an impressive set-up, worth somewhere in the region of IR£2 million.

The main building comprised a show-jumping arena built to international equine competition standards. This towered above the landscape. Adjoining this was the stable block, where the mares, foals and stallions were tethered and stabled. The centre was set against a backdrop of green pastures, where chestnut-coloured mares ambled about. To the right of the equestrian centre lay Gilligan’s home, an old refurbished house linked to the main road by a long tree-lined avenue. Two electric gates kept out intruders and prevented the escape of the owner’s collection of pedigree Old English Sheepdogs, who bounded about the garden.

In part to let someone know where she was and in part to satisfy her journalistic urge to tell somebody that Gilligan was indeed a millionaire, she rang Chris Finnegan, a detective attached to the Garda National Drugs Unit. The two were close friends, and she knew he was always at the other end of a phone line.

He was having breakfast with his wife in the conservatory of their home when his mobile telephone rang. He remembers the morning vividly.

‘Veronica called me at 9 a.m. She said, “You won’t believe where I am. I’m looking at a mansion, Gilligan’s place,”’ he recalled. ‘She said there were big gates and she was thinking of going over them. I told her not to, that would make her a trespasser. I thought she would go back to her office, that she wouldn’t go in on her own, so I left it at that.’

Guerin had an insatiable curiosity and, no matter what the reason, nothing could have stopped her from pursuing Gilligan. Traynor spoke about him in an adoring way, revering Gilligan as an underworld hero. Those in the Garda who didn’t subscribe to the belief that Ireland had no organised crime problem described him as a millionaire drug trafficker who lived between London, Amsterdam, Brussels and Ireland. Gilligan, they said, had a reputation for violence, and distrust of others formed part of his psyche. His criminal organisation was run along the same lines as a paramilitary organisation. He was familiar with the latest surveillance technology and was obsessed with surveillance and counter-surveillance techniques. He consulted with no one, just issued instructions and didn’t take no for an answer. Much of what Guerin had heard was gossip, but enough to spark off her interest.

On 7 September she had dispatched a letter addressed to Gilligan requesting a meeting, but had received no reply. The letter read: ‘I would like to discuss your recent business success in the equestrian business. This is a tremendous achievement considering you have been working in this business for just two years.’

She knew if she wanted to meet him, she would have to go to him. After ending her call to Finnegan, she stepped out of her car and walked into the reception area of the equestrian centre. The time was approximately 9.10 a.m. There, the riding school’s secretary, Patricia Murphy, met her. Guerin asked if Gilligan was there. Murphy said she didn’t know. The Gilligans didn’t mix with the centre’s staff; hence no one working there had any idea about Gilligan or the source of his wealth. Guerin enquired where he was likely to be and Murphy answered: ‘Try over at the house. They might know.’

‘Can I go straight down there?’ she asked, pointing down the field towards the house.

‘No, go back out the road, turn right and go to the next big gate and ring the intercom.’

Guerin walked back to her car, drove the short distance and pulled up outside the gates. She stepped out of her car and pressed the intercom bell a number of times to announce her presence. She noticed a surveillance camera pointing in her direction and stood in front of this. Moments later, the gates opened. She waited to see if a car or person was coming out to meet her. When nobody emerged, she got back into her car and drove up the driveway.

She knocked at the door. Gilligan was inside with his wife Geraldine. The two had been out the night before, celebrating Darren’s birthday. Gilligan was pottering around the house, wearing nothing other than a silk dressing-gown. He had seen her car coming and remarked to his wife, ‘There’s a car coming down the driveway.’ When he opened the door, he saw a woman he didn’t recognise standing before him.

‘Yeah?’ he said brashly.

Guerin asked; ‘Mr Gilligan?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Veronica Guerin from the Sunday Independent. I want to ask you some questions.’

His facial expression changed and without any warning, he grabbed Guerin by the throat and started punching her in the face, throat and chest area.

‘You write one fucking word about me and I’ll fucking kill you, your husband, your fucking son, your family, everyone belonging to you, even your fucking neighbours,’ he roared.

Guerin was paralysed with fear; Gilligan was beating her about the head with the skill of a professional boxer. She later recalled: ‘He seemed to be physically carrying me towards my car. He continued to hit me in the area of my head, face and upper part of my body with his fists.’

He pushed her over the bonnet of her car, held her down with one hand and continued to punch her in the face. Moments later, he released her from his grip and she slid to the ground. She was dizzy from the beating and tried to scramble to her feet.

‘Get to fuck out of here, get off my fucking property,’ he shouted.

More than anything else, she wanted to escape and went to open the door to her car. As she did so, he grabbed her by the arm and pushed her inside, whilst repeating his threats to murder her. The savagery of the assault sent her into shock and she fumbled for her car keys. But as she found them, Gilligan opened the door and grabbed her again.

‘Have you a fucking mike? Where is the fucking wire?’

‘No, I have nothing,’ she screamed.

Gilligan reached in and pulled open her blouse. He then went for the side pocket of her jacket, ripping it open. He continued threatening to have her family shot if she wrote anything. Satisfied there was no tape recorder, he slammed her car door shut and shouted: ‘Now get the fuck out of here.’

The beating had sent her into a deep state of shock. She sped away, accelerating towards the gates. Gilligan later acknowledged that he did frighten her. ‘I lost the head. I don’t know what happened but I must have frightened her because she flew up the driveway.’

The beating Guerin endured was savage. So much so that she drove in the wrong direction out of Gilligan’s home, a course that brought her off into the countryside. Minutes later, when she had calmed herself down, she rang Finnegan.

‘She was in a state of shock,’ he said. ‘She was distressed. She said, “Chris, he’s after belting me black and blue.”’ Finnegan calmed her down, told her not to worry and to drive back to Dublin.

‘I was now worried, I told her to go back to Dublin and ring the guards.’ Remembering the morning in question, he said, ‘That morning marked the end of the good days for Veronica. It was a defining moment in her life.’

Guerin contacted the Sunday Independent shortly afterwards to alert them to what had happened. She arranged to see her doctor, Stanley Buchalter, at 1.30 p.m. He examined her and noted in his report that she was complaining of a ‘blinding’ headache, pain across her head and soreness above her left eye. He diagnosed shock and extensive bruising and told her to put her feet up. She rested at home for the remainder of the day but, determined not to let Gilligan get away with the attack, rang the gardaí.

Detective Inspector Thomas Gallagher of Coolock Garda Station was familiar with her line of work. He sensed urgency in her voice and drove out to her home in north County Dublin. He arrived at 7.30 p.m. and the injuries she had sustained caught his attention.

The journalist was visibly shaken and not in any state of mind to give the full details of the attack. Detective Inspector Gallagher reassured her and took possession of the clothes she had been wearing earlier: a black cotton T-shirt and a brown and black plaid jacket. He examined the clothing and took note the T-shirt was torn at the front, while one of the jacket’s pockets had been practically ripped off.

The next day, Guerin met her legal team with whom she discussed the matter; she then drove to Coolock Station to make a statement against Gilligan. Gallagher noted discolouration on her face around her left eye and the fact that she complained to him about pains in her chest and shoulders. He approached the case in a thorough manner and was meticulous in taking her statement, writing down her every word in order that charges could be proffered against her assailant. The search for Gilligan commenced days after the attack.

Sensing problems, Gilligan kept a low profile for a few days and avoided trouble at all costs. He moved into the city centre and started travelling by taxi in case one of the vehicles at his disposal should be stopped at a Garda checkpoint. He was under pressure. After months of working in absolute secrecy to arrange a new smuggling route, his entire operation was facing public scrutiny. Guerin, he felt, would be sure to highlight the attack. By the end of that week, he was proved right when the Sunday Independent published details of the attack naming Gilligan. A photograph of Guerin beaten and bruised accompanied the article. Now the general public knew what type of man he was.

On 25 September, he flew to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam where he booked into the nearby Hilton Hotel. It was not necessary for him to be in Ireland; Geraldine ran the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre, while Meehan and his crew were taking stock of the cannabis trade. Instead of feeling he had escaped, he felt uneasy, for he knew the police would soon start asking questions about Guerin.

When the gardaí arrived at Jessbrook looking for him, Geraldine was cordial and polite. She was far too clever to argue with detectives; a lifetime of answering the door to policemen had taught her that. She told the police her husband was out of the country but she would gladly pass on the message when he next called home. Days went by and the message was indeed passed to Gilligan. At this point he entered into a cat-and-mouse game with the investigation team, making appointments to meet but failing to show up. It was not long before business forced his return to Ireland.

He arrived home on Friday, 10 November, and rang Detective Sergeant Michael Ryan from the Garda Special Branch, who had been seeking his whereabouts. The two made an appointment to meet on the following Monday, 13 November. Even if he was charged for the assault there and then, he would have no fears, safe in the knowledge that Baltus, Rahman and Meehan were capable of looking after the business. The meeting place would be the car park of Scott’s restaurant in Blanchardstown on the outskirts of Dublin: the time 12.20 p.m.

Gilligan was pacing up and down impatiently when the detectives pulled into the car park. Ryan was accompanied by Detective Garda Howard Mahony and they arrested Gilligan under Section 30 of the Offences Against the State Act, 1939, for the suspected commission of a scheduled offence under the Act: the possession of a firearm within the State.

Gilligan was placed in the back seat of their patrol car and driven at speed to Santry Garda Station via the West Link road. The party arrived at Santry at 12.42 p.m. Detective Inspector Gallagher had in the meantime been made aware of Gilligan’s arrest, and he headed towards Santry. On arrival at Santry Garda Station, Garda Sergeant James Murphy took Gilligan’s details and filled out his custody record.

Name: John Gilligan

Address: 13 Corduff Avenue, Blanchardstown

Date of Birth: 29-3-52

Sex: male

Marital status: married

Nationality: Irish

Height: five foot five inches

Eye colour: hazel

Facial hair: none

Gilligan was given notice of his rights. He declined an offer to ring a solicitor, saying he had ‘already done that’. ‘I have a mobile phone,’ he remarked in a matter-of-fact way. The garda took note that he was in good humour. At 12.50 p.m. he was brought into an interview room where Ryan cautioned him: ‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so. And anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

The interview commenced. Ryan asked about the assault on Guerin and the threats he had made against her. Gilligan answered that he had already been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent. His answer was clearly rehearsed and designed to frustrate the line of questioning. In the meantime, Gallagher had arrived accompanied by Detective Garda James Phelan. They entered the interview room at 2.26 p.m. and took over the interrogation.

‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence,’ repeated the detective inspector.

Gilligan sat motionless and listened attentively, his face expressionless.

‘We are investigating an alleged assault on Veronica Guerin, which occurred on 14 September 1995 at Mucklon, Enfield, County Meath. Do you wish to give your version of the events as they happened or do you wish to make a statement?’

Gilligan answered: ‘On the advice of my solicitor, I have already been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent and he has advised me to say nothing.’

An efficient and well-mannered policeman, Gallagher maintained his composure, in the know-ledge that this was no ordinary suspect sitting in front of him. Gilligan was well used to police interrogations and was going to answer all his questions with this line.

‘The day after the alleged assault, that was 15 September 1995, you telephoned Veronica Guerin on her mobile at approximately 1.05 p.m. and threatened to shoot her.’

‘I have never had a gun in my life. I wouldn’t know where to get a gun and I wouldn’t want a gun.’

‘Did you ring Ms Guerin on that day?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor, I have nothing to say.’

‘Do you know Ms Guerin’s phone number?’

‘I have already been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent and on the advice of my solicitor, I have nothing to say.’

Gallagher tried another line of inquiry. ‘Can you tell me where you were on the 15 September this year?’

Gilligan responded: ‘As I said, on the advice of my solicitor, I have already been tried and convicted and I don’t wish to say anything.’

‘When you telephoned Ms Guerin on 15 September 1995, you identified yourself to her and made her aware of a matter relating to the property at Mucklon, Enfield, that you were legally separated. All this could be confirmed by Hanahoe Solicitors, is that right?’

‘I have nothing to say. I have already been tried and convicted.’

‘Did you threaten Ms Guerin’s son and family if she “wrote a word about you, that you would ride her son and kill her”’?

‘That’s all untrue.’

‘Did you say, “I’ll fucking shoot you,” to Ms Guerin?’

‘No, never in my life.’

‘Did you say, you were “going to kidnap her son and ride him”’?

‘No such thing, never in my life,’ he answered.

The detective inspector proceeded to ask Gilligan more simple questions.

‘Can you account for your movements on 15 September 1995?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor, I have already been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent.’

‘On 14 September 1995 were you present at Mucklon, Enfield, County Meath, on the date of the alleged assault on Ms Guerin?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor I don’t wish to say anything.’

‘Do you own or have access to a house and property at Mucklon, Enfield, County Meath?’

‘That’s my wife’s house.’

‘Were you there on the morning of 14 September 1995?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor I have already been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent. I have nothing to say.’

‘Did you assault Ms Guerin at that address—punch her about the face and head?’

‘No way. I never assaulted a woman and never will.’

‘How do you account for damage to her T-shirt and jacket, both of which were torn?’

‘Certainly nothing to do with me.’

‘Do you recall Ms Guerin introducing herself to you at that address and you being asked if you were Mr Gilligan, you said “Yeah” on the 14 September 1995?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor, I have been tried by the Sunday Independent and convicted. I have nothing to say.’

‘Have you ever received a letter from Ms Guerin requesting a meeting?’

‘No, never.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘I have been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent.’

‘Do you know Veronica Guerin?’

‘No.’

‘Do you own a Land Rover vehicle?’

‘I don’t own any vehicle,’ said Gilligan, wondering where this particular line of questioning was leading.

‘Did you ever reside at Mucklon, Enfield, County Meath?’

‘I lived there until myself and my wife happily separated sometime this year, early in the year, it was a happy separation, she received everything,’ Gilligan said smirking.

‘Are you saying you haven’t been there since then?’

‘As I’ve said, I have been tried and convicted by the Sunday Independent.’

‘Do you own an Eircell telephone?’

‘On the advice of my solicitor, I don’t wish to say anything.’

‘What is your permanent address?’

‘I have lived at 13 Corduff Avenue since 1977. That was my first house and with the exception of a few weeks, I live there with my son.’

‘You were aware that the gardaí wished to talk to you concerning the alleged assault and threats to shoot Ms Guerin. You made a number of appointments and failed to keep them. Why? Was it because you had something to hide?’

‘No, I have nothing to hide. My solicitor contacted the gardaí and asked if they had a charge sheet or a warrant sheet there for John Gilligan and he was told that the gardaí said they just wanted to talk to him and also on another occasion we rang to be told that the particular policeman was off for a few days. Twice that happened. Once I heard that there was no charge sheet or warrant, I didn’t want to talk to the police. I had done nothing wrong.’

The detective inspector continued. ‘Where have you been living since 14 September 1995, since the alleged assault?’

‘I have been out of the country since 25 September 1995 on business and returned on Friday last,’ said Gilligan.

At 3.40 p.m., Gallagher and Mahony left the interview room to allow Gilligan to rest. A short while earlier, Garda Sergeant Michael McGarry had taken over as house sergeant in the station. He entered the interview room and offered the suspect dinner. Gilligan in his customary fashion asked if it would be possible to order a breast of chicken, a portion of chips and a can of Coke from a nearby fast food takeaway. He didn’t want the gardaí to pay and so offered some spare change from his pocket. The food was fetched and Gilligan wolfed it down.

At 4 p.m. his two interrogators returned. Gallagher continued to ask the questions.

‘Are there any witnesses to the assault if it does get to court?’

‘Yes, there is. I have six witnesses—none of them have previous convictions.’

‘Can you give their names?’ enquired the garda, causing Gilligan to lose his temper.

‘If there’s a court case they will be in court. You can write this down, I am not going to open my mouth again. Charge me or do whatever you have to do, 48 hours or whatever, I don’t care. I believe she abused a 70-year-old woman that day.’

Gilligan had become highly agitated and aggressive. The detective inspector was in no doubt that he had beaten Guerin and continued to ask relevant questions, much to Gilligan’s annoyance. ‘What evidence have these witnesses to offer?’

Gilligan remained silent and refused to speak.

At 4.40 p.m. the gardaí stepped outside the interview room. They returned at 6.10 p.m. with two packages. Gallagher produced the plaid jacket and T-shirt which he had two months beforehand taken from Guerin. He showed them to Gilligan and asked him to comment on damage done to both items, pointing out the pocket of the jacket, which was torn, and the ripped T-shirt.

‘I never saw these items before. I didn’t tear them, I mean, pull the stitching out of the jacket pocket. That’s what it looks like happened to me,’ was Gilligan’s only response.

In accordance with procedure, the notes of the interview were read out to Gilligan. This took place at 6.30 p.m. and he agreed with the contents. He then asked for the following words to be taken down by the gardaí.

‘I wish to add that since I left the country in September, I have contacted the gardaí at Santry on a weekly basis. I gave them the number of the Hilton Hotel, Schiphol Airport. As soon as I came back to Dublin Airport, I rang looking for Detective Sergeant Ryan and he rang me back there and we made an appointment to meet.’

Gilligan was released from custody without charge at 6.40 p.m. He made no complaints about his treatment and signed his custody record to that effect. He had been in police custody more times than he cared to remember and was well used to the routine. It didn’t bother him too much and he went on his way, saying goodbye to the gardaí on duty in the station before he left.

Gallagher submitted the file on the assault to the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP). His work in pursuing Gilligan paid off when the DPP ordered that he be charged with two offences: the unlawful assault of Veronica Guerin; and criminal damage to a cotton T-shirt. The case would proceed on 14 May 1996 at the District Court in Kilcock in County Meath. Geraldine Gilligan was coincidentally one of the main witnesses, having overheard the exchange between Guerin and Gilligan.

John Gilligan put the impending court appearance to the back of his mind for the moment. More pressing problems were troubling him. He had come to the notice of the IRA. They were in the process of reorganising in Dublin and had taken a policy decision to start tackling drug dealing in the city. The Provisionals were under intense pressure to move against the dealers. The leadership of the organisation was not enthusiastic about fighting a drugs war in Dublin. But the grassroots membership had a utopian idea of ridding the streets of drugs by assassinating the dealers. None thought for a moment they could solve the problem, but they knew the IRA was capable of making life more than a little difficult for the pushers.

The republican movement’s campaign took three different forms. Certain targets would be assassinated. Others would be abducted and questioned. The third policy was to afford protection to community groups and leaders who came out and marched on the homes of drug dealers. ‘Ireland’s not like England, where the criminals have only got the police or other criminals to worry about,’ said one IRA man. ‘There was a third force here.’

Thousands of people—parents, politicians, trade unionists—were turning out on the streets, holding vigils outside the homes of the pushers. Most of the bigger fish fled Ireland in fear for their lives. Gilligan was one of the few who stayed. The IRA operated by abducting criminals off the street and forcing them to talk. On other occasions, they would simply ask criminals to turn up and provide whatever information they had to assist in the inquiries. This created a climate of fear among the criminal class. Most didn’t know who to trust or which way to turn.

It was out of paranoia that Meehan decided to try to kill Martin Foley, a veteran criminal. Foley was a one-time friend of Gilligan’s. He had come under pressure from the Provisional IRA in bygone years. The IRA had kidnapped him in March 1984, but he was rescued by the gardaí after they stumbled upon his kidnappers bundling him into a Hiace van. The IRA lost an entire active service unit, who were all subsequently jailed despite Foley’s refusal to testify against them. The Viper, as Foley was known, was one of the first now taken in by the IRA. When Gilligan heard this he jumped to the conclusion that Foley had told the IRA about his business.

Foley was reversing his car into the driveway of his home on Cashel Avenue in Crumlin on the morning of 1 February 1996 when he saw Meehan approach in a car.

Meehan sat in the passenger seat looking anxiously at him. He thought nothing of it until it slowed down to a standstill.

Earlier that week, Meehan had said that he wanted to eliminate Foley. Bowden, as the gang’s quartermaster, decided the best gun for the job was a Sten sub-machine gun. He retrieved this from the gang’s arms dump in the Jewish cemetery. He loaded and handed the would-be killer a .45 pistol in case the machine gun should jam.[2]

Meehan was sure Foley had been telling the ‘politicals’ that he was selling heroin and cocaine. If the IRA took him seriously, they would likely kill them all. There would be no backhander and the INLA would be no match for the Provisionals. Gilligan had decided Foley had to go. Although Bowden was by far the best member of the gang qualified to kill, he hadn’t got the nerve. Instead it was left up to Meehan, though Bowden offered to teach him about the black art of assassination. He took Meehan to a field at the back of the graveyard and test-fired the sub-machine gun. They tied a white plastic bag to a tree as a target. Meehan wasn’t very good shot.[3]

After preparing the weapons for use, Bowden headed off to a house in Crumlin and listened to a radio scanner monitoring Garda messages. Bowden would later admit: ‘On the day of the shooting Meehan rang me and told me to go to a house. When I got there Peter Mitchell was sitting in the living room listening to a scanner. Earlier that day Meehan had told me to get a gallon of petrol in a container and give it to Shay. I did this. I joined Mitchell listening to the scanner. It was scanning police messages. After a while Shay Ward came in. He told me that Brian had arranged to meet Martin Foley and that they were going to shoot him at this prearranged meeting place. Shay also told me that he had delivered a stolen Honda Civic LS1 earlier. It was going to be used in the shooting.’

Hours later, he heard there had been a shooting. When he spotted Foley, Meehan jumped out of the car and sprayed Foley’s vehicle. Foley put his car into reverse and bent down across the passenger seat while keeping his foot on the throttle. Meehan fired a burst of bullets at the car; one bullet struck the top of Foley’s right ring finger. Foley scrambled out of the car and jumped over a wall into a neighbour’s back garden, pursued by Meehan who continued firing at him. Foley then saw an open back door and ran for it. The family was sitting in the kitchen having dinner when he ran past followed by an angry Meehan. Foley made for the front door, then straight up the stairs, still being pursued by Meehan who was still shooting off rounds. He ran into one of the bedrooms; Meehan fired a volley of shots through the bedroom door. Realising he would certainly be killed if he didn’t escape, Foley jumped through the window onto a flat roof. Meehan fired again, hitting him in the back. Meehan, fearing the gardaí were on their way to the scene, ran back to the getaway car and made his escape.

Bowden later recalled: ‘Almost immediately after the shooting, Brian Meehan came into the kitchen. Shay also came in. He was carrying the guns and a black woollen balaclava and leather gloves. He put those in a plastic bag and went out through the house. Brian began to undress. He was wearing overalls and a jacket. He told me that he had fired off the entire magazine of the machine gun in one go at Martin Foley. He said Foley ran from the car into a house and he followed him there, he said he fired a shot from the .45 semi-automatic on a roof. He said the .45 had jammed. He was cursing. He said he hit Foley in the back and he was wondering whether he was dead.’

Gilligan would later taunt Meehan about the botched assassination. Gilligan believed assassinating his opponents was an essential part of being a criminal. ‘That’s the last time I’ll send you to do anything. You couldn’t hit an elephant, even if it stood still in front of you,’ he roared afterwards. The next time he wanted someone shot, he would hire a professional killer who wouldn’t miss.

Responsibility for the attack was blamed on the IRA by the media and the Garda. Gilligan’s gang didn’t even feature, which was what he wanted. If Gilligan thought he had escaped the IRA inquiries, however, he was mistaken. His now visible enormous wealth came to their attention.

The IRA had started making their own inquiries into Gilligan. The story recounted to them was too far-fetched for most to believe. Gilligan, according to just about every hoodlum in Dublin, was supplying tonnes of cannabis to dealers across Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales. His clients included loyalist paramilitaries, the INLA and just about every major Irish criminal. Not only did he command what was a sophisticated criminal organisation but he also had corrupted police, bribed officials and even recruited one or two of the IRA’s own members into his fold. They simply couldn’t believe it.

In mid-April, one of Gilligan’s couriers introduced a friend of his to the boss. Russell Warren ran a small industrial cleaning company called D&R. The company cleaned newly built houses and apartment blocks. It wasn’t a very lucrative business but it paid the bills, keeping his head above water. Warren lived with his wife Deborah and her mother, Maureen Cooley. Gilligan’s courier had mentioned Gilligan’s name before, saying he knew him through betting. Warren thought nothing of the introduction. A few weeks later, Gilligan’s courier arrived at his door with a bag of cash. ‘[Named courier] told me it was John Gilligan’s money and it was money from betting. It developed from there,’ he would later admit.

Warren was quickly inducted into the business of money laundering. The courier would deliver cash to his house on Heatherview Lawn in Tallaght. He would count it into bundles and repackage it neatly into a sports bag. Within weeks Warren was delivering cash to Schiphol Airport where Gilligan or Baltus would collect it.

‘At first I was told this money was from betting and the sales of smuggled cigarettes and tobacco. But as time went on and I got more involved I realised that this money was money from the sale of drugs.’

By this time it was too late. He knew too much. The amounts of cash he counted were enormous. ‘When I first started there used to be IR£20,000 to IR£30,000 in it. This figure would be the lowest amount. It would go as high as IR£160,000 sometimes, but most of the time it would be around IR£70,000.’

Warren wasn’t cut out for crime. Instead of keeping his family in the dark about his new sideline, he inducted them into the business. ‘I started to bring money to my father’s and mother’s house and I asked them to count it for me. The reason I asked them to count it was because it took me about two to three hours to count it on my own.’ His parents never asked where the money came from. ‘They were glad to get the few bob,’ he said.

[1] Evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trial of John Gilligan.

[2] Evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trial of John Gilligan.

[3] Evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trial of John Gilligan.

Chapter 11

Pineapple

‘He was no criminal mastermind, just the right fella in the right place at the right time.’

ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER KEVIN CARTY ON GILLIGAN

At 8.50 p.m. on 17 March, the feast of St Patrick, Gilligan walked into the Scheveningen Casino in downtown The Hague. Beside him were Meehan and one of his runners. Gilligan loved gambling and was clearly in his element.

To the casino’s patrons, he was an Irish businessman away from home and out celebrating St Patrick’s night. The casino was packed to capacity, which allowed the three to blend in before going their own ways. Gilligan sat down at one table, Meehan strolled over to another and the associate took a seat at a third. Gilligan smiled at the card dealer, produced 150,000 guilders in 1,000-guilder notes and said he wished to buy gambling tokens. Meehan and the associate did the same.

Perched on a stool and sitting with thousands of pounds’ worth of gambling chips within arm’s reach, Gilligan watched the game. However, he didn’t gamble; in fact he didn’t place any bet. This drew the attention of the security staff who kept him under discreet observation. One of the security team went off and reviewed the security footage to see who had arrived in Gilligan’s company. Now aware that the three were clearly not there to gamble, the security men trained the casino’s closed-circuit television system on them. Slowly, one by one, Gilligan, Meehan and the associate left their respective tables, taking their chips with them. None had placed any bets. An hour later the three regrouped.

Later that evening, at 12.10 a.m., Meehan walked to one of the cash desks and presented tokens worth 250,000 guilders. He politely asked the cashier to have his ‘winnings’ transferred to a bank account. When requested by a player, the casino will transfer gambling profits to private accounts. To avail of this service, the player must submit written documents prior to gambling establishing his identity and bank account. When Meehan made the request, the cashier played for time while more checks were carried out. The security team in the casino confirmed that Gilligan, Meehan and the associate had either not played or hardly at all. Hence, the gambling chips were not gambling profits. A more senior member of staff stood in and explained to Meehan that the casino was unable to fulfil his request. Because he was not that clever, Meehan couldn’t understand that the staff member was actually asking him to leave. Meehan persevered. If the casino could not wire the money to his bank, it could hold it on deposit for him. This request was also rejected, as deposits can only be made if it is reasonable to assume that the money to be deposited has been acquired by gambling. The staff member, who was by this stage highly suspicious, then suggested that the gambling chips be cashed in the same form as they were purchased. Gilligan, surrounded by the casino’s security team, watched as the tokens were cashed in 1,000-guilder bills. After their failed efforts to launder the money, they left.

If Meehan’s request had been granted, he would have obtained a seemingly legal origin for 250,000 guilders by means of his bank statement. Alternatively, if the casino had granted his second request, he would have been able to prove at a later date that the money came from the casino deposit. Since only profits made by gambling are deposited, a seemingly legal origin could have been utilised here too.

Convinced that Meehan and his companions had wanted to procure a fake legal origin for the money, which they suspected had been acquired illegally, the casino’s management decided to report the incident. All institutions where cash changes hands in Holland are obliged to report unusual or suspicious transactions to the Dutch Disclosure Office for Unusual Transactions (MOT). Despite its bureaucratic sounding name, the MOT is efficient in combating money laundering. The unit investigates all reported transactions and those deemed to be suspicious are referred to the public prosecutor’s office. The report submitted by the casino caught the attention of the unit, who decided to run Gilligan’s, Meehan’s and the associate’s name past the Dutch National Criminal Intelligence Department. This is part of the National Criminal Intelligence Service (NCIS-CRI), which in turn is part of the National Police Force. The check did not yield any results.

The next step was to consult Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organisation, which is a world-wide exchange for police information. Established in Vienna in 1923, it was reconstituted in Paris in 1946, focusing on terrorism, forgery and the narcotics trade. Currently, it serves more than 150 member nations, providing information about international criminals and helping to apprehend them. The MOT sent a file on the case through to the Dutch police and waited. Two weeks later, Interpol returned the file plus more.

Meehan, and strangely not Gilligan, was flagged as a criminal/drug dealer. Consultation of the Interpol register followed Meehan as No. 6.221.0.0/95.10122. The file contained a letter from the Netherlands Interpol to the Border Guarding Unit of Amsterdam-Schiphol Airport dated 19 August 1995. It said, among other things, that Interpol Dublin had supplied the information that Meehan, born on 7 April 1965 (also using birth dates 8 April 1966 and 8 April 1960), was a well-known drug dealer.

Now what was originally treated as an unusual transaction was upgraded to a suspicious one. Given that Meehan was regarded as a drug trafficker, albeit not one with a criminal conviction for drugs, the file was passed to the National Public Prosecutor, then to the Financial Police Desk or FinPol, a unit within the Dutch Criminal Intelligence Service. The CIS asked the MOT to gather more information.

Officials there started trawling through bank accounts and reports dating back to 1994. The bulk of transactions took place at an exchange office of the GWK bank in the Hall of Amsterdam Central Station where Gilligan and an associate converted British, Scottish and Irish pounds into Dutch guilders. The associate was linked to two transactions in which he changed foreign currencies into guilders worth IR£845,787.

Gilligan, as the MOT correctly suspected, had laundered a good deal more. From 1994, he had changed foreign currencies which converted into 3,535,430 guilders in 13 transactions. Further investigations showed he used two passports, which are demanded as proof of identity, to carry out the exchanges. The passports, like everything else, turned out to be fake. Each carried a different date of birth, 24 March 1952 and 29 March 1952, but gave the same passport number.

Other members of the gang were drawn into the MOT inquiry. In one of the transactions reported by the exchange office in Amsterdam Square, another one of Gilligan’s associates showed up. Security checks were carried out on his name and date of birth. He had used his own passport bearing his name. The GWK bank reported that this man had made 37 exchange transactions in the period from 1994 to March 1996. Like the others, he had changed foreign currencies, mainly British, Scottish and Irish pounds, totalling IR£10,297,025, into guilders.

Gilligan was now compromised. Not only was the MOT investigating his attempts to launder cash at the casino, but now they were examining the transactions that occurred in the GWK bank. The MOT requested details of all transactions carried out at the times when Gilligan’s gang changed currency, particularly those which exchanged British, Scottish and Irish pounds at the GWK branch in the Hall of Amsterdam Central Station. The names of Baltus, Djorai and Rahman showed up.

The MOT knew of Baltus. They cross-referenced their own index files to find that he had changed large amounts of Irish punts into guilders on a regular basis in Amsterdam. Aszal Houssein Djorai was a Dutch criminal who was born in Paramaribo and was living in Gouden in Kent. Transactions by Djorai had also been reported by the MOT as suspicious. Since 1994, the MOT had recorded 5 transactions by Djorai that were regarded as unusual and 27 by Baltus. In nearly all cases it concerned transactions of British, Scottish and Irish pounds, again exchanged in the Hall of Amsterdam Central Station. In the six months prior to the investigation, he had changed Irish currency worth a total of IR£2.7 million into Dutch guilders.

In his negotiations with the Revenue Commiss-ioners, Kevin Carty had sensed few signs of sympathy. Both he and Murphy left each meeting with the impression that it was all a waste of time. No matter what was said, the Revenue made one thing very clear, information relating to any citizen’s tax was secret and confidential regardless of whether the subject was a criminal or not. Ministerial intervention, specifically from Owen and her ministerial colleagues, had failed to break what was clearly an impasse.

Carty was by nature a shrewd policeman and strategist who possessed an uncanny ability to foresee problems before they presented themselves. To combat crime, he knew the tax authorities had to come on board. Instead of feeling demoralised by the negotiations, he decided to set up an investigation that would involve Revenue and Social Welfare investigators.

Since joining An Garda Síochána, Carty had worked almost exclusively in the intelligence sphere, mainly against the IRA. A week after the IRA declared its cease fire in August 1994, Carty had been transferred from Wexford, into the Central Detective Unit in Dublin. CDU, as the unit was code-named, incorporated the drugs squad, serious crime squad and fraud squad. One week into that job, he set about restructuring the unit, breaking down old barriers. Instead of responding to crimes after they had been committed, he encouraged his officers to be pro-active, to recruit informants to glean enough evidence to make arrests and secure convictions. One of his more novel ideas was the creation of a money laundering investigations unit within the fraud squad.

The Chief, as he became known, surrounded himself with men he hand-picked for various skills. Austin McNally, a superintendent who was stationed in County Wicklow, was transferred to CDU. The two knew each other of old and, most importantly of all, McNally understood what Carty wanted to accomplish. In the next four months, CDU secured dozens of arrests and disbanded criminal networks using informants and covert surveillance to achieve its aims. In spite of the successes, Carty believed that a separate drugs squad, which operated independently, was required. His philosophy was that to tackle drug dealing, the force had to distinguish between street dealers and major players. Street dealers should be targeted by local drugs units. Criminals who made the jump into the international scene required an international response, for they were behind the flow of drugs entering the State.

‘We looked at how the drugs problem was being tackled and well, frankly, it wasn’t working. We needed to be proactive, to go out looking for evidence,’ he said.

Garda management accepted his advice and naturally appointed Carty to head a new anti-narcotics squad modelled on his own recommendations. At the request of Commissioner Patrick Culligan, Carty was given the arduous task of fronting the Garda National Drugs Unit (GNDU) a year later. The move was part of an overall police strategy aimed at reducing drug trafficking. Within the ranks of the police, it was now time for Carty to show what he was made of.

It seemed clear to him what he needed to do because the Revenue’s position was unequivocal. If the Revenue didn’t wish to have the gardaí joining them, they could join the gardaí by way of invitation. Bearing in mind that the Government wanted the two sides to bond, Carty took it upon himself to invite the Customs National Drugs Team, which is a branch of the Revenue, to join, rather than assist, an investigation, the subject of which Carty himself was becoming all too familiar with.

The now awesome criminal cartel run by Gilligan, through a series of incidental timings, was brought to the GNDU’s attention from the moment of its inception. Agent handlers were filing reports, which at the time were viewed with a degree of scepticism, stating that Gilligan through Meehan was smuggling the bulk of all hashish sold in Dublin, Cork and possibly Limerick.

Carty’s clever decision to set up a Money Laundering Investigation Unit within the framework of the revamped CDU now validated itself. His decision hadn’t generated much publicity or support at the time, but it came into its own the following year when the working elements of the 1994 Criminal Justice Act came into force. This made it obligatory for banks to report suspicious transactions. When it did, the financial intelligence squad was literally inundated with reports from the banks on Gilligan, Geraldine, their children, Brian Meehan and the rest of the gang.

More reports arrived via Europol, the European Law Enforcement Organisation. Agreed in the terms of the Maastricht Treaty on European Union of 7 February 1992, Europol’s aim is to improve the effectiveness of the police in member countries in preventing and combating terrorism, drug trafficking and other forms of serious international organised crime. But like everything else created by the EU parliament, it took a further two years to get it up and running. On 3 January 1994, it opened its first offices in Raamweg, a leafy suburb in The Hague, where the Europol Drugs Unit, code-named EDU, is based. This office facilitates the exchange of data, personal and non-personal, between Europol liaison officers otherwise known as ELOs. It was from the Irish Desk that the reports on Gilligan’s international financial dealings were dispatched to Dublin.

The reports confirmed what many were starting to suspect. Gilligan was not pumping all his cash into Jessbrook—the construction costs represented only a fraction of what he was earning. Although he couldn’t read or write properly, had a limited view of life and didn’t strike those who knew him as in any way intelligent, he had transcended himself. He was no longer a Dublin criminal who occasionally did business in Europe. He was now a European criminal who did business in Ireland. The financial reports confirmed this. These proved that he was banking money in Austria, Holland, Britain, France and Belgium. Carty, never one to underestimate or overestimate criminals, was made aware of this intelligence. He approached his superior, Deputy Commissioner Noel Conroy, head of crime and security, seeking permission to mount his joint investigation. It was a bold move because it broke with tradition. Permission was granted.

At 11 a.m. on the morning of 23 April, Carty delivered a speech to a team of some 50 detectives gathered in the conference room that adjoins the GNDU offices on the fourth floor of Harcourt Square Garda Station. To Carty’s left stood McNally. The head of the money laundering investigations unit, Detective Inspector Terry McGinn, was present. At that time, she knew more about Gilligan’s money laundering activities and wealth than perhaps anyone else. She had examined case-loads of financial documents, she had analysed his modus operandi, cross-referenced suspects’ names and investigated them one hundred times over. But she might as well have had her hands tied behind her back, for to try to press charges would have proved futile without knowing details of Gilligan’s tax affairs.

‘We brought in as many units as possible,’ said Carty. ‘It wasn’t just the sole domain of one unit. Special Branch got involved because they’re good at generating criminal intelligence. They had people active in that area, so they came on board. Then we got gardaí from the Louth/Meath division and Naas because Jessbrook lies on the border, and officers from Store Street because they were dealing with Meehan, and he obviously played a big part in Gilligan’s operation. Basically we got as many people as we could involved.’

There was a strange face in the room. Carty introduced him as Higher Officer Finbar O’Leary from the Customs National Drugs Team on behalf of the Revenue Commissioners. Carty outlined his plan. He believed it was pointless trying to secure a drug conviction against Gilligan. ‘The problem we had was that he didn’t physically touch his product, therefore we were looking at a conspiracy or money laundering charge. So we concentrated our efforts on that.’

Carty spoke in no uncertain terms. Gilligan, he said, was the biggest criminal in Ireland. He made Martin Cahill and anyone else who went before him look like a boy scout. He said the incident room for the investigation would be open at any time to anyone involved. He wanted the entire squad to act in co-ordination. ‘Basically I wanted to make his life hell in every way possible, come at him from all sides,’ he recalled.

If nothing else, this would make Gilligan acutely aware that he couldn’t bully or intimidate the State, that for his actions he would learn there would be a measured reaction from the State. When the conference ended, someone asked what the operation was called. Carty looked quizzically at McNally. One of the special branch delegation interjected. ‘What about Operation Pineapple?’

From what he had heard so far, the officer reached the conclusion that looking at Gilligan’s organisation was like looking at the layers of a pineapple. It was a curious comparison, but one they understood.

If Carty didn’t know much about Gilligan on that day, he soon did. His suspicion that Gilligan couldn’t possibly be declaring his wealth to the Revenue Commissioners was on target. Not only was he not paying tax, but he had his own peculiar way of returning his tax remits. One sent to him for the tax year ending 1994 seeking his predicted earnings was sent back with a personal note scrawled in red crayon on the letter. It read: ‘I’m just out of prison, I have no fucking money for you, leave me alone.’

Towards the end of April, the team had built up a comprehensive picture of their target. Carol Rooney’s relationship with Gilligan was of particular interest although she was barely out of school. Carty continued approaching other State agencies looking for help. Officials from Kildare County Council were asked to assist.

‘Gilligan had no planning for Jessbrook. There had been huge intimidation of council officials after he illegally put ramps on the road, so we invited all the different agencies that had competency in this area, so we could make life as difficult for him as possible,’ he said.

The thrust of the inquiry focused on the cash Gilligan was shifting through unsuspecting bookmakers. The team approached the large book-making firms who reported how much money he had gambled. In his career, Carty had dealt with serious crime, but was aghast at the wealth Gilligan was collecting.

‘I had dealt with subversives and the like, so nothing shocked me. But I was a bit taken aback with the sheer scale of his operation. We had intelligence that he was bringing huge amounts of hash into the country, so we knew he had to be making serious money. But I don’t think anyone thought it was that big.’

The Garda team started approaching locals who lived near Jessbrook. Gilligan, contrary to what Geraldine would have you believe, was despised by their neighbours. He bullied his way around and shouted and screamed at people who crossed him. One neighbour whom Gilligan wanted to buy land from was beaten up when he refused—Gilligan urinated on his face. Another who needed Gilligan’s permission to use part of his land to supply water to his home was refused. He was hated in the rural community.

An essential part of the investigation was keeping Bowden and virtually all of Gilligan’s associates under surveillance. Rooney and Geraldine, the latter blissfully unaware of the former, were also tailed.

Slowly the team began to put the jigsaw together. The incident room would remain open till midnight each night, busy with people filing reports. ‘We worked 12 hours a day on the case, 24 hours some days, as late as necessary,’ said Carty.

In the first weeks of the inquiry, Carty had made sure the Customs National Drugs Team (CNDT) was involved in the decision-making. The CNDT assumed responsibility for tracking the movements of Gilligan and his associates through Dublin Airport, vehicles flagged to the gang and the ferry terminals. Brendan ‘Speedy’ Fegan was identified dropping off Meehan at Dublin Airport to catch one of his many flights abroad. Pineapple soon outlined the nucleus of people associated with Gilligan. Carty asked Special Branch for a report on Gilligan’s links with the INLA, who were beginning to feature in the inquiry. Twelve of their number found themselves implicated. Information from taps on their phones confirmed the INLA was handling hashish worth IR£10,000 a week, as well as carrying out shootings on Gilligan’s behalf.

Every one of the team was aware of Gilligan’s connection to Traynor, and the charges relating to the Guerin assault. Carty knew the journalist personally—the two were Manchester United fans. Midway through the inquiry, he warned her to be careful. Gilligan, he said, was dangerous, perhaps more so than anyone imagined. ‘I think she thought of it as just intimidation on Gilligan’s behalf. She would say, “What else would you expect of John Gilligan?”’

Gradually, Carty came to understand that Gilligan was a fool, but a dangerous one. Reading report after report on everything about his life, he gained an in-sight into Operation Pineapple’s target. ‘He was a fella who achieved what he should never have achieved,’ he later reflected. ‘If he was anything, he was a two-bit handbag snatcher from Ballyfermot, who started out doing the dirty work, then started paying others to do it when he got the money. Gilligan was no criminal mastermind, just the right fella in the right place at the right time.’

Even before linking Baltus and Djorai to Gilligan, the Dutch MOT were convinced they had uncovered a serious money laundering operation. If they had needed confirmation of this, it came on 9 May when a criminal investigation team tapped Baltus’s and Rahman’s names into the Dutch national criminal system. By a stroke of good fortune, Baltus had been arrested the day before in a hotel in The Hague collecting an envelope. This envelope had been posted from Dublin and marked for the attention of one Mr Simon Rahman.

When Rahman failed to collect the letter, the hotel’s manager opened the package and found it contained 31 counterfeit US dollar notes. One of the notes was printed on one side only. The rest were of good quality and bore the serial numbers B70161620K and B26466264L. The manager called the police. One detective stayed in the hotel while his colleague took the forged notes away for forensic examination. Back in police headquarters, the detective learned that a similar amount had been seized from Baltus’s son the previous October. Not only that, but Interpol had circulated bulletins on the counterfeit cash. The detective went looking for the bulletin, reference number 12 A20305. Meanwhile back at the hotel, Baltus turned up to collect Rahman’s letter and was promptly arrested.

Forging any currency is a serious offence, but printing US dollars is far more serious because they belong directly to the American government. Once the embassy was alerted to the find, the pressure would mount on the local police to locate those responsible. To be seen to have done everything possible, the detectives asked the hotel to let them know if anyone called about the letter. A day later, the hotel staff received a call from a young woman enquiring about the letter. She rang three times and asked if it had been collected. Each time she got more anxious, demanding to know if anyone had showed up. On the fourth call, she left an Irish phone number. Her name, she said, was Mrs Ollie. The hotel passed the number to the police who in turn contacted Garda headquarters. The phone number was traced back to Carol Rooney.

Ever cautious of his phone calls being tapped, Gilligan had asked his girlfriend to call on his behalf using a friend’s phone. When she failed to find out what was happening, he called the hotel himself. The call was traced. Baltus was arrested pursuant to Article 209 of the Criminal Code, which refers to counterfeiting. Ever willing to cut a deal, he told the investigators he had received his orders from Rahman. He then volunteered Djorai’s name. The police picked him up a short time later. They couldn’t press charges due to lack of evidence.

A week later, after cross-referencing the telephone calls and security footage of Gilligan taken in the casino, the Dutch police were told by their Irish colleagues that ‘Gilligan belongs in the top three criminals in Ireland. He deals in drugs and firearms and maintains contact with subversive groups.’

After a year of chasing the Danish ‘Mr Big’, the Danish serious crime squad decided to involve Europol. The investigation had started on 4 February after the Spanish police seized 1.8 tons of hashish hidden in the roof of a Danish-registered truck. The driver, Rene Thor Andersen, under interrogation had given away the specific details of Mr Big’s role in the haul. Back in Copenhagen, the police didn’t need anyone to tell them it was their suspect. They code-named Mr Big ‘Target 1’. Realising they were chasing an international criminal group, of which Gilligan was a member, they decided to seek assistance from their European counterparts. This was organised through the official channels of Europol, which arranged a meeting to be held in the Swedish Embassy on Thursday, 6 June. In attendance were liaison officers from Belgium, the Netherlands and Denmark. A UK detective seconded to Brussels to liaise with police there was also present.

The delegates were told that the Danish serious crime squad believed Mr Big was supplying drug traffickers across Europe with hashish and, of late, ecstasy pills. This information, the representative stated, was gleaned from several telephone interceptions. The latest news from the telephone interceptions was of a conversation between Mr Big and an associate, which took place on 30 May. In the conversation, the two discussed the sale of hashish. Mr Big, a rancourous dealer by any standards, bragged that he only dealt in quantities that weighed over one ton. Mr Big then suggested to his associate that he send in a ton from his ‘stock’ in Spain to the Netherlands—from where, in smaller portions, it could be distributed to Denmark. Another associate, Otto, was then mentioned. Telephonic intelligence suggested that he was now running an amphetamine and ecstasy laboratory, located somewhere in Belgium.

Unknown to Mr Big, his every move had been monitored since March. Police tailed him while he travelled to Otto’s home in Lanaken once a month. His mode of transport from Spain to Belgium was his BMW. The only precaution he took was to change the plates as he crossed international borders. Making sense of the long distance travel, the police concluded that Otto was supplying ecstasy to Mr Big, who they suspected was smuggling it back to Spain for sale on the Costa del Sol. Copies of Otto’s photograph were handed to the delegates as they sipped coffee and consumed biscuits. Accompanying the photograph was a document listing his associates. It read: ‘RAHMAN, Simon Atha Hussain, d/o/b: Surinam 09.01.42. The police in Den Haag/Netherlands are having an on-going investigation against RAHMAN because he is suspected of money laundering, drug trafficking and other criminal offences.’ The document gave the code-name for the investigation as Operation Aerial. It continued: ‘RAHMAN has close contact to: GILLIGAN, John, d/o/b: unknown, living in Dublin/IRELAND. The Dutch police suspect RAHMAN to launder huge sums of money for GILLIGAN, and up to now it seems that RAHMAN has changed approximately 14 mill NGL. The Dutch police have also got information about smuggling of boxes from Rahman to Gilligan using trucks. There is nothing certain about the containment of the mentioned boxes.’

Most of the delegates agreed that the sheer scale of Mr Big’s drug-dealing syndicate required the co-operation of possibly several countries. The Danish representative suggested the information exchange in the case, code-named Operation Wedge, should be co-ordinated by the ELO-network in Europol. All agreed. After requesting that Wedge utilise analytical support from Europol Drugs Unit in order to make a better overview of the case, the Danish team made another important suggestion.

‘We should really get Ireland and Spain involved,’ they said. They all left the meeting, agreeing to regroup in Europol headquarters on Tuesday, 18 June, at 11 a.m.

On 10 June, Carty received correspondence from the Irish desk at Europol inviting him to send officers. When he saw Gilligan’s name mentioned, he gave the go-ahead.

Meanwhile, the MOT was working at cross-purposes to Operation Wedge. Like the Danish, it realised that Gilligan and Rahman were part of a larger, nefarious organisation. Linking Rahman, Gilligan or Baltus to drugs was not their function, and they knew well that they would never get enough evidence to press charges. They also deemed the inquiry far too problematic, given that most of the suspects were living in Ireland, outside their own country. They too decided to enlist Europol. On 12 June, John van Wijk, from the MOT, wrote to Robert Tjaikens, an officer in the planning and development section of Europol Drugs Unit, seeking his help in investigating Gilligan. Van Wijk recounted the casino story, how the MOT had learned about Meehan’s links to the drug trade and of course, Gilligan’s role.

‘On the basis of the above information,’ he wrote ‘there are justifiable suspicions that there is a connection among the persons mentioned. Additionally it can be said that in view of the criminal backgrounds of Meehan and Gilligan the amounts of money exchanged were acquired in drugs traffic and/or arms traffic and/or terrorism.’ The MOT, he wrote, suspected that Baltus, Rahman and Djorai were linked to Gilligan. ‘It is important for us to find out whether transactions by the persons mentioned were reported to your institution or whether you possess any other information relevant for the MOT. Trusting I have sufficiently informed you, please keep me informed about the progress you make.’

By the time Europol notified Carty about the MOT’s inquiry, Operation Pineapple was well under way. In less than a month, the Irish end of Gilligan’s operation had been documented, extensive reports on his financial dealings compiled and, above all, his most trusted lieutenants exposed. The squad started making life decidedly uncomfortable for Gilligan, although he didn’t know it was a co-ordinated effort.

Carty’s decision to concentrate on his finances inevitably caused his officers to visit accountants and investment brokers, a necessary move that was unheard of. ‘We had hit maybe 20 investment brokers’ and accountants’ offices. People were kind of looking at us, asking what were we doing. This sort of investigation was new. But it was what we needed to do,’ he said. And this is how the investigation progressed.

The team also utilised the information that was now flowing in from Europe. To get more concrete evidence, Carty sent Eddie Rock, a superintendent in the GNDU, with McGinn to the Operation Wedge meeting in The Hague on 18 June. The two officers returned with even more information.

Finally, after weeks of hard work, liaison meetings and sleepless nights, Carty told his crew they had enough evidence to start making arrests. At midday on Monday, 23 June 1996, the team gathered in the incident room. ‘I gave out the orders to arrest those around him, anyone who was close to him to get more evidence, to build up a stronger case,’ he recalled. ‘We had picked the interrogation teams, search teams and we were going to bring in Geraldine, Tracy and Carol Rooney. She, in particular, had a story to tell that would have opened other doors.’

The meeting lasted less than an hour. After it had finished, Carty left in the company of McNally. As far as they were concerned, Gilligan’s days were numbered.

Chapter 12

A Time to Kill

‘I thought he was only going to fire one or two shots at her, but he emptied it into her. Fair play to him.’

BRIAN MEEHAN SPEAKING TO CHARLIE BOWDEN

The problem Gilligan faced was how to stop Guerin from proceeding with the assault case. In contrast to his expectations, the threats hadn’t intimidated her to the extent that she dropped the charges or even temporarily ceased writing about crime. On the contrary, she continued writing, producing stories that would be posthumously described as her best work. Gilligan did not possess such inner strength. The prospect of incarceration in Portlaoise Prison unsettled him. He looked on the journalist as an inconceivable woman. ‘Who does she think she is?’ he asked Meehan rhetorically. That she would dare arrive at his home, ignore his threats, name him on the front page of the Sunday Independent, then attempt to press charges against him, he could not understand.

For the first time since his release from Portlaoise, he was running scared. He became ‘more intense’, Warren would later say. This behaviour soon turned to obsession. Like his father, Gilligan had an explosive personality that shaped his life. He would strike out at anything that threatened or annoyed him, without a second thought. There was no calming him. He became prone to mood swings. Geraldine’s harsh but tranquillising words had no effect on him. Neither had Rooney’s. He could not sleep at night, enjoy himself or relax to any great extent. The mere mention of Guerin’s name agitated him.

In March, two summonses had been delivered to Jessbrook notifying him that he was to appear before Kilcock District Court on 14 May charged with the assault. On the morning of the trial, he arrived at the court accompanied by Geraldine and a gang of young men, all clutching mobile phones that rang incessantly.

In the months that followed the attack, Guerin developed an outright animosity towards Gilligan. The Operation Pineapple team and the IRA were not the only ones inquiring into his wealth. She had made it her business to learn more about him, his criminal organisation, his henchmen and the crimes they engaged in. Outside the courthouse, she came face to face with her attacker for the first time since he assaulted her. There were no words spoken but there was a sense of tension in the air. Turley had brought his wife to the courthouse along with a colleague from the Sunday Independent. Gilligan could not hide his contempt and eyeballed her. Geraldine was more direct in her approach; she walked up to Guerin and told her she would not forget her. All this went unnoticed in the hustle of the court sitting.

The case was adjourned when it came up for hearing due to a legal technicality. Judge John Brophy fixed a date for mentioning the case, 28 May. Gilligan walked away from the court a free man. It was at this point that he noticed a photographer taking his picture. He despised cameras, never mind photographers armed with telephoto lenses. The photographer took only one picture as he walked away. Gilligan stared back defiantly, not knowing whether to cover his face with his hands, or pretend he was innocent and walk away smiling. The media bothered him. Where would his photograph appear? Would his business acquaintances recognise him? He felt a deep sense of rage. Apart from members of his family and a select group of acquaintances, he had never allowed anyone to point a camera in his direction. Now his photograph could appear on the front of Irish newspapers alongside articles about how he attacked Guerin, threatened to rape her son and murder her family. He had spent the last few years trying to conceal his criminal background—the convictions, robberies and links to paramilitary outfits. He considered himself a businessman whose wife ran a highly successful riding school and socialised with the high flyers of Dublin’s social scene. In truth, he was a gangster, and Jessbrook represented the proceeds of crime. Now, the house of cards he had spent years cleverly constructing was about to be exposed for what it was.

Gilligan was deadly serious when he said he was not going to allow Guerin to destroy him. At a party held after his first court appearance, he stood in a corner surrounded by former inmates of Portlaoise. One joked that he would be back in his cell soon enough for beating Guerin. Gilligan was not amused. ‘I’m not going back to prison, no matter what. That bitch is going to be sorry she ever messed with me,’ he growled. Coercion had not scared her. Threatening to rape her son appeared not to have any effect. There was only one way to stop her as far as he was concerned.

What follows in the rest of this chapter is what gardaí believe happened and what a prosecution was subsequently to allege in the Special Criminal Court in the trials of John Gilligan and Brian Meehan.

A week after his first court appearance, Warren visited Gilligan in Jessbrook. Gilligan collected him at the Spa Hotel in Lucan. During the drive, they spoke about money laundering and the enduring success of the business, which was going from strength to strength. An invitation to Jessbrook was an important occasion for Warren, still a relative newcomer to the cartel. His criminal credibility was not particularly impressive, so when the opportunity arose, he bragged that he had broken into a house and stolen a motorcycle. This aroused Gilligan’s interest.

Warren recounted how he and one of his friends had been drinking in the Speaker Connolly pub in Firhouse on the outskirts of Dublin. His friend’s name was Paul Cradden. He lived on the Corrib Road in Terenure. When they left the pub, the two headed towards Dún Laoghaire where Cradden’s employer, Ian Keith, managed a large house on Royal Terrace. Keith was a motorcycle enthusiast. His most prized possession was a Kawasaki racing bike.

‘Paul showed me where the garage was. I jumped over the wall and got into the garage. I then opened the door. He pulled a cover off the motorcycle.’ Warren examined the bike. It looked valuable. He noticed a sticker affixed to its windbreak. It read Genuine Oxford Grip. They decided to take the bike. Warren had parked his small van in a nearby lane way and the two pushed the bike into the van. ‘We didn’t know where to go with it or in fact what to do with it,’ he said. He rang a friend, Steven McGrath, who lived on St Enda’s Road in Terenure. McGrath was a hackney driver and owned a garage. ‘We gave him some story about repossessing a bike.’ They brought the stolen bike to his garage and stored it there.

After they arrived at the equestrian centre, Warren walked the land with Gilligan who gave him a guided tour of the arena and livery facilities. Workmen were installing seats in the show-jumping arena. Gilligan brought up the subject of the bike. He seemed interested in it. ‘Just keep it,’ he told Warren. ‘Don’t do anything with it, I may need it,’ he said.

John Traynor was encountering similar difficulties with Guerin. Their relationship had turned sour, if not bitterly hostile. In talking about Gilligan, the Coach had unwittingly implicated himself in the drug business, though not by design. In due time, she realised that virtually everything he had told her was lies. With Traynor, she concluded, it was impossible to distinguish between the truth and lies. Yet what seemed most dreadful to her were his sexual perversions, which she accidentally learned of. Finally seeing Traynor for what he was, she decided to write about him. She made one mistake though—she kept her line of communication with him open.

There is no doubt that she thought this was a shrewd manoeuvre. Rather than lose what was clearly a good source of information on Gilligan, she continued meeting him, but recorded each conversation using a tiny dictaphone she carried in her pocket. Traynor certainly knew the type of reprisal Gilligan’s gang had planned for Guerin and, with a degree of irony, hinted as much to her in an obscure way during their last meeting. For the first time since the two had met, Traynor warned her about Gilligan. ‘Even last week, when you were saying about Gilligan and what he’s capable of, and trying to stop me going to court, it makes me more determined. It’s the way I am,’ she told him.

He said: ‘If he never done anything, at the back of your mind, you know what he’s capable of.’

The Coach’s engagement in the narcotics trade caught Guerin by surprise. But once she had ascertained his specific role in Gilligan’s operation and the cannabis trade, he became a legitimate target for her investigations. Her mistake was to tell him about what she knew and that she intended to name him in the Sunday Independent. There is a suspicion that he toyed with the idea of murdering the journalist himself. The windows of her car were smashed around this time in what appeared to be an act of vandalism. Traynor, however, admitted responsibility and paid for the damage. Guerin confided that she suspected that Traynor was testing the car windows to see if they were bullet-proof. But rather than resort to violence or use intimidation, he turned to the courts.

On Thursday, 13 June, Traynor arrived at the offices of Michael E. Hanahoe on Parliament Street, a solicitors’ firm, where he spoke to Michael Hanahoe, one of the most respected solicitors practising in Dublin. That day he displayed all the hurt of an innocent man who was about to be wronged. He said Guerin had called him to say she was preparing a story for publication that would link him to the drugs trade. The article was due for publication the following Sunday, 16 June.

Traynor, who had a noteworthy ability to charm, said he was at the end of his tether with Guerin. She had threatened and tried to cajole him—legal redress was his only solution. The lawyer listened attentively and in proper fashion advised an injunction. Traynor accepted his opinion and told him to do whatever was necessary. Hanahoe picked up the phone, called the law library and arranged a consultation.

Traynor explained his predicament once more. What he told his lawyers was a mixture of lies and half-truths. For obvious reasons, he denied any association with the ‘narcotics trade’ as he called it. He concocted a story about how Guerin had, two weeks earlier, lunched with him in the Greyhound bar in Harold’s Cross in Dublin. Minutes into the meeting, he said, Guerin announced that her editor had received a Garda report together with a photograph from a Garda file. The photograph was of him. The report, she suggested, linked him to Thomas Mullen and another criminal, two heroin traffickers from Dublin, though he didn’t mention either by name. ‘This confidential report was never produced to me, nor was it ever offered to me, nor was it ever subsequently forwarded to me at any stage by her, or by anybody,’ he said. By that afternoon, he had secured the injunction impeding the publication. Traynor kept Gilligan fully briefed on his case, which the latter viewed as a good way of disseminating black propaganda against Guerin. Anything to damage her reputation would do.

While Guerin was a brilliant journalist in many ways, she was ignorant of the criminal psyche. She did not understand the danger Traynor represented, or his ability to double-cross. The likelihood of Gilligan mounting an attack had crossed her mind, but she saw her own well-founded fears as a weakness in herself. This was her first mistake. Her second oversight was that during one of her many casual conversations with Traynor she told him she was due before Naas District Court at 11 a.m. on 26 June to be judged on a speeding offence.

One of Gilligan’s inherent character flaws was a preference for the company of fools. He and Meehan discussed shooting the journalist, yet neither could see the inevitable chain reaction it would cause. On the contrary, Meehan agreed with Gilligan’s general outlook—he too reckoned Guerin had to go. Meehan steadfastly agreed with Gilligan’s thwarted view of his predicament. He possessed neither conscience nor intelligence. A more ambitious criminal would have seen Gilligan’s return to jail as something of a probability rather than a possibility, and as an opportunity for him to take control without sparking off a bloody feud. Whether it was lack of self-confidence or devotion to his boss, he stood firm behind Gilligan, believing the business would certainly fall apart if the boss was jailed for the assault. This was the worst scenario imaginable for Meehan. Without Gilligan to organise regular cannabis deliveries from Holland, he saw his career as effectively finished. This encouraged Meehan, who saw no distinction between attempting to murder Foley and assassinating one of Ireland’s best-known public figures. On the contrary, he thought such an act would heighten his standing in the underworld. He had not the slightest comprehension of the consequences his actions would have, no matter which way he rationalised the situation. Gilligan also had a passionate hatred for Guerin. He despised what she stood for; his business was no business of anyone else’s. This was his rationale.

On 19 June, Gilligan rang Warren asking whether he had possession of the stolen motorcycle. ‘Do you still have it?’ he enquired of the bike. Warren confirmed he did. ‘Is it where anyone would see our faces? I have Brian Meehan with me.’

Warren sensed the urgency in his voice. He said the bike was in his friend’s garage at the rear of St Enda’s Road. ‘No one will be around, you can have a look,’ he promised. They arranged to meet in the car park of the Terenure House.

Thirty minutes later, the two gangsters arrived. Warren sat in Gilligan’s car and directed them to the garage. He looked over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. They pulled up outside the garage and scuttled in. Parked inside was the powerful-looking Kawasaki.

Working like a mechanic, Meehan commenced an examination of the bike, methodically checking its suspension, brakes, indicators and balance. He saw the keyhole on the fuel tank had been drilled to allow a refuel. The back indicator lights were also broken. Some farings were missing. Should the bike break down, it would mean certain trouble.

Warren couldn’t help but wonder why Gilligan was on edge. His body language was that of a man possessed. Never before had the little man seemed so distracted. But the months Warren had spent working under Gilligan’s tutelage had given him an unnatural ability to keep his mouth shut and not to ask questions that he didn’t want to know the answers to.

Happy with his cursory examination, Meehan said the bike would do. Gilligan then ordered Warren to fit it out with new plates and indicators. They left in Gilligan’s car. He offered to drop Warren back to the Terenure House where he had left his car. Gilligan drove, Meehan sat in the front passenger seat and Warren sat in the back. Then, out of the blue, Gilligan turned to Warren and in a matter-of-fact way said: ‘I have been told not to trust you, but I will.’

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.

Meehan, however, was putting on a brave face. He was worried. When he went to the toilet, he got into a fight with one of the bar’s other patrons. They all left and went to the Turnstile pub, located a short walk away. The pub lies adjacent to the Phoenix Park and was situated a short distance away from Bowden’s home in the Paddocks. They stayed until closing time and headed for the POD nightclub, coincidentally located across the road from Garda headquarters.

After the club had closed, they went on to Bowden’s home. The party got into full swing. Senan Moloney lived next door to Bowden. He was the crime correspondent for The Star newspaper and had spent the day writing about the murder. He had seen his colleague’s limp body and felt physically sick. The day had proved too much for him. So he finished early and made his way home. As he was walking through his front door, he noticed Bowden lugging trays of beer into his house.

‘I formed the opinion there was going to be more booze and music that night,’ he later said. And he was proved correct.

That night the music blared and the beer and cocaine flowed. In one corner, Meehan sat drinking a can of beer, his eyes glazed from the cocaine in his bloodstream. Bowden and Bacon danced. Gilligan had called earlier, telling them to have a good night. Away from the outrage that was quickly enveloping Ireland, he felt relieved. That was the end of her, or so he thought. What Guerin couldn’t do to him in life, she certainly wouldn’t be able to in death.

Chapter 13

Public Enemy Number One

‘I’m finished in Ireland. They’re saying the Provos will get me.’

JOHN GILLIGAN

The gangster’s name was catapulted into the national consciousness within 24 hours of the murder. Gilligan had predicted a public outcry but postulated that any outrage would soon subside—that Guerin’s murder would become nothing more than another statistic. But this was no more than an arrogant hope. The next morning the storm broke when his photograph was published alongside lengthy articles which made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was the prime suspect.

The Government and the police had not a minute’s peace, as it became clear the public had lost all faith in their ability to tackle organised crime. Radio programmes were inundated with calls, and the letters’ pages in the morning newspapers were saturated with angry correspondence.

The killing had huge ramifications for the Government, especially for Owen, who found herself defending her stewardship as society vented its anger. She was in no frame of mind to deal with the onslaught, distraught at having lost a close friend. The frenzy reached fever pitch in the Dáil where the feeling of malevolence towards organised crime was now firmly a political issue. Owen’s trustworthiness was not being gauged on her notable initiatives to streamline the judicial system but on the absolute disregard drug dealers held for the law, which had now made the headlines across the English-speaking world. Therefore, it was only natural that the opposition capitalised on the public unrest. They demanded action against the now famous drug barons; the ones who had Mafioso status through Gilligan’s action.

John O’Donoghue, the Fianna Fáil opposition spokesman on justice, was Owen’s nemesis. During the previous year, he had carved out a career for himself highlighting the various faults in the criminal justice system in a highly vocal manner. He didn’t hold any personal animosity towards the minister; it was just the way Fianna Fáil did business. He did, however, see that Ireland required new laws to tackle criminals like Gilligan. With great political acumen, he had months earlier drafted novel legislation with a barrister friend Eamonn Leahy. He called it the Organised Crime (Restraint and Disposal of Illicit Assets) Bill 1996. The legislation was rudimentary in that it reduced the standard of proof required to seize the proceeds of crime. Instead, it tied the offences to the assets, as against an individual’s liberty. The idea had been conceived with a burst of inspirational genius the previous Easter in a place called Cuascrom: ‘A beautiful place overlooking the Blasket Islands off the Kerry coast. It came to me there,’ O’Donoghue would later say. The law was modelled on a case he remembered when funds collected by Sinn Féin, the political wing of the Provisional IRA, were seized. A subsequent challenge in the High Court found the seizure was within the constitutional parameters.

Fianna Fáil had published the bill but decided to withhold pressing for its enactment until an election was announced. The time was right. O’Donoghue had reason to believe the Government would have no other option but to accept the bill, which would represent a political goal. He went to one of his colleagues, Mary O’Rourke. Because she was a senior party member, who had a fearsome reputation for smiling while denouncing her opponents (an art she probably learned from her days as a school teacher), he believed she would be instrumental in persuading Bertie Ahern, the opposition leader, to move the bill. She agreed with his assessment of the situation.

The two went immediately to the party leader’s office on the fifth floor in Government Buildings. Here, O’Donoghue outlined his case. Ahern didn’t need convincing and without haste ordered his officials to withdraw another piece of legislation on contempt the party had planned to move. This effectively gave O’Donoghue free rein.

‘Looking at it from the perspective of democratic accountability, I felt that when the stage had been reached in any society that they could now gun down an investigative journalist in the streets, then there was something rotten in that society which had to be rooted out.’ He presented the legislation to the Government on the evening of Thursday, 27 June. Jim Higgins, the Government Chief Whip, accepted the bill with a degree of caution. He sent a copy to the Attorney General, Dermot Gleeson, for examination.

For her part, Owen was fighting an impossible war. Not only had she lost a close friend, but she was effectively being blamed for allowing crime to get out of control. Most of the criticism was blissful ignorance, but it affected her personally. She would remember that week as one of the hardest of her life. The experience, however, left her resolute. She pressed ahead with her plans to create a multi-agency unit to target crime. She formally unveiled her plans on 2 July to a packed press conference in Government Buildings. Accompanying her proposal was a comprehensive package of anti-crime measures. Drug dealers, she said, were not invincible. The Government would hold a special debate on organised crime on 25 July. That gave her four weeks.

Those entirely familiar with the story all agreed that Gilligan was the most likely culprit, but none could understand his senseless logic. The motive was too obvious; he was the only person that would benefit from her death. Traynor’s hand in the slaying was another distinct probability. This was a view shared by the police officers tasked with bringing charges against the killers.

Tony Hickey was the chief superintendent in charge of the Serious Crime Squad. He was on holiday in the Portuguese village of Alvor when the gunman struck. Standing in a shopping queue, he overheard a conversation between two Irish tourists standing in the same line. They were talking about Guerin’s murder. He said nothing. But when he returned to his apartment, he rang Lucan Station and asked if the unthinkable had happened. He took command of the inquiry when he returned home that weekend.

Hickey was a proficient murder investigator, a man who had spent much of his career chasing villains and who possessed all the accompanying mannerisms—he chain-smoked and always looked expressionless. He surrounded himself with a coterie of officers he trusted emphatically, and consulted with no one, not even officers attached to other units. Hence he spoke about the investigation only when he needed to. He had joined the gardaí in 1965 and since that time had avoided the media at all costs, believing that much of what was written about drugs was exaggeration and conjecture.

The problem he faced was how to link Gilligan to the assassination when he was in Amsterdam at the time of the killing. There was also the possibility that Gilligan was not responsible, which was a real prospect. To solve the case he hand-picked a team of detectives he trusted. Most were drawn from the Serious Crime Squad, though at the beginning of the inquiry over 100 officers from all divisions in the city got involved.

What Gilligan could never have known was that the police had a head start on him. The Operation Pineapple squad had gathered a mass of intelligence on the gangster. This was shared with the Guerin investigation in accordance with orders from Carty, who learned of the murder whilst standing in the offices of the National Surveillance Unit in Garda headquarters. Privately, he concurred with Hickey’s view that Gilligan might be innocent. ‘No one could be that stupid,’ Carty said. Working from this information, which was big enough to fill several crates, the Guerin team got to work collecting statements from witnesses. Police informants were grilled for anything that would lead to the assassin. The dragnet started.

Even from his hideaway in Amsterdam, Gilligan could see the public reaction to the killing was inspiring an anti-crime wave the likes of which had never been seen before. There was nothing he could do. He was having enough problems running his drugs business. Warren appeared to be suffering from post-traumatic stress, waking in the middle of the night shivering with fear. If arrested he would be easily seduced into making a statement. Shay Ward found that he too couldn’t forget the terrible events. He couldn’t bear to hear Guerin’s name mentioned. He would walk out of a room if her name was referred to in his company. Bowden, Meehan and Mitchell, however, seemed unaffected.

But what caused Gilligan the most concern was Geraldine. The sound of her voice told him that she was under tremendous pressure. And it was his fault. The press was not yielding. When they couldn’t find him, they turned on her, writing about Jessbrook, in the process destroying the reputation afforded to its excellent livery facilities. The business she dearly loved collapsed overnight. The show-jumping arena had been due to host a number of equestrian events—all were cancelled within 24 hours of the murder. He was somewhat sheltered from the consequences of his impulsiveness, but she wasn’t.

In the foolish belief that he could alleviate the campaign, unexpectedly, he decided to talk to the media. Liz Allen was a journalist with the Sunday Tribune. Like many of her colleagues, she travelled to Jessbrook in the hope of contacting Gilligan there. Everyone carrying press identification was refused admission, but she persisted, eventually managing to speak directly with Geraldine, who said she couldn’t help, but if her ex-husband rang, she would gladly pass on the message. She sounded so genuine that Allen was taken aback.

The journalist received a call from Gilligan within hours. She made arrangements to fly to Schiphol Airport on Monday, 2 July, for an interview. She was accompanied by photographer Bryan Meade. Before the flight departed, she went into the ladies’ toilet to use her mobile telephone. ‘It was quite noisy in the departures lounge,’ she said. As she went to dial, it rang. It was Gilligan.

‘I know you’re on your way. I know what you are wearing, you have long, blonde hair and you’re wearing a red jacket,’ he said. She thought it was her boyfriend joking and was about to ask him to stop fooling around until she recognised the voice. She looked at herself in the mirror, as much as to confirm what he said was true. She did not panic and said she’d speak with him face to face in a few hours. Meehan, she would later learn, had been directed to the airport by Gilligan to see if she was travelling alone. He was sitting in the same departure lounge, waiting to catch a flight to London and had phoned through her description.

On arrival in Amsterdam, she made her way to the Hilton Hotel where, as promised, Gilligan was waiting with a bunch of white lilies. He smiled as if participating in a civic lesson and assured her she would come to no harm. He said he didn’t want to speak in the foyer, so the party checked in. The interview was conducted in a hotel room where in the most convincing language she had ever heard he proclaimed his innocence.

‘I had no hand, act or part in her murder. I swear to fucking God I don’t know. If I knew I would go after them myself.’ He ran his hands over his face, acting out the part of an innocent man. ‘I’m finished in Ireland. They’re saying the Provos will get me. They’ve set me up. Jesus, I’ve been blamed for this and I am finished now.’

There was a purpose to the interview. Earlier that day, as expected, Traynor won his case prohibiting the Sunday Independent from publishing Guerin’s story. That she was dead was irrelevant. The Coach stayed away from the court, allowing his solicitors and barristers to represent him. In his affidavit, he made himself out to be a victim, though no one believed a word of it. His affidavit quoted from imaginary conversations he claimed took place. Guerin was portrayed as a self-serving manipulator; he an innocent victim. ‘I know you’re not involved in heroin but I have to print it,’ he claimed she said. ‘It’s your lifestyle. You have a boat worth a quarter of a million pounds and a string of race cars in Mondello.’ Mr Justice Barron, with no other option, granted the injunction the following day.

Gilligan was kept informed of the events as they unfolded. Offering outright lies in one hand and truths in the other, he began to fight back through the medium of the press in a pincer movement that complemented the bogus allegations levelled by Traynor.

After the interview concluded, Gilligan asked Allen if she wished to go gambling in a nearby casino. ‘He said he’d show me just how much money he could make in one night,’ she said. Smiling, she declined the offer and said goodbye. He thanked her for giving him the opportunity to put the record straight. The evening ended in the same strange circumstances it had begun. After he had left the room, Allen noticed her interviewee had forgotten his briefcase, a metallic Samsonite. Tempted as she was to inspect its contents, she decided to leave it untouched. She handed it in at the reception desk.

That weekend, John Gilligan, criminal par excellence, introduced himself to the Irish public for the first time. The portraits Meade took made him look suave, almost Italian.

The interview was a foolish decision, for later that week the assault case against him collapsed when it came to court on 9 July. It never occurred to him that the public would now have a face to put to the name of the defendant in the assault case, which was destined to collapse because of the untimely death of the principal witness.

The garda prosecuting the case, Superintendent Brendan Quinn, stood up before Judge John Brophy and asked that the charges be struck out. When the matter was concluded, the judge asked the court and the journalists in attendance to stand for a minute’s silence in memory of the ‘lady who was the principal State witness in the case.’

‘The reason why it can’t go ahead is because there is no effective evidence that could be offered in a court of law because of her untimely death within the last two weeks,’ he said. ‘Remember the hymn at Dublin Airport Church, “Be Not Afraid”. If you are afraid then the barons and the major gangland people in this country will take away your rights and freedoms which this country has fought for over decades.’ The judge didn’t name Guerin until making his closing remark. ‘I hope other people in the media will follow on in her tracks.’ The case ended on that note.

Months before the murder, Patrick Culligan, the Garda commissioner, had announced his retirement, sparking off a covert contest among his senior officers for the job. None of the competitors showed the ability that his deputy commissioner, Pat Byrne, did to canvass for the job. Byrne was appointed deputy commissioner in May 1994, taking control of all anti-terrorist and drugs operations. From the outset, he made a point of making the right impression with anyone that crossed his path, particularly political representatives, whose thoughts he scrutinised. In another life, he could have been a theatrical performer or indeed a politician, such was his ability to entertain a captive audience.

Weeks before the murder, he addressed the cabinet, delivering a polished speech on drug trafficking and organised crime in preparation for Ireland’s presidency of the European Commission. Owen would later say he used the opportunity to interview himself for the job.

‘He made a very clear presentation to the cabinet when we were coming up to taking the presidency, because we knew we were making the whole fight—international drugs and crime—one of our major planks in the presidency. His briefing to the cabinet was very frank and upright. In a way he gave information to my colleagues that I would have had, but they wouldn’t have had—the networking of the drugs—and he gave facts and figures. It was a very graphic display of understanding and knowledge of the situation.’

His endeavours paid off on 10 July when Owen announced that he would succeed Culligan. With the new commissioner ready to take control, Owen put the Revenue and Garda under pressure; she wanted them to work together. At the same time, officials in her legal department were working unnatural hours rewriting O’Donoghue’s bill, which they renamed the Proceeds of Crime Act. Other laws enabled the Revenue to disclose information on tax and contribute to the envisaged agency which she called the Criminal Assets Bureau, CAB for short. The necessary laws were drafted in preparation for 25 July. Then just days before the emergency debate, the Government decided that a separate bill would be required to establish the Bureau on a statutory basis.

The crime debate commenced that afternoon in the Dáil with virtually every TD in attendance. It was a heated exchange in which the police and judiciary came under attack. Gay Mitchell, the Minister of State in the Taoiseach’s Department, was the most vocal. Many of his constituents had suffered at the hands of the drug barons; he was enraged. The crime problem, he said, was associated more with order than with law.

‘While the police should be fully supported we are entitled to require from it that its members behave in a totally impartial, non-political manner and keep their noses out of politics, whether they are members of Garda management or Garda trade unions. I would say publicly to the new Garda commissioner that I wish you well. You have a very difficult job, but please keep away from high-society receptions. We do not want to see you there. I want to see you out meeting the ordinary people in the community.’

The drama didn’t end there. ‘The judges have got away with murder for long enough. They have a well-remunerated, difficult job and are honourable, but they must be called to account. They should get out among the people whom they do not live among. We have had enough of their interfering with the legislature and the executive. The tail will have to be wagged a bit, and judges will have to change the way they do their business,’ he said.

There was no visible show of support for his speech, but there was a general consensus that what he was saying was what everyone thought, but hadn’t the courage to say. Across the road, in Buswell’s Hotel, the Dublin City Wide Campaign Against Drugs had gathered. Drug addicts and their parents from the communities worst ravaged by heroin made them-selves available to meet the Oireachtas and explain the roots of the crime problem. The meeting was a sincere and honest gesture wasted on the political establishment. Only 56 of the 226 legislators—a quarter—made the 30-yard walk across the road to the hotel.

Inside the Dáil chambers, things were a little more productive with six pieces of anti-crime law processed without any opposition. Four were passed, making the day’s sitting the most productive ever.

O’Donoghue, never a man to miss an opportunity—a common Fianna Fáil trait—reprimanded Owen. The Minister, he said, had made so many promises that ‘her long finger resembles Pinocchio’s nose’. Perhaps when he opened the next morning’s papers, where it was announced that Fachtna Murphy, the former head of the fraud squad, would front the CAB, he felt slightly embarrassed. Murphy was one of the few policemen capable of investigating serious financial fraud, though at that time his expertise was being wasted. In the age-old tradition of police bureaucracy, when he was promoted to the rank of chief superintendent, he was dispatched to Dún Laoghaire in south Dublin, where his talents at dissecting complex financial fraud were all but wasted. He only learned that Owen had earmarked him for the job when he opened the morning newspapers. He made a great effort not to enquire with his superiors to see if the reports were true, lest they view this as blind ambition.

Barry Galvin, the State Solicitor for County Cork, had already been approached to act as a legal advisor to the new squad. He had a satirical sense of humour, a typical trait for a lawyer, which masked a true sincerity for the victims of the drug epidemic. He had spent much of the previous two years campaigning for more Customs patrols of the south coast and for Garda management to deal competently with the drug barons. His correct analysis of the prevailing crime problem had made him a thorn in the side of police management, who were more than content to write him off as an agitator. For this reason, the Department of Justice reckoned he would be invaluable because he genuinely believed in retribution. His practice also specialised in debt collection.

The investigations into the murder were meanwhile gathering pace. Gilligan knew this was happening. His men on the ground scrutinised all media reports, they watched television bulletins and collected newspaper reports, which they phoned through to the boss daily. The object of the exercise was to establish the identities of those who were taken in for questioning. Once their identities were confirmed, Meehan would pay them a visit to ascertain what was said. The visits were also a form of intimidation and sent out a clear message. Gilligan may have been miles away in Amsterdam but he was still in control, albeit from the shadows.

The Guerin investigation had developed a high profile in the media through leaks to selected journalists aimed at putting the fear of God into the prime suspect. The truth was, it was going nowhere. Hickey was exhausting every avenue of investigation and getting no results. Then at the end of July it came together, accidentally.

Meehan had dumped the bike used for the assassination in a shallow stretch of the Liffey along the Strawberry Beds. He followed instructions to the letter and broke up the bike. In the summer months, the river swells and submerges with the release of water by a hydroelectric plant upstream. Notwithstanding this, wildlife flourishes on the river, which draws walkers, anglers and joggers who spend their spare time on the banks. On the morning of 29 June, the river was particularly low, and a habitual walker who strolled down the riverside paths saw a motorcycle immersed below the waterline. When he got home he rang the gardaí in Lucan. They took the details, thanked him for the call but did nothing. After two weeks of police inaction, he decided to take the bike out himself. He went down to the river on 9 July, entered the water and lifted the parts on to the bank. Someone saw him and, suspecting he was up to no good, called the gardaí who arrived minutes later. He recounted his story to them. They took the bike away to see if it had been reported stolen. Tracing the bike’s owner in the police stolen-vehicle register took time.

More important than this development, though, was the secret work being carried out by detectives from Crime and Security, the Garda’s spying department. They were charged with tracing calls made from Gilligan’s mobile telephone in the days proceeding 26 June. There were hundreds of calls, some to local numbers, others international. The detectives sifted through this labyrinth of numbers, eventually compiling a comprehensive picture of the people Gilligan talked to.

This element of the inquiry was kept secret from the press, as were the workings of Operation Pineapple, which had gathered so much intelligence on Gilligan that Carty decided to mount an all-out strike. He was aware that Geraldine had started withdrawing hundreds of thousands of pounds from her various accounts before they could be frozen. The Pineapple team had served orders under Section 3 of the Criminal Justice Act on the Bank of Ireland in Lucan obliging them to reveal details of the accounts. The documentation the detectives received made shocking reading. Between 24 and 29 July, she withdrew in four transactions IR£85,000 from one account she held in her maiden name, Matilda Dunne. This left a balance of IR£472.69.

She withdrew IR£10,000 and IR£40,000 from two separate accounts on 26 July. Three days later, on 29 July, she withdrew IR£21,000 in two transactions from the same two accounts.

After four months of working in absolute secrecy, the Pineapple team arrived at the gates of Jessbrook at 9 a.m. on 30 July. They cordoned off the roads, took over the equestrian centre and prepared for an assault. When everyone was in place, one detective pressed the intercom button at the main gates, awakening her from her sleep. When she answered, a small convoy of unmarked patrol cars flanked by squad cars flew up the driveway. At the same time, a dozen officers entered the house without saying a word or giving her time to ask questions. They began sifting through every drawer, box and cupboard. They found financial records, account files, commerce books, diaries and bank statements—items of significant importance. The equestrian centre was ransacked. Accounting files and receipts were removed and put in clear plastic bags marked ‘evidence’.

She didn’t make any attempt to interfere. She decided her best course of action was to play the fool. When one garda noticed a photograph of Gilligan and Traynor pinned to a wall in the kitchen, he asked Geraldine if she knew Traynor. She fumbled for her glasses before asking, ‘Who is it?’ For good measure, she returned to the Bank of Ireland the following morning and transferred IR£49,988.11 into one account opened in the name of Jessbrook. She then closed down the account.

The Money Laundering Investigation Unit took the papers found during the search because CAB was not functioning as the Government wished. For one, Murphy didn’t even have an office. With Galvin by his side, they worked furiously to get CAB operational. Murphy also had no staff, although he knew the type of team he wanted. He approached the commissioner and asked if he could hand-pick a team. This was a bold move, for in the Garda, senior officers rarely make demands or seek autonomy. Byrne, however, obliged. The list Murphy had compiled was made up of detectives who worked in the Money Laundering Investigation Unit. Others were taken aboard because they happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Officials from the State’s Social Welfare and Revenue services were not that enthusiastic about joining. Revenue found it difficult to get applicants for the job, which civil servants considered dangerous. The Department of Finance offered a financial incentive of IR£1,600 annual allowance to encourage people to apply.

But these were only teething problems. The CAB still had no statutory powers, its role was uncertain and the laws under which it operated had still not been passed. In other words, Murphy could investigate crime and collate financial intelligence on Gilligan, but always with his hands tied behind his back. On hearing about the possibility that her accounts might be frozen, Geraldine had effectively cleared them out. Murphy went directly to Owen and outlined the problems he foresaw. If he thought there was a problem, there was none, for Owen set about drafting the extra legislation needed to make the Bureau work.

When Donal Ó Siodhacháin read the newspaper reports tying Gilligan to Guerin’s killing, he was intrigued. From his conversations with Gilligan in bygone years, he could not believe the man was capable of running an international drugs cartel, although if there was ever a graduate in the science of criminal cunning, Gilligan would have a first-class degree.

Ó Siodhacháin had watched the story unfold step by step in the press with great interest. He could not reconcile himself to the notion that the man he had fought a civil rights case for years earlier was now a drug trafficker, nor that he had colossal wealth, judging by the most recent reports which disclosed that the police had seized IR£21,000 from Gilligan’s brother, Thomas, that week.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, he called Jessbrook and asked to speak to Geraldine. ‘Tell her its Donal and Pat,’ he said. There was a long silence as one of the workers left the phone unattended. Minutes later, she picked up the phone. The two parties spoke little, aware the call was probably being monitored, but agreed to meet the next day in the Green Isle Hotel. Geraldine arrived, followed by a plain-clothes detective whom Ó Siodhacháin and his partner Pat Herron quickly identified as they mingled in the hotel lobby. They went over to a quiet corner. She ordered tea and sandwiches.

Before he got the chance to speak, she declared that Gilligan was innocent. ‘He’s been framed. Why would he kill her if he was due in court with her?’ she declared.

Her analysis seemed reasonable, and he urged her to talk to the press and recommended that Gilligan do likewise. He suggested that she return to the hotel the next day at the same time where he would be waiting with a journalist.

She did. That journalist was this author. The next day, she repeated her assertions that Gilligan was an innocent man. She then dialled her mobile phone, walked six steps away, mumbling into the phone, then handed the phone to me. Gilligan then spoke: ‘I’m doing this because Donie is the only one who ever done anything for me for nothing,’ he said.

That weekend on Sunday, 11 August, the Sunday Business Post carried an interview with Gilligan. Far from being shy, he was upfront about his life as a gangster, practically bragging about his life in crime. ‘Anyone with big money can order an assassination. You don’t have to be a criminal. I could have ordered it but I didn’t. I had no hand, act or part in it.’

He was still furious about the cash seizure from his brother. ‘The gardaí may have won round one, but they won’t win round two in the courts. That money came from a bank account in Lucan. It was to pay the builders because they didn’t want cheques in case the accounts got frozen. I have no doubt in my mind, I will get that money back for my wife.’

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.

‘I had been contacted by someone, who said she was going to come to harm. I explained to Gilligan that I was not a member of the IRA. I was just a messenger,’ he said later.

Gilligan rang Geraldine and implored her to leave the family home. The priest’s message terrified her and she left at once. She moved into a friend’s home in Tallaght where she stayed for two days before coming home. Weeks later, after a suitable time had elapsed, she called the priest to verify that it was he who had called. He said it was and she thanked him.

That same day, Owen announced the promotion of Tony Hickey to the rank of assistant commissioner. His elevation could have been seen as a celebration of what was to come. The Lucan Inquiry, the name afforded to the murder investigation team, was making deep inroads into the cartel. The Garda have at their disposal an array of sophisticated devices that can intercept and trace dozens of calls made to and from mobile phones at the touch of a button. These systems can operate anywhere and trace all telephone traffic on selected lines. The team traced all the calls made to and from Gilligan’s mobile and listened to both sides of the calls. The calls were recorded digitally. This allowed the gardaí to keep abreast of his plans.

The telephone traffic that took place on 26 June, the day of Guerin’s murder, unravelled. Numbers attributed to Brian Meehan, Shay Ward and Peter Mitchell were documented. But there were two others. The first was someone the investigation hadn’t heard of. It was Paul Conroy, a fictitious name. The second number belonged to someone they all knew: Garda John O’Neill. His number had appeared on an itemised bill.

Hickey, a man who had unquestioned allegiance to the police, welcomed the news. He thought O’Neill had recruited an informer within Gilligan’s gang. He asked the team to trawl discreetly through police intelligence files. This exercise was aimed at establishing whether O’Neill was contributing information on organised crime to police files. He wasn’t. He was placed under surveillance.

On Sunday, 29 September 1996, Warren was standing in the arrivals lounge of Dublin Airport when his mobile rang. It was Gilligan. He started berating him for not collecting cash from Paddy Holland, a close friend of his and one of the gang’s customers.

Gilligan had met Holland in Portlaoise Prison. Holland stood out among the other inmates. He spent much of his time alone, weight training and exercising. He didn’t need reassurance from anyone. He didn’t ask anyone to sort out his problems; he handled everything himself. He was his own man and answered to no one. He stood just under six feet tall. He was blocky and bald. He wore a wig to disguise his hair loss. Some of the inmates called him The Wig. Others called him Dutchy because of his surname.

When Holland was released from prison in September 1994, Gilligan quickly indoctrinated him into the narcotics trade. Bowden and Shay Ward would deliver 30 kilos of dope to his cronies at various points around the city. He became rich beyond his wildest dreams. Gilligan taught him about money laundering—one area of crime Holland was unfamiliar with. He soon amassed too much wealth. Like Gilligan, he set up a money laundering operation, but this time in the form of a publishing company which he called Holpat made up of the first three letters of his names. It published an alternative to the RTÉ Guide. Another venture was the publication of a second-hand car-trade magazine. Holland did his best, but he was not a publisher, and the two ventures failed, with considerable losses.

Holland was not like the rest of the gang. He had no inclination to show off his wealth. He preferred to live a solitary existence in a small holiday home at Lissadell, near Brittas in County Wicklow, which he bought for IR£30,000. The only thing that mattered to him was his wife, Angela.

Like Gilligan, Meehan treated him with unreserved respect. They all saw in Holland a man they privately wished they could be. He was afraid of no one. He was the nearest thing Gilligan had ever met to a professional mercenary. He also had a proven track record for crime. And he was certainly not an informer. The ageing gangster had spent most of his life in jail.

Holland had grown up in Chapelizod in Dublin. His best friend was a youngster called Pat Culhane. They had ambitions of travelling the world and joining the American Marines. They followed this dream when they turned 18 but were sent to different platoons after they joined. The young Holland became homesick two weeks later and returned to Ireland. Culhane stomached the training and spent the next four years in the military. When he finished his contract, he joined the gardaí. In later years, he rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a chief superintendent. Holland simultaneously rose through the ranks of Dublin’s underworld. Easy money attracted him; crime lured him. In June 1965 he was caught with stolen goods and sentenced to six months. He lost his job and his family disowned him. So he became a burglar and then an armed robber. In 1981, he was caught with the proceeds of a bank robbery and was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment.

Jail did not alter Holland’s criminal inclinations, however. He was just out of prison four years when he was arrested with seven sticks of gelignite, detonators and fuse wire in a flat in Dublin’s north inner city by a young police officer, Tony Hickey. The explosives were not for subversive use by any paramilitary organisation. The materials had been stolen from the Arigna Mines in County Leitrim. Holland intended using them to crack safes. He was serving this sentence when Gilligan arrived in Portlaoise.

Gilligan’s temper couldn’t be calmed. He had told Warren to collect the cash from Holland the night before. Warren, surprised by his own insolence, told him he had tried to collect the cash, but Holland hadn’t got it. He said he’d call. Gilligan said he’d better. Holland, who could be relied upon like clockwork, rang 15 minutes later and arranged to meet outside the Virgin Megastore just off O’Connell Bridge.

Warren went straight there and found him waiting. They nodded at each other. Holland handed him a sports bag and said there was IR£70,000 inside.

Warren went straight to his parents’ home in Tallaght. He was due to collect other monies from Meehan, but when he rang him, Meehan said they wouldn’t have their money until Tuesday. Warren wasn’t bothered.

‘If I had collected more than IR£100,000 on Monday I was due to fly out to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, with it. As I hadn’t that amount I waited and was due to go on the Tuesday night or Wednesday morning when I would have collected the remainder of the money,’ he later explained. However, things didn’t go according to plan. At 9.05 p.m. that Monday he was arrested. At the same time, a team of detectives entered his parents’ home where they found the money. Warren went into a state of shellshock. He was driven to Lucan Garda Station where his interrogation began. He said nothing.

When news of his arrest reached the gang, they panicked. The arrest was unexpected. They met in the Hot Pot Restaurant in Sundrive Shopping Centre in Crumlin the next day. Meehan was particularly astonished at the arrest. The gardaí were not supposed to know about Warren. He decided the time had come to clear out the lock-up at Greenmount. He told Bowden and Shay Ward to take care of this.

They sat down and ordered tea and coffee. Meehan and Mitchell said they would take care of the drugs orders. ‘This would ordinarily have been done by phone, but as we knew Russell Warren had been arrested we didn’t want to use the phones,’ Bowden would later say.

They relaxed. Then Peter Mitchell recognised a man sitting on his own at the next table. He said he was a cop.

Meehan looked around. He recognised the man’s face but said he was a fellow he went to school with. Bowden grew uneasy. They all left. As they did, Bowden looked around and saw the same man speak-ing into his mobile phone. Meehan and Mitchell left by car. Shay Ward and Bowden went to a nearby hardware shop and bought plastic bags. Mitchell was right, they were under surveillance.

Their car was followed. Mitchell, out of fear more than courage, did a U-turn and drove up behind the unmarked car. They went straight to Meehan’s apartment in Clifton Court. For the first time since the murder, Meehan was scared. He rounded up the cash they were owed.

At 3 p.m. on Wednesday, 2 October, detectives attached to the Operation Pineapple squad arrived outside Sunlight Chambers, a historic building on the corner of Parliament Street. Inside were Michael E. Hanahoe’s offices, one of the most respected legal firms in Dublin. That morning Terry McGinn had obtained a search warrant from Judge Gillian Hussey in Kilmainham District Court. Three detectives from CAB were present. Galvin had advised the squad to get a search warrant because, in his opinion, the legal team would have been legally obliged to contact Gilligan before disclosing any information to the gardaí. This way, the firm would not be ethically compromised. In any event, he and his staff co-operated fully with the court order. When the gardaí had finished, they left carrying several briefcases.

On exiting the building, McGinn noticed a number of photographers standing across the road. They were taking photographs. Afterwards, journalists called the legal firm directly, asking for a comment. A spin was being put on what was effectively a routine piece of police work. Hanahoe was taken aback. The visit was being portrayed as a raid. He told The Irish Times: ‘I’m only unhappy that it might be misinterpreted by people in the wrong light.’ Asked by the newspaper if he felt the visit breached the traditional code of confidentiality between solicitor and client, he said: ‘I don’t want to discuss it now. There will be a time when it will be addressed.’ The solicitor firm subsequently sued the State successfully for a six-figure sum in damages arising out of the manner in which the search had been leaked to the media.

Warren was released from Lucan the same day. He was exhausted and got into a taxi. He was not handling himself properly. Guilt was written all over his face. His mobile telephone rang seconds later. It was Gilligan. ‘I said give me 20 minutes and I’ll be at home.’ He stopped off at Molloy’s liquor store in Tallaght where his phone rang a second time. It was Gilligan again. He screamed at him to go home.

‘Give me another five minutes,’ said Warren.

As soon as he stepped through his hall door, Gilligan called a third time. He wanted to know about the interrogation. Warren’s wife and mother-in-law were in a near state of panic. He walked out of the house and took the call on the roadway.

Gilligan got straight to the point. ‘I’m now going to tell you, you’re dead and your family is dead and everybody around you will be dead. I want the truth, tell me exactly what was said and what your family said.’

Warren was terrified. The only thing he could think of saying was that it was all about the money. He explained that he hid the cash in his mother’s home, which prompted a fierce argument about why he hadn’t delivered as instructed.

‘When I tell you to do something you do it,’ Gilligan roared. He asked if his wife had made a statement.

‘Get on a plane tomorrow.’

‘I can’t, everybody is upset,’ said Warren.

‘Come over or I’ll go over to ye and I’ll kill ye all.’

He hung up.

One of Gilligan’s couriers then arrived, wanting to know if Warren had implicated him. Warren’s mother-in-law walked into the room and told the courier to leave. She had had enough and was appalled.

Gilligan telephoned the next morning at 8 a.m. He wanted to know why Warren wasn’t in England. ‘If you’re not fucking over here I’m going over to you and I’ll kill you and I’ll kill you if you tell me lies.’

The only excuse Warren could invent was to say he had no money.

‘Ring Brian and he’ll give you money.’

Left with no other option, he called Meehan at once and arranged to meet him at his mother’s home on Stanaway Road. Meehan answered the door. He looked up and down the street before ushering Warren inside. He handed him IR£1,000. Warren couldn’t decide if Meehan was more relaxed or just more scared. He asked what questions the investigation team raised. Warren offered the same story. He appeared to believe him. Meehan offered to drop him off at Rosie O’Grady’s pub in Harold’s Cross. On the way, he asked if anyone had said anything. ‘I have to know,’ he said in a friendly way.

Warren left for London the next morning. He took a taxi to Dublin Airport to avoid surveillance. Before he got onto the plane, he rang a friend and told her he was going to meet Gilligan, in case he didn’t return. He arrived in Heathrow at 2 p.m. and called Gilligan straightaway. ‘He told me to take the train to Russell Square, and to meet him at a hotel there. I got off the train and went to a phone box to ring Gilligan. There was a man at the phone box. He approached me and said, “Russell?” I said, “Yeah?” “Follow me.”’

The stranger escorted him to a nearby hotel. The two entered a lift and pressed the button for the second floor. He was led to one of the rooms. Gilligan was waiting inside. He walked in and sat on the bed.

‘You and your family are dead and Debbie, no matter how long it takes, I’ll get you all. I want the truth. Now put “I’m going to kill” at the back of your mind. You have to answer the questions for me and don’t tell me lies.’

Gilligan paced back and forth. Warren, trying to compose himself, told him that no one had said anything. But Gilligan wasn’t convinced. He kept screaming and shouting. The mood then changed.

‘I want you to go to Calais tonight.’

‘I don’t have a passport. The police took it,’ Warren said.

Gilligan screamed. He ranted and raved about Warren not telling him this earlier.

‘I have IR£300,000 in there,’ he yelled, pointing in the direction of a wardrobe.

‘Who is going to bring this for me now? I will have to do it myself.’

He resumed questioning him about his arrest. ‘What did they ask you about?’

Warren told him that the police had lists of telephone calls made by himself, Brian Meehan and Gilligan on the day of the murder.

‘Don’t worry about that. That could be anything, that could be us talking about collecting money,’ Gilligan said.

The murder investigation found itself caught in a whirlwind of activity. They knew they were striking at the heart of the cartel although they didn’t realise just how close they were to cracking one of the murderers. They were informed that Warren had been summoned to meet Gilligan. He was under surveillance from the moment of his release from Lucan Station. The time had come to arrest Bowden. He was preparing to leave the State, taking his mistress with him. The gardaí arrived outside his home on Saturday at 7 a.m. He was barely awake when he was handcuffed and driven at speed to Lucan where Detective Inspector John O’Mahony and Detective Bernie Hanley began an interrogation. At the same time, gardaí knocked on the door of Bowden’s brother Michael’s home and started searching it. Back in Lucan, Bowden was cautioned and told his rights.

O’Mahony, a stout-looking detective, led the interrogation. ‘Will you tell us what you know about the shooting of Veronica Guerin?’

‘I know nothing about it, I had no involvement in it. You can ask Juliet. I was in the shop that day with her.’

‘Do you know Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell, Shay Ward?’

‘I know Peter Mitchell. His mother Eileen gets her hair done in the shop,’ answered Bowden.

‘In the searches of your house and your brother’s house this morning, there was evidence of you having a lot of money, and there was a lot of money found which is connected to you.’

‘This money was savings I had from the business.’

‘What about the money found in Michael’s house?’

‘I know nothing about that,’ Bowden said.

‘Michael states that you handed him that money outside Joe Wong’s restaurant in Clontarf last Sunday night.’

‘That’s not correct.’

‘There was a hell of a lot of money found which we believe belongs to you, and which couldn’t be savings if, as you say, you get IR£150 a week out of the shop.’

‘It’s all savings.’

‘Your brother Michael is going to say that the envelope we found in his possession this morning, he got from you to mind.’

‘He’s right. I gave it to him to mind.’

‘I am putting it to you that you know Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell and Shay Ward and that you were in contact with some of them by telephone on the day of Veronica Guerin’s shooting.’

‘Okay, I know them. I know them through Peter Mitchell. Look I want to tell you about the money, I know nothing about Guerin’s murder. I would have nothing to do with anything like that, it would scare me shitless. I have been working with Meehan, Shay Ward and Mitchell. That’s where the money is from. If I was talking to them on the day of the shooting it was only about business.’ Bowden, a master at the art of deceit, guessed the gardaí had followed him. He resorted to interspersing lies with truths.

‘What business do you mean?’

‘Selling drugs, that’s my only involvement with them.’

‘How long were you at this?’

‘About two years. I got to know Peter Mitchell first through his mother, Eileen. She gets her hair done in the shop. Peter helped me out with a spot of trouble I was having with a sign writer from Gardiner Street.’

‘What do you mean by this?’

‘The sign writer was threatening me, saying I owed him money for a job he had done for me. Peter talked to him and warned him off. After that I got involved in selling a bit of hash for Peter, through the hairdresser’s, just a bit—about a kilo a week.’

‘How do you know Brian Meehan and the Wards?’

‘They were involved with Peter, they were all working together. We would meet regularly in the POD and System. We would hang out together.’

‘How much money have you made altogether?’

‘I don’t know, a lot. Lately I couldn’t handle the amounts. It was getting in on top of me.’

‘Where is it all now?’

‘I will show you, I have it offside, it’s in a flat near Lesson Street Bridge. I don’t know the address, it’s a friend of a friend of mine who has it. He doesn’t know anything about it. He was just asked to mind a bag.’

Bowden made his first direct reference to the murder but attempted to give Meehan and Mitchell an alibi. He said he saw them outside Klips when Guerin was shot, but conveniently left out the details. ‘I was in the shop at the time, I wasn’t talking to them.’

‘Are you agreeable to bring us out and show us the flat where the money is?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much is there?’

‘I couldn’t tell you, there must be about IR£100,000. I haven’t counted it,’ he added. The cash was that week’s takings.

The suspect returned to the question of the murder. He explained where he was on the night of the killing.

‘Now I remember, when I was talking to them on the phone, I arranged to meet them that evening in the Hole in the Wall pub in Blackhorse Avenue, to see the football match between England and Germany. We all met there that evening. There was Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell, my girlfriend Juliet.’ He also named others who attended the party.

At 10 p.m. Bowden was driven into Dublin city by O’Mahony and Hanley. They pulled up outside Klips before heading across the Liffey to the financial district where Bowden directed them towards to a flat off Mespil Road. On the way he engaged O’Mahony in conversation. He said he lied about how he first met Mitchell. It was a conversation of half-truths. The pressure was on and Bowden knew it. He could take a fall or save his own skin. He chose the latter.

Unknown to him, the investigation team had discovered Greenmount through surveillance on Meehan and Mitchell. The investigation team procured a search warrant and went into the office unit Bowden had rented at Harold’s Cross the next morning. It was a Sunday. Inside they found 25 cardboard boxes of hashish. There were seven bags of white powder and an electric weighing scales. The workspace was littered with cannabis. There were drugs everywhere—wooden boxes full of hashish slabs. There was a black Nike sports bag containing 115 bars of vacuum-packed dope ready for delivery. Bars of cannabis sat neatly beside the claw hammers and jemmy bars used to prise open the wooden crates the drugs arrived in. There was rubbish strewn everywhere. Amongst the debris was a green, covered file containing the tenancy agreement. A list of names was found pinned to a partition wall.

Bowden was blissfully unaware of the find, not that his interrogators knew he was stringing them along. He had slept well the night before. He was brought back to the interview room at 1.55 p.m.

O’Mahony asked him to be honest. ‘Tell us the full truth about Veronica Guerin’s murder.’

‘I am not involved in the murder. I am not a heavy. I just do the drugs for Meehan and Mitchell, for the money.’

‘Where do you get these drugs from?’

‘They are delivered to me or else I meet Meehan or Mitchell and they give the drugs.’

‘Do you know where the drugs are stored?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where they come from?’

‘No, I don’t ask any questions, I just deliver the hash to the list of customers given to me by Meehan or Mitchell.’

‘Charlie, the gardaí have located a warehouse at Greenmount Industrial Estate, Harold’s Cross, and they are searching it. They have discovered a large quantity of cannabis and other suspected drugs there.’

‘Have ye found it? I should have told ye last night. Fuck it, I was going to tell ye when we were stopped at Harold’s Cross lights. Now ye have found it I will tell you everything. I am sorry for not telling ye about it already.’

‘Charlie, all we want is the full truth, we want you to tell us all you know about the drugs operation and give us whatever information you have regarding the murder of Veronica Guerin.’

‘I will tell the full truth now. It is not true to say that Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell deliver the drugs to me for delivery. I have over the years organised a few lock-ups where we store the drugs when we get them.’

‘Where do you get the drugs from?’

‘I will tell you that too. I am scared if Gilligan hears that I have ratted, I am dead. I rented the lock-up in Greenmount about a year ago.’

‘How much did you lease it for?’

‘IR£500 a month.’

‘How did you pay for it?’

‘By cash. I have the key for it on my keyring. Shay Ward and I delivered the drugs from there. We had a blue Kadett van which we used for the delivery. It is parked up on St Peter’s Road, Walkinstown. I was making up to IR£3,000 a week on the drugs. Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell were in charge of the drug operation, but I know that John Gilligan was in overall charge.’

Bowden said that the drug consignment found in the warehouse was hash that had been returned because it was poor quality.

‘The last supply was delivered to the lock-up on the previous Monday. Drugs came in from Cork. They were imported as a legitimate cargo by Seabridge Freight, Little Island, Cork. The fellow involved was a John Dunne who was originally from Dublin but now lived in Cork. Gilligan knew him from way back. It was Gilligan who arranged the importing of the hash.’

‘Tell us how the drugs are taken from Cork to Dublin?’

‘It is delivered by a courier in a white van. Shay and I meet them at the Ambassador Hotel and drive the van to Greenmount where we unload the drugs and then bring the van back to the Ambassador. The driver used to stay in the Ambassador. I know that the boxes of drugs were addressed to a company in Little Island, Cork. I used to take the labels off the boxes in Greenmount.

‘I also want to say that there is a cover for a machine gun in the lock-up. That was a cover that was on a gun that came in with the hash. We got a good few guns in on different times. Firstly, the sub-machine guns and ammo for them. I put these guns in an old graveyard up near Bridget Burke’s pub. Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell told me where to put them. I will show you the place.’

‘Are those two guns in the cemetery still?’

‘Yes, one of them was used to shoot Martin Foley. I took the gun back up to the graveyard after the shooting. Meehan did the shooting.’

Neither O’Mahony nor Hanley could believe their ears. ‘Martin Foley was shot at twice—which one are we talking about?’

‘The one in Cashel Avenue. They made a bollocks of it. They allowed him to reverse the car and he got away. Meehan couldn’t handle the gun. I had shown him how to fire it in a field out at the back of the graveyard. I got the gun ready for them and collected it afterwards.’

‘Why was Foley shot?’

‘Because Foley mouthed to all the politicals that Gilligan and Meehan were selling heroin.’

‘Does Foley know it was Meehan who shot him?’

‘He does. They have patched it up.’

‘What other gun did you get?’

‘I remember another time when Meehan, Mitchell and [named another man] were on holidays, a box with five 9mm semi-autos came in with the hash. I put those in the graveyard too. John Gilligan told me that these were coming in and he asked afterwards if I had got them. In January of this year another sub-machine gun and a .357 Magnum and 12 rounds came in.’

‘Where is the .357 gun now?’

‘I know that is the gun you are looking for for Veronica Guerin’s murder.’

‘How do you know what type of gun we are looking for?’

‘I got it wrapped up and put it up in the graveyard too. Right. I might as well tell you everything. There is a name you haven’t mentioned at all, the person who shot Veronica Guerin. Can I trust you? I have told you so much now I might as well tell you all. Pat the Hat, do you know him?’

‘No, I never heard of that name for any criminal.’

‘You must know him, he has done a few hits around town.’

‘Do you know his correct name?’

‘He is called Pat the Hat but we call him The Wig. Be careful of that, there is only a few of us that know him by that name, only five of us.’

‘What is the correct name?’

‘Don’t know it, call him The Wig.’

‘Give us a description of him.’

‘He might be called Paddy too. I am not sure.’

‘What’s his description?’

‘Forty-five years approximately, maybe more. Bald on top, sandy kind of hair, about 5 foot 8 inches or 5 foot 9 inches. He has a bent nose. I met him often. I used to give him some hash.’

‘How can you be so sure that the .357 Magnum was used for the murder of Veronica Guerin?’

‘Because I cleaned it and got it ready before the murder. There were refill bullets in it. Brass with silver heads, the tops were turned in, rather than coming to a point.’

‘Where did you get this gun when you cleaned it?’

‘Shay Ward brought it down from the graveyard.’

‘Who did you give it to?’

‘I left it in the lock-up with Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell and Shay Ward. They had been talking about shooting Veronica Guerin. Traynor had told them that she was up in court in Kildare.’

‘Tell us everything you know about Veronica’s murder.’

‘Well, I knew they had planned to shoot her, and when I cleaned the gun I knew that that was the gun that was to be used in the shooting.’

‘Why was she shot?’

‘John Gilligan wanted her shot. I often heard Meehan and Mitchell talk about her and how upset Gilligan was about her charging him for assault. I didn’t know where she was to be shot, I had nothing to do with it. I am telling the truth about that day. I was at work, they wouldn’t involve me in it. I am not into heavy stuff, they never asked me to do anything else in the murder. I met Brian Meehan and Peter Mitchell that night of the murder in The Hole in the Wall pub. Meehan told me about the murder, he said that he drove the bike on the job and The Wig did the shooting. Meehan changed into his clothes in the Greenmount lock-up. The Wig was real cool. Shay said that he said something about his fine house. Shay didn’t tell him how The Wig went away. I heard that Russell Warren got the bike for them.’

‘Do you know if John Traynor was involved in the murder?’

‘The only thing I heard about him was that it was he who told them that she was in the court in Kildare. I don’t know anything else about him. I gave him two guns—this was before the murder. Traynor wanted to give the guns to politicals as a sweetener for something. I gave him a .38 snub-nosed and a Browning semi-automatic. I was told to give these guns. I left them on the roadside near the graveyard.’

O’Mahony and Hanley eased back into their chairs. It was over.

Chapter 15

The Usual Suspects

‘John’s only answer to everything was “I’ll bump him off.”’

MICHAEL GRIMES

When Guerin was shot, Gilligan’s world changed irrevocably. He could spend only a few days in any one place at any time. He correctly suspected that every police force in Europe was looking for him. His instinct, a trait he heavily relied on, told him he was being followed. Paranoia consumed him. The criminals he listed as friends now shunned him. He was fast losing control of the gang at a time when he needed them most. He found himself trapped in London with hundreds of thousands of pounds, which he needed to smuggle to Amsterdam. With no one available to transport the cash, he was put in the position of doing the unthinkable—carrying it himself. This was risky. Ever since he had threatened the staff in Holyhead, he was wary about making a mistake on British soil. Her Majesty’s Customs would be looking for him. Although he didn’t know it at the time, this assumption was correct. Roger Wilson had made sure Gilligan’s name and passport number remained on the intelligence database. He believed that it would only be a matter of time before the pint-sized Gilligan made a mistake.

Gilligan did just that on the morning of Friday, 4 October, when he presented himself at the KLM ticket sales desk wanting to purchase a ticket for a flight bound for Amsterdam the next day. He paid for the ticket in cash. There was no problem. The next day he checked in late, just 30 minutes before his flight was due to depart. His only luggage was a metallic, hard-backed suitcase, which he pulled along with little difficulty. He said he’d carry it on board as hand luggage. It weighed just 23 kilos. His decision to check in late sparked off a security warning on the airline’s computer, which immediately alerted Customs intelligence staff at Heathrow. The names of all passengers who arrive late for outbound flights are referred to Customs for security checks. The intelligence staff didn’t pay too much attention to the referral until one recognised Gilligan’s name. He took the flight details and logged on to SEDRIC, the Customs database of criminal intelligence. Gilligan’s name showed up.

A surveillance team was mobilised. By the time Gilligan was located, he was already boarding the flight. They learned that he was due to return on another flight later that day and decided to wait. He never showed up then, but he did the next morning, on 6 October, when he did the same thing. Obviously he had re-entered the UK by another means of flight and perhaps under another name. He made his way towards the KLM flight desk and purchased a ticket for flight No. KL120. It was bound for Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. He handed over a fistful of notes. With the ticket in one hand and the suitcase in the other, he checked in late. The receptionist glanced at his photograph and smiled before handing him a boarding card. She looked at the suitcase but before she could say a word, he interjected: ‘That’s hand luggage.’ She said it was necessary to weigh it to make sure. It weighed 23 kilos. He went to the departures lounge. This time, Customs were waiting for him. He didn’t notice the officers staring at him from the security gate until it was too late to turn back. One stepped forward and asked him if he had anything to declare. He said he didn’t.

They took him aside into a small room. He still had a firm grip on his suitcase. He was asked to open it, which he did. Inside was a pillow and a shirt. There was an anti-bugging device and a loan agreement for IR£4 million from a Lebanese man, Joseph Saouma. There were also bookies’ cheques. The officer searched further, moving his hands about. In the bottom, he felt soft plastic. He gently removed the pillow to uncover a package enfolded in bubble-wrap. It was filled with notes. Inside was £330,000 in sterling, Northern Irish sterling and Irish currency.

The blood drained from Gilligan’s face. Alone in the room, he knew he was in the hands of the same security agency whose members years before he had tormented and threatened. He was placed under arrest for concealing money in order to avoid a drugs charge. More Customs staff entered the room. He was then taken away for interrogation which lasted two days.

With audacious calm, Gilligan started explaining that he was on his way to Amsterdam to go horse racing and to look at property. He pointed at the suitcase. ‘It’s all legal and above board,’ he said.

The interrogation continued with various teams of officers coming and going. They carried with them bundles of files, listing names, passenger and flight details. He asked to call his solicitor but was told he could not. The day passed with more officers arriving. These were more senior and clearly knew more about him than the others. During one of the changeovers, he rang Geraldine using his mobile, which had not been taken from him. ‘They’ve got the three hundred grand . . .’ He was interrupted midway through the call and hung up.

Two days later, he was not in the frame of mind to answer any more questions and he asked if he was going to be charged.

‘Yes, Mr Gilligan, you are,’ said one of the Customs men. The gangster went pale. The next day, he was brought before Uxbridge Magistrates’ Court on a charge of concealing or transferring his proceeds of drug trafficking under Section 49(1)(a) of the Drug Trafficking Act 1994. It was a routine court appearance. He was remanded to Wormwood Scrubs Prison.

Across the Irish Sea, Gilligan’s cartel was slowly being dismantled. Bowden was brought before Kilmainham District Court surrounded by tight security. He was charged with various offences and remanded to Mountjoy Prison. It was a theatrical act played out by both sides to fool the others still at large. It worked, sending them all into a fit of panic. In reality, they knew their days were numbered. They prepared to flee. However, if their passports were presented at Dublin Airport, they would surely be arrested. Meehan knew of a friendly garda who could solve their problem through Paul Ward, one of his associates, who collected money for the gang. In the meantime they vanished, moving out of their homes and into hotels or friends’ houses, never sleeping two nights in the one bed.

Paul Ward had found himself under suspicion because of his connection to the gang. He sought refuge in the Green Isle Hotel on the Naas Road. By chance, Ronanstown gardaí were searching for a man with a similar name in connection with an armed robbery. A tip-off to detectives resulted in his being arrested at gunpoint while he slept at the hotel early on 8 October. He was taken from the hotel and driven to Ronanstown Garda Station, arriving at 1.50 a.m. Overcome by shock, he said nothing, waiting for the inevitable. Then he was released at 2.45 a.m. He was told he was the wrong man.

The next day at 7.15 p.m. he rang John O’Neill at Tallaght Garda Station. They agreed to meet later that night. Ward gave him two passport forms and four photographs of his brother Shay, whom O’Neill immediately recognised, having charged him years before. Ward told O’Neill he believed he was going to be arrested for Guerin’s murder as part of the general round-up. They agreed to meet four days later at the Cuckoo’s Nest on the Greenhills Road at 8.20 p.m.

O’Neill did as he was told. He arrived for the meeting in his Land Rover. Ward was waiting inside and on seeing O’Neill, walked out and sat in the front passenger seat. O’Neill, never a man to worry about security, switched on the car’s internal light and handed some papers to Ward, who threw his eyes over the paperwork. O’Neill had stamped the passport applications as instructed. Neither of the conspirators took much notice of the people coming to and from the pub. They should have done.

When they finished their business, Ward jumped out and O’Neill drove home.

It was the least he could do for the gang. They had completely corrupted him. He had solicited bribes and allowed himself to plunge into criminality. When it was established that O’Neill had abandoned his moral senses, Hickey instructed the team to intercept the passport applications through the Department of Foreign Affairs. If the gang managed to reach the continent, they could disappear, possibly forever. He wanted to avoid a lengthy extradition process at all costs. He had another message for O’Neill and Ward—he ordered his officers to arrest them both.

The morning of 16 October was cold and overcast. Paul Ward’s miraculous release from custody the week before had, if nothing else, given him a sense of false security. The surprise that day was that he had returned home where he was found. Elizabeth, his mother, and Vanessa Meehan, his girlfriend, were also detained at exactly the same time. Ward was placed in a squad car and driven to Lucan Station. His girlfriend was sent to Ballyfermot, his mother driven to Cabra.

The suspect was formally registered 20 minutes later. He demanded to speak to a lawyer and requested medication. He told the police he was a heroin addict. He needed physeptone. With no preparatory talk, the police called a doctor. His name was Lionel Williams. He arrived later that day after the interviews had started. When he arrived at the station, Ward asked to be examined to see if he had injuries. The doctor did as requested but found nothing. He gave 40 milligrams of sedative in liquid form to a garda to give to the prisoner. The interviews commenced.

O’Neill heard through the grapevine about Ward’s detention but thought nothing of it. He was the most surprising of men, for it never crossed his mind that he too was in trouble. Over time, he had managed to hypnotise himself into a surreal world. He was quickly brought back to reality when at 7 p.m. the next night six gardaí arrived at his door armed with a search warrant. Detective Inspector Jerry O’Connell knocked at the door of his home in Kingswood Heights in Tallaght. A stunned O’Neill answered the door. As the detectives made their way in, O’Connell asked him if he had anything illegal in the house.

‘No. No, I don’t have anything in the house. Why would I have anything in the house? I’ve only got a sawn-off shotgun. It’s upstairs in the wardrobe,’ he said. Minutes later, the search party found the weapon. It was an air pistol. Beside it was a file marked ‘courts’. Wearing plastic gloves, detectives opened the file. Inside was a bench warrant for a girlfriend of Meehan. O’Neill was arrested and brought to Naas Garda Station where he confessed to corruption. Later that Friday night, shortly before 9 p.m., Paul Ward was charged with Guerin’s murder when he appeared before Dublin District Court. He was later convicted for the offence but this was quashed on appeal.

The gardaí proceeded to arrest others who they suspected might have information about O’Neill’s dealings with criminals. More than anything else, police management feared a scandal emanating from within their own ranks. There were persistent allegations of corruption, which through an assortment of friendly journalists were denied. They were now in the precarious position of having to charge one of their own officers. O’Neill had sung like a canary, naming the criminals who bribed him. He said he had met Paul Ward through Martin Ryan, a nightclub manager he once worked for. Ryan was questioned at Terenure Garda Station. He was one of several people who knew nothing about organised crime but had to be interviewed by the gardaí. Paul Ward had been monitored calling to his home.

Sergeant Cormac McGuiness and Garda Pauline Reid, the officers conducting the interview, got straight to the point. ‘Why did Paul Ward call to your house on Tuesday, 15 October 1996?’ asked McGuiness.

‘He just dropped in. He said he was meeting someone in the Cuckoo’s Nest. He was very agitated. He said he was meeting a bloke and he wanted to leave him dangling. He said he had five minutes to spare. He appeared to me to be in a bit of limbo. He didn’t seem to know whether to keep the appointment. He appeared to want to come into my house.’

Ryan managed the System Night Club on South Anne Street in Dublin. Meehan, Paul Ward and Mitchell were regular patrons. In an interview the next day Sergeant Michael O’Leary and Garda Andy Manning took over the interrogation. This proved more productive. He inadvertently linked Holland to the gang.

‘There’s another guy, they call him “Gene Wilder”. He’s about 50 years. He’s very thin, about 5 foot 5 inches. His name is Gene. He’s very grumpy and I tried to stop him at the door one night. He was with Aidan, Brian Meehan and a few other girls and I think “Git”. Aidan said that he was with them so I let him in. He used to come in on his own after that but he would always be with Brian Meehan and Paul Ward. Ward would come in at least once a week. They always got on well, having the craic. Sometimes “Gene” would come in with a guy called “Kellyer”. He looked like a junkie.’

‘Why did they call him Gene Wilder?’

‘´Cause he looked like him when he had the hair out frizzy. He normally has his hair tied back in a ponytail. The ponytail is shoulder length, so when it’s out it looks real frizzy.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about Gene?’

‘No, not really but he’s easy to pick out. He has a fat nose—it’s lumpy, very red and pointy. He wasn’t very clean, always T-shirts and jacket, navy or black, and trousers.’

The officer asked Ryan if he knew any gardaí. He wasn’t aware that O’Neill was in custody.

‘I know another guard from Tallaght, he’s known as “Buffalo”. He’s John O’Neill. I was at his house in Kingswood. We called to his house to get a parking fine fixed. He wasn’t in when we called but I met him on the Greenhills Road near the Cuckoo’s Nest.’

‘How many times have you been in contact with John O’Neill?’

‘About six times.’

‘What was the reason for these contacts?’

‘He was always asking me for money. I’d give it to him sometimes. He’d call to my house.’

‘What is your connection with Paul Ward and John O’Neill?’

‘John O’Neill is a great friend of Paul Ward. I don’t have anything to do with them. They have an arrangement with them and Brian Meehan. They look after him for whatever, information I suppose. I don’t like O’Neill, he’s dirt, a sponger.’

Ryan is said to have been horrified by what had happened to Guerin and had been misfortunate enough to have met Gilligan’s gang, something which had led gardaí to his door. However, O’Neill was charged the next night at a special sitting of Dublin District Court. He had resigned from the force while in custody. The hearing took less than ten minutes. The charges prompted Meehan, Mitchell, Shay Ward and Holland to leave the State immediately. The gardaí had put the Passport Office under surveillance to see if they would collect the passports O’Neill had stamped. But they never showed up.

News of the charges was communicated to Gilligan. He was trying to fight his own battle. The British authorities moved him from Wormwood Scrubs to Belmarsh High Security Prison. He made an application for bail on 23 October but lost. The Crown Prosecution Service objected to bail and won. He was further remanded to 14 November.

The sheriff arrived with his men outside the gates of Jessbrook at 9 a.m. on 20 November 1996. His men were burly and wore masks and overalls. Some of them wore dark glasses, baseball hats and scarves to conceal their identities. The number plates on their vehicles had been removed. Behind them stood half a dozen gardaí drawn from the Louth/Meath division. They were there as back-up. A small number carried firearms. When John and Geraldine Gilligan failed to respond to their respective tax bills, the CAB instructed the county sheriff to seize their property. The day had come.

Geraldine was at home with Darren, Tracy and her daughter Shannon. She saw them coming, but there was nothing that she or anyone else could do. Frank Lanigan, the county sheriff, knocked at the door and explained his business. His men entered the house. The Gilligans put up no fight.

They took everything, lifting furniture and everything else as if they were removal men. Geraldine was lost for words. She spent much of her time during the raid sitting on the floor. At other times, she was possessed by a strength that made her appear outwardly unwavering in the face of such adversity. What affected her more than anything was the removal of her beloved horses. When she saw the sheriff’s men lead them one by one into horse trailers she broke down. For the first time since the murder, it all became too much. She was stunned. All they left was a child’s pony and four horses that she didn’t own. The seizure of the animals brought her back to her senses, and in a bold move she walked out the gates and spoke to the media for the first time. The dogs followed.

She had only one message. ‘I couldn’t answer any tax assessments because the police have all my documents of returns, and everything else, so I didn’t have any documentation to answer with,’ she said. Asked how much was sought in the tax assessment she received, she said: ‘Mine was IR£882,000, but the one that I got on the 14th of this month has gone up with interest to IR£1,292,000.’ She came across as a genuinely wronged woman, almost breaking down crying.

The sheriff’s men left at 5.10 p.m. It was bitterly cold and almost dark by the time they had removed everything. During the course of the day, detectives from the CAB made an inventory of the property seized. This was handed to Geraldine who ran her eyes down the list. There she noticed a Nissan Micra car. She remarked to the detective that no one in the family owned a Micra. ‘Oh, that’s John’s girlfriend’s,’ the detective responded, with a smile.

She said nothing. Once inside the door of her bare home, she fell to the floor and started crying. She had no choice. There were no seats or furniture left to sit on. Everything was gone. Darren and Tracy comforted her, and her friend Jean Bolger wiped away the tears.

The press were everywhere outside. Eventually, they started calling to the door. She refused to answer it. She cried all night. She couldn’t believe that Gilligan had a girlfriend, young enough to be her daughter. She asked how he could do this to her. Then when sense began to prevail, she asked how he could have a relationship with such a young girl. ‘It’s not her I’m annoyed with. It’s him,’ she said.

Tracy was more direct. She wanted to go straight to Rooney’s house and tell her what she thought of the relationship. ‘My ma’s been crying all night because of her. I could kill me fucking da.’

Carol Rooney was the least of her worries. Public unrest began to manifest itself with vigilante attacks on Jessbrook. Her car windows were smashed. People started sending her pornographic hate mail in the morning post. The gates to Jessbrook were vandalised. ‘Drugs bitch out’ was sprayed on the walls. In an attempt to give her side of the story, she spoke to the press, painting a rather bleak picture of her existence.

‘I still believe John had nothing to do with the murder. The papers have made him out to be a killer,’ she told the Sunday Business Post.

‘My life has been turned upside down, so much so that I can’t describe it. It’s just all gone. All that’s left for me to do is just die, then everyone will be happy. I’ve even lost my brothers and sisters. It kills me to think that my family wouldn’t even stand by me, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. You know last week a newspaper article said my life ended when the sheriff and police came, but my life really ended when Veronica Guerin was killed.’

Though her interview was polished, she could not explain her wealth. She carefully avoided mentioning the cash withdrawals, or where the money was now. ‘I’m not interested in what people think. The money came from gambling as far as I am concerned. I don’t believe John was involved in the drugs trade. If people believe that you can’t win money gambling there would be no bookies’ shops. Are the people of Ireland telling me that you can’t win money gambling? John even had limits placed on his bets in some bookies. I have never seen any evidence which made me believe that John was involved in drugs.’

Making herself out to be a victim, she said her separation was legitimate: ‘I wish it wasn’t because I still love him in some way. The media pressure has brought us back together again. Our marriage started to fall apart when we moved to Meath in 1994 because I was engrossed in my horses and he was into gambling. A lot of our problems were caused by the lack of space in the house. When John would show up, all my friends would be staying so we had no time to ourselves. In ´95 we called it a day because I had more time for my horses than I did for him. The separation agreement was that he would finish the construction of the centre. It was an unorthodox split up because we remained friends.’

Then, in a direct reference to Gilligan’s relationship with Rooney, she said: ‘John and I are separated; he is free to do his own thing.’

The interview lasted for three hours during which time a helicopter hovered above the centre carrying a film crew. Finally she avowed that she had never been a bad person.

‘I want to see Veronica Guerin’s killers caught. I watched her husband on The Late Late Show and felt the same as everyone else. I know he doesn’t want to hear that, but it’s the truth. I so believe that John had nothing to do with it. The papers have made him out to be a killer. The reason why I’m giving this interview is because papers are printing stories about me and John which are not true. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. The media don’t know me so how can they write about me? The future holds nothing. I don’t think anyone wants to see me get justice. It’s as simple as that.’

The Criminal Assets Bureau attracted a great deal of controversy due to the anarchic laws empowered in it. Fachtna Murphy was acutely aware of this and refrained from prosecuting cases where there was little or no hard evidence to link cash to drug trafficking. But the powers invested in CAB still caused genuine concern among civil rights activists and people like Ó Siodhacháin, who was still in regular contact with Geraldine. He didn’t like CAB for ideological reasons more than anything else. In one of his many meetings with Geraldine, he advised her to speak with Michael Grimes in Cork. He was a man who would help, he told her.

Grimes was a spindly little man who revelled in trouble. He introduced himself as a tax expert—at other times he was a liquidator. ‘It depends on what day of the week you get me,’ he said. Without having any formal legal qualifications, he is revered for his highly tuned legal mind, which has struck the fear of God into those who have crossed swords with him. Geraldine, out of desperation, said she wanted to meet him. A week later, she did.

They met in his office in Cork. Grimes studied her case paperwork. He looked Ó Siodhacháin straight in the eye and said, ‘I can see the way their minds work.’

Grimes later said, ‘I reached the conclusion that she might have a claim for half the property, but in my view she didn’t because the money she used was his. On the face of it, she seemed hard done by, because she said she was separated from her beloved, though at that time she didn’t quite use the word beloved.’

Geraldine Gilligan didn’t know what to make of the eccentric Cork man but, left with no other choice, asked him to help.

‘Then she asked if I would look after John’s representation and my viewpoint on that was it was an English case, it dealt with English law, it was highly specialised and there was no point in involving Irish lawyers of any kind. She then asked me if I would go see him.’

She left the meeting content and dined with Ó Siodhacháin that evening, before catching the 6.30 p.m. train home. She didn’t know what to think of Grimes. ‘I don’t know if he’s mad or what,’ she said. Meanwhile Grimes went to see Gilligan in prison.

‘Belmarsh gave us our own room. You presume everything is bugged, so we wrote little notes to each other. His was, “I don’t fucking care if this room is bugged.”’

They discussed Gilligan’s case strategy, the CAB raid on Jessbrook and the murder.

‘As far as he was concerned, he was going to be out in three weeks, it was a terrible mistake,’ said Grimes.

‘I was quite blunt with him. I realised that even if I wanted to defend him, I wouldn’t last 20 minutes because nobody who disagreed with him got anywhere. He knew exactly what he was going to do, because he was totally innocent of everything and he never heard of people like Paddy Holland or Brian Meehan. Now when he tells you straight to your face that he never heard of these guys, well you know what you’re up against.’

Grimes subscribed to the belief that in court, people should never ask questions they don’t know the answers to. Gilligan struck Grimes as a dogged and determined person.

‘John had a habit of deciding something, which was totally unreal. The real problem with him and Geraldine is facts don’t influence anything. Once they decide something is true, well that’s the end of it. The fact that the facts scream to high heaven to the opposite is neither here nor there. John would say that it was really her property and it was her decision. And she would say you’d have to ask the boss. So between the two of them, you never got an answer to anything. Not that he would give you an answer to anything.’

Grimes, who speaks with an alarming bluntness, later concluded that Geraldine was the person he should talk to. ‘She was the cleverer of the two. John was plain stupid. John’s only answer to everything was, “I’ll bump him off.”’

Grimes set about devising a method to halt the CAB in its tracks.

Gilligan was in the act of fighting a losing battle at Belmarsh Magistrates’ Court. Customs and Excise were pressing ahead in conjunction with the gardaí. The murder inquiry arranged for Dunne to be flown to London to testify for Customs in a move also aimed at frightening the rest of the gang who were operating from the shadows. When Gilligan heard that one of his own was going to give evidence, he was dumbstruck. He didn’t really believe it was going to happen until Dunne took the stand. Gilligan watched from the dock in disbelief while Dunne told the judge that he never knew he was importing drugs.

‘I was not told what was in the containers. I was not told what was the weight of them. There was no discussion.’ It was comical. ‘There was something not quite right,’ he said with a degree of smugness.

Gilligan’s lawyer, Clare Montgomery, saw through this and tore the witness to shreds, prising apart his evidence.

The case lasted for three days. The media had arrived en masse. Many of the journalists assembled were startled to discover that Gilligan was a small man. He took no notice. He sat back smiling. Sometimes he fiddled with his glasses while generally surveying all about him. At other times, he stared up at the ceiling, leaning back on his bench to rest his arms behind his head. He was outwardly jovial.

On the third day, the chief prosecutor told the court that Dermot Cambridge, a van driver innocently duped into the conspiracy by Dunne, was refusing to travel to England to give evidence because he had received a number of threatening phone calls and was ‘frightened for his life’. Cambridge said anonymous callers were threatening to kill him, his girlfriend and his child.

Gilligan was remanded in custody until 20 February.

The Sunday Times announced to the world that Grimes planned to reopen Jessbrook a week after the committal hearing had ended. Grimes, by a miraculous stroke of coincidence, said he had been hired by Joseph Saouma to retrieve a IR£4 million loan given to Gilligan. Grimes had also, without anyone’s knowledge, been appointed by a British court as receiver to Gilligan’s assets, including Jessbrook and two houses in Dublin.

‘It is my intention to reopen the equestrian centre. It is the finest in Europe, it holds 2,800 people in an indoor arena,’ he said, adding that he never worked for Gilligan. The CAB didn’t know what to make of it all.

The Gilligans in the meantime were waging an all-out legal battle to stop the CAB. Immediately after the raid on Jessbrook, Geraldine sought a High Court injunction preventing the Bureau from selling off her property. The CAB contested the injunction but lost. It was a temporary setback. Seven days later, on 12 February, lawyers acting for Gilligan failed to prevent the State from appointing a receiver over his properties. It was another blow to the cartel. But Gilligan was granted permission to challenge the constitutionality of the Proceeds of Crime Act 1996.

The tide turned six days later when Geraldine initiated an appeal against the seizure of her property. Her case centred on her claim that she was not liable for Gilligan’s taxes.

‘If I was taxable, then every separated wife in the country would be taxable for their ex-husbands. It made no sense to me.’

Her lawyers argued that she was a married woman and that she and Gilligan were living as husband and wife at the time of the tax assessment. Because neither had opted for a separate tax assessment, it was her husband who was chargeable under the tax laws.

The CAB reaffirmed that she was a chargeable person, claiming that in the period of assessment, she had bank accounts with substantial sums in her own name. This was income in her own hands. The judge reserved judgement. The news came on 23 February that Geraldine had won her case in the High Court, which ruled that she was not liable for the massive tax bill of IR£1.6 million. She could not believe her ears. Mr Justice Morris, in delivering his judgement, said it was clear that significant consequences might flow from his determination of the issues, but it was no part of his function to consider any such consequences.

In the meantime, Gilligan was sent forward for trial in Woolwich on 17 March, St Patrick’s Day. David Cooper, the stipendiary magistrate, outlined the case against the gangster during a 20-minute written submission to the court. Gilligan, he said, did have a case to answer before a jury, but the prosecution had not established a case beyond reasonable doubt.

On 20 February, at 1 p.m., there were crowds everywhere on Upper Street in Islington, allowing Detective Constable Patrick McElhatton to blend in easily. He was undercover, following a target with a covert operations team drawn from the South Regional Crime Squad. The target walked briskly, which caused his followers to do likewise. He headed into the public entrance of Angel Street tube station.

McElhatton watched as his subject and his girl-friend moved towards the south side of the entrance. Then there were three of them—the young couple and a much older male.

‘The younger male was six foot tall, 30 to 35 years old, medium to heavy build, wearing spectacles. He was wearing a light-brown suede jacket,’ McElhatton noted.

Bowden was looking smart for a fugitive on the run. He had just been released from Mountjoy Prison and skipped bail, taking Juliet Bacon with him.

McElhatton didn’t know the identity of the man they were meeting but noticed he had a distinctive misshaped nose and was carrying a newspaper in his right hand. He moved in closer to hear their conversation.

‘Don’t say fuck all about me, I’m telling you, I’ve me alibi sorted.’ The older man spoke loudly. There followed another conversation, which the policeman couldn’t hear. The group walked off.

The third man was Patrick Holland, who had decided to face the music and return home. He called the incident room and said he’d present himself at Lucan Garda Station with his solicitor. On the morning of 9 April, Garda Marion Cusack, a streetwise member of the Drugs Unit at Store Street Station, was monitoring passengers arriving at Dún Laoghaire ferryport. The night before, Holland had telephoned the incident room to say he would be arriving on the ferry.

Cusack saw a red Volkswagen Polo car alighting from the ferry driven by a woman with a male passenger in the front seat and a boy in the back seat. She approached the passenger and asked his name.

Holland revealed his identity. He was immediately arrested under Section 30 of the Offences Against the State Act, on suspicion of having a firearm, and was taken to Lucan where he was interviewed at length. By chance a garda searching through his belongings found what appeared to be a walkman among his possessions. Out of curiosity, he put the headphones on and heard what sounded like his colleagues interviewing Holland. He rushed into the interview room. The suspect was searched. Nothing was found. Later, his shoes were torn apart. Inside the police found two tiny transmitters. He had tried to record the interview.

Bowden was arrested in London and agreed to return home voluntarily. O’Mahony and Hanley flew to London City Airport to collect him on the night of 11 April. He apologised and told the police he’d testify in court.

Chapter 16

Fighting Back

‘I’ll send someone to kill you and everybody around you if he goes Turk.’

BRIAN MEEHAN THREATENING CHARLES BOWDEN’S GIRLFRIEND, JULIET BACON

John Gilligan had been remanded to the maximum-security wing in Belmarsh Prison on the outskirts of London. Belmarsh Prison is built near the site of the wartime arsenal at Woolwich. It was opened in 1991 and is used as a dispersal prison. It accommodates 901 inmates. Houseblock No. 4 is where the maximum-security prisoners are held. Life there is a harsh regime where prisoners like Gilligan are confined for longer periods in their cells.

With no way of escaping and locked up for most of the day, Gilligan resolved to fight the prosecution every step of the way. His strategy took two forms, both aimed at bringing about the same conclusion. His first stratagem was to denounce the prosecution every step of the way. From this starting point, he instructed his lawyers to appeal every decision pertinent to his extradition. The instructions were based on his own interpretations of extradition and constitutional law which he formulated through reading law books, massive manuals on extradition, criminal law and constitutional issues. The second, but far more effective, method of hindering the prosecution case, was the threat of extreme violence against anyone who considered testifying against him. Meehan saw to this.

The first of many hearings got underway on 17 March 1997, the feast of St Patrick, when Gilligan’s lawyers sought a judicial review of his committal. It was supposed to be a routine hearing—and it was, until the prosecution announced that a further 54 Irish witnesses were available to give evidence.

The figure startled Gilligan. Even if most of the new witnesses were gardaí, the news signalled certain trouble.

But he wasn’t just fighting the British authorities. Back in Dublin he was mounting a legal challenge against the constitutionality of the Proceeds of Crime Act 1996. This complex legal case commenced on 18 March. It ran for three days. The powers invested in the Bureau were described as ‘the creation of a police state’. The CAB defence, however, was simple: the State had a right to confiscate the proceeds of crime. Judgement was reserved.

Gilligan, who with inspirational zeal was fast learning the mechanisms of criminal and constitutional law, was briefed on the developments. He believed there was real hope. After all, Geraldine had won her case against the Bureau notwithstanding the odds.

But what Gilligan could not see was how Geraldine’s life had changed irrevocably since Guerin’s murder. The woman he gave everything to was no longer the lady of the country manor. What few friends she ever had no longer took her calls or enquired about her wellbeing. There were no more extravagant parties at Jessbrook. But Geraldine was a survivor. She took everything in her stride: Nothing fazed her. Least of all the garda raids, court actions or pressure from the media.

Her daughter was the same. Darren, however, was different. He did not possess the same inner strength as his mother or sister. The pressure of the Garda investigation into his father’s criminal empire secretly impacted on him. He turned to heroin to escape. He became an addict. None of the family realised this until he was charged at a special late sitting of Dublin District Court on 2 April with a number of crimes, including burglary. He had committed the crimes while high.

Prison was supposed to neutralise Gilligan, but it did no such thing. The gardaí hoped Gilligan’s arrest would strike fear into the gang, forcing them to go their separate ways. It was an idle hope, wishful thinking on the police’s part. The gangster’s arrest had the opposite effect. Meehan and Holland, more than the others, allegedly resolved to dispatch those planning to testify against them. Holland, intelligence reports alleged, sincerely regretted not killing Bowden when he had the chance in London. It was now too late. Bowden was in Arbour Hill Prison, under 24-hour armed guard for his own protection. Warren was just as safe. Gilligan had no idea he was helping the police. Warren met his handlers at clandestine locations. It was a dangerous game but one he played carefully. Dunne was also protected. His home in Cork lay surrounded by an impenetrable cordon of armed police. The threat against them was still very real.

Thomas Coyle, Gilligan’s loyal friend, was desperately trying to find an assassin inside Arbour Hill willing to kill Bowden. He suggested mixing crushed glass or poisons in his meals. His preferred method of assassination, though, was a knife in the back while he showered. The reward he offered was IR£2 million. Coyle approached former IRA men but to no avail. In one confidential memorandum, which Todd O’Loughlin, a senior officer on the case, wrote to Hickey, he outlined his fears for the safety of all concerned. It was headed ‘Security of Witnesses in the Veronica Guerin murder investigation’.

It is the consensus of opinion at the incident room at Lucan that the security of witnesses discussed hereafter should be given urgent consideration. Reports from a number of confidential sources indicate that the principals in this murder who are still at large, namely Brian Meehan, Peter Mitchell and Patrick Eugene Holland have come to the conclusion that the only way to stop the witnesses testifying against them, and to re-establish their control over these people, is to kill one or more of the witnesses. Their primary target at the moment is Charlie Bowden: statements attached.

The gang are particularly annoyed at Charlie Bowden and profoundly regret not having killed him when he recently absconded to Britain. Attempts are now being made to find somebody who can kill him in prison. He is presently in Arbour Hill Prison as his security could not be assured in Mountjoy Prison. There is also grave concern for the safety of Juliet Bacon, who is Bowden’s common-law wife, and is not in custody at the moment.

In the case of Russell Warren, the threat is not imminent as his evidence has not yet been served and the Gilligan gang is not aware of the extent of it. Immediate consideration would need to be given to the position of Juliet Bacon and [another criminal informant] who seem to be the most vulnerable at the moment.

Hickey needed no convincing. If any of the witnesses came to harm, it would be a disaster. Not only would the others be too afraid to testify, there would be a knock-on effect. With the absence of any formal protection operation for State witnesses, the realisation that Gilligan’s gang was perhaps even more dangerous than ever entered his thoughts. There was no other solution—the situation required the creation of a witness protection programme. The assistant commissioner sent a letter, with the word ‘confidential’ stamped on top, to C Branch, the force’s intelligence section, on 4 April 1997.

‘It is significant that intelligence indicates that the main players think that the absence of a witness protection programme in this country is to their advantage. There is no doubt but that they will resort to murder to prevent witnesses giving damaging evidence in court. I agree with inspector T. O’Loughlin’s assessment that Juliet Bacon and [another criminal informant] are most vulnerable at the moment and should be provided with protection in the short term. I think that we should review the situation following consultation with the DPP and if necessary set up a witness protection programme, as all the vital witnesses will be under severe threat if statements are served, and under prolonged threat if, and when, they give evidence.’

His analysis was correct. As he was writing, the gang was quickly coming to the conclusion that Bowden was now a sworn enemy. Their worst suspicions were partly confirmed when they dis-covered that Bowden was no longer being held in Mountjoy Prison but had been transferred to Arbour Hill. This suggested that Bowden was either in solitary confinement or, more likely, had turned supergrass.

Gilligan was losing his patience. He couldn’t distinguish the lies from the truth in the coded messages relayed to him over the phone. Meehan and the others were equally confused. All they could do was wait for Bowden to make contact.

At 4 p.m. on 11 April 1997, Juliet Bacon walked into the Hole in the Wall pub on Blackhorse Avenue in Dublin. She was accompanied by five armed gardaí. One attached a recording device to the public phone in the pub. She made a few calls. The first was to a wrong number. The second reached a business contact of Gilligan’s. She asked this man to call Meehan and tell him to get in touch. She hung up. Five minutes later, the phone rang. She got straight to the point.

‘Charlie is going fucking mad, he wants to know what the fucking story is.’

She enquired about Holland’s arrest at Dún Laoghaire. Meehan told her it was of no concern to Bowden. Trying to compromise him further, she continued: ‘He said they nicked him . . . He got told that someone ratted that he was coming on the boat or else they said they had surveillance on the boats.’

‘He has nothing to do with what Charlie got done for.’

‘I know, he’s just wondering, just worried what the story is, that’s all,’ she said.

‘But it’s got nothing to do with the murder and it’s nothing. He’s clear on the murder, he is, because they didn’t do him with it, cause they’ve no evidence, right.’

Bacon enquired further, asking Meehan out straight about Holland’s court appearance on drugs charges. She referred to this as ‘the drugs thing’.

Meehan didn’t need anyone to tell him that she was up to no good. Now he got straight to the point.

‘Now listen to me and I’ll tell you, cause I want to get things straight, cause things are looking very fucking fishy to me, right, and I’ll tell you what. I’m after being good to everybody but I’m taking off my gloves now. If Charlie’s going belly up, if Charlie is going gammy, he better fucking think very strongly about what will happen.’

‘Are you threatening me, Brian?’

‘Threatening, Julie? You’ll have no idea what I’m going to fucking do if he goes Turk. Now, I’m telling you, I’m his friend still, I’m helping you every way I can, but I’m fucking starting to worry and worry and worry, ’cause I’ll tell you who goes to Arbour Hill—fucking rapists and rats. I’ve done everything I fucking can to help him, everything. He has no worries against why Holland is home, unless he made a statement against him. Do you understand?’

‘Charlie is going ballistic.’

She need not have bothered acting. Meehan knew she was lying. He exploded with rage.

‘I’ll send someone to fucking kill you this fucking day, do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘What did you say?’

‘You are fucking hearing me. I’ll send someone to kill you and everybody around you if he goes Turk. Now tell him I said that, right, and tell him I said I’m fucking considering doing him anyway, so he better not fucking think of going rat, right. That’s the message now, right,’ he roared.

‘You’re a fucking knacker, that’s all, you’re a knacker.’

‘Charlie is a rat and if he rats on me, I’ll fucking kill you,’ he shouted.

‘I don’t fucking blame him if he does, you prick, you.’

‘Yeah, you fucking scumbag.’

She screamed back: ‘You’re a scumbag. Fuck off.’

The next day, Bowden’s semi-detached home in the Paddocks in Castleknock was petrol-bombed. There was no one at home. Bacon was in protective custody. The intimidation didn’t stop there. Brendan ‘Speedy’ Fegan, the gang’s representative in Northern Ireland, arrived in Dublin driving a red convertible BMW. He went searching for Bowden’s children. If burning Bowden’s home down didn’t work, kidnapping and torturing his children might. Fegan aborted the plan on finding Bowden’s family under armed guard. He was later arrested and told the police he never intended harming the children. He said he just wanted to take pictures of them. These would be sent to Bowden to force him to withdraw his statements.

The endless court appearances involving Gilligan continued. The Crown Prosecution Service sought permission for up to 50 witnesses to give evidence from Dublin, possibly before an Irish court. Per-mission was granted, prompting the gangster to seek a judicial review against this decision. Gilligan told his counsel there was no need for these security measures. He said he had no desire to prevent any witness from giving evidence. But there was a surprise in store. When his judicial review case was heard on 21 May 1997, Nigel Peters, the prosecuting barrister, said that, on the basis of statements made by one Charles Bowden, he wished to reintroduce two charges that had been struck out.

Hickey’s team took their time in preparing the murder case against Gilligan, until it became clear that Bowden would be required to travel to London to give evidence. The consensus was that Bowden would not stand up to a rigorous cross-examination before a London court, mainly because it was obvious that he was centrally involved in the assassination. Bowden could not account for his whereabouts on the day of the murder. His claim that when he loaded the Magnum he sincerely believed that Guerin would only be intimidated was so outlandish that no one would have faith in his words.

Left with no other alternative, the gardaí moved to extradite Gilligan. There was a flurry of meetings with barristers, the murder investigation team and officials from the Department of Justice. Hickey argued that Bowden would not testify unless given immunity. This was granted on 4 July 1997. Barry Donoghue, a legal assistant in the DPP’s office, wrote to Hickey confirming the news.

‘I refer to recent consultations regarding the ongoing investigation into the murder of Veronica Guerin. The Director has taken the following decision. It is unconditional and irrevocable. He will not prosecute Charles Bowden for the murder of Veronica Guerin on the basis of (a) any statement, made orally or in writing by Charles Bowden up to today’s date; (b) any further statement made orally or in writing which Charles Bowden may in the future make to a member of the Garda Síochána in the course of their investigation into the possible involvement of other persons in that murder; (c) any evidence which Charles Bowden may give in criminal proceedings against any other person.’

Warren’s solicitor received similar notification on 17 August 1997. By this time, he was living under the protection of the gardaí.

With the informants in place, Hickey flew to London and lodged 18 warrants with Scotland Yard seeking Gilligan’s extradition. The gangster only learned of this on the day his trial on drugs trafficking was due to begin, 8 September. The warrants Hickey lodged included the charge of murdering Veronica Guerin, drug trafficking and gun running. British Customs set aside their charges allowing the murder extradition proceedings to take priority.

The day was one of extraordinary complexities. For a brief moment, Gilligan was released from custody outside Belmarsh Court. Seconds later, he was rearrested by the Metropolitan Police. Under heavy armed guard, he was transported to Plumstead Police Station where he was formally served with his extradition warrants. Once he accepted the papers, he was returned to Belmarsh Magistrates’ Court.

The extradition hearing began at 3.15 p.m. Clare Montgomery QC immediately issued a warning to the court that she would be seeking an adjournment for an abuse of process. She pointed to a bundle of legal papers, which she said she had just been served. ‘This,’ she said without hesitation was ‘not acceptable’. She then made a prophetic announcement. She said Gilligan would pursue every line of appeal to the High Court or the House of Lords.

The media were everywhere. Reporters scribbled contemporaneous notes of the proceedings, what Gilligan looked like and his facial expressions. For the extradition to be valid, the court required a garda to formally identify Gilligan. Detective Inspector Jerry O’Connell was nominated. He took the stand and pointed at Gilligan. ‘That’s John Joseph Gilligan,’ he said. The judge was satisfied. Gilligan was remanded yet again.

On 8 October 1997, Bowden was sentenced to six years in prison by Judge Cyril Kelly in the Dublin Circuit Criminal Court. He sat in the dock next to two armed detectives who watched attentively, almost waiting for someone to produce a gun. The gardaí were taking no risks. Bowden wore a bullet-proof vest under his shirt, which exaggerated his stature. He expressed no emotion as the sentence was delivered. He looked as if he couldn’t care less.

Judge Kelly said Bowden would never be able to live a normal life again and may have to disappear. His judgement, he said, was centred on the many factors he had to take into consideration. These included Bowden’s guilty plea, the likelihood of him re-offending and the savings to the State by avoiding a lengthy trial. He imposed seven sentences of six years each, and two sentences of three years, all to run concurrently from 11 March, the date when Bowden first went into custody. Bowden left the court a happy man.

Four days later, Meehan and Traynor were arrested in Amsterdam by an elite unit of the Dutch police. There was a young girl in their company. When Meehan saw the commandos approach, he panicked, losing control of his bowels and defecating in his trousers. Traynor was decidedly more relaxed. He raised his hands in the air, in a gesture that suggested he was waiting for the police to pounce. All three were taken in for questioning. Hours later, Traynor was released without charge along with the girl. The gardaí did not seek his extradition. The official story leaked to the media was that they had not expected to find him in Amsterdam. Few familiar with the case believed it.

Gilligan received the news in prison. He was devastated. Meehan was his surrogate son, the one man he could trust above anyone else. Without Meehan, his hands were tied. The legal challenges took on a new importance and sense of urgency.

The British courts heard his extradition case on 22 October. It did not go very far because legal arguments broke out, forcing the judge to adjourn the case, but only after he had cited Gilligan for con-tempt. Gilligan had refused to recognise the court. Instead he sat down, crossed his legs and read a book. ‘I’m not sure if he recognises this court,’ said the prosecuting counsel, prompting the magistrate to proclaim that he considered the accused’s actions to be a contempt of court.

‘I’ll deal with you at the end of these proceedings,’ he said.

The same court ruled he should be extradited on 28 October 1997. He appealed the decision at once. The nightmare of extradition was slowly unfolding. With the passing of each week, he received more bad news. On 10 November 1997, Warren had pleaded guilty to money laundering charges in the Dublin Circuit Criminal Court. Like Bowden, he was treated leniently. He was given a five-year sentence. The news was relayed to Gilligan who interpreted the sentence as a clear signal that Warren intended giving evidence against him. The story Warren gave, though, was unbelievable because he was living in a state of self-denial. Everything he said distanced himself from the murder. He told the gardaí that he never knew Guerin was going to be shot, that he had vomited after watching her death. His whole story was full of inconsistencies. He said he’d driven to Naas on the fatal morning in his van, which because of its small engine size could not keep up with Guerin’s car. But none of the witnesses saw such a vehicle. Warren’s statements were littered with so many inconsistencies that no matter which way anyone viewed them, they couldn’t be explained. He was trying to distance himself from the murder.

Just when Gilligan believed things couldn’t get any worse, more critical news arrived. On 28 November 1997, Holland was convicted in the Special Criminal Court for drug trafficking. He was sentenced to 20 years on the strength of Bowden’s evidence. The trial itself was overshadowed by a short piece of testimony given by Marion Cusack, the officer who had arrested him at Dún Laoghaire ferry terminal. When asked by counsel why she arrested the accused, she said it was because she believed he was the man who had shot Veronica Guerin on the Naas Road. That the court accepted Bowden’s evidence was a solemn signal for Gilligan.

Bowden had never wanted to testify in court but had cut a deal. His co-operation with the inquiry was not based on any feelings of remorse but on the idea that he would somehow avoid serving any significant period in jail. This was clear to anyone who knew him or heard his evidence. In truth and behind the scenes, the gardaí were fighting a battle trying to keep Bowden contented. From the outset he complained about prison. He despised jail. With no cocaine, money, women or debauchery to entertain him, he was overcome by resentment. Like Gilligan, he set out to secure his freedom, or at worst more privileges. He wrote vexatious complaints to the Department of Justice and communicated his grievances to the gardaí. Much of this was relayed to O’Loughlin. The informer was convincing in his sincerity. The detective inspector wrote to Garda headquarters four days after Holland’s conviction, highlighting his concerns about Bowden’s wellbeing and the workings of the witness security programme.

‘Witness protection in this country is a completely new phenomenon as indeed is large-scale organised crime. As it is likely to be with us in the future, standards of treatment of such witnesses must be agreed,’ he wrote.

He outlined what he perceived to be the situation. ‘In the case of Charles Bowden I wish to say that the evidence which he gave in the trial of Patrick Eugene Holland was invaluable. Holland was given a 20-year sentence on 28 November 1997. Equally his evidence against Brian Meehan and John Gilligan is of vital importance. He is in a unique position in the Irish prison system and cannot be associated with other prisoners with the exception of Russell Warren, who is in a similar position. His unique position in the prison also means that he is in solitary lock-up for longer periods than other prisoners. In effect his co-operation in this ongoing investigation is leaving him in a most awkward position without privileges.’

He continued: ‘Juliet Bacon, his common-law wife, is also seriously confined under Garda protection. She has been completely removed from her former life and is being kept at a secret location, completely removed from all her family and friends.

‘Juliet Bacon visits Charles Bowden at Arbour Hill on a daily basis. Prior to Bowden giving evidence for the State against Patrick Eugene Holland, Bowden had special visiting times to facilitate the special security arrangements in place on himself and Juliet Bacon. Unfortunately the prison authorities have now removed the privilege of special visiting times for Bowden. This is most unfortunate from a security point of view and it is unhelpful in relation to our efforts in securing his continued assistance in the prosecution of the main figures in the Gilligan gang.

‘I ask that the prison authorities be requested to restore these special visiting times as a matter of urgency. Russell Warren and his wife Debbie are in a similar position and have had the special visits privilege withdrawn. It is accepted that Warren has not yet given evidence, but it is his intention to do so in the main trial of John Gilligan. I would ask that the special visiting times be restored to him also. Russell Warren’s wife is expecting a baby in late December and because of the unique position that she and her husband are in they have both requested that Russell Warren be permitted to have temporary release for the birth. This temporary release would be under the supervision of the witness protection gardaí assigned to Debbie Warren.

‘Due to the similar unique position of Charles Bowden and Juliet Bacon, Bowden also requests a two-day temporary release over the Christmas period. Again this will be under the supervision of the witness protection gardaí.

‘Charles Bowden and Russell Warren are both serving relatively short sentences and have been given unconditional and irrevocable immunity in relation to the Veronica Guerin murder. We are depending on the goodwill and sense of moral duty of these two men to give evidence against the leaders of the Gilligan crime organisation. It is imperative that these men receive fair treatment while they are incarcerated, bearing in mind their unique position. It would be most unfortunate if they failed to make good their undertaking to testify because of some perceived harshness in their incarceration.

‘I would ask that the matters I have raised be addressed as a matter of urgency with the Department of Justice so that efforts of the gardaí and the prison service be co-ordinated to achieve the desired result in the matter.’

On Monday, 7 December, Hickey attended a meeting at the Department of Justice. Those present included Patrick Dunne, the Governor of Arbour Hill; Chief Superintendent John McGroarty from Garda headquarters and O’Loughlin. Dunne set out the position in relation to the supergrass prisoners pointing out that there was no special category into which they fitted. Therefore he could not grant them special privileges. It would invariably have a knock-on effect with other inmates. There was nothing he could do.

Four days later, on 11 December, Hickey drafted a seven-page report recommending a series of meas-ures to keep the witnesses content. This memorandum was marked confidential. In the correspondence, he stated that Bowden and Warren were unique in the prison system and that their commitment to giving evidence should not be taken for granted.

‘If Bowden or Warren were to decide not to give evidence against Meehan and Gilligan, these cases would almost certainly collapse. The other members of this gang are fully aware of the danger that testimony from these two men can do to them. We are aware that there is a very serious threat to Warren and Bowden and to their immediate families.’

He recommended the following proposals. These, he wrote, should alleviate the problem:

(1) That Bowden and Warren be permitted additional weekly visits by their families which would help to counter-balance their isolated positions. (2) The concerns and worries which these prisoners have about their families’ isolation under Garda Witness Protection scheme would also be allayed by such extra visits. (3) The fears that the family members have in relation to visiting hours are impacting upon the prisoners. The family members are very apprehensive about meeting up with the families of other criminals who are present in numbers during normal visiting hours. Special visiting times would be necessary to overcome this problem.

Due to the unique position of these prisoners inside the prison and the restricted movements of their families under Garda protection outside, I recommend that urgent consideration be given to their temporary release for a period of Christmas 1997. This temporary release might be conditional to them spending that period at the location where their families are under Garda protection.

[ . . . ] I believe however that we must address the problems which have arisen immediately and this may involve creating a new category of prisoner. I would ask that these matters be examined immediately as the trial of Paul Ward is listed for early January 1998 and the extraditions of Brian Meehan and John Gilligan are imminent. I believe that a reversal of Bowden’s and Warren’s decision to testify in these cases would be severely embarrassing and damaging to the administration of justice in this State. It would almost certainly cause the cases against John Gilligan and Brian Meehan to collapse. Every effort should be made to ensure that Bowden and Warren adhere to their commitment to testify and are not tempted to take the easier route of silence. I believe that the measures recommended herein will balance the scales in the correct direction.

Warren and Bowden enjoyed Christmas and the New Year. They were granted temporary release. They spent time with their families and children.

Gilligan vowed to continue the fight, but it was all doomed to failure. Back home the family kept their spirits up. Darren underwent a miraculous recovery from his addiction in the Coolmine Therapeutic Centre, a drugs rehab situated on the outskirts of Dublin. He was allowed home for the Christmas break conditional on Geraldine banning any alcohol from the house. She covered the bar pumps in her mini-bar and threw out her supply of alcohol in preparation for her son’s return home. The younger members of the family missed Gilligan, particularly his grandchildren. When Tracy’s daughter Shannon asked about her grandfather, her grandmother would reassure the child by saying, ‘He’s driving the buses in England.’

The New Year brought more bad news. In January, Lord Justice May and Justice Astell rejected Gilligan’s application for a writ of habeas corpus in the London High Court. His extradition was upheld. Clare Montgomery QC argued that there had been an abuse of process. ‘The extradition process,’ she said, ‘has been deliberately manipulated.’ Gilligan vowed to challenge the judgement.

Back in Ireland, Grimes was toiling away. When the CAB lost its case against Geraldine, the Bureau decided to try to cut a deal. The negotiations took weeks to finalise and were carried out in strict secrecy. The draft agreement offered to her was IR£12,500 immediately, IR£100,000 at a later date and a IR£500,000 waiver of taxes. In return, she would leave and sign a statement admitting Jessbrook was financed with the proceeds of crime. The deal was strictly confidential. She gave the CAB offer much thought. She looked at properties for sale in Kildare and found a small cottage which she could afford and liked. In her own mind, she had decided to accept the offer but made the mistake of showing it to Grimes, who took pleasure in announcing its existence to the press. The Sunday Times published the story on 19 January. ‘I have seen an agreement between an unspecified arm of the State and Geraldine Gilligan,’ said Grimes. ‘Part of the agreement was that she was to confirm that Jessbrook [represented] the proceeds of crime, which would mean that my principal, Joseph Saouma was engaged in crime, which is not true.’

The article sparked off debate. Jim Higgins, the Fine Gael spokesman on justice, asked O’Donoghue to comment in the Dáil. He refused. The Bureau’s defence was that the offer was legitimate because it gave Geraldine an amount that she was legitimately entitled to. Geraldine couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Afterwards she said of Grimes, ‘I think he’s fucking mad.’

Although Gilligan didn’t know it, Bowden was deeply unhappy in prison. He exchanged corres-pondence with the Department of Justice to no avail. He wanted freedom. This was the essence of the problem. Warren wanted the same. They formulated a plan aimed at pressurising the State into conceding to their demands.

On Tuesday, 11 August, Hickey received a message from one of Debbie Warren’s bodyguards asking him to make contact. He called her directly and was told Warren wished to meet him as soon as possible. There was urgency in her voice.

Three days later, accompanied by Detective Sergeant John O’Driscoll, one of the gardaí whom the informants trusted, Hickey arrived at Arbour Hill Prison where Andy O’Riordan, the chief prison officer, greeted him. He said Warren and Bowden were waiting. He took them to a private visiting room.

The prisoners were brought into the room. Bowden declared he was speaking with Warren’s authority. Warren indicated to Hickey that this was the case. Bowden spoke with the sincerity of a liar. He said he wanted to make it clear that both he and Warren were utterly committed to giving evidence in forthcoming trials. This, he said, would not change. But there were certain issues he wanted clarified. He asked Hickey to meet with Chris Houricane, who would discuss these matters. This conduit would protect all involved against any accusations of impropriety.

A week later, Hickey and O’Driscoll met Houricane at the Skylon Hotel in Drumcondra. The solicitor thanked the gardaí for their assistance, then came straight to the point. His clients wanted answers to the following series of questions, which Hickey later wrote in yet another confidential memo:

(1) What is the Witness Protection Programme? (2) Were his clients and their families assimilated into the Witness Protection Programme? (3) Who is organising the Witness Protection Programme and who is in charge of it? (4) Could his clients be informed of their probable release date on termination of their custodial sentences? (5) Could a more humane prison regime be introduced for his clients, as the present regime was almost consistent with solitary confinement in that it offered no association within the prison with anyone other than each other. (6) Are the visits being monitored electronically? (7) Would the Witness Protection Programme consider some type of custody under the auspices of An Garda Síochána as no secure environment existed within the prison system, e.g. special secure units? (8) What would the position be in relation to Temporary Release and the granting of it and could some formal mechanism for their release be put in place? Mr Houricane stated that temporary release into Garda custody would not cause any difficulty whatsoever. (9) Mr Houricane asked what was envisaged on completion of his clients’ custodial sentences. Would they be given the full protection of the State, relocated, or was any strategy in place for this eventuality?

Houricane said Bowden and Warren were of the opinion that Gilligan would use every legal avenue to delay his extradition and ultimately his trial. Regardless, they promised to give evidence against him, even after the termination of their custodial sentences. He then said the informers were considering a habeas corpus application to secure their freedom. This drastic course of action was against his advice, but Warren and Bowden were, in his opinion, not thinking rationally. He attributed this to the nature of their confinement and a degree of pressure from their families. He said he had been instructed to look at English case law with relevance to similar confinement. Hickey promised that he would give these concerns immediate priority. The informers were given more privileges.

Meehan was flown home on 4 September 1998, having taken every legal route to block his extradition in a battle that lasted ten months. His fate had been sealed on 15 July when the Dutch Justice Minister, Winnie Sorgdrager, ordered his deportation.

He was handed over to O’Loughlin at 1.15 p.m. on a runway at Eindhoven, a military base that lies on the outskirts of Amsterdam. He was flown to Casement Aerodrome in Baldonnel in County Kildare on board a military aircraft. The flight touched down at 4 p.m. He was formally arrested when he stepped off the plane onto Irish soil. He never said a word. Later that night, he was brought before the Special Criminal Court. The hearing lasted no more than 20 minutes. He was remanded to Portlaoise Prison.

It was now imperative that Bowden and Warren keep their promise. Hickey had pressed for the Department of Justice to create a special category of prisoner for his two witnesses, not because he liked them, but because they were essential to securing convictions. It was a case of the lesser of two evils. On Monday, 21 September 1998, together with Detective Chief Superintendent John McGroarty, Hickey met officials from the prison section of the Department of Justice. The officials understood the wishes of the gardaí. They offered to recommend a mechanism for perhaps monthly temporary release. But O’Donoghue had concerns in case regular temporary release suggested preferential treatment. If highlighted in court, he said, this would reflect unfavourably on the State. In the end, Bowden and Warren were granted more concessions.

Bowden, as promised, testified against Paul Ward when his trial started in the Special Criminal Court on 7 October. Months of legal arguments over the release of statements made by some 20 criminal informants to Ward’s legal team had delayed the prosecution.

Ward vehemently denied any involvement in Guerin’s murder. He did admit in the course of giving evidence in the Special Criminal Court that he had collected IR£3 million for the gang. He blamed Bowden for implicating him in the murder. Bowden, he said, partly told the truth and partly told lies.

‘I am a victim of being accused of this. Mr Bowden is the main man, the main person who has me here. I know the guards have to do their job. I am not making myself out to be a saint, far from it. I don’t blame the guards, I blame Mr Bowden for the lies he said about me and he is after convincing the guards. He is putting poison in the guards’ minds saying that I was involved in that woman’s murder. I wasn’t.’

Ward denied emphatically that he disposed of the gun and motorcycle used in the killing. But the court accepted Bowden’s word, although the judges could see the latter’s motive for testifying. After six weeks of evidence and complex legal arguments, Ward was convicted on Friday, 27 November. He remained stone-faced as the court sentenced him to life. In its 40-page ruling, the Special Criminal Court criticised the police handling of the case. It described Bowden as a liar and expressed dissatisfaction with the admissions he made about the murder. Few were surprised when the Court of Criminal Appeal later quashed the conviction. It ruled there had been no evidence against him.

Chapter 17

Retribution

‘I’ll come back, if they give me a jury.’

JOHN GILLIGAN

Gilligan’s fight against extradition continued. But the arrival of the year 1999 did not herald any good news. The passing of the New Year brought personal troubles. Sarah, his ageing mother, was taken ill with pneumonia during the holiday period. She died from a heart attack on 12 January. Gilligan, a son she adored, never had the chance to say goodbye or attend the funeral. The death affected him deeply, unlike his father’s when he died approximately one year earlier. Gilligan became more aggressive, if not openly hostile towards the prison authorities and the courts. He craved freedom.

In part to satisfy his own personal need to assign responsibility to someone else, he sacked his legal team and hired new lawyers. He threatened prison staff and doubled his efforts to target the gang members co-operating with Hickey’s team.

His worsening attitude towards the British courts could be gauged from the contents of a letter read out at a remand hearing on 18 January by Tomas O’Maoileoin, his new counsel. The letter was written in Gilligan’s own hand. In it, the gangster pleaded with the court to extend his custody time limits, pending his challenge to the House of Lords, which in turn was busy hearing a case concerning the Chilean dictator General Augusto Pinochet.

Gilligan wrote that his continued detention in Britain was at ‘enormous cost to the taxpayer’. Sustained by an inner rage, he offered to plead guilty to the British charges if extradition to Ireland was ruled out. His trial judge, James Rucker, sympathised with his predicament, but did not sway. Gilligan was remanded to Belmarsh once more.

Gilligan did not even try interpreting his situation rationally. He possessed a remarkable ability to convince himself that he was of good character. It was of course a delusion, but one which gave him the strength to continue with his legal fight.

He decided to write directly to Warren from his cell. His cronies were unable to penetrate the security shield guarding his former associates. Gilligan began by acknowledging Warren’s plight, who by this stage was in a deep depression over the fact that his parents were charged with money laundering offences.

‘They must be “going through hell”’, he wrote.

The letters came as a complete surprise for Warren, who interpreted them as threats because if the gangster was to be convicted, it would be on his evidence. In the letter, Gilligan claimed that there never was any threat against Warren and told him to ignore the lies in the newspapers. ‘The press are talking shit,’ he wrote. He then referred to Bowden and Dunne, but not by name. ‘Please tell your friends to stop taking notice of all the shit in the newspapers.’

In typical form, he compared his legal fight with Warren’s, insisting that he was an innocent victim. He ended the letter: ‘Believe me, I wish I could help your families—your friend John Gilligan.’

He wrote another letter several days later, trying to reassure Warren that he did not need to avail himself of the witness protection programme. The purpose of this letter was to dupe Warren into withdrawing his evidence in the full knowledge that any withdrawal of evidence could be used against the other witnesses, or at worst collapse the case.

‘You don’t need to leave your country over me, say what you like in court,’ he wrote.

‘You have a home and family now, and your new child may well want to come back to where he was born.’

The reference to Warren’s child was meant to be a threat. Gilligan was engaging in reverse psychology.

‘You have my word on it. No one is after you. The papers are mad. They’ll do anything to sell them.’

He ended this letter with the words: ‘God bless and take care and I wish you all the luck in the world, your friend, John G.’

The police interpreted the letters as a signal that he believed time was running out. Aware that they too should keep up the pressure, they continued searching for new witnesses.

Carol Rooney had fled to Australia weeks after the murder and refused to return home. On April Fools’ Day, in the misguided belief that life had somehow moved on, she flew into Dublin Airport. She made her way to Palmerstown to visit her parents, a respectable and hard-working couple. When news of her visit reached Lucan Garda Station, she was arrested and taken in for questioning.

The press reports were sketchy. Some journalists announced that she would testify at his trial. This, of course, was not true, but Gilligan didn’t know it. And he had no way of finding out. A sense of panic intensified.

If she agreed to co-operate, she could cause irreparable damage. She could corroborate Warren’s evidence, which he considered most damaging. It would also turn Geraldine against him for once and for all.

What he did not know was that his young lover had already told the investigation team all they needed to know. But she was no Bowden and refused to testify.

Gilligan, she said, had warned her that he would kill her parents if she ever betrayed him. No matter what they said, she would not put her parents through the nightmare of witness protection. She begged the gardaí to understand her predicament. Left with no other choice, they released her and she returned to Australia.

Whether it was her arrest or simply a yearning for liberty, at his next court appearance on 26 April, Gilligan launched a passionate attack on the British legal system when he appeared at Woolwich Crown Court. He protested his innocence, declaring that he was ‘100% innocent of all the charges’, yet he had been unjustly detained without trial for 31 months. He said the only way the English drugs charges could be left on file was with his consent, and this he would never give. The Crown’s decision not to allow his trial to go ahead was an abuse of process: ‘A manipulation of my legal rights,’ he declared, speaking with a counterfeit legal expertise. In no uncertain language, he warned Judge Rucker that the situation in Ireland was brought about ‘by not showing impartiality, independence, dignity and one of the other great tenets of the legal system: that all are equal before the law’. He pleaded with the judge to end his ‘purgatory’.

‘You have not got the power this year, had not got the power last year and will not have the power next year to leave this on file,’ he said with the grace of a lawyer. Rucker listened to his outburst, sympathised with him, but remanded him once more.

The failure of any hired assassin to get close to the State witnesses dominated Gilligan and Meehan’s everyday thinking. Although their efforts to reach either Bowden or Warren had failed, they did not yield in trying to organise intimidation. Meehan, in particular, was convinced that anything was possible given time. This certainty compelled him to keep fighting. Working in absolute secrecy from his cell in Portlaoise Prison, he conspired with Gilligan to silence those who could put him away. Meehan viewed Gilligan’s talk of putting a IR£2 million contract on Bowden and Warren’s head as an idle hope. He wanted action.

This gave rise to the question of who to attack. He chose Julian Clohessy, a witness planning to testify in his trial. Meehan, lost in a blizzard of cocaine one night, had told Clohessy that he was a killer. After months of trying to locate Clohessy, he found an address and smuggled it to an associate who assured him that Jules would be seen to at once. The plan was to threaten him into silence.

Like their paymaster, the gunmen he sent were not intelligent men. They called to the wrong address and hammered down the door of a house where a member of the Provisional IRA lived. This man answered the door to be confronted by a masked man wielding a handgun.

‘This is a message from Brian Meehan. You better keep your fucking mouth shut,’ he shouted. ‘This is your last warning.’

The republican said nothing, which seemed a wonder to anyone who knew him. But the next day, he reported the incident to the IRA’s Officer Commanding in Dublin.

Meehan, in the meantime, went on trial for Guerin’s murder at the Special Criminal Court. There was solid evidence stacked against him. The three supergrass witnesses recounted their evidence, which Gilligan monitored through the dozens of press clippings sent to him by friends on the outside. Warren and Bowden gave yet more differing accounts of their involvement in the murder.

Back on the streets of Dublin, the IRA wasted no time in tracking down the gunman who delivered the threat. The Dublin O/C sent a secret message to Kevin Walsh, the IRA’s commander in Portlaoise Prison. Walsh, a formidable republican who was convicted for killing a detective garda in a robbery, promised he would give the matter his urgent attention. He went straight to Meehan, cornering him in the prison laundry. Walsh told Meehan to back off. The IRA, he said, wasn’t scared of anyone, never mind a drug pusher called the Tosser, a nickname given to Meehan. The blood drained from Meehan’s face, and he signalled that he understood. Walsh was emphatic. His threats would not be tolerated. Neither Meehan nor anyone of his ilk should try to intimidate the republican movement. Meehan would soon discover why.

Kevin Meehan, Brian’s father, had stood by his son. Each day he would travel from his home on Stanaway Road in Crumlin to watch the evidence unfold. His wife Frances often accompanied him, as did his daughter Vanessa.

On the night of Monday, 20 July, he was preparing to go to bed when he heard the doorbell ring. This was a complete surprise because they were not expecting visitors. Kevin Meehan answered the door to a man who said he was lost. This seemed strange because his home lies on a road where the neighbours know each other on first name terms; in other words, few people get lost. By the time he realised something was wrong, the caller had produced a gun and fired two bullets. The first ricocheted off a wall; the second hit its target in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Meehan collapsed in a pool of blood while the gunman made good his escape. It was a savage attack on an innocent man.

Brian Meehan learned of the attack the next morning on his way to Dublin from Portlaoise Prison. When he returned to the prison that night, he went straight to Walsh and pleaded for mercy. He said he was sorry. It was all a terrible mistake. Walsh said nothing as Meehan continued to demonstrate his desperation. When he finished begging, he then asked if the IRA would be able to get to any of the witnesses, in return for a cash donation. But as soon as he’d asked, the Tosser knew he had overstepped the mark. He apologised once again.

The following week, on 29 July, he was convicted for Guerin’s murder and sentenced to life in prison. This time, the court ruled that Bowden’s testimony couldn’t be believed. Instead, it accepted Warren’s evidence that Meehan inspected the motorcycle, directed repairs and renovations to be carried out, later road tested the motorcycle and returned to collect the motorcycle on the morning of 26 June 1996.

‘The court is satisfied that this evidence leads to only one conclusion, namely that the accused was a fundamental part of the conspiracy or plot to murder Veronica Guerin, that he participated fully in the event,’ the judge added.

But the court discarded the evidence given by Bowden and his common-law wife Juliet in relation to the murder, although it accepted their evidence concerning Meehan’s role in the drugs and firearms.

Of Bowden, Justice Freddie Morris, the presiding judge, noted: ‘In cross-examination Meehan’s defence counsel suggested to Charles Bowden that he was deliberately bolstering the evidence which he was giving so as to be the witness who implicated the accused in the crime and thereby make himself a more ‘saleable commodity’ if he sold his story to the newspapers or wrote a book.

‘Charles Bowden denied in positive terms that he ever considered such a thing. He did so in explicit terms. Subsequently defence counsel produced and established to the court’s satisfaction that Charles Bowden had in fact contacted a journalist with a view to collaborating with him in the publication of his involvement in this matter. Charles Bowden acknowledged to the court that he had lied to the court.’

These were but some examples of the way the court found his evidence unsatisfactory.

‘The court rejects this witness’s evidence as unreliable in relation to count number one.’ Justice Morris declared that the court treat the evidence of Juliet Bowden on the same basis as that of an accomplice. She had lied on a number of occasions to the court.

Dealing with the drugs offences, the judge said the court approached Bowden’s evidence on the drugs and firearms offences with extreme caution. He noted that Bowden was prepared to lie under oath and had been found to do so in this trial. But he was satisfied that while carrying out his function as a drugs distributor, Bowden acted under the direct control of Meehan.

The conviction made Gilligan more desperate. He was thrown into bouts of depression because, no matter how much he tried, he could find no mechanism to secure his freedom. He knew what lay ahead but couldn’t accept it. On 5 October, the House of Lords paved the way for the extradition.

In one of his more novel appeals, Gilligan had asked the Lords to rule that extradition was unlawful because the offences contained in the Irish warrants did not correspond to English offences. The appeal lasted two days, but Lord Browne Wilkinson and four other law lords unanimously rejected his claim in less than 15 minutes. Although his appeal did not succeed, Gilligan refused to give in. He went back to his cell and consulted his reference books on extradition and with great bravado submitted a writ of habeas corpus, written in his own hand, to the Divisional Court in London. The writ declared that he was being illegally held in Britain. If extradited, he declared, he would be tried for Guerin’s murder in the Special Criminal Court. In his opinion, this was fundamentally wrong because trial without jury does not occur in England and Wales.

It worked. His application pre-empted the publication of the written judgement by the Law Lords and further delayed his extradition because he was entitled to address the court. It was a smart move, for on 13 December he was granted bail for the British charges but still held in custody for extradition.

The truth of the matter was that the British courts were deeply uneasy about holding him for much longer. Therefore, it came as no surprise to anyone when the Crown Prosecution Service was ordered to make its position clear the following week as to whether it would proceed with the English trial or drop the charges altogether. Gilligan felt elated. Things were finally going his way, it seemed.

Christmas came but didn’t pass without incident. Gilligan wrote directly to Bowden’s and Warren’s families from Highdown Prison in Surrey. He was transferred to this prison after he attacked a prison officer. Once again, he set off alarm bells. The letters were enquiring into the recipients’ health. But there were secret messages in the new letters. In one letter, he offered an olive branch to Bowden. He wrote that he believed the gardaí had forced him to make a statement. The message was simple: all would be forgiven if he retracted his evidence. The ruse did not work.

Gilligan reached the end of the road on 3 February when the High Court in London dismissed his habeas corpus application. Lord Justice Brown, sitting with Justice Klevan, threw out his application. It was not merely misconceived, they said, but was an abuse of process. Gilligan was half expecting as much and was not present at the 20-minute hearing in London. He was preparing to fly home. As soon as the judgment was delivered, the gangster was brought from Highdown Prison to the RAF base at Northolt. He was peculiarly silent and said not a single word during the trip. He arrived there at 2.30 p.m. when Detective Sergeant John Warren of Scotland Yard handed him over to O’Loughlin. His prisoner was overcome by sickness, brought about by the drama. He was flown home in an Air Corps CASA jet which arrived at Baldonnel’s Casement Aerodrome at 4.35 p.m.

The media were everywhere. Photographers and television camera crews jostled for the best positions. It was a circus. When Gilligan finally descended from the aircraft, O’Loughlin arrested him. Hickey, never a man to court publicity, made a point of staying away.

Gilligan, the big, bad bogeyman of the Irish underworld, was seen in his true colours. He wore a green and yellow prison uniform with a prison insignia stamped on the back. He cowered, covering his face with his hands to shield himself from the cameras. Old habits die hard.

A convoy of military and police vehicles brought him to the Special Criminal Court on Green Street in central Dublin. A helicopter hovered above the court building. Sniffer dogs and armed soldiers were everywhere. The convoy drove straight past the photographers and camera crews and into a yard adjacent to the Special Criminal Court building. The doors slammed behind the vehicle as Gilligan stepped out of the van and was taken into the court. For the accused, the prospect of having to face the court was too much. He had spent years fighting extradition in the beleaguered hope that the case would somehow fall apart, that Bowden would be exposed as a liar, that Warren would refuse to testify out of fear and that any evidence from Dunne could be proved unreliable. In pursuit of these objectives he had done all he could. Now the game was over.

He stood in the dock. He answered ‘yes’ when asked by the court registrar if he was John Gilligan. Justice Richard Johnson, the presiding judge, asked if he was legally represented and he replied: ‘No, your honour, I am representing myself.’

The hearing lasted no longer than 25 minutes. When it concluded, Gilligan asked: ‘Bail would be out of the question, wouldn’t it?’

Gilligan adopted the same policy of fighting the gardaí every step of the way from his cell in Portlaoise Prison. If the prosecution thought Gilligan would stop making legal challenges, they were wrong. And so started another series of legal manoeuvres aimed at stopping his trial from going ahead.

He made a series of pre-trial submissions in April. Because he was not legally represented, he was asked to stand at the bench normally used by junior defence barristers. Gilligan, in bold fashion, made his way from the dock to the lawyers’ bench, where in gruff language he denied making threats against people prepared to give evidence against him. He had not put a ‘price’ on their heads. ‘The only thing I ordered was a cappuccino,’ he said.

He spoke for 50 minutes and applied to have the charge of murder dealt with separately from other drugs and firearms charges. It was a clever move designed to break down the credibility of the supergrass. Speaking without the grace of a barrister, he told the three judges that he was objecting to the court because it was not independent or impartial, and he submitted documents from a United Nations Human Rights Commission hearing. But after doing so well, at the end of the submissions, he thought aloud: ‘I don’t do this every day. I am not too sure of myself. I thought I’d be able to handle this case. I certainly can’t handle it. I’d like to apply for legal aid. I haven’t a penny.’

The IRA, meanwhile, was under pressure to move against the dealers—largely because the dealers were importing military weapons into Dublin, and these were being sold to loyalist terrorists and dissident republicans. Various people in the republican organisation were charged with investigating this trade. Within a short space of time, the trail led back to the Netherlands and Spain. John Cunningham, an old friend of Gilligan’s, was funnelling a steady stream of weapons to Ireland from The Hague. But the inquiry implicated Traynor, who they found living between holiday apartments on the Costa del Sol. A team of republicans travelled to the area at once and started monitoring Traynor’s activities. Then by chance, they stumbled upon Geraldine and Tracy Gilligan who were travelling to a holiday villa in Alicante. They followed them everywhere, photographed them and logged their movements. They even watched and photographed Geraldine sunbathing by the pool. Traynor’s every move was watched. When he went into bars, those drinking beside him were IRA intelligence officers monitoring him. Peter Mitchell was also monitored. Then, after much debate, they decided to execute Traynor on the strict condition the shooting would not be claimed. ‘Its purpose was to send a message to drug dealers that they could run but they couldn’t hide,’ said one of the team involved.

The plan was to shoot Traynor dead in the hope that the media would attribute his murder to a rival criminal gang. A trained assassin was flown to Spain, and through another contact a suitable weapon was acquired for the hit. Like all IRA operations, there would be other republicans in the vicinity to assist the killer’s escape and dispose of the weapon.

Everything was going according to plan until Traynor failed to show at a prearranged meeting. They waited and, fearing that one of their number might be stopped by the police, they got rid of the weapon. Traynor eventually did resurface, but it was too late. He had escaped within an inch of his life and didn’t even know it.

Back in Ireland, the judge dismissed Gilligan’s application and remanded him to Portlaoise until 22 May. It was in Portlaoise that he met the man he would hire as his solicitor, Joe Rice. The Belfast solicitor was working for Sean ‘Bap’ Hughes, an INLA suspect facing charges for murdering a garda. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he would drive from Belfast to Portlaoise to discuss the pending trial with Hughes. This was of great interest to Gilligan, who was struck by his dedication. One morning, while Rice was briefing Hughes, Gilligan interrupted the meeting.

‘Jesus, lads, you’re very committed.’

Rice, an amicable man, said he’d do the same for any client.

Using this remark as a starting point to introduce himself, Gilligan asked if Rice would be interested in reading his book of evidence. The next week, Gilligan asked him to take his case.

The solicitor agreed, but on one condition: ‘John, it must be on legal aid.’ He formally came on board on 22 May when this was granted.

On 26 June, on the third anniversary of Guerin’s death, he was told his legal attempts to have the murder charge dealt with separately from drugs and firearm charges had failed. But he did get access to transcripts of the Ward and Meehan trials.

Gilligan’s trial was scheduled to begin on 3 October, but as with everything in his life, there had to be a challenge. In July, he succeeded in having two of the three judges removed from the case. Justice Kevin O’Higgins of the High Court and Judge Matthew Deery of the Circuit Court discharged themselves, leaving William Hamill of the District Court.

The month of September brought more challenges. The opening of the trial on 3 October brought even more when Gilligan sacked his counsel, forcing the adjournment of the trial for a week. Justice Diarmuid O’Donovan, who was appointed to hear the case, warned him that he should not dismiss any more counsel as it would not be tolerated.

The week’s adjournment was given only to allow Eugene Grant QC and Dr Michael Forde SC, his new lawyers, time to prepare a proper defence. Further applications were refused because the trial date had been fixed since February. The judge also noted that Gilligan’s solicitor and his junior counsel, Peter Irvine, had been with the case since an early stage. A week later, Rice read letters to the court from Grant and Irvine stating that the barristers could not properly prepare a defence in the time allotted by the court. Left with no other option, the court adjourned the trial to 21 November.

Gilligan thought this was a great accomplishment. He was fighting various cases and had taken a challenge to the Supreme Court appealing another decision by the High Court, which had refused him the right to trial by jury. The Supreme Court reserved judgement. In this whirlwind of legal challenges, on 20 October he took yet another step, seeking secret Garda reports on a series of telephone conversations in 1996 between a Garda detective and the Attorney General, Michael McDowell. When this proved a futile exercise, conscious that Bowden and the others were most likely worried about testifying, Gilligan decided to resort to his old tactics. He granted an interview to the Sunday Business Post. ‘We will find the truth through the families—wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. They will all be called to give evidence,’ he declared. When the interview was published, his senior counsel withdrew their services at once.

News of the resignations was the last straw for the court. Since Gilligan was charged, he had lost some of the most gifted counsel in the State. The judges saw through his decision to talk to the press and proclaimed the trial would still go ahead on 21 November. But it didn’t and was adjourned for the third time to 4 December. Rice’s solid legal advice bought Gilligan the extra time. The solicitor told the court that he had approached 33 senior counsel, but none were available to begin the trial.

‘My client has instructed me that he would like the case to start as soon as possible. He is frustrated,’ Rice said.

Justice O’Donovan heard him loud and clear, but warned in no uncertain terms that this would be the last adjournment. ‘No excuses whatsoever will be entertained by the court for an adjournment of this trial. If counsel decide to opt out, this case will still go on, and Mr Gilligan may well have to defend himself,’ he said.

Gilligan’s trial was an anti-climax of giant proportions. After nearly four years of legal manoeuvres to stop it from going ahead, when it did finally commence at 11.35 a.m. on 4 December 2000, the public gallery was barely occupied. Only a handful of journalists showed up. There was no packed gallery, no sightseers seeking a glimpse of the great gangster of the Irish underworld. There were just the police, the solicitors, their barristers and the prison officers.

After the court clerk read out the charges, Gilligan sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back and looked above his head, smiling, gnawing at his jaw as if he were chewing gum.

The dock where the accused sits is raised about five feet above the ground. From this position, Gilligan could look down into the courtroom itself where those with a professional interest in the case took their seats. Sitting directly opposite him, across the room on what looks like a small balcony, sat his three trial judges—Joseph Mathews, Diarmuid O’Donovan and William Hamill. Judge Mathews was noticeably younger-looking than his colleagues and spoke, when he did, with an authoritative voice. Judge O’Donovan was slightly smaller in stature. He smiled constantly and often leaned back into his chair to ponder, if not to avoid the harsh spotlight that illuminated his seated position. Judge Hamill wore no wig, only a gown, which gave him a more casual appearance than that of his colleagues.

The opposing legal teams were seated below, facing in the direction of the three judges. To Gilligan’s right sat the prosecution team headed by Peter Charleton. On his feet, he stood over six feet tall, but he leaned slightly to one side when he addressed the court. His height coupled with his voice allowed him to assert his authority without having to raise his voice. Beside him sat Eamonn Leahy, a giant of a man whose robust stature almost filled two spaces on the narrow wooden bench. Alongside him sat Tom O’Connell, another barrister.

Gilligan’s defence contingent sat to the right on the same wooden bench. Michael O’Higgins headed the defence. He was a barrister who had his feet planted firmly on the ground, having worked as a journalist writing on justice and social issues before deciding to study law. Of his many articles, his interviews with Martin Cahill stood out as the best. It was said that Cahill had given him great insight into the underworld because O’Higgins showed no airs, graces or pomposity. Although middle-aged, he possessed a youthful expression that belied a razor-sharp wit. When he spoke, his face became animated.

To his left sat Terence McDonald, a rather stern-looking barrister who practised at the Belfast bar. Always mindful to look sombre in court, in truth, he smiled and exchanged courtesies with just about everyone. Peter Irvine, a barrister, sat beside him. Rice sat on a wooden bench immediately behind the defence team. Tony Hickey, who arrived in full uniform, sat on the same bench, but at the opposite end.

And so the trial of John Gilligan began.

No sooner had Charleton started delivering his opening submission than O’Higgins jumped to his feet, objecting to any possibility that Bowden, Warren and Dunne take the stand. Charleton threw his eyes to heaven. O’Higgins proclaimed that the witness protection programme was tainted. The court, he said, had a duty to ensure its own process was not damaged. This, he said, was an essential part of justice, as in the moisture that hangs in the air.

And with that began another legal argument that effectively delayed the trial for two days. Bowden, O’Higgins asserted, was so impugned that he couldn’t give any credible evidence because he was a proven liar. The barrister, with one foot placed on the wooden bench, read from the verdict delivered in Meehan’s case. This found that Bowden had lied. ‘Does it follow that he’ll lie again?’ asked Judge O’Donovan. O’Higgins suggested he would. They retired till the next day when the court discounted the submission.

Charleton was back on his feet outlining the State’s case against Gilligan, whom he said controlled the minds of those who carried out the shooting. ‘Anyone who spoke out against him was subjected to threats and terror,’ he said. Gilligan, content in the knowledge that he would hear a lot more of this, never looked down. He assumed a more comfortable position, sitting with legs crossed, smiling. He never moved for the rest of Charleton’s speech, which seemed to encapsulate his entrance into the murky world of drug dealing, his meetings with Guerin, her murder and the destruction of his organisation—effectively chronicling the creation and fall of his drugs empire.

The trial got under way. Garda witnesses were called and cross-examined. Much of what they had to say was not controversial; it was simply evidence which had to be read into the court records for legal requirements.

Aware that he had everything to play for, Gilligan listened attentively to the evidence, for he knew he would pay dearly for any lack of concentration. Rather than allow his lawyers to run the case without contributions from him, he scribbled down notes. The prison officers handed these to his solicitor. It was all a desperate act. As the weeks passed by, Gilligan became noticeably more worried-looking. He stopped smiling, sat up straight and gazed forlornly as more damning evidence was given. When the court rose for the Christmas break, he looked somewhat relieved.

The trial resumed hearing on 12 January. It started in much the same way with O’Higgins and Charleton tussling over obscure legal points of law. The strategy chosen by the gangster’s lawyers centred on discrediting any evidence from the supergrass witnesses, which wasn’t particularly difficult to do. Bowden had told so many variations of what happened on 26 June 1996 that he was relatively easy to demolish. He represented no great threat.

O’Higgins zoned in on the fact that few of the people named by Bowden had been charged, as indeed had the supergrass himself with all the offences he’d admitted to. This question was asked of Detective Inspector John O’Mahony. O’Higgins made it clear that he would continue asking the same questions until he got a satisfactory answer. O’Mahony responded by saying the file was sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions, prompting O’Higgins to ask, ‘Do I hear the sound of a buck being passed?’ This line of questioning continued for several days. O’Higgins demanded to know why others named by Bowden had not been charged with the other offences he admitted to. He also made much of the fact that no member of Bowden’s family had been charged with any offence. Then he dissected Bowden’s statements with the skill of a pathologist. He read dozens of selected quotes, asking O’Mahony to confirm they were lies, which he did. It was a thorough cross-examination and one which Gilligan appeared to enjoy.

John Dunne became the first supergrass witness to take the stand at 3.25 p.m. on 23 January when he stepped into the witness box. He didn’t make eye contact with Gilligan, who eyeballed him up and down.

Dunne looked a hardened criminal. His head was shaven, and he looked lean but oddly pale. His skin pigmentation was off-colour from never being allowed outdoors.

His evidence appeared straightforward at first. He recounted the story of how he met Gilligan, how he joined Sea Bridge and got involved in the drugs business. O’Higgins listened attentively as Dunne told the court he had surrendered the money he made to the gardaí. ‘I decided to be truthful,’ he said without a hint of ambivalence.

‘Well then, why did you tell them that you only earned IR£30,000 to IR£40,000?’ asked O’Higgins, who pointed out there were 96 consignments in all between 1994 and 1996 and that Dunne had said he was paid on average IR£1,000 for each consignment. Dunne could think of nothing to say.

Anyone listening to Dunne was struck by his knowledge of the law. He appeared more than capable of answering O’Higgins’ questions about the witness protection programme. O’Higgins himself was struck by his apparent expert knowledge of the scheme that seemed a mystery to anyone other than the gardaí.

When the barrister asked Dunne if he thought the three-year sentence imposed on him for drug traffick-ing was fair, Dunne, speaking with the brazenness of a lawyer, said he thought it was. ‘There’s no point in me bitching about a sentence,’ he said before quoting case law to the lawyer, who seemed taken aback. The witness went further, detailing how he, Bowden and Warren, tried to secure temporary release by waging a war of attrition with the Department of Justice.

O’Higgins pressed him to talk about his future.

‘I will only get what I am entitled to, if you know what I mean. I’m happy with my deal.’

Gilligan certainly wasn’t.

Russell Warren was the next to take the stand.

McDonald handled his cross-examination. If his client was to beat the murder charge, it was critical that Warren’s testimony be dismantled, and this is exactly what happened. McDonald chose a simple strategy of asking Warren simple questions, which often caused some of the assembled spectators to throw their eyes up to heaven because there appeared to be no purpose to them. But there was. McDonald had fought and won supergrass trials in Northern Ireland.

Warren answered each question, but because he was still in a state of self-denial about his own role in the killing, he tried to distance himself from the murder. Warren maintained that he never knew Guerin was going to be murdered. He said Gilligan or Meehan had told him to go to Naas and look for a red sports car parked near the courthouse, which he did. He stuck rigidly to his story that he drove to Naas that morning in his blue van, a Toyota Liteace. When he arrived in Naas, he said he initially got lost. It got better. Speaking like a true liar, he said he parked his van outside another building, which he mistook for the court. He said he was walking into this building when he looked behind and saw a traffic warden walking towards his van. Warren said he turned back and ran to the warden shouting, ‘I’ll move it.’ According to his version of events, he moved his van to another location nearer the court. When the van was parked, he said he walked into a newsagent’s and bought a packet of crisps, a Club Orange and the Star newspaper.

He gave two different accounts of what happened next. In the first, he said he’d sat back into his van when he noticed Guerin’s car in traffic. According to his second version of the truth, he saw the car at a distance while walking away from the court. This evidence was the invention of his imagination working in tandem with his conscience.

His most blatant lie came when he said he recognised Guerin’s car because of the spoiler on its rear. He described to Judge Mathews what the spoiler looked like, gesturing with his hands to show how large it was.

McDonald said nothing, then asked him if he was sure. Warren affirmed his version of the events again. The barrister handed him a photograph of the vehicle. This showed there was no spoiler. Warren looked shocked.

The prosecution case continued to fall apart.

McDonald put it to the star witness that everything he said was ‘a complete fabrication, a total lie and out-and-out lies’. Warren, at one point, agreed he was a perjurer.

As the days passed, he rambled through more of his evidence, giving further contradicting testimony. He said he’d followed Guerin as she drove in the slow lane. Then after the killing had been executed, he said he drove his van from the fast lane of the Naas Road, through the slow lane to escape via a slip road.

McDonald pointed out to him that none of the other witnesses saw a van near the scene. The slow lane was also blocked. But they did see a blue Volvo car driving away at breakneck speed. Warren said he didn’t notice it, leaving many observers to conclude that he was the driver and Bowden was a passenger. A theory developed that Bowden had watched Guerin from the roof of the Naas District Court. Warren’s story about talking to a traffic warden was also shown to be no more than a figment of his imagination. The traffic warden gave evidence of having no such conversation. Gilligan’s defence team compromised his entire testimony but, most importantly of all, discredited his version of the conversation that took place between the witness and Gilligan immediately after the murder.

Warren said he rang Gilligan a couple of minutes after witnessing the murder and told him that ‘somebody’s after being shot’.

‘He said, “Are they dead?” and I said, “I suppose so, they were shot five times.” He said, “Did they get away?” I said, “Yes, they drove off.”

‘He said, “Tell your friend that the same thing will happen to him if anyone says anything about the bike.”’

The phone records produced to the court showed that this conversation, if true, lasted ten seconds.

He kept lying. He proclaimed that Gilligan had told him to go to Naas on the day of the murder.

McDonald asked him why he didn’t mention this detail in his statement made to gardaí three months after the murder. The statement, Warren said without a hint of irony, contained some lies. He continued to exaggerate, saying he was in constant mobile phone contact with Gilligan after he travelled to Naas and spotted Guerin’s car.

McDonald suggested that Gilligan had not told him to go to Naas. Warren replied: ‘I know he told me to go to Naas. It was the morning or the evening over the phone.

‘He said, “Do what Brian Meehan wants you to do, go to Naas.” It was the evening before or the morning before the murder. Those were my instructions.’

McDonald said nothing about this piece of evidence. He pressed him further, causing the criminal to break down saying, ‘I only drove the woman to her death. I only sent the woman to her death.’

The court adjourned for five minutes to allow him to compose himself. When he returned, he told the three judges: ‘I am very sorry about that.’

Bowden’s evidence was of the same calibre. He claimed that although he’d loaded the gun, he never realised she was going to be shot.

‘I thought myself that there would be an attempt to warn her off or an attempt to shoot her to warn her off,’ he proclaimed with a degree of smugness. He couldn’t account for his movements on the day of the murder. This reinforced the opinion that he was present at the scene of the killing and had participated in Guerin’s murder.

The defence proceeded to question everything. Garda witnesses conceded they had returned money which had been seized to Dunne, Warren and Bowden. McDonald cross-examined Detective Bernie Hanley in this regard. Hanley said in evidence that he gave Warren IR£1,920 before Christmas 1996 and another IR£1,000 in April 1997. This was Warren’s own money, from his industrial cleaning business, and he was returning it to him after it had been seized by gardaí.

‘There was no question of payment for infor-mation,’ Detective Hanley said. If he had wanted to pay Warren for information, Garda procedures existed, which he could have followed.

Baltus had agreed to give evidence, linking Gilligan to dozens of arms imports, but suddenly refused to travel to Dublin. He claimed someone had tried to kidnap his daughter. He would not risk her life by testifying. The truth was that he didn’t want to give evidence. There was no kidnapping attempt reported to the Dutch police because there was no kidnapping attempt.

And so after 43 days of evidence from 200 witnesses, including the three supergrass witnesses, it was over. Eamonn Leahy delivered the final closing submission. He said it was not the prosecution’s contention that Gilligan was present at the Naas Road when Guerin was shot dead by the pillion passenger on a motorbike who fired six bullets from a .357 Magnum into her body. But it was the prosecution’s contention that Gilligan played a leading part in a prearranged plan to shoot Guerin and was therefore complicit in the murder and guilty in law.

O’Higgins delivered the closing submissions for the defence, which lasted four days. He said he would not use the description ‘supergrasses’ or ‘protected witnesses’, but he thought a fair description was ‘compromised witnesses’. The relationship that existed between these witnesses and the State was such that the witnesses were ‘utterly compromised’.

‘It threatens to compromise the entire criminal justice system as we understand it,’ he added. Bowden’s evidence, he said, did not ‘pass muster’. The court should ‘effectively disregard everything he said’.

When he finished, Justice Diarmuid O’Donovan said the court would have to take some time to consider every aspect of the case. Gilligan stood up and said, ‘Thank you very much’ before being led from the dock.

On 15 March, Gilligan was welcomed to the Special Criminal Court with a much greater reception than even he could ever have predicted. The media were everywhere. There were vans with giant satellite dishes pointing at the heavens, ready to relay the court verdict to the world the second that it was delivered. Radio journalists spoke into microphones attached to complex devices. Newspaper reporters hustled together in small gangs, engaging in idle chat, some offering bets on what sentence Gilligan would get. They had all gathered for one thing—to witness Gilligan’s ultimate demise.

Outside the court building, Joe Rice and Peter Irvine stood and watched the circus. But the lawyers remained quietly confident of winning the case, although just about everyone else was assured of Gilligan’s guilt. Minutes before 11 a.m. they walked inside to find a courtroom packed full to capacity. O’Higgins was already sitting down but on his own. Illness had caught McDonald. When every seat was occupied in the gallery, a bell rang to signal that the judges were about to enter and deliver the verdict.

At that moment, Gilligan’s head appeared from an underground tunnel, which leads from the court cells to the dock. He looked relaxed and smiled at the judges, at the same time trying not to show any fear or even acknowledge the crowd that had turned out to hear his future. Gilligan’s world was about to change, although at that moment in time he had no idea how.

Judge O’Donovan addressed the court. His colleagues, Judge Mathews and Judge Hamill, remained silent, never uttering a word, as a strange subterranean silence enveloped the court. The learned judge outlined the prosecution’s case against Gilligan, then the defence adopted by the accused.

Gilligan looked as if he had prepared for the worst, trying not to allow the judge’s scathing remarks about Warren, Bowden and Dunne to lift his spirits. ‘The Court recognises the danger of convicting an accused person on the uncorroborated evidence of an accomplice, and that principle has been to the forefront of the mind of the Court when considering the evidence tendered by Messrs Dunne, Bowden and Warren,’ he read.

Gilligan hadn’t anticipated that his case would be assisted by the strict application of the law. But as Judge O’Donovan continued to read the verdict, the unbearable realisation that nothing was going according to plan began to dawn on the police. As the judge continued to read, the gaping holes that were the hallmarks of the prosecution’s case were exposed. The judge criticised the return of cash seized from the supergrass witnesses. Bowden and Warren, the star witnesses who had milked the gardaí for all they could get, became liabilities. The court described them both as liars.

Then, in a kind of apocalyptic message from the court, Gilligan was found guilty of the drug-related charges because Dunne’s evidence had been corroborated.

By now, Gilligan was staring at a fake skylight affixed to the ceiling in an act of defiance against the verdict which Judge O’Donovan continued to read aloud. Then he heard he was acquitted of importing weapons. He looked around to see if his mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn’t; he had beaten the weapons charge because the gardaí had not documented evidence found in the office unit at Harold’s Cross when they first raided it. If Baltus had testified, this outcome may have been different.

Now he waited to hear whether he was a murderer, which just about everyone listening presumed he was.

The judge continued to read the verdict, which further highlighted the glaring disparities in Warren’s evidence. In reality, Gilligan knew he was already going to jail once the verdict was delivered, but beating the murder charge was personal. The drama continued to unfold.

The judges correctly proclaimed that the finger of suspicion could easily be pointed at Traynor. ‘The only evidence which could possibly implicate John Gilligan in the murder of the late Veronica Guerin was that of Russell Warren,’ the judge said. Then the judge announced that this evidence was simply unreliable: ‘He contradicted evidence which he had previously given at the trial of Brian Meehan. In the light of the foregoing, bearing in mind that at all stages during a criminal trial an accused person has, at law, the presumption of innocence and remains at all times throughout an innocent person unless and until that presumption is displaced at the end of the trial by a finding based on evidence which is either reliable testimony, circumstantial evidence or a reasonable inference drawn from established facts that person is, indeed, guilty as charged beyond any reasonable doubt; while this Court has grave suspicions that John Gilligan was complicit in the murder of the late Veronica Guerin, the Court has not been persuaded beyond all reasonable doubt by the evidence which has been adduced by the prosecution that that is so and, therefore, the Court is required by law to acquit the accused on that charge.’

No sooner had Judge O’Donovan finished delivering his verdict than the entire court turned and looked directly at Gilligan, waiting for him to say something. Nobody could tell if he was upset or elated. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he could think of nothing to say.

The prison guards brought him back to his senses when they asked him to walk back down to his cell for ten minutes, while the court adjourned to deliver an appropriate sentence.

By the time he returned, he had grasped the importance of the decision. He now addressed the court as a drug dealer and not a convicted murderer or, as he had dreaded, Veronica Guerin’s murderer. And he had Russell Warren to thank for it. What neither Gilligan nor anyone else could have foreseen was that Warren, one of Gilligan’s collaborators, would secure his acquittal because he lived in a state of self-delusion. By trying to convince the court that he didn’t know Guerin was going to be murdered, he invariably lied and further implicated himself, while distancing Gilligan from the conspiracy. In the end, it boiled down to his version of what Gilligan had said when he called immediately after the murder. Its contents had not been corroborated.

Judge O’Donovan spoke in a much sterner voice when he returned. He looked Gilligan directly in the eye, saying he had ‘grave suspicions’ that he was involved in the murder.

Gilligan, however, took no notice as the judge attacked him for causing a haemorrhage of harm, saying he had shown insatiable greed and no remorse. ‘Never in the history of the State has one person been responsible for so much wretchedness to so many,’ the judge declared.

Gilligan himself looked chuffed. He turned to me, winked and then smiled. Seconds later he was momentarily taken aback when the judge imposed a 28-year sentence, but he soon regained his composure and was led away.

Epilogue

Although Gilligan was acquitted of Guerin’s murder and the firearms charge, his conviction on the drug-trafficking charge sealed his fate. He probably took some comfort in the fact that having beaten the murder charge, he had become the ultimate anti-hero. Yet there was no escaping the reality that he would probably spend most of his remaining life behind bars in the maximum-security wing of Portlaoise Prison.

Gilligan may have smiled when the court delivered its sentence, as if he didn’t care, but the truth was that he did. The imposition of a 28-year sentence meant life. He understood the reality of his situation better than anyone. It was this belated realisation, more than anything else, that he found impossible to accept or comprehend.

When he returned to his cell in Portlaoise Prison after the trial had ended, he returned not just as a convicted prisoner but as someone facing life. Although he was greeted by a round of applause from some of the inmates, inside he was falling apart. How would he cope?

To this end, he devised a strategy to give his life purpose. It involved mounting every conceivable type of legal challenge against the State. His first move, and one which proved to be of the utmost importance, was an immediate appeal against his conviction and another against the severity of his sentence. He also vowed to fight the Criminal Assets Bureau on every point of law imaginable.

His entire life, Gilligan had been a committed criminal, someone who fought the criminal justice system at every turn and with every weapon available to him. According to those who know him, this plan was as much to keep him mentally occupied as it was to secure his freedom. Gilligan needed to believe that there was hope; that he could somehow win his freedom. Challenging the State and its agents in the gardaí, the CAB and the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would give him focus, something to keep his mind occupied, while he settled into a long sentence.

It didn’t take long for the inevitable to happen. Although Gilligan had committed himself to fighting his case in a legal manner, he found it almost impossible to comprehend the sentence that had been imposed on him. This anger manifested itself in an attack on two prison officers whom he threatened to kill after he asked if he could use the prison tuck shop. In accordance with procedure, Gilligan was immediately moved from his own cell and held for three days in solitary confinement. As punishment, he lost two months’ privileges and 14 days of remission. He was later charged with this offence and sentenced to a further two years behind bars. It was, by any standards, a bad start to his new life in Portlaoise Prison.

When his prison regime returned to normal, he recommitted himself to challenging his convictions as well as moves by the State to strip him of his wealth once again.

He believed the most important of these challenges was his appeal to the Court of Criminal Appeal against his conviction and the severity of his sentence. If he could identify a point of law which the judges in the Special Criminal Court had failed to take recognition of, he believed it might be possible to secure a retrial. If this were to happen, Gilligan knew his chances of beating all the charges against him would be good. He had seen the State’s case and knew its weaknesses.

The two cases were heard separately and the first to come before the Court of Criminal Appeal was the challenge against his conviction, which was heard in August 2003.

It came as a surprise to few that his argument was not accepted, however, he was more fortunate when his legal team argued against the 28-year sentence the Special Criminal Court had imposed the following November. The appeal court agreed with many of Gilligan’s claims and expressed its concern that when imposing the sentence, the judges who presided over his trial had erred in principle ‘in not restricting itself to the individual charges which were proved’. In other words, Gilligan had been sentenced for a murder that he had been acquitted of. The appeal court ruled the sentence was disproportionate and reduced it by eight years. This was a mammoth victory and Gilligan could not help but smile when the appeal court delivered its verdict. Having spent two years in prison, this was welcome news.

The drama didn’t stop there, however. Michael O’Higgins, his barrister, said he would be making an application to have points of law arising from the case referred to the Supreme Court on grounds that they raised points of law of exceptional public importance. This case was heard in July 2006 by the Supreme Court but this time Gilligan’s argument was rejected.

While the appeal may have cut eight years off his sentence, it still left him with 12-18 years to serve. But this was better than 28 years behind bars. For the moment, Gilligan had no choice but to deal with the situation in which he found himself.

Gilligan wasn’t the only one to appeal his conviction. Some of those convicted as part of the Guerin murder investigation lodged and successfully won their appeals. The most notable of these was the case of Paul Ward, who had been convicted of Guerin’s murder in 1998 after the Special Criminal Court accepted evidence that he had disposed of the pistol and the motorcycle used in the killing. That evidence would, however, prove to be unreliable and his conviction was accordingly quashed by the Court of Criminal Appeal. Ward had always protested his innocence of the murder.

Eugene Patrick ‘Dutchy’ Holland, the aging drug dealer whom a garda had named in court as the man responsible for firing the shots that killed Guerin, was released from prison in April 2006 after serving 9 years of his 12-year sentence for drug dealing. Holland’s release from prison became something of a media circus. He was invited to appear on an Irish television chat show but his appearance was later cancelled.

The day after his release, he flew to Italy from where he gave interviews in an effort to prove that he was not the killer. But Holland didn’t manage to stay out of trouble for long after his release. In May 2008, he was sentenced to eight years in prison by Blackfriars Crown Court in London for his role in a plot to kidnap a businessman and hold him to ransom for IR£10 million.

Brian Meehan, the man whose loyalty to Gilligan was absolute, was deservedly less fortunate. His appeal against his conviction for Guerin’s murder failed. He remains a convicted killer and is being held in Portlaoise Prison.

It could be argued that the supergrass witnesses fared the best. Charles Bowden, the former soldier with training in firearms, was released from Arbour Hill prison in 2001 after his duties as a protected witness were discharged. He was given a new name and relocated abroad. He was never heard from again. Russell Warren and John Dunne received the same treatment. Warren was released from prison in 2001 after giving evidence against Gilligan. Like Bowden, he was given money and a new identity to build a life abroad upon his release.

Gilligan never really lost hope that he might discover a legal technicality on which to mount a successful appeal. Although he enjoyed success in the Court of Criminal Appeal, his tussles with the Criminal Assets Bureau were more complex and protracted. Gilligan literally fought the bureau on every conceivable ground. His attempts to retain what was left of his wealth knew no bounds.

In July 2007, his enemies in Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise in Britain finally seized the £296,000 they had found in his case as he was attempting to leave London for Amsterdam in October 1996. Eleven years after this money was seized, a judge sitting at Uxbridge Magistrates’ Court in London finally ordered its confiscation.

Gilligan fared much better in his attempts to confront the one unit that had become his nemesis, the Criminal Assets Bureau. Since his incarceration, the two sides had been engaged in a prolonged battle, which culminated in a court case in the High Court in Dublin in January 2008. The CAB moved to appoint a receiver to the Jessbrook Equestrian Centre, the two houses his children owned in Lucan and the original family home in Corduff Avenue in Blanchardstown. The High Court had previously found that the properties had been bought with the proceeds of crime but this was appealed.

On the occasion of the court case, Gilligan decided to address the court himself. At first, the decision appeared to be a foolish one, but it did allow Gilligan to say what he wanted to the court. And never one to miss an opportunity in front of an audience, Gilligan did something uncharacteristic. He used the opportunity to say that Traynor ‘had Veronica Guerin murdered’ but he had ‘nothing to do with it’. In an hour-long address to the High Court, Gilligan said the only reason he was facing the receivership action by the bureau was because of Guerin’s murder, which he described as ‘horrible’. The case was heard by Justice Kevin Feeney, who repeatedly asked Gilligan to stick to the case before the court, but Gilligan wouldn’t remain silent.

‘John Traynor had Veronica Guerin murdered. He [Traynor] said to me he stole Brian Meehan’s telephone . . .’

Gilligan had never speculated on who killed Veronica or why. His proclamation that Traynor could have been the killer took many by surprise. Even though it was clear that Traynor had some type of relationship with the gardaí, Gilligan had never commented on the rumour. Naming Traynor as the likely killer in court also bolstered Meehan’s chances of a second appeal because he was the only person who remains convicted of the journalist’s murder and the location of his mobile phone on the day of the killing had been crucial to his conviction.

By representing himself at the trial, Gilligan had once again engineered a situation where he could say what he wanted, this time about his former partner Traynor, who is still at large.

What does the future hold for Gilligan? The gangster remains the biggest drug trafficker to emerge from the Irish underworld. The mention of his name still carries influence with criminals and the big crime families in almost every part of Ireland. There is no doubt that Gilligan is still a force to be reckoned with.

What few people realise is that his release date is fast approaching. Gilligan is likely to be released back into society around 2013 unless he is convicted of another crime. He has said that he plans to return to the council house in Blanchardstown in west Dublin upon his release and spend the rest of his days there. But few believe him. There is no doubt that Gilligan remains a millionaire and will have access to a fortune when he is eventually freed. The whereabouts of his hidden fortune is probably known only to him but few doubt its existence.

As for the memory of the late Veronica Guerin, her legacy remains very much alive to this day. The journalist’s death had a powerful impact on the people of Ireland, who remember her as the journalist who paid the ultimate price for telling the truth. For this, Veronica Guerin will never be forgotten.

When Gilligan first went into prison, far from rehabilitating himself for society, he metamorphosed from a thief into a gangster. © Author’s private collection

John and Geraldine Gilligan pictured in happier times. © Author’s private collection

Gilligan working out in Portlaoise Prison. © Irish Daily Star on Sunday

Peter Mitchell (first) and Shay Ward (second). The two Dublin men went on the run when Charlie Bowden was recruited into the witness protection programme. The gardaí believe they are now living on the Costa del Sol. © Garda intelligence

John Traynor, aka the Coach, inducted Gilligan into the drugs business. After becoming Guerin’s criminal contact, he ordered the first gun attack on the journalist at her home in January 1996. He later told the author that it helped improve his street credibility. Traynor is now living on the Costa del Sol. © Author’s private collection

Thomas Coyle, pictured shortly after his acquittal for attempting to smuggle bearer bonds to Miami. Coyle put a IR£2 million contract on Charles Bowden on Gilligan’s behalf. © Terry Collins

Fachtna Murphy (left), Detective Chief Superintendent and Chief Bureau of the Criminal Assets Bureau, and Barry Galvin (right), Bureau Legal Officer. Murphy was later promoted to Commissioner of An Garda Síochána. © Photocall Ireland

Assistant Commissioner Tony Hickey, the police officer who led the hunt for Veronica Guerin’s killers. Hickey has since retired from the Garda force. © Author’s private collection

Charles Bowden with a blanket over his head, being led out of court after being sentenced to six years in prison. Bowden was a member of Gilligan’s gang and was the first prisoner to enter the witness protection programme. © Photocall Ireland

Gilligan leaving the Supreme Court in Dublin in 2005 after appealing his 20-year jail sentence. © Photocall Ireland

Gilligan being formally arrested for the murder of Veronica Guerin by gardaí at Casement Aerodome in County Kildare after losing a three-year battle to prevent his extradition for murder, drugs and firearm charges. He was later found not guilty of both Guerin’s murder and the firearm charges. © Photocall Ireland

Index

Note: By clicking on the number(s) next to a name you will be brought to the first, second, thrid etc section in the text where that name is mentioned.

Ahern, Bertie 1, 2

Allen, 1

Andersen, Rene Thor 1

Arbour Hill Prison 1, 2

Arden, Erwin Mill 1

Bacon, Juliet 1, 2, 3

Baltus, Martinus 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Barr, Robert 1

Barrack Yard Drill (BYD) 1

Beirne, Jim ‘The Danger’ 1

Beit art 1, 2

Belmarsh High Security Prison 1, 2, 3

Bolger, Jean 1, 2

Bolger, John 1, 2

Bowden, Charlie 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

British National Criminal Intelligence Service (NCIS) 1

Brophy, John 1 2

Bruton, John 1

Buchalter, Stanley 1

Buchanan, Gerard 1

Buckley, Patrick 1

Cahill, Martin ‘The General’ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Cambridge, Dermot 1

Casey, Eamonn (Bishop) 1, 2

Central Detective Unit (CDU) 1, 2

Charleton, Peter 1

Clohessy, Julian 1

Club la Costa 1

Cody, Tony 1

Conlon, John Francis 1

Cookstown Industrial Estate 1

Coolmine Therapeutic Centre 1

Coral Racing 1

Cork Prison 1

Costa del Sol 1, 2, 3, 4

Coyle, Thomas 1, 2

Cradden, Paul 1

Criminal Assets Bureau (CAB) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Criminal Justice Act 1, 2, 3

Criminal Justice International Co-operation Act 1

Crown Prosecution Service 1, 2, 3

Culhane, Pat 1

Cunningham, John 1

Customs National Drugs Team 1

Deery, Matthew 1

Djorai, Aszal Houssein 1

Doherty, Martin ‘Docho’ 1

Donoghue, Barry 1

Dormer, Tom 1

Doyle, Declan (Father) 1

Drug Trafficking Act 1994 1

Dublin City Wide Campaign Against Drugs 1

Dublin Corporation 1, 2, 3

Dunne, Edward 1

Dunne, John 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Dunne, Larry 1

Dunne, Martha 1

Dunne, Martin 1

Dunne, Patrick 1

Eindhoven military base 1

Europol 1, 2

Extradition 1, 2, 3

FBI 1

Fegan, Brendan ‘Speedy’ 1, 2

Fianna Fáil 1, 2, 3

Finance Act 1

Fine Gael 1

Foley, Martin ‘The Viper’ 1, 2, 3, 4

Forde, Michael 1

Galvin, Barry 1, 2

Garda National Drugs Unit (GNDU) 1, 2

Gardaí:

Anders, John 1

Byrne, Pat 1, 2, 3

Carty, Kevin 1, 2, 3

Cherry, Dave 1

Conroy, Noel 1

Cryan, Cathal 1, 2, 3

Culligan, Patrick 1, 2, 3

Cusack, Marion 1, 2

Finnegan, Chris 1

Gallagher, Thomas 1

Hanley, Bernie 1, 2, 3

Hearns, Dominic 1

Hickey, Tony 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Lanigan, Frank 1

Mahony, Howard 1

Manning, Andy 1

Marky, Vincent 1

McCabe, Jerry 1

McElhatton, Patrick 1

McGarry, Michael 1

McGinn, Terry 1, 2

McGroarty, John 1

McGuiness, Cormac 1

McHugh, Jim 1

McKenna, Felix 1

McLoughlin, John 1

McNally, Austin 1

Murphy, Fachtna 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Murphy, James 1

O’Connell, Jerry 1, 2

O’Driscoll, John 1, 2

O’Higgins, Brian 1

O’Loughlin, Todd 1, 2

O’Leary, Michael 1

O’Mahony, John 1, 2, 3

O’Neill, John ‘Buffalo’ 1, 2

Phelan, James 1

Quinn, Brendan 1

Reid, Pauline 1

Rock, Eddie 1

Ryan, Michael 1

Gilligan, Darren 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Gilligan, Frank 1

Gilligan, Geraldine (née Dunne) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Gilligan, John ‘Johnno’ 1

Gilligan, Sarah Teresa (née Howard) 1, 2

Gilligan, Shannon 1, 2

Gilligan, Thomas 1, 2

Gilligan, Tracy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Gleeson, Dermot 1

Goddard, John 1

Grant, Eugene 1

Greenmount Gang 1

Greenmount Industrial Estate 1, 2

Grimes, Michael 1, 2

Guerin, Christopher 1

Guerin Principles 1

Guerin, Veronica 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

Habeas corpus 1, 2, 3

Hamill, William 1

Hanahoe, Michael 1, 2

Hanahoe Solicitors 1

Hand, Lise 1

Harbison, John F. 1

Harney, Mary 1

Haughey, Charles 1

Herron, Pat 1, 2, 3

Higgins, Jim 1

Highdown Prison 1

Hole-in-the-Wall Gang 1

Holland, Patrick ‘The Wig’ ‘Dutchy’ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Houricane, Chris 1

Hughes, Sean ‘Bap’ 1

Hussey, Gillian 1

Interpol 1

IRA 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Irish People’s Liberation Army 1

Irvine, Peter 1

Jessbrook Equestrian Centre 1, 2, 3, 4

Johnson, Richard 1

Kealy, Willie 1

Keith, Ian 1

Kelly, Cyril 1

Kelly, John 1

Kenna, Brian 1, 2

Labour Party 1

Leahy, Eamonn 1, 2

Livingstone, Grace 1

Livingstone, Jim 1

MacDomhnaill, Cathal 1

Mathews, Joseph 1

McClory, Niall 1

McDonald, Terence 1

McDowell, Michael 1

McEnroy, Felix 1

McGrath, Steven 1

McMahon, Heber (Father) 1

McVerry, Peter 1

Meehan, Brian ‘The Tosser’ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

Meehan, Kevin 1

Meehan, Vanessa 1

Merchant Navy 1

Mitchell, Gay 1

Mitchell, George 1, 2

Mitchell, Peter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Moloney, Senan 1

Money laundering 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Money Laundering Investigations Unit 1, 2

Montgomery, Clare 1, 2

Morris, Freddie 1, 2

MOT (Dutch Disclosure Office for Unusual Transactions) 1

Mountjoy Prison 1, 2, 3

Mullen, Thomas 1, 2

Murphy, Annie 1

Murphy, Patricia 1

National Surveillance Unit 1, 2

National Union of Journalists (NUJ) 1

Nilfisk 1

Ó Siodhacháin, Donal 1, 2, 3, 4

O’Connell, Tom 1

O’Donoghue, John 1, 2

O’Donovan, Diarmuid 1

O’Hare, Dessie ‘Border Fox’ 1

O’Higgins, Kevin 1

O’Higgins, Michael 1, 2

O’Leary, Finbar 1

O’Maoileoin, Tomas 1

O’Riordan, Andy 1

O’Rourke, Mary 1

O’Rourke, Sean 1

O’Toole, Aileen 1

Offences Against the State Act 1, 2, 3

;

Operation Pineapple 1, 2, 3, 4

Operation Starling 1

Operation Wedge 1

Owen, Nora 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Paralegal and Technical Services (PATS) 1

Peters, Nigel 1

Portlaoise Prison 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Power Leisure Group 1

Proceeds of Crime Act 1, 2, 3, 4

Provisional IRA 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Quinn, Ruairí 1

Rahman, Simon 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Revenue Commissioners 1, 2, 3, 4

Rice, Joe 1

Robinhood Industrial Estate 1

Roe, Frank 1

Rooney, Anthony 1

Rooney, Carol 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Rose Confectionery 1

Royal, George 1, 2

Rucker, James 1

Ryan, Martin 1

Saouma, Joseph 1, 2

Scheveningen Casino 1

Schiphol Airport 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Scotland Yard 1, 2, 3

Seabridge Freight 1

Serious Crime Squad 1

Sheppard’s 1

Sinn Féin 1, 2

Sorgdrager, Winnie 1

South East Regional Crime Squad (SERCS) 1

Special Branch 1, 2, 3

Special Criminal Court 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Spring, Dick 1

Supergrass 1, 2, 3

Supreme Court 1, 2

Tohill, Bobby 1

Traynor, John ‘The Coach’ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

Turley, Cathal 1, 2, 3

Turley, Graham 1, 2, 3, 4

Ulster Defence Association (UDA) 1, 2

Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) 1, 2

United Nations Human Rights Commission 1

Walsh, Kevin 1

Ward, Paul ‘Hippo’ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Ward, Shay 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Warehouse gang 1, 2

Warren, Debbie 1, 2

Warren, John 1

Warren, Russell 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Weafer, David 1

Weatherwell Industrial Estate 1

Wilkinson, Browne 1

Wilson, Roger 1, 2

Winkle, Dave 1

Witness protection 1, 2

Wormwood Scrubs Prison 1

John Mooney, 35, has reported on crime and terrorism for newspapers and broadcasters for over ten years. He is the crime correspondent with The Sunday Times in Ireland.

He wrote and devised The Underworld, a four-part documentary series broadcast on RTÉ television in 2003. He also produced Sabhair ach Salach, a series profiling Ireland’s richest criminals for TG4 in 2006.

When Gangster was first released in 2001, it went straight to number one in the bestseller charts.

His second book, Black Operations, The Secret War Against the Real IRA (2003), co-written with Michael O’Toole, is still considered the definitive account of the Real IRA and the 1998 Omagh bombing.

Rough Justice: Memoirs of a Gangster (2004), which he wrote for the Dublin criminal Maurice ‘Bo Bo’ Ward, was also a bestseller.

The Torso in the Canal (2007), his acclaimed book on the killing and dismemberment of an African immigrant by two sisters, reached number one in the bestseller charts.

Much of this book is based on evidence presented to the Special Criminal Court in the trials of Brian Meehan, Patrick Holland and John Gilligan. Other evidence was taken from the trial of Paul Ward, whose conviction for the murder of Veronica Guerin was overturned by the Court of Criminal Appeal. Information contained in some parts of the book is also derived from evidence given before properly constituted courts in Britain.

PUBLISHED BY MAVERICK HOUSE PUBLISHERS

Maverick House Publishers, Office 19, Dunboyne Business Park, Dunboyne, Co. Meath, Ireland.

info@maverickhouse.

http://www.maverickhouse.com

GANGSTER. Copyright for text © 2008 John Mooney

Copyright for typesetting, editing, layout, design © Maverick House.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Maverick House e-books.

E-book edition ISBN: 978-1-905379-99-6. June 2011.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Photo Section

Index

About the author

Copyright