- 08 Apr 01
For close to twenty years, MARTIN CAHILL led the forces of law and order a merry dance. Known as the General, he was suspected of masterminding virtually every major crime committed in Ireland – but for as long as matters, the Gardai had been unable to pin anything on him. And when he was brought to court on petty charges, he posed outside for press photographers, dropping his trousers to reveal a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer shorts. Last week, however, the game was cut brutally short when Cahill was blown away within 100 yards of his South Dublin home by an IRA hit squad. Report: NEIL McCORMICK.
Cahill (Dublin) - Aug. 18th 1994. Martin, beloved husband of Frances, Swan Grove, Ranelagh: deeply regretted by his sorrowing wife and family. Funeral arrangements later.
Well, we’ve all heard that before. But no one said anything about a Magnum .357, the weapon used to blow holes the size of golf balls in Martin Cahill. Whoever shot him wasn’t taking chances. Five bullets, at close range, from a dirty great handgun powerful enough to bring down an elephant. They left him slumped across the front seats of his black Renault 5, blood streaming from his neck, soaking his shirt. Motorcycle courier Niall Keogh, the first witness on the scene, was in no doubt about what he saw. “I looked into the car and he was brown bread,” he told reporters. The Dublin rhyming slang would seem callously inappropriate at most murder scenes. But not this one. It was the kind of joking colloquialism Martin Cahill would have appreciated. Brown bread. Dead.
News like that travels fast. It was buzzing across the police radio within minutes. “Tango One is down. We can confirm that the Number One man is down. Get everyone down here...” The voices could barely contain their excitement. This was the best news they had heard in a long time. “Other alarm calls will have to be put on hold . . . Tango One is down and must get priority”.