McEvoy reached his car and slipped into the driver’s seat, seething. No doubt the story and pictures would be all over the following day’s papers. Bishop would go apoplectic and the chances of him making the end of the week would plummet dramatically. He’d be sent home on mandatory sick leave or some other ruse to keep him away from the investigation. He started the car, put it in gear and nosed out into the traffic. There was no point staying, once one vulture found you a whole flock would soon turn up to pick you over.
The Raven exited the taxi and walked tall into the terminal building. In eight hours’ time he would be walking off a plane into a new country and sanctuary. He would then slip into the shadows and bide his time, wait for the opportune time to rise again.
The departures hall was a maelstrom of people moving at different speeds, with varying degrees of purpose. Scattered visibly amongst the throng were pairs of uniformed guards, their heads constantly swivelling, scanning the crowd. He headed for the transatlantic check-in area, threading his way through his fellow passengers, their haunted faces staring through him; a palpable tension in the air. His book might be complete but no one was sure if the killings were going to stop. Many of those around him probably felt they were managing to escape from his potential clutches.
He noticed two airport security guards heading straight for him. They seemed on edge, their hands clutching tightly the sub-machine guns hanging round their necks. He held his head high and continued on his path.
The security was much greater than he expected and he could feel his confidence slipping, evaluating the risks. He should get through okay; after all, they are not looking for him; they didn’t know who they were looking for. They didn’t have any positive leads. Did they? If they did they’d presently be all over him – probing, questioning, checking his story. But they were clueless.
Except for one conversation with the hapless, conceited guard on the day they found David Hennessey’s body he doubted his name had arisen in the enquiry. There was no reason to think that it ever would except for Samantha’s death. That was unfortunate, but necessary.
That said passing through the most security intense zone in the state, one that was on high alert, was probably not the wisest course of action; an unnecessary risk. And there was no need to go. There was no need to keep up the pretence of continuing an ordinary life. That life was coming to an end. Samantha’s disappearance would see to that.
He would return to the apartment and in a couple of days resort to his contingency plan. He wasn’t in a hurry. Samantha wouldn’t be missed for a little while. Her family lived in Wales and she often worked at home, only occasionally heading into the department and the office she shared with two others. He could continue to enjoy the small luxuries he would be without for a while – television, newspapers, central heating, running water – and then he would vanish. And, for a brief moment, he would be the most famous person on the planet, his infamy living on for an age.
He headed for the exit and a taxi to take him back into the city.
The door to the meeting room opened and Jenny Flanagan and her team emerged. McEvoy nodded at them, pushed himself up off the corridor wall, and put his head round the door they’d exited.
Kathy Jacobs was standing to one side waiting, Paul Roche was scribbling on a pad.
‘Can I have a quick word, Paul?’ McEvoy asked, interrupting.
‘What? Yes, yes, come in. These meetings are taking a long time.’ He glanced up at the clock – ten past two. ‘Half the day gone already and I’m going to have to go through them all again tomorrow. I’ve barely scratched the surface. What can I do for you?’
McEvoy glanced at Kathy Jacobs, uncomfortable with her presence, and back at Roche. ‘I was wondering, if it’s okay by you, whether it’s alright to head off. My lot are out on the streets – I’ve tried joining them but I get recognised every two minutes and it’s counter-productive. I just deflect attention from …’ he tailed off, feeling embarrassed. He started again. ‘I’d like, if there’s nothing else you want me to do, to go round the murder sites again now that they’re free of people. I thought revisiting them might spark some fresh insight, maybe I’d spot something we missed before,’ he tailed off again, feeling like an idiot, afraid it sounded as it was – a lame excuse to get away and spend some time on his own.
‘Absolutely,’ Roche replied. ‘If you think it’ll be of use, go ahead. It’s still your case, Colm.’
‘We both know that’s not …’ McEvoy trailed off again. ‘Thanks. I’ll have my mobile on if you need me.’
‘Good, as I might have a few questions for you.’ Roche tapped his note pad.
‘It’s a stringy vest?’ McEvoy asked, suggesting the investigation was full of holes.
‘No more than any other. So far, I’d have done everything pretty much the same way. There are lots of things to follow up on, loose ends, calls from the public, the usual stuff. It’s probably going to take months to work through them all.’
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll call you if I spot anything.’ McEvoy exited the meeting room heading for the stairs, wanting to leave as soon as possible.
He’d just started the engine when Kathy Jacobs burst through the door into the car park, glancing round trying to spot him. He rolled his eyes and looked up at the car’s roof. He knew what was coming. He looked back down and watched her approach, her red scarf swinging across the front of her coat.
She opened the passenger door and leaned her head in. ‘Is it okay if I join you, Colm? It would be useful for me to see where he killed.’
‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He waved her in.
The Glencree Peace and Reconciliation Centre was quiet, its next set of guests not due to arrive until the following day. McEvoy was standing outside of the room Laura Schmidt was killed in, looking down the Glencree valley, the sides covered in cloud, visibility restricted by drizzle. Behind him Kathy Jacobs crouch-walked under the tape that still barred entry to the room back into the corridor.
‘This place feels haunted,’ she observed.
‘Probably is,’ he replied flatly. ‘Tens of children probably died up here when it was a reform school; bullied and beaten and frozen to death.’
She stood next to him and followed his gaze down the valley. ‘Poor mites,’ she said eventually.
He turned and pulled the bedroom door to, the image of Laura, laid out naked on the bed, the sword slotted through her mouth, still fresh in his mind.
‘I thought coming here might help,’ he said absently, rubbing at his nose, trying to stop the steady trickle of the cold he’d developed.
‘Maybe it will,’ Jacobs offered.
‘All it’s done is made me feel worse. Brought back memories I’d sooner forget.’ He leant forward against the windowsill and tried to gather himself.
‘Perhaps we should go?’
He nodded in agreement, unable to shake free the image of Laura, and pushed himself back up straight. ‘Do you want to look at the German cemetery,’ he offered, heading for the fire door, ‘where we found the cards?’
‘If it’s okay with you. I can go on my own or come back another time if you prefer.’
‘No, no. We’re here now.’ He held open the door and let her through, following her down the stairs.
They exited the old barracks, popped up a couple of umbrellas, and headed up the laneway onto the narrow road and the 50 metres to the gate of the cemetery. The place was silent except for the cawing of a couple of crows.
McEvoy hung back at the small shelter puffing on his plastic cigarette and Jacobs wandered around the beds of heather staring down at the names of the dead. After a couple of minutes she rejoined him and they left.
McEvoy followed Jacobs along the path towards the covered crucifix, pulling his plastic substitute from a pocket, jamming it between his lips. She was staring up at it from under her red umbrella when he caught her up.
‘The techies say he was hit around here,’ he
pointed to a spot a bit beyond the crucifix, ‘then dragged in under these trees here, through onto the path and down to the cemetery.’
She nodded and set off under the yew trees towards the cemetery, McEvoy trailing after her.
‘From one place of ghosts to another,’ she muttered.
‘What?’ McEvoy said, lost in thought.
‘I said, from one place of ghosts to another. This place gives me the creeps.’
‘You and me both,’ McEvoy replied, knowing that he was killing time and starting to feel sorry for himself.
She paused to stare at the spot David Hennessey had been found and then hurried through into the open skies of the cemetery.
From behind her McEvoy said, ‘Do you think there was any significance in the blue paint?’
‘No,’ she said, studying the names on the crosses nearest to the entrance. ‘I think that’s designed to throw you and generate a bit of hype and notoriety. There’s no consistent pattern or theme and they peter out towards the end of the sequence. There’s the sword, the paint, the toes, the crow shrine and then it just stops. Nothing for the last three victims or at Oughterard. It’s like he got bored, or couldn’t be bothered. He had less time for each killing, but he could have prepared something that he just had to leave.’
McEvoy nodded, agreeing with her assessment, thinking he would be better off just leaving the case to Roche; of retiring disgracefully to some country backwater. He sucked on his plastic stick and tried to ignore his craving.
Garda tape was still stretched across the driveway, blocking access. The house already had the look of a long abandoned property, the smoke gone, the ash wet and stuck to the earth.
McEvoy stopped the car, its bonnet half under the tape. He stepped out and retrieved his umbrella from behind his seat. He was feeling exhausted again, a faint headache starting to form above his eyes.
He wiped at his nose and glanced at his watch – just gone 5.30. It was almost 24 hours since the final murder. The Raven was probably sitting at home with his family, laughing quietly to himself, self-congratulating his own brilliance and police ineptitude. The longer the investigation dragged on, the less likely a lead would appear.
Jacobs was already under the tape and walking towards the house, trying to place herself in The Raven’s shoes. McEvoy followed her, joining her at the window to the front room, broken glass under foot.
‘He died on the sofa by the door,’ McEvoy said. ‘He was hit on the side of the head, probably with a hammer, and knocked unconscious. He then set fire to the house, burning him alive.’
‘Jesus.’ She stepped away, heading for the corner of the bungalow.
McEvoy’s phone rang. He answered it as she disappeared from view. ‘McEvoy.’
‘Sir, it’s Hannah Fallon,’ she said excitedly. ‘We have a second match. A small hair from Glencree with one from Rathmoylan. It was in the bottom of one of candle holders at the little shrine he’d built. I’d say they’re eyelashes or eyebrows.’
‘And any match with the database?’ McEvoy said, looking round, slightly spooked that one of the hairs had been found where he was now visiting.
‘Not yet. We’re also going to check with the UK database and other agencies. It has to be him though, the house at Rathmoylan was hardly well visited. If he’s pulled in for anything else and tested we’ll have him.’
‘Have you spoken to Superintendent Roche?’
‘Yes. He told me to ring you. He said you’d want to know.’
‘He was right. Look, thanks, Hannah. Excellent work.’
‘We’ll get the bastard yet.’
‘Hopefully. Thanks for ringing.’
Kathy Jacobs appeared at the far end of the bungalow having completed a loop. ‘Must have been pretty lonely living out here on your own, especially if you were pretty much immobile.’
‘People came and visited him. It was probably no worse than being stuck in a house on an estate. Come on, let’s get away from here.’
The rain hadn’t let up all afternoon, in fact it had become heavier, the wind rising, the droplets coming in waves. Their umbrellas flexed and twisted, struggling to remain in shape. They were standing on the tarmac path a couple of metres from where Grainne Malone had her legs cut from under her before being dragged away and strangled. Several bunches of flowers were grouped at the base of a tree trunk.
‘He hid the toes all round the park,’ McEvoy said, pointing with his plastic substitute. ‘If you linked them all together on a map they formed the shape of a raven, with this place the eye. I don’t think there’s much point going to them all, we’re just going to get wet.’
‘It’s pretty bleak here,’ Jacobs observed. ‘We’re in the city, but not really. We could be back up the mountains.’
‘There’s usually a lot more people around – running, cycling, taking the dog for a walk.’
Jacobs stepped forward, bending down to read the messages. ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’
‘Very early stages according to Elaine Jones. I’m not sure she knew, or if she did she hadn’t yet told her husband.’
‘It was her husband’s baby?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, the husband was, you know, the father to be,’ she said awkwardly.
‘You think it might have been The Raven’s?’ he said incredulously. ‘She was having an affair?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I was just asking, that’s all. He seemingly knew Laura, I’m wondering if he knew Grainne Malone? Four of the victims have direct links with Dermot Brady, three of the first four. Did the other victims have links to the murderer, but not Brady?’
‘It was the sites that were linked to Brady, not simply the victims,’ McEvoy countered, tiredness in his voice. ‘It would be a hell of a coincidence for the murderer’s own victims to share Brady’s sites.’
‘True. I was just thinking aloud, that’s all.’
‘I’ll drop you off at The White Horse if it’s open or run you to your hotel if it isn’t. I’m heading home, I’m exhausted.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said flatly. ‘The last week’s catching up on me, that’s all. I’ve had damn all sleep and it’s been an emotional roller coaster. I feel like I’ve been pulled through a mangle slowly. This cold isn’t helping. I feel as if someone has stuffed my head with cotton wool.’
‘Well, if you need someone to talk to just call.’
‘Yeah, I will,’ he replied, trying to read her face, undecided whether it was signalling earnestness or invitation.
The road shimmered orange and a bus lumbered past the parked car sending up a spray of water from a pothole. The car smelt of damp clothes and the lingering of scent of Jacobs’ perfume. McEvoy tipped back his head and closed his eyes. If he wasn’t careful he’d fall asleep there and then. He let his chin hit his chest and pulled up Paul Roche’s number on his mobile phone.
‘Roche.’
‘Paul, it’s Colm. I’m just checking in, well checking out actually. I’ve just arrived home, I’m too exhausted to keep going for now. How’re you getting on?’
‘Slowly. I’ve now met with all the teams and I’m working my way through case notes. I’ll probably need to go through a few things with you tomorrow.’
‘No bother. What time do you want to meet?’
‘I’m not sure, I’ll let you know. I’ve got to meet Tony Bishop and the AC tomorrow morning to give them an update. They’re starting to sound desperate.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. You’re the replacement captain on the Titanic, flown in after I’ve hit the iceberg. They see themselves as major shareholders in White Star Line.’
‘That’s rubbish and you know it. They’re the captains, were down in the boiler house trying to bail water and get the damn thing to limp to shore. Whatever. He hasn’t left us a whole lot to go on, has he?’
‘Well, as he would say, he wrote the book.’
‘Look, feck t
he book,’ Roche said aggressively. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ McEvoy ended the call and levered himself out of the car.
He slotted the key in the front door and entered the warmth of the house. Gemma was first out of the living room, launching herself up onto his chest. He clutched her with one arm, quickly swapping to two. His mother placed her head round the door.
‘You okay, Colm?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve had better days, I’ve had worse.’
‘You’re dinner’s in the oven. Chicken casserole.’
He entered the living room. Sheila, Des, Caroline and his father were watching Sky News. Tony Bishop, his face flushed red and frowning concern, was discussing progress on the case.
‘Either he goes, or I go,’ McEvoy said, letting Gemma down, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
Caroline zapped the television off. ‘That’s pretty much what he seems to be saying as well,’ she observed.
Chapter Eight
Monday, April 21st
His hand scrabbled round on the bedside locker trying to find his mobile phone. ‘Yeah?’ he said half asleep through a dry mouth, his nose blocked, head full marshmallows.
‘Have you seen the papers?’ Bishop said angrily.
‘What?’
‘I said, have you seen the papers?’
He didn’t have the energy to push himself up. ‘No.’
‘I told you to stay away from the feckin’ press. And what do I find this morning? A picture of you in The Sun with the by-line, “TOP COP SEARCHES FOR MYSTERY MAN.” What the hell were you doing wandering the streets with photofits?’
‘I was … I was trying to follow-up on a lead,’ McEvoy replied lamely, unable to gather any enthusiasm to rebut Bishop.
‘That’s what the grunts are for. You’re off this case as of now, d’you hear? You’ve become too much of a feckin’ liability. I’m putting you on mandatory sick leave until further notice. If anyone asks, you’re suffering from stress-related illnesses. My suggestion is you keep your head down and your mouth shut.’
The Rule Book Page 31
