by Rob Kitchin
McEvoy nodded. He’d wait for her to arrive and give her initial assessment, then he’d head over to Ballyglass to view Albert Koch.
‘I want to talk to the poor sod that found him. If he does turn out to be a foreigner you’ll need to bring in GNIU,’ McEvoy continued, referring to the Garda National Immigration Unit. ‘They’ll be able to help you contact his relatives and work with the relevant community – organise access, translators and so on.’
Without waiting for an answer he started to head back toward the bridge to meet the new arrivals. Two new cases on the same morning and he was already in a sour mood; though that was nothing unusual these days, he reflected. He seemed to get out of the wrong side of the bed almost every morning.
* * *
Hannah Fallon gathered her auburn hair together and pulled it through a black scrunchy, letting it fall in a pony tail over her luminous yellow coat. In her late thirties, she was in charge of the three-person, technical crime scene team. She opened the rear door of the van and started to unload equipment, passing it to the overweight figure of George Carter, grey-haired and in his late forties. Chloe Pollard, the third member of the team joined them, readjusting the paper suit covering her hour-glass figure. In her early thirties, her dyed, long blonde hair was already pulled into a pony tail and covered in a hairnet.
McEvoy crossed the bridge and headed to where they were parked. Fallon had just slipped off her coat. She eased her right foot into the leg of a paper suit and then her left, easing it up her frame. McEvoy arrived as she slotted her right arm into her sleeve.
‘Colm. What have we got?’ she asked.
‘Dead male – late teens, early twenties – clutching a blood-stained knife. He’s been badly beaten and possibly stabbed.’
‘Lithuanian,’ Fallon said matter-of-fact, slipping her arm into the left sleeve.
‘That seems to be the consensus.’
‘Hopefully it’s going to be straightforward enough. I have the Rory Nesbitt murder trial starting tomorrow and I need to do some prep work. To tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to it; Charlie Clarke gives me the creeps big time.’
Rory Nesbitt had been a precocious teenage thug with a drug habit. He’d been feeding it by working his way into the membership of a West Dublin gang, running errands, pushing heroin and cocaine, threatening and roughing up those in debt. Then he got ahead of himself and decided that he could go into the drugs trade for himself. Eight months previously he’d been shot in the chest with a double-barrelled shotgun on wasteland near to Clonee on the outskirts of Dublin. Unbeknown to the killer there’d been a witness – a farm labourer clearing out a copse that bordered the site. He identified Charles ‘The Enforcer’ Clarke, a well known criminal thug thought to have been responsible for at least eight deaths in the past three years. The witness had since withdrawn his statements, but forensic evidence still linked Clarke to the murder.
‘They have to be put away, Hannah. Charlie Clarke should have been locked up years ago. Hopefully you should be finished here in a couple of hours.’
‘God, I hope so; things are pretty manic at the minute. I’m going to be in and out of court all week. Plus all those other gangland killings are coming up over the next month or so. Nesbitt is the first of six. We also have a load of lab work to catch up on and now I’ve got this one to worry about as well. Anyway, enough of my moaning; how’s Gemma?’ She tugged a hairnet over her auburn hair and pulled up her hood.
‘She’s fine,’ McEvoy replied, referring to his twelve-year-old daughter. ‘It’ll be a year since Maggie’s death this Friday. Her sister’s organised a memorial service. It’s been the fastest and slowest year of my life, if that makes any sense. I think Gemma’s coped with it better than I have to be honest.’
‘You’ve both been through a lot.’
His phone rang and he held up a hand to signal apology as he answered it. ‘McEvoy.’
‘There’s been another one,’ said a Dublin accent belonging to DI Johnny Cronin.
Fallon picked up an aluminium case, waved her free hand and trailed after Carter and Pollard.
‘Another what?’ McEvoy asked, turning away from her.
‘Another banknote scam; the same as the laundering suicide.’
Four weeks previously a shopkeeper in County Cavan had driven to an isolated laneway near Virginia and handed over fifty thousand euro to a man dressed in a smart pinstriped suit. He was expecting to receive back one hundred thousand euro in used banknotes from a two million euro bank robbery committed two weeks previously. The conman had been charm itself. For fifty thousand clean notes, the shopkeeper would make fifty thousand in dirty money. He needed the cash – his business was in trouble, unable to compete with the chain supermarkets. He ended up losing the lot. A week later, bankrupt, ashamed and depressed, he committed suicide. So far they knew about three other people caught by the scam. No doubt there were half a dozen others who were too embarrassed to come forward.
‘How much this time?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Thirty grand. A farmer in North Tipp.’
‘Well you’ll just have to deal with it by yourself, I’ve just picked up a new murder case and it looks like there’s been another one.’
‘Jesus Christ! This is ridiculous; we need more people.’
‘What we need is for people to stop killing each other.’
‘I don’t care which it is as long as I stop working fifteen, sixteen hour days,’ Cronin griped.
‘Get yourself down there, Johnny, and see what you can find out. I’ll talk to you later.’ McEvoy ended the call and stared up at the lead grey sky. It was turning into a hell of a Sunday.
* * *
McEvoy left the warmth of the garda station and stood on the steps admiring the view of the castle. The elderly woman who’d found the battered body on the river bank had little of value to offer; she’d simply been the first person to walk along the path that morning. The attack had probably taken place in the early hours, not long after the pubs and clubs closed.
The pathologist’s van drove past slowly heading for the castle car park. McEvoy set off after it at a brisk pace along the deserted road. He hoped that she’d be able to tell him something that might give them some kind of head start.
Professor Elaine Jones was standing at the back of her van talking into a mobile phone when he arrived. In her mid-fifties, and five foot two, her shoulder-length grey hair framed a joyous face, her eyes bright and lively, edged by crow’s feet, her red lips by laughter lines. She was wearing black trousers, and a brown, round-necked jumper over which hung a large amber necklace. Her assistant – the tall, thin, bald-headed figure of Billy Keane, known to all as Igor due to his gothic looks and lurching walk – hovered nearby looking bored. She waved a greeting as McEvoy approached, said a final few words into her phone and snapped it shut.
‘You look stressed, Colm,’ she said as a greeting.
‘That’s because I am stressed. People are being killed faster than we can investigate them. We’re at full stretch.’
‘Well, I blame the Celtic Tiger. People got greedy and stupid. Stupid enough to kill each other over drugs or money or land. Now the bubble’s burst, those three have become even more potent. Ah, ah, come on, the continental thing,’ she waved at McEvoy who had halted a couple of feet away. ‘Come on, you promised.’
McEvoy shuffled forward, leaned down and kissed her on both cheeks, feeling awkward and embarrassed. It was a routine that Jones had instigated during the Raven case, but he still wasn’t comfortable with the greeting. It was far too intimate for an Irish man who’d grown up in the shadow of Catholic conservatism.
‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’ Jones teased. ‘And were you watching, Billy? I’ll train you up yet.’
Billy Keane stared down at his enormous feet, unsure of how to respond to his boss.
‘For God’s sake, lighten-up will you! You’re like a pair of teenage schoolboys unsure of how to handle their mad aunt.’ She l
aughed at her ribbing. ‘So, Colm, what have we got?’
‘A young man beaten to death, possibly stabbed. The consensus seems to be that he’s probably East European.’
‘And you think you might have another one up in Athboy?’
‘Apparently so; a multi-millionaire. I’ll be heading up there once you’ve had a look at the body here.’
‘You might as well go now; I’m not going to be able to tell you much about the victim here until we’ve done the post-mortem. I’ve spoken to the local doctor in Athboy and he thinks the man died of natural causes. Perhaps you can cast a professional eye over it and see what you think? If you have any suspicions I’ll come up straight away and I can do the two post-mortems together in Navan this afternoon.’
McEvoy nodded his head. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you get on then,’ he said, feeling like a spare part. ‘I’ll go and find Jim Whelan and then I’ll be on my way. Give me a call if you find anything significant, okay?’
‘Don’t worry, Colm, you’ll be the first to know. Come on then, Billy, let’s get this show on the road.’
* * *
McEvoy passed through a tunnel of tall copper beech trees and turned left into a wide gateway; large stone pillars each supporting a golden eagle taking flight. ‘The White Gallows’ was etched into the left-hand column. He coasted up the curved gravel driveway, framed each side by a row of lime trees, to the front of a large farmhouse and parked in behind a dark green Audi A4. Three other cars were parked nearby: a silver Mercedes 180, a dark blue Mercedes 320 and a marked garda car.
The farmhouse was a two-storey structure covered in Boston Ivy that had recently lost its bright red leaves. Three steps led up to a Georgian door, a semi-circle of clear glass above it. There were two Georgian sash windows to the left of the door, one to the right. A single-storey structure continued past the house to the right, interrupted along its length by a high archway. From McEvoy’s experience it almost certainly led into a farmyard that would be framed all the way round by outbuildings. It was a modest house for someone reputed to be one of the richest men in Ireland.
He exited the car, climbed the steps to the front door and clunked down the large, brass knocker.
A few seconds later it was opened by a flustered looking man in his late twenties. ‘Yes?’
‘Detective Superintendent McEvoy. I believe you’re expecting me?’
‘What? Yes, yes, join the party!’ the man said sarcastically, standing to one side and ushering McEvoy into a cold, wood-panelled hallway. A broad staircase rose on the right-hand side, a narrow, stain-glass window on the landing above letting in weak light.
‘I really don’t think all this attention is necessary,’ the man said to McEvoy’s back. ‘The doctor said he died of heart failure.’
‘Who is it?’ a shrill female voice asked from an adjoining room.
‘Another guard,’ the man answered as if McEvoy wasn’t there.
‘Can’t you get rid of him? I thought we’d got this awful mess sorted out?’
McEvoy headed towards the woman’s voice, pushed open the door and entered a simply decorated living room. It was occupied by a woman and man sitting together on a mid-blue sofa. They appeared to be in their late fifties and dressed smartly: the woman in casual, tan trousers with a pale blue cashmere cardigan over a white blouse; the man in dark blue suit over a cream shirt with gold cuff-links and no tie. The woman’s shoulder-length hair was dyed blonde, though her grey roots were just starting to show, and her make-up was subtly applied. A fire was blazing in the grate, warming the chill air.
‘I’m afraid the answer to that is no,’ McEvoy stated flatly. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent McEvoy. I’m in charge of the case, if there is a case. First, let me offer my condolences on the death of Mr Koch. He was…?’ He let the question hang.
‘My father. He was my father.’ The woman raised a white cotton handkerchief to her left eye, but left the impression of crying crocodile tears. ‘I’m sorry, superintendent, but I think you might have had a wasted trip. The doctor says he died of natural causes.’
‘Look… er… You have my deepest sympathy, Mrs… Koch?’
‘D’Arcy.’
‘Mrs D’Arcy. And I’m sure the last thing you need right now is the guards intruding at such a difficult moment, but one of the officers who responded to the emergency call feels there might be more to it.’
‘And your officers are qualified doctors, are they?’ Mrs D’Arcy asked facetiously.
‘No, but they’re trained to observe for signs that might indicate foul play. The state pathologist is presently in Trim and since she’s so close, if I agree with the officer, I’ll be asking her to come and take a look to clear up any misunderstanding.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ the man stated. ‘He was an old man; in his nineties. He died in his sleep.’
‘And you are?’ McEvoy asked curtly.
‘James Kinneally,’ the man replied rising to his feet. ‘I’m the CEO of Ostara Industries, the company Dr Koch founded.’ He held out his hand which McEvoy shook firmly.
‘With all due respect, Mr Kinneally, we have to investigate all suspicious deaths even if that suspicion turns out to be groundless.’
‘But the only person that has that suspicion is one of your officers,’ Kinneally protested.
‘Look, I know you’re both upset by the death of Dr Koch, but it will only take a minute to verify if there’s anything worth investigating. If there isn’t, we’ll be out of your hair shortly and you can get on with your arrangements. If there is, then I’m sure you will want to bring the perpetrator to justice.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Marion D’Arcy muttered to no one in particular.
* * *
McEvoy and the local sergeant, Tom McManus, were standing next to the double bed on which lay the body of Albert Koch. The cadaver was covered by a pure white duvet, only his head showing, propped up on a pillow. His face was gaunt, the skin pulled tight to the bones, a full head of grey hair messily arranged.
The man who had opened the front door hovered nearby. McEvoy had discovered he was Kevin Boyle, a former journalist, now employed as a PR person for Ostara Industries. He was there to handle the press or any other parties interested in Koch’s death, including the gardai. He’d made it clear to McEvoy that Ostara and Koch had a public image that had to be managed scrupulously.
‘I’m sorry, but can you leave us alone please,’ McEvoy stated gruffly, his earlier tetchiness surfacing again.
‘I… I was just…’ Boyle trailed off, unsure whether to stay or go.
‘This is an official investigation; don’t worry, we’re not going to steal anything,’ McEvoy said sarcastically.
‘Er… right.’ Boyle backed out of the bedroom.
McEvoy turned to Tom McManus, a thick-set man, almost bursting out of his dark blue uniform, with short black hair and stubble in need of a shave.
‘Okay then, you better show me what set off the alarm bells.’
‘Well, I… I’m not too sure… I mean…’
‘Look, don’t worry about what the doctor said or the rest of them,’ McEvoy reassured. ‘Plenty of doctors make mistakes.’
‘Well,’ McManus took a step forward, ‘there seems to have been a blow to the head, here.’ He pointed to a spot on the top of Koch’s head. ‘And he appears to have some bruising on his legs.’
He moved back to let McEvoy occupy his position.
‘Also the way he’s lying on the bed,’ McManus continued. ‘It’s like he’s slightly twisted, as if he’d been thrown on. I mean, you couldn’t sleep like that – well, not for long anyway.’
McEvoy leaned in close to Koch’s scalp. It was possible to see slight traces of blood near the roots.
‘You think he was killed elsewhere?’ McEvoy asked, pulling back the duvet.
‘I’m not saying anything. It just doesn’t feel right.’
McEvoy moved down the bed, lifted up the quilt and tu
gged up the left trouser leg of Koch’s pyjamas. There was evidence of fresh bruising on the calf.
‘And the reason for these?’ he asked, pointing.
‘Somebody dragged him up the stairs? I don’t know.’
McEvoy nodded his head in agreement. ‘And what did the doctor say?’ he asked.
‘That he’d most probably died of heart failure. Simply old age.’
‘And the wound on the head? The legs?’
‘Nothing much. Maybe he’d fallen out of bed or had a fit and knocked it on the bedside locker. Either way, he doesn’t think it would have been enough to kill him.’
McEvoy glanced at the spotless locker. ‘I’ve heard that before. Jesus,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’m going to need to make a phone call. Can you make sure that eejit isn’t listening at the door? And clear everybody out of the house; this is a murder scene until I’m convinced otherwise.’
‘They’re not going to like that.’
‘I don’t care what they like,’ McEvoy snapped, his temper fraying again. ‘And while you’re at it, you’d better get hold of your superintendent and get him out here.’
‘He’ll probably be halfway round the golf course at this stage of the morning,’ the sergeant replied, glancing at his watch. ‘He won’t want to be disturbed.’
‘As I’ve already said, I don’t care. I want him out here. Tell him that if he’s not out here in half an hour I’ll start shaking the tree.’
‘As long as he knows I’m only the messenger.’ McManus shook his head and left the room, closing the door behind him.
McEvoy pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. He scrolled through the names in the address book and pressed connect. The phone was answered after three rings.
‘Colm?’ Elaine Jones said brightly.
‘I think you better come up to Athboy once you’ve finished there,’ McEvoy replied flatly.
‘You don’t think it was a natural death then?’
‘No. It look’s like his head’s been bashed and the body moved. Can you also ask Hannah to follow you out?’
‘I think she’s about to head back into town; she’s in court tomorrow.’
