by Rob Kitchin
‘Kelly, you’re to set up the incident room.’
‘I’m to what?’ she said, surprised, aware that it was a job usually reserved for somebody more senior.
‘I said, set up the incident room. I hope I’m not going to have to repeat everything. Hannah Fallon and George Carter are inside,’ he continued without waiting for a reply. ‘We need to organise a search of the farm, start the interviews, and talk to the locals. Things are moving too slowly.’
* * *
Roza Ptaszek was a short, thin woman in her late twenties, with shoulder-length black hair tied back in a short ponytail. Her face was pale, her blue eyes rimmed red. Her boyfriend’s apartment, which he shared with two others, was a mess; a scattering of clothes, food wrappers and old newspapers strewn everywhere. She was sitting on the edge of a red sofa, her tall, stocky boyfriend standing behind her looking concerned.
‘Will I be able to collect my things soon?’ she asked with a light, East European accent.
‘Not for a couple of days,’ McEvoy replied neutrally. ‘We need to look for clues as to what happened to Dr Koch.’
‘It was terrible,’ she repeated for the fifth time. ‘Terrible.’ Her boyfriend squeezed her shoulder, offering sympathy.
‘What time did you leave the farm last night?’
‘About ten o’clock. We watched television and then we came into town and meet with some friends,’ she said in slightly broken English.
‘And there were no visitors?’
‘I left Dr Koch by himself. I always go out on Saturday night.’
‘And when did you go back?’
‘This morning. I got back to the house at about eight o’clock to make the breakfast. Dr Koch did not came downstairs so I went up to see why. He was always at his desk by eight o’clock. I know straight away he was dead. Somebody killed him, so I called the police.’
‘What made you think he’d been attacked?’
‘He’d been hit on the head. He was old, but he was… how you say… well. He was very strong.’
‘Do you have any ideas as to who might have attacked Dr Koch?’
‘I don’t… I don’t know. He was a very important man. Very wealthy.’
‘Have there been any visitors recently? Anyone Dr Koch argued with perhaps?’
‘His daughter was there yesterday; Mrs D’Arcy. They argue all the time. Mr Kinneally also visited yesterday. He works for Dr Koch, running one of his companies.’
‘What did he argue with his daughter about?’
‘I don’t know. They always have the door closed. She is not happy person, Mrs D’Arcy. She drinks… how do you say, like a… fish?’ She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
McEvoy nodded his head. He doubted that Roza didn’t know why Koch and his daughter argued, but he didn’t want to press the issue; he’d ask Marion D’Arcy himself. ‘Who else worked at the house? Were you the only one?’
‘No, no. Mr Farrell is the farm manager. He sometimes has helpers. Mr Freel is his business manager. Janek helps with gardens two evenings a week,’ she patted her boyfriend’s hand. ‘Sometimes at weekends.’
‘And were any of them there yesterday?’
‘Mr Farrell was there all day. He left at about six o’clock. Mr Freel was there in the afternoon. He was working with Dr Koch. They were always working.’
‘And when did Mr Freel leave?’
‘I don’t know. Before eight o’clock. Dr Koch ate on his own.’
‘How about anybody else?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What was Dr Koch like to work for?’ McEvoy asked.
‘He was… He was a clever man. He worked hard.’ Roza stopped, looking embarrassed.
‘He could be difficult?’ McEvoy hazarded.
She nodded her head. ‘He liked things the way he liked them.’
‘Did you get on well with him?’
‘I… we got on well. He was an interesting person. He know all about Polish history.’
‘Did you work for him for long?’
‘Three years. Do you… I no longer have a job?’
‘I don’t know,’ McEvoy said truthfully. ‘You told one of my colleagues that you thought someone had searched the house?’
‘Yes. Many things had been moved. Only a little, but I could tell. They searched everywhere. You think it was a thief?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’ McEvoy shrugged. Thieves were rarely so careful as to try and erase all trace of their presence.
* * *
The sun had long set and it was dark outside, given the absence of the moon and stars and any ambient light of street lamps. He found the quiet and stillness unsettling. One could drift through this landscape, the farmland, ditches, hedges and mature trees, and no one would be any the wiser. Whoever killed Albert Koch hadn’t needed to worry about witnesses beyond the cattle in the adjacent fields and the local fox.
He kicked a small, gravel pebble from the top of the steps out onto the driveway and checked his watch – 5.32. He needed to call home and let his sister and Gemma know what he was doing and then check-in with his inspectors to see how their cases were progressing. He pulled his mobile phone from a pocket and started to pace, uneasy in the silent gloom.
The call was answered after four rings.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be tied up until late.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ McEvoy’s sister, Caroline, said calmly. ‘As soon as I heard the news on the radio I knew you’d be calling. We’ve got in a DVD. There’s no problem with her staying over – the room’s set up as usual. Do you want a word with her?’
‘In a minute,’ he answered. Given the hours of his job, and the fact that he could be investigating a case anywhere in the country, his daughter often stayed over with his sister. It was an arrangement that McEvoy was both thankful for and embarrassed by, but there was little choice unless he looked for another line of work, and that wasn’t really an option, especially in the short term. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I feel a bit like a sumo, and it’s only five months, but I’m grand otherwise.’
Once the baby arrived McEvoy wasn’t really sure what would happen with the babysitting. Maybe Gemma could help out. As twelve-year-olds go she was sensible and responsible. Whilst still often childlike, she’d become old beyond her years since the death of her mother. Somehow she was morphing into her. It was strange to witness.
‘If you feel like a sumo now, just wait a couple of months.’ He winced as he said it.
‘Oh, God, don’t! I always remember what mam said to you once – “giving birth to you was like passing a ten pin bowling ball through a ten pence slot.” It put me off starting a family for years!’ she laughed. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be more like a marble. At the most a tennis ball. But, I doubt it somehow. I just hope that when I scream for the drugs, they give them to me! Look, Gemma’s hovering. Here you go.’
‘Hello, Dad?’ Gemma said cheerily.
‘Hiya, pumpkin. How’re things?’
‘They’re okay. We’re going to watch a DVD. You’re not getting back until late?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what time I’ll be there to pick you up. I imagine you’ll be asleep.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Who are you investigating – the Lithuanian or the billionaire?’
‘Both of them; we’re short staffed.’
‘So you’re going to be away for a while then?’
‘No, no. I’ll be coming home each night, but I’m going to be busy. You’ll be okay at Caroline’s?’
‘Yeah, yeah, half my stuff’s here now.’
‘Just make sure it’s tidy, okay. Not like your room at home.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘Look, Gemma, I’m sorry, but I have to go.’ It was always a pleasure to hear his daughter’s voice whilst he was working, but it constantly jarred with the mood of the investigation – a rarefied chink of innocence cre
eping into a dark world. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ he muttered regretfully.
‘Remember to drink and eat,’ she warned. ‘You know what you’re like!’
‘I will, I will,’ he said, realising that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and had barely had anything to drink either. He got so wrapped up in things he simply forgot to sustain himself. ‘I love you, okay. I’ll see you later,’ he repeated and ended the call.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly. After a moment he pulled up Jim Whelan’s phone number and pressed call.
‘Whelan.’
‘Jim, how’s it going?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Do you know who he is yet?’
‘No.’
‘How about piecing together what happened last night? Who he was with? Where he went?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And forensics?’
‘Hopeless.’
McEvoy rolled his eyes and stared out at the lime tree silhouettes, frustrated at Whelan’s one word answers. ‘Ring me if you hear anything, okay,’ he snapped and ended the call immediately pulling up Johnny Cronin’s number, the inspector in charge of the laundering suicide.
‘Yeah?’ Cronin answered distractedly.
‘Johnny, it’s Colm.’
‘What? No, no, over there. There. Sorry, hello?’
‘It’s Colm. How’s it going?’
‘Usual shite with the locals, but otherwise okay. It’s the same guy – same description and pick-up routine. He talks to someone at the bar, pump primes them for information about themselves and the other people in the pub. Then he heads over to the one he thinks is the best bet with a little proposition for them – “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours; it’s not exactly above board, but it’s easy money and no one gets hurt. What do you think?” It looks as if the guy knows the person at the bar, he certainly knows all about them, so he seems pretty kosher.
‘He took the old man for thirty grand. He’d borrowed almost all of it from two of his brothers. He’s a bachelor farmer in his sixties; one of the last of the old school. Lives in a shit heap of a cottage on forty acres of bog with two dogs, a few cows and some sheep for company. He has a few debts and no way to pay them other than to sell the land. He’d sooner die than do that so he was suckered in.’
‘Poor bastard. Any leads on your man?’
‘Same as before. Big guy, Ulster accent, dark brown hair, dressed in a smart suit, driving a black Mercedes with Monaghan plates.’
‘Get that description circulated and prepare a press conference, we need to let people know he’s struck again and to be on the look out for him.’
‘The family don’t want any publicity.’
‘All you need to say is that another scam has taken place, you don’t need to name the victim.’
‘I’ll get on it.’
‘Okay, let me know if you have any luck. Otherwise I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ McEvoy ended the call and immediately rang DI Jenny Flanagan for an update on Kylie O’Neill’s murder in Tipperary. After four rings he was transferred to her answer service. He left her a message asking her to ring him back when she had a moment.
Next up was Elaine Jones.
‘Colm?’ Elaine answered.
‘Have you got any news for me yet, Elaine?’ McEvoy asked business-like.
‘The young man from Trim was pretty badly beaten. My feeling is that it was by more than one person. Either that or someone lost control. He was killed by a single stab wound just to the right of his sternum. The knife slid between two ribs and pierced the lower half of his heart and collapsed one of his lungs. He died of a fatal heart attack and internal bleeding. I wouldn’t be surprised if the knife he was holding was the murder weapon – it was about the right length of blade; twelve centimetres. I’d say time of death was sometime between three and five in the morning. He was five and half times over the limit. Probably near paralytic when he died.’
‘And Albert Koch?’ McEvoy asked as the front door opened behind him and Tom McManus stepped out. McEvoy acknowledged him with a nod of his head.
‘Just as I said earlier; depressed fracture of the skull. He was hit with some force. The blow—’
‘Would a vase have been strong enough?’ McEvoy interrupted.
‘Possibly. It would depend on the vase. It would’ve had to have been pretty sturdy. Is that what you think; he was hit with a vase?’
‘They found a couple of shards along with some drops of blood in his study.’
‘All the real bleeding was internal,’ the pathologist continued. ‘He had a subarachnoid haemorrhage – bleeding in the layer around the brain – and we found two large blood clots in the parietal lobe. Effectively he had a stroke, the clots stopped oxygen circulating.’
‘So what you’re saying is that he was killed by the blow to the head?’ McEvoy asked.
‘In short, yes.’
‘Well, he didn’t do that to himself while lying in bed.’
‘No. And the bruising on the legs is consistent with the idea he was dragged up the stairs. My opinion is that he died sometime between one and three in the morning.’
‘Right, okay. Thanks, Elaine. I’d better be getting on.’ McEvoy ended the call and turned towards Tom McManus. ‘I hope this is going to be good news, sergeant.’
‘Depends on what you think is good news.’
* * *
They stood in the gloom at the base of a large oak tree, Colm McEvoy, John Joyce, Tom McManus and a local guard, staring up at the heavy rope hanging from a thick branch, its end coiled into a noose high up in the canopy.
‘Well, this puts a different complexion on things,’ McEvoy said, moving his torch beam across the branches. ‘He was either killed deliberately or this is to try and head us off down a false trail.’
‘Why wasn’t he hung out here?’ Joyce asked. ‘If you’re going to kill him as a statement you might as well make the statement.’
‘Maybe they got disturbed or they panicked,’ McManus hypothesised.
‘In that case, why not just leave him in his study?’ McEvoy asked. ‘Why carry him back up the stairs and put him back into bed?’
‘Perhaps they thought whoever found him would think he’d died naturally?’ McManus offered.
‘Nearly did,’ Joyce said.
‘Perhaps it was too much work for one person to carry him out here and hoist him up,’ McManus suggested. ‘Or maybe the blow was just to stun or subdue him; get him to walk out here? Only the blow was too much and he died?’
‘Perhaps.’ McEvoy nodded. ‘Or maybe he wasn’t dead when they took him back upstairs. They might have thought that he’d just been knocked unconscious. The noose was meant as a message for when he came round. We’ll need to see if we can find out anything from that rope. John, get George Carter to take a look tomorrow morning when it’s light.’
‘No bother.’
The local guard shifted uneasily, signalling his discomfort at being in the presence of a group to which he didn’t feel he belonged.
‘This is Carl Mannion,’ McManus said, introducing him. ‘We’ve drafted him in from Delvin. He’s a bit of a history buff. He’s been telling me… look, why don’t you tell them yourself, Carl,’ McManus suggested.
‘Well, I… I mean… I’m no expert, you understand.’ Mannion paused, but no one intervened. ‘Just over here,’ he pointed to a spot a few metres from the tree near to a laneway, ‘was the site of the gallows. The white gallows, that is, you know, like the house name. This lane used to be the main route to Athboy before the present road became the preferred choice. All the locals would have had to pass the unfortunate bastards hung here.’
‘So what you’re saying is that this rope is no coincidence,’ McEvoy said, stating the obvious.
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Mannion concurred. ‘Somebody knew their local history. Back in the nineteenth century this house was occupied by Lord Kilchester’s land agent. Kilchester was gentry bu
t he was also a major industrialist. Like Albert Koch he was a chemist; made a fortune creating and manufacturing dyes, soaps, and the like and exporting them round the world. He inherited the Kilchester Demesne from his father, but rarely travelled to Ireland. He just came over for a few weeks each year and left the running of the estate to the land agent,’ he said, warming to the subject.
‘In the early 1870s one of the agent’s men was killed in a dispute, probably over rent or the conditions of tenancy. The agent organised the local police and rounded up three local men and accused them of murder. They might well have been guilty but no one knows for sure. The agent then set up a kangaroo court and persuaded a local judge to convict them. They were forced to build their own gallows, facing out on to the laneway, which they were made to whitewash. The men were hung the following evening.
‘Once the London media heard of the men’s fate it was branded the Kilchester scandal. It even caused angry scenes in Parliament. The agent fled to America, Lord Kilchester’s business suffered a terrible backlash and he ended up selling his interests in Ireland. The agent’s house and outbuildings then fell into disrepair until the farm was bought by George Byrne, a wealthy Dublin merchant in the late 1880s. For whatever reason, he renamed the place after the incident. I’m not sure when Albert Koch bought it, but it was certainly over forty years ago. The Big House was burned down in 1922. It was about a mile down the road there.’ He pointed to his right. ‘It was probably the finest Palladian mansion in Ireland.’
He stopped and stared at the ground, feeling he had rambled on for too long.
‘And what about Koch?’ McEvoy asked. ‘What’s his local history?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Mannion said. ‘I’m more interested in the late eighteenth and nineteenth century – 1798 to independence. Plenty of rumours though.’
‘Such as?’
‘That he was a Nazi war criminal who fled here after the war or he was a prisoner of war who stayed on. That he wasn’t averse to ignoring a few rules and laws; a few brown envelopes here and there. That he could be like that land agent – a real terror to work for and deal with. There are plenty of people who held him a grudge round here. Some people still do. Plenty of people who also thought he was a great fella.’
