The White Gallows

by Rob Kitchin

  Koch nodded his head but said nothing.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask this, but where were you on Saturday night?’

  ‘At the races at Navan.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I have a holiday cottage near Oldcastle, close to Loughcrew.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘No. Like my father I’m a widower. My wife died six years ago of breast cancer; same as my mother. The children all left home years ago. I live by myself.’

  McEvoy nodded his head. He wanted to share his grief for Maggie, but kept his feelings to himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said lamely. ‘Just one other thing; you said your father came to Ireland to join his brother. Why was he here?’

  ‘He was a Luftwaffe pilot. He got shot up over Belfast and crashed into Carlingford Lough. He spent most of the war interned in the Curragh and working on local farms. When the war ended he was shipped off to an internment camp in Britain. When he was released he headed back to Ireland to marry a local girl; my aunt. My father followed shortly afterwards, escaping the ruins of Europe.’

  McEvoy turned at the sound of a new horse arriving, a grey stallion snorting air through its nostrils, ridden by a man in his late thirties who bore an uncanny resemblance to Albert and Charles Koch. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and his face was flushed from the ride, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

  He swung off the horse before it had come to a halt. ‘This boy can really fly,’ he announced, patting the horse on the neck, ignoring McEvoy. ‘Marion must be delighted. A couple of months training and he’ll be winning races.’

  ‘My son, Francis,’ Koch said to McEvoy. ‘Francie, this is Detective Superintendent McEvoy. He’s investigating the death of your grandfather.’

  ‘I thought he died of natural causes,’ Francis Koch said. ‘My father said you thought… but Marion seemed so convinced…’ he trailed off.

  ‘Your grandfather died as the result of a blow to the head.’

  ‘So the doctor got it wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Stupid old fecker. He never should have—’

  ‘Francis!’ Charles Koch interrupted. ‘He was your grandfather’s physician for over forty years. He had no reason to—’

  ‘How can you miss a blow to the head?’ Francis interrupted. He eased the saddle from the horse’s steaming back and carried it to a stable door. ‘Somebody killed him and if it had been left to the old fool they’d have gotten away with it.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Koch senior said firmly. ‘I don’t want to discuss this any further.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you this,’ McEvoy continued, noting Charles Koch’s tone but ignoring his request, ‘but where were you late on Saturday night?’

  ‘I was at Navan races with my father.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I went to the Darley Lodge in Athboy. I’d had a successful day. Three winners; one of them at 20/1.’ Koch junior turned his attention back to the horse. ‘I’d won over three thousand euro. Not a bad day’s work.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I went home.’

  ‘And can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘Everyone in the hotel bar. I probably made an idiot of myself, buying everyone drinks. The evening’s a little hazy. The pints and whiskey were flowing.’

  ‘And after the bar?’

  Francis Koch wheeled round to face McEvoy, his face creased in anxiety. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? Am I a suspect?’

  ‘We’re asking everyone who knew Dr Koch the same questions,’ McEvoy replied neutrally. ‘We’re trying to account for everybody’s movements so we can eliminate them from the inquiry.’

  ‘After the bar, I went to the chipper and then I walked home to my big empty house.’

  ‘You’re separated?’

  ‘Never married. I’ve never understood its appeal; being bound to one person for the rest of your life. It would be too claustrophobic; too… predictable.’

  McEvoy reflected that Francis Koch made it sound like a life sentence. For him, being married to Maggie had given him a sense of security and stability. He liked the routine and predictability, the feelings of familiarity. Marriage wasn’t a prison he’d been looking to escape from; it was something he was glad of, that he’d embraced. He’d lost that and yet it was something that Francis Koch was not even interested in attaining. Perhaps if he was more like him, McEvoy reflected, some of the pain might disappear, though it would be a shallow and banal life.

  * * *

  The incident room buzzed with the activity of a new case. Several uniformed guards were working at different tables. Kelly Stringer and John Joyce were standing next to the whiteboard still displaying his notes from the previous day.

  Stringer was dressed in a smart, two-piece, grey suit, over a pale blue blouse. She’d undone the top two buttons on her blouse and her hair was down rather than pinned up. The change was quite striking, taking years off her appearance. Somehow it made McEvoy feel his age.

  ‘Any sign of Jim Whelan?’ he asked as he approached.

  ‘Not yet. He’s on his way,’ Joyce replied, staring down at McEvoy’s stained trousers, immediately spotting the source of the foul smell.

  ‘How about identifying this Lithuanian?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Any news on Hannah? Is she going to be okay?’

  ‘She’s in surgery at the minute,’ Stringer replied, backing away and scrunching up her nose. ‘She’s definitely going to lose the one leg from the knee down. They’re trying to save the other. It sounds like she was lucky. If she hadn’t dived through the door…’ she trailed off.

  ‘Charlie Clarke isn’t going to know what hit him,’ McEvoy predicted, unaware of the stench emanating from his suit and shoe. ‘If he thought this was going to scare us off, he’s made a bad mistake.’

  ‘Bishop’s on the warpath,’ Joyce said. ‘He’s called in armed response; the works. O’Reilly’s all over the radio,’ he said, referring to the Minister for Justice

  ‘About feckin’ time. Things have got out of control. Trying to kill Hannah’s the last straw.’

  ‘Have you been to Koch’s farm?’ Joyce asked, changing the subject.

  ‘No. Should I have been?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just… it’s just that you smell like you’ve… y’know.’

  ‘It’s that bad is it?’ McEvoy said concerned, looking down. ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘It’s a bit ripe,’ Stringer joked, waving her hand in front of her nose.

  ‘Well, I haven’t got a spare pair, so people will just have to put up with it.’

  ‘You could try washing them out,’ Stringer suggested. ‘There’re changing rooms out the back. If you wring them out they should dry quite quickly.’

  ‘I’ll do it after. Do you have anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing much beyond yesterday afternoon. The farm manager has confirmed that the rope is one of his. It was taken from a shed. We’ve arranged for Roza, the housekeeper, to look round the house with George and Chloe; see if anything’s missing. She’s up there now.’

  ‘Good idea, though I’ve been warned about Roza. James Kinneally has her down as a gold-digger. He reckons that she gave Koch extra special care in the hope of a payoff when he dies.’

  ‘You think Roza is a suspect?’ Joyce said doubtfully.

  ‘I think everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise.’ McEvoy turned, sensing a presence behind him. ‘The silent one has arrived,’ he said to Jim Whelan.

  ‘Horse shit,’ Whelan replied.

  ‘That’s no way to describe Kelly’s perfume,’ McEvoy said, instantly regretting it.

  ‘I, er…’ Stringer stammered.

  ‘Chanel 5,’ Whelan said.

  Stringer nodded her head, amazed that Whelan recognised it.

  ‘I take it that’s better than horseshit?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘No contest,’ Whelan replied.
/>   ‘Fair enough. Did you bring a photo of the victim?’

  Whelan nodded his head.

  Stringer’s mobile phone rang and she stepped to one side.

  ‘Show it to Koch’s farm manager, around Ostara’s factories, and the town,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘If he’s from around here, someone will recognise him.’

  Whelan nodded again.

  ‘Call me the minute you get a positive ID. I’ll get Tom McManus, the local sergeant, to give you a hand. Any joy tracking down the couple asking questions?’ McEvoy asked Joyce, waving his hand at the whiteboard.

  ‘Not yet. We’re ringing round the local hotels and B&Bs.’

  ‘Sir,’ Stringer interrupted, her finger placed over the mouthpiece on the phone.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s George Carter. The housekeeper says that the only thing that seems to be missing is a handgun that Koch had hidden in the back of his wardrobe.’

  ‘A handgun?’ McEvoy repeated.

  * * *

  He carefully opened the small door at the back of the wardrobe, admiring the craftsmanship of the clever design. ‘And he definitely kept a gun in here?’ he asked without looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. A small gun,’ Roza replied. ‘Very old.’

  ‘How did you know about it?’ McEvoy pulled back out of the confined space.

  Roza Ptaszek was standing a couple of feet away, wearing a dark blue cardigan over a light blue summer dress with black leggings underneath that stopped just short of her thin ankles. She was a good foot shorter than McEvoy. Her face had regained some of its colour, though her eyes were still bloodshot, her stance wary. ‘I found it while cleaning,’ she said defensively.

  ‘He never told you about it?’

  ‘No, why should he? It was for, how do you say, protection. He was an important man.’

  ‘And it was there before he was killed?’

  ‘I don’t know. I found it and I left it there. I didn’t check on it.’

  McEvoy nodded. If Koch had heard a burglar downstairs he’d probably taken the gun with him while he investigated. After he’d been attacked the thief had probably taken it as a precaution or souvenir.

  ‘And there’s nothing else missing?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what they might have been searching for?’

  ‘Money?’ Roza shrugged. ‘Dr Koch was very wealthy. Perhaps someone thought that he might have money here?’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No, no. He kept his money in the bank.’

  ‘And were you after his money?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Me?’ Roza asked, confused.

  ‘Were you hoping that Dr Koch would make you wealthy?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because you were taking such good care of him.’

  ‘I was taking such good…’ Roza said uncertainly. ‘You think I was sleeping with Dr Koch?’ she said with disgust, realising McEvoy’s insinuation. ‘I look after the house and cook the meals. I am not a prostitute! I never…’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, look, I didn’t mean that,’ McEvoy said trying to defuse the situation. ‘I didn’t say you were sleeping with him. I was trying to see why you were doing the job.’

  ‘Because he offered it to me,’ she said indignantly. ‘He placed advert in newspaper, I answered it. I come here to work for good money.’

  ‘Dr Koch paid well?’

  ‘He pay average, but he also provided somewhere to stay.’

  ‘He was a good employer?’

  ‘He was… okay,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘And how about his family or people who visited the house, what were they like?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Just okay?’

  Roza nodded her head meekly.

  ‘Yesterday you told me who had visited on Saturday. There was Marion D’Arcy, James Kinneally and his business manager, Mr…’

  ‘Freel.’

  ‘Mr Freel,’ McEvoy repeated. ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Dr Koch’s son, Charles, was also here in the morning with his son, Francis; Dr Koch’s grandson. They only stayed for half an hour. They went to the horse racing.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Koch has very few visitors. Mostly his brother and Mr Freel. Sometimes Mr Kinneally.’

  ‘His brother’s still alive?’ McEvoy asked surprised. Since Charles Koch hadn’t proffered that information, he’d assumed that the brother had passed away.

  ‘Yes. He lives nearby with his wife. He is very old, but quite well. He visited every week, one or two evenings. They listened to old music and speak to each other in German.’

  ‘Do you know where—’

  There was a knock at the door. George Carter poked his head round the frame. ‘Sorry to interrupt but you’d better come and have a look at this.’

  ‘Can it wait?’

  ‘Not really. One of Koch’s neighbours is trying to take back what he says is his land.’

  ‘Mr O’Coffey,’ Roza said rolling her eyes. ‘Him and Dr Koch were always fighting.’

  * * *

  Whichever way he looked at it he was going to have to wade through thick mud laced with cowpats. He looked up from the sodden ground and stared down the field to where a local guard was remonstrating with a man in his late thirties dressed in a check shirt, a dirty pair of jeans and green wellington boots. Behind him was an old, red, Massey Ferguson tractor, an elderly man behind the wheel looking nonplussed. Several posts and rolls of fencing wire lay on the ground. The cows in the field continued to chew the cud whilst keeping a careful eye on proceedings.

  He took a deep breath and stepped forward, his shoe sinking into the mud, water edging over into his socks. His suit was already a mess – if he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. He squelched his way down the field.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked the guard as he neared.

  ‘They’re saying that this land rightfully belongs to them and they’re taking it back.’

  ‘That true?’ McEvoy asked the man in the check shirt.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of Albert Koch. And you are?’

  ‘Peter. Peter O’Coffey,’ the man said, calming a little. ‘This is our land.’

  ‘This is a murder site,’ McEvoy replied tartly. ‘I don’t care if you think it is your land, I want you off it until we’ve completed our searches.’

  ‘All we’re doing is putting up a fence,’ O’Coffey protested.

  ‘I don’t care. And from what I hear this is still an open dispute.’

  ‘All the maps show that this strip of land is part of our farm. We’re just taking back what belongs to us.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Peter?’ the elderly man shouted from the tractor.

  ‘They want us to leave,’ O’Coffey shouted back. ‘This is a murder site.’

  The old man shook his head dissonantly and stared away across the field.

  ‘You’ve been fighting over this land for long?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Since before I was born and this is when it ends.’

  ‘I doubt it. You put this fence up and it’ll end in court.’

  ‘Nothing new there then. They can employ all the fancy lawyers they want, but this is still our land.’

  ‘Worth killing over?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of killing the old bastard?’ O’Coffey said, bristling, squaring up to McEvoy.

  ‘I’m seeing whether it’s a possibility,’ McEvoy hedged.

  ‘I didn’t kill him, Superintendent; nor did my grandfather.’ He nodded his head towards the tractor, his mouth set firm.

  ‘You can account for your movements on Saturday night?’

  ‘I was at home with the wife and kids. We live on the farm with the old man.’

  ‘Did you see anyone hanging around the area at all? Perhap
s acting suspiciously?’

  ‘No. I’m up early and I’m to bed early.’

  ‘Right,’ McEvoy said deciding not to push things. ‘You’d better pack up your stuff and move off. You can have this argument another day.’

  ‘It is our land.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s not, but I am telling you to leave. Either you do so of your own accord, or I’ll have to have you escorted off.’

  * * *

  He stared down at his mud-stained trousers. He had tried to wash them in the farmyard with freezing water from an outside tap, but they were still a mess. At least his shoes were clean. He straightened his jacket and knocked on the bright red door of an old, cut-stone bungalow surrounded by well-tended, mature gardens with an immaculately cut lawn.

  After a few seconds it was opened by an elderly man with a full head of grey hair, dressed in dark trousers and a tweed jacket over a plain white shirt buttoned at the neck.

  ‘Yes?’ the man said with a slight accent, staring down at McEvoy’s suit.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m investigating the death of Albert Koch. You’re his brother?’

  ‘Yes. Frank. Frank Koch.’

  McEvoy was surprised at the strength of Koch’s handshake.

  ‘I’m very sorry about your brother’s death.’

  Koch shrugged and stood back to allow McEvoy to enter. ‘He was an old man,’ he said to McEvoy’s back, ‘and he led a full life. Please, come in here.’ He indicated a doorway.

  McEvoy entered a large sitting room with a floral carpet, a glass cabinet full of figurines, two bookcases crammed full, and a worn, green three-piece suite. Sat in one of the armchairs was an elderly lady, her dark grey hair cropped short.

  ‘This is the detective investigating Albert’s death,’ Frank Koch said to the woman. ‘Superintendent McEvoy. This is my wife, Mary,’ he said to McEvoy.

  ‘It was terrible what happened to Bertie,’ Mary said. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘My wife has arthritis,’ Koch said. ‘Some days are better than others. I walk everyday to keep fit, but Mary’s… she’s not so good.’