The White Gallows

by Rob Kitchin

  ‘She’s going to be fine. She’ll be in hospital for a while, but she’ll be okay.’

  ‘Are you going to go and visit her?’

  ‘I was thinking I might pop in on the way home. She’s probably not allowed any visitors but I thought I’d stop by in any case; see how she is.’

  ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Gemma. She’s been operated on for most of the day. I doubt anybody will be able to see her.’

  ‘But you’re going,’ Gemma pleaded. ‘If you’re going, I want to go. She was my friend as well.’

  ‘Look, Gemma, I know you like Hannah, but you barely know her. You’ve only met her a few times when she came round for dinner,’ McEvoy said, referring to when he and Maggie used to invite colleagues round for a meal and a few drinks. Maggie and Hannah seemed to hit it off and they occasionally met by themselves for coffee and a chat. ‘I’m sure she’s got lots of people wanting to visit her. Perhaps we could both go tomorrow night when she’s going to be feeling a bit better?’

  ‘I met her loads of times with Mam,’ Gemma replied. ‘I won’t cause any trouble and I’ll get to see you as well. If you go on your own you won’t be home until late and I’ll have already gone to bed.’

  McEvoy rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll pick you up from Caroline’s, okay?’ he conceded, feeling guilty for not spending enough time with his daughter.

  ‘Thanks, Dad! You’re the best,’ Gemma said excitedly. ‘I’ll go and get some flowers and chocolates.’

  ‘We might not get to see her,’ McEvoy warned, not wanting her to be disappointed later. ‘She’ll be very tired after the operation.’

  ‘What time do you think you’ll pick me up? We don’t want to be too late; visiting hours are over at eight.’ Gemma was more than familiar with how hospitals worked. Her father had been taking her in and out of them for a few months before Maggie had finally lost her battle with cancer.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay; definitely not later than 7.15 – hopefully by seven.’ He glanced at his watch. He’d organise a team meeting then delegate things to John Joyce. He’d need to leave Ballyglass by six o’clock to be back in Dublin in time. That only left just under an hour and half to try and wrap things up for the day.

  ‘I’ll see you at seven then,’ Gemma said. ‘Don’t be late. We’ll also have some dinner ready for you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about dinner.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat. You’re no use to anybody ill. I’ll see you at seven.’ Gemma ended the call before he could reply.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ McEvoy muttered to himself as he turned into the GAA car park. He was going to have to drive past James Connolly Hospital into Dublin to pick up Gemma to drive back out again.

  * * *

  The room was a buzz of activity and whispered conversations. McEvoy and Jim Whelan were standing near to the notice board, both nursing lukewarm and stale coffee in styrofoam cups.

  ‘So you’ve still got no idea who the victim is?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he’s definitely not one of Ostara’s employees?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that a no he isn’t, or no he is?’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘So you have no definite lines of inquiry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no one recognised him in the pubs in Trim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus, Jim! That’s five no’s in a row,’ McEvoy said frustrated.

  ‘They were the answers.’

  ‘At last, a sentence! Maybe we could move towards having a conversation?’

  Whelan didn’t reply, staring down into his coffee.

  ‘For God’s sake! Well, it doesn’t look like the two cases are linked if he didn’t work for Ostara. I suggest you get back to Trim and see if you can generate some kind of a lead. Trawl round the pubs again; canvas the surrounding villages; see if you can get his picture into the papers. I don’t care. Someone must know who the hell he is.’

  Whelan nodded in agreement.

  ‘Call me if you find anything, okay?’

  ‘No bother,’ Whelan muttered and lumbered across the room towards the door.

  McEvoy closed his eyes and held the bridge of his nose, silently counting to ten. His shoulders were stiff, knotted with anxiety and stress, and he gently rolled them, seeking relief.

  He smelt Kelly Stringer’s perfume a few moments before she spoke.

  ‘What you need is a good massage,’ she said from behind him, clasping his shoulders and digging her thumbs deep into his shoulder blades and gently rotating them.

  He felt his head tip back in relief before he thought about what was happening and managed to squirm himself free. He twisted round and gave Stringer a tight smile before glancing round the room trying to assess how many people had seen the little moment of intimacy between them.

  ‘What I need is a week’s holiday,’ he replied, his eyes still avoiding hers.

  ‘Do you have somewhere in mind?’ Stringer asked, smiling.

  ‘Bed.’ The word was out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying. ‘Not that…’ he trailed off, knowing that he was just going to dig the hole a little deeper.

  ‘Not a bad place to spend a week,’ Stringer replied, arcing her eyebrows.

  ‘I guess we better get started,’ McEvoy said, trying to change the subject. Whatever was going on with Stringer he needed to work out how to nip it in the bud without offending her. ‘I need to get out of here; I want to visit Hannah Fallon before visiting time is over.’

  ‘Make sure you pass on my best wishes,’ Stringer replied. ‘I just hope she’s going to be okay. I can’t imagine what it was like.’

  ‘I hope neither us ever find out. Come on, let’s get started.’ McEvoy glanced round the room. John Joyce and Tom McManus were standing by the hot water urn deep in conversation. George Carter was sitting by himself, rubbing his tired face with the heel of his hand. Half a dozen local detective garda were sat in two groups of three chatting amiably. Galligan was at the back of the room, perched on the edge of a table, leaning back, held up by his outstretched arms, a smug look on his face. Barry Traynor from the press liaison office hovered nearby looking lost, like the uninvited guest at a house party.

  ‘Right, okay, let’s make a start,’ he said loudly. ‘Come on, quieten down.’

  Stringer moved away and sat down next to John Joyce.

  For the next fifteen minutes they worked their way through what each team member had found and mapped out a plan of action for the following day.

  McEvoy started to wrap things up. ‘So, has anyone else got anything they want to add?’ he asked.

  He was greeted with tired faces and silence.

  ‘Well, let’s get back to it. Superintendent Galligan, if I can have a word please. DS Joyce, if you can stay behind as well.’

  Galligan wandered through the others to get to McEvoy, a sly smile painted on his face.

  ‘If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here,’ McEvoy said quietly so no one could overhear, ‘but it isn’t, so you are. You’re to work closely with press liaison who will be taking a more active role. I’ve arranged for one of their staff to work with you on this full time. Everything is to be run past me before being released.’

  ‘If this is my job, then I’m going to do it my way,’ Galligan said defiantly.

  ‘I’m in charge of this investigation,’ McEvoy pressed. ‘Your position on the team is still answerable to me whether you like it or not. If you want a second round on this, fine; this time I’ll do it the right way and you won’t be able to go squealing to your friend in high places.’

  Galligan’s smile disappeared and he looked ready to explode. ‘You’re still on my patch, McEvoy. We’ve been cooperative up until now, but you’ve just dispensed with whatever good will there was left. We’ll still help out, but well…’ he let the sentence hang. ‘And you better start loo
king for a new sergeant as I’m reassigning Tom McManus.’

  ‘And have you asked him what he wants?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he wants. I say jump, he feckin’ jumps.’

  ‘I wonder what Ostara Industries and the hundreds of local people who work for them will make of your attitude? I don’t imagine they’ll want this case given a low priority. They’ll want the killer of Albert Koch brought to justice.’

  ‘Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?’

  ‘Small town, small mind, small man. Just leave, okay,’ McEvoy said rolling his eyes.

  ‘What did you say?’ Galligan demanded.

  ‘I said you’d better leave. I believe there’s another press conference at seven o’clock.’

  ‘You might think you’re the big man, McEvoy, with your high flying job and your girlfriend running the incident room, but you’re just a second chancer. If it was up to me, I’d have kicked you into some backwater six months ago. You fucked up the Raven case, and you’ll no doubt fuck this up as well.’

  ‘A backwater being somewhere like here?’ McEvoy said facetiously.

  ‘Fuck you.’ Galligan turned on his heels and stormed to the door, once again banging it shut. Barry Traynor raised his eyebrows quizzically at McEvoy before turning and trailing after him.

  John Joyce drifted over to where McEvoy was standing with his head tipped back, his eyes closed. ‘What was that about?’ he asked.

  ‘Building bridges,’ McEvoy said, rocking his head forward, still seething.

  ‘You’ve a long way to go until you meet in the middle.’

  ‘Maybe,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘I seem to have a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way at the minute.’

  ‘Too much stress,’ Joyce observed.

  ‘And not enough nicotine. I’m going to head off. I’m going to drop in on Hannah Fallon and see how she’s getting on. You’re in charge for now. Don’t stay too late and if you need me, I’ll be on the mobile.’

  ‘No bother. Give my best to Hannah. I hope she’s going to be alright.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’s as tough as old boots. Look, I better be going. Ring me if anything major occurs.’ McEvoy went to move off and then stopped. ‘Oh, yeah. Galligan wants to take Tom McManus off the case. Have a word with him, will you. Tell him I’ll get it sorted out. In the meantime tell him it’s up to him what he does. I want him working for us. He’s doing okay, isn’t he?’ he asked as an after-thought.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, he’s grand. Why does Galligan…’ Joyce trailed off.

  ‘Because he’s an idiot. He thinks that because this is his patch, he should be running things. Ring me, okay?’

  * * *

  He pulled to a halt outside of a plain semi-detached house, red brick at the bottom, white rendering above. As he pushed open the car door, the front door flew open and Gemma spilled out and raced down the path carrying a bunch of flowers and a plain white, plastic bag.

  His sister’s growing frame filled the doorway. She waved at him and he gestured back.

  Gemma yanked open the passenger door and clambered in. ‘You’re late!’ she snapped. She dropped the bag between her feet, placed the flowers on her lap, and tugged the seat belt across her. ‘They’ll be shut by the time we get there.’

  ‘Five minutes late,’ McEvoy replied. ‘It’ll only take ten or fifteen minutes if we take the motorway.’ He pulled off, waving again to his sister.

  ‘And you stink!’ Gemma said wafting her hand in front of her face.

  ‘I’ve been on a farm.’

  ‘What did you do, take a bath in a pig’s sty?’

  ‘No, I stood in a pile of horse dung and waded through a field of cowpats and mud.’

  ‘Phewy! Open the windows,’ she demanded. ‘Come on, I’m being gassed to death.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘It’s not that bad? You absolutely stink! It’s worse than Niamh Giles’ farts and, believe me, they’re the worst.’

  McEvoy cracked open a couple of windows and wondered whether he should have changed before heading back out to Blanchardstown. ‘So, how was school?’ he asked, trying to play the fatherly role.

  ‘It was okay; same as usual.’

  McEvoy sighed. An entire day summed up in six words.

  ‘Nothing exciting?’

  ‘No. It’s school.’

  ‘And your friends?’

  ‘They’re okay.

  McEvoy rolled his eyes at her reluctance to divulge her day. ‘So what’s in the bag?’ he persisted in an effort to have some kind of conversation.

  ‘A card, some Chez Emily chocolates, and your dinner in a plastic container; you’ll have to re-warm it when we get home. It’s chilli con carne.’

  ‘And you got the flowers in the village?’

  ‘At the florist. You owe Aunt Caroline ten euros. I bought the chocolates.’

  ‘I’ll pay you both back later, don’t worry.’

  ‘Do I look worried?’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘I’d say the Bank of Dad is good for its debts.’

  ‘You cheeky monkey. The Bank of Dad! Where did you get that? One of your friends?’

  ‘I saw it on a T-shirt. I was going to buy it for you for Christmas.’

  ‘Don’t you dare! You’ve done your homework?’

  ‘Maths, French and Irish. Finished it straight after tea.’

  They continued to swap stilted small talk, catching up on each other’s lives for the past two days as the orange street lights flashed by overhead, the frigid air from the open windows swirling around them.

  * * *

  It took five minutes of driving round aimlessly to find a parking place. He waited for the elderly gentleman to reverse out and then eased the car into the slot and glanced at the clock – 7.50. ‘Come on, we should just make it.’ He levered himself out of the door, twisting in the narrow gap between his own and the neighbouring car.

  ‘Jesus, Dad, look at the state of you! Your trousers are covered in mud.’

  McEvoy glanced down as they walked. Even in the pale glow of the car park’s street lighting, he could see his suit trousers were filthy from the knees down. ‘It’ll wash out,’ he mumbled.

  ‘It’s a wool suit. It’s ruined! I doubt they’re going to let you in.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. People come into here from accidents covered in all sorts.’

  ‘Not onto the wards they don’t.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll use my badge. I guess we go to casualty and see if they know where she is.’

  They entered the brightly lit foyer to the Casualty Department, and hurried through a set of double doors into the noise of the main waiting room. There was a short queue to a desk where two hassled looking women were fielding queries. After a couple of minutes, they reached the front of the queue.

  ‘I’m looking for Hannah Fallon,’ McEvoy said.

  ‘Another one,’ she replied nonplussed. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I work with her. Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy.’ He held out his ID.

  ‘The only people allowed onto the wards are family,’ she said as if repeating it for the hundredth time.

  ‘I’m a close personal friend. I’ve worked with her for years and she was a friend of my late wife. We’ve bought her flowers.’

  Gemma held up the bouquet.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘We’ll only be five minutes. I just want to see how she is. She was working on my case when she was attacked.’

  ‘Five minutes max,’ the woman said, folding. ‘She’s on Ward 21. She’s probably asleep in any case.’

  ‘Thanks.’ McEvoy turned, took Gemma’s hand and started to head towards the far end of the room. He’d only got a few yards when the woman called out to him.

  ‘Whoa! Whoa. Hang on. Stop!’

  Several people glanced over at the commotion, wary that an incident was about to burst into life.

  The woman came from behind the desk and trotted over to them.r />
  ‘You can’t go up like that. Look at the state of you. And the smell,’ she said as if noticing it for the first time above the stench of disinfectant. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Hunting round farmland for a murderer.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have got changed first?’

  ‘I’m working sixteen to eighteen hours a day on four different murder cases. It’s a miracle I found enough time to get here, let alone get home and get changed first.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go up like that.’

  * * *

  He felt like an idiot. He was wearing a green surgery gown over his suit jacket and a black, plastic bin bag over each leg, taped to his thighs to keep them up.

  ‘I wish I had a camera,’ Gemma said, still giggling five minutes after he emerged from an ante room.

  ‘We all agree I look ridiculous,’ McEvoy said as they approached Hannah Fallon’s private room. ‘Five minutes then we’re out of here, okay. She’ll be tired after the surgery.’

  There was a uniformed guard that McEvoy didn’t recognise sitting outside of the room. Stacked to one side of him was a pile of flowers and presents. ‘How is she?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘And you are?’ the guard said defensively, staring at McEvoy’s attire.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy, NBCI. I work with DS Fallon. This is my daughter, Gemma, and this is a long story,’ he said holding out the gown.

  ‘She’s doing okay,’ the guard said, seemingly satisfied with McEvoy’s identity. ‘Well, as okay as someone who’s had a bomb pushed through her front door. Her sister’s in with her.’

  ‘Do you think it’s alright to pop my head in?’

  ‘I’ve been told not to disturb her. There’s been a procession of people coming up.’ He pointed down to the pile of flowers. ‘I think she’s tired of all the attention.’

  ‘Right,’ McEvoy said, regret in his voice. ‘Fair enough. Can you tell her we came by? That we’re thinking of her.’ McEvoy clutched Gemma to his side, knowing that she would be disappointed after her efforts to get them there.

  ‘Of course. No bother.’ The guard reached out to take the flowers and plastic bag from Gemma.

  As he took them the door opened and Hannah’s sister stepped out holding an empty disposable cup. ‘Colm?’ she asked, her hand flying up to her mouth, stifling a laugh.