by Rob Kitchin
‘Bollocks,’ Jimmy said, his eyes never leaving the television.
‘You have to be there, Colm,’ Caroline stressed. ‘It’s her anniversary, for God’s sake. Gemma will need you and Ciara has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the Mass. The whole family is travelling up. They’ll want to see you, to support you.’
‘I’ll try and make the Mass.’
‘I hope for your sake that you do. Gemma is pretty understanding, but I don’t think she’d forgive you if you missed Friday. And to be honest, nor will I. You have to be there.’
‘If they try and stop you, just tell them to fuck off,’ Jimmy suggested helpfully.
‘I could end up with a bit more time off than just Friday if I did that. And a big bloody hole in my pocket.’
‘That’s what the fucking unions are for.’
‘You two better stop swearing when this one is born,’ Caroline warned, rubbing her belly.
‘Whatever,’ Jimmy muttered.
‘I better be going,’ McEvoy said. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Tell Gemma I dropped in to see her.’
‘I will. Look after yourself, Colm. Make sure you get something decent to eat, not a bag of chips and half a bottle of whisky.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. He’d follow her advice about the food, but he needed the whisky to deaden the pain and let him drift into murky darkness.
Wednesday
Johnny Cronin and Barney Plunkett were already seated at a table, two large mugs placed in front of them. McEvoy nodded a greeting at them and headed to the counter, wiping droplets from his face. A front had moved in during the night bringing with it high winds and driving rain. He ordered a large mug of tea from an acne-scarred youth. Just as the steaming brew was handed to him he was joined by Jenny Flanagan.
‘Jesus Christ. I’ve only come fifty yards and I’m soaked,’ she said slightly out of breath, holding out the front of her long, black coat and gently shaking it. ‘Sorry I’m a little late, I couldn’t find this place; I was driving about on the other side of the shopping centre.’
‘It’s no bother, what do you want?’
‘Espresso. Thanks.’
McEvoy paid for the coffee and instructed the youth to bring it over to the table when it was ready.
‘How are things?’ he asked, sitting down next to Plunkett, Flanagan taking a seat opposite him, brushing her long, brown hair off her narrow face.
‘Pretty crap,’ Cronin said. The same age as McEvoy, he had a full head of short, dark hair and thick black moustache. He was dressed in a tired blue suit, his tie loosely knotted. ‘How about you?’
‘The same,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘Looks as if Albert Koch was a notorious, Nazi war criminal. He spent the war in Auschwitz and helped carry out experiments on Jewish prisoners. Wait until the media get hold of that; they’ll be circling round like vultures. At least we have a couple of leads worth following, unlike the Lithuanian killed in Trim. That’s going nowhere fast. How’re you getting on, Barney?’
Plunkett scratched at his sandy coloured hair and massaged his neck. ‘Nothing new to report,’ he said referring to the Raven case. ‘We’re still getting reports of sightings and we’re still following them up, but they all seem to be false trails. If he ever surfaces again it’ll be because he wants to. We’ve got bugger all to go on.’
The youth delivered Flanagan’s espresso and slunk away, casting them suspicious glances.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be back,’ McEvoy responded. ‘Kathy Jacobs was quite certain about that,’ he said, referring to the criminal psychologist drafted in from Scotland to help on the case. ‘He’ll want to parade his ego and make sure people know about his genius – not that anyone is ever going to forget him in a hurry; he’ll be remembered long after we’re all dead.’
‘In the meantime I sit in an office and push paper around and get hassled by journalists looking for insider gossip,’ Plunkett moaned.
‘Some would say you have the cushy number,’ Cronin said. ‘Plenty of guys would like that gig rather than running around the country after shadows.’
‘No joy with our banknote scammer?’ McEvoy interjected before Plunkett could reply.
‘Nothing,’ Cronin confirmed. ‘If he’s any sense he’ll go to ground now. People know about the scam through the papers. If he does, that’ll be the last we hear of him. We don’t have a single lead. The guy’s a ghost.’
‘No luck on licence plates?’ Plunkett asked.
‘No. No one can agree on what car he’s driving, nor can they remember the plates. And he always chooses somewhere with no CCTV, so we’ve no film or photos.’
‘How about a photo-fit?’ Flanagan asked.
‘We’ve tried that. Each victim’s produced a different face. The only thing they agree on was that he had short, dark, uncombed hair, was broad shouldered and was wearing a black, leather jacket.’
‘We just have to hope that if he tries his trick again, that whoever the intended victim is contacts us in advance of any exchange,’ McEvoy suggested.
‘That’s not what the victims want to hear,’ Cronin replied.
‘And what do they suggest?’ Flanagan asked agitated.
‘That we assign as many resources as possible to the case and catch the bastard,’ Cronin said sarcastically.
‘You could try setting a trap,’ Plunkett suggested. ‘Put a story in the paper that such-and-such is in dire straits – their business is going under or their sure-fire investment went belly-up – and see if he bites. He preys on victims, right?’
Cronin nodded his head.
‘If you pose as a rich or once-rich businessman fallen on hard times he might make a pitch. How has he chosen the previous victims?’
‘We’ve no idea. He just seemed to roll into town and cast about for a suitable fall-guy.’
‘Still it might be worth a shot,’ Plunkett persisted. ‘Get the story into one of the dailies or some of the local papers and see what happens.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Cronin conceded.
‘I think Barney’s right, Johnny,’ McEvoy said. ‘Give it a go and see what happens. If nothing does, then we’ve lost nothing. If he bites then we can move in for the kill. God knows we deserve a bit of luck. And make sure it’s near Athboy. If he does bite I don’t want to have to travel to Kerry or somewhere.’
Cronin nodded his head, indicating that he’d pursue the idea.
‘Jenny?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Well, to continue the theme, we’ve hit a brick wall. We’re fairly confident that the husband killed her. Actually scrap that, I know the bastard killed her. The problem is, he won’t confess and we’ve got damn all evidence. He claims to have been in Bansha at the time of the murders and his phone records also place him there. We have a sighting of his car near to the house but the witness can’t confirm the date. We’ve discovered he’s got a mistress, but she’s a hundred per cent behind him.’
‘What makes you so sure it’s him?’ Cronin asked.
‘Woman’s intuition,’ Flanagan hazarded. ‘It’s written all over his face. He knows we’ve nothing to go on and his supposed grief is skin-deep at best. He couldn’t care less that she’s dead.’
‘Have you checked the phone records for his mistress’ phone?’ Plunkett asked. ‘Perhaps they swapped mobiles? She’s in Bansha with his phone and he’s at home murdering his wife. Did they ring each other that morning?’
‘Twice,’ Flanagan confirmed.
‘Well, check with the phone company where both phones were. My guess is that one of the calls from her phone to his was made using the mast nearest to Kylie O’Neill’s house. I take it she claims she was nowhere near there?’
‘She says she was shopping in Caher.’
‘So, if either of the calls was made from near to Kylie’s house she has some explaining to do.’
‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of that,’ Flanagan said, obviously embarrassed. �
��If you excuse me for a minute, I need to make a call.’ She eased herself from her chair and headed for the door, her mobile phone already at her ear.
‘It’s a waste having you messing about on the Raven case,’ McEvoy said bitterly to Plunkett as way of thanks. ‘We all know he’s well hidden at this stage. We’re overstretched and we need people dealing with live cases.’
‘The press and politicians will have a fit if we drop the case, even for a few days,’ Plunkett warned.
‘That doesn’t get round the fact that we’re massively overstretched. You want a cake?’ he asked his companions. ‘I’m starving. You better not be out of ideas, Barney,’ McEvoy said rising, ‘I need all the help I can get on this Lithuanian.’
* * *
Kelly Stringer had reverted to her more conservatively dressed ways, wearing a two-piece, dark blue trouser suit, flat shoes, and a plain white blouse buttoned to the neck, with her hair tied back in a pony tail. Having let McEvoy know that there had been no new developments during the morning, she directed him to a very large man, with long, grey hair and full, dark beard hunched over one of the tables, papers spread in front of him.
‘Professor Moench?’ Stringer prompted.
The man looked up slowly, his eyes drifting from Stringer to McEvoy.
‘This is Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. He’s in charge of the investigation into Albert Koch’s death.’
Moench pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching out a massive hand. ‘Superintendent,’ he said with a faint trace of a German accent.
Now he was standing, McEvoy realised just how much of a giant Moench was. A couple of inches taller than McEvoy’s six foot three, he was also broad and bulky, carrying a substantial stomach. His bushy beard faded to grey at the edges, and his straggly hair tumbled over the top of his brown corduroy jacket that covered a stretched red-and-blue check shirt.
‘These are most interesting,’ he said pointing to the table. ‘Unbelievable even.’
McEvoy motioned Moench and Stringer to take seats, lowering himself down to the table. ‘You think they’re genuine?’
‘That or extremely good forgeries.’
‘And Koch, or should I say Kucken, worked in Auschwitz?’
‘That’s what the files indicate. I need to work on them further and the extra files being flown in from Israel will help, but I’ll also need to cross-check them with the original archives to make sure they’re authentic.’
‘But assuming they are, Koch was a war criminal?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Auschwitz was a massive complex of camps, Super-intendent. Not everyone working there was an evil sadist. Many were ordinary people caught up in an extraordinary situation. They may have witnessed the atrocities, and they might not have intervened, but they did not carry them out.’
‘That doesn’t exonerate them from the crimes committed there,’ McEvoy said. ‘They were still complicit in the genocide.’
‘True, but what I’m saying is there are different levels of guilt as the trials after the war illustrated. Only a very few people were prosecuted for their part in the holocaust. If they weren’t prosecuted then, why would they be now?’
‘Justice?’ McEvoy hazarded.
‘You’re an idealist, Superintendent. This is about memory and contrition. And yes, justice, but not through the courts. It is about exposing the lie at the heart of Albert Koch’s life and business empire.’
‘But the files suggest that Koch was more than a bystander at Auschwitz? That he took part in medical experiments and he killed people in cold blood?’
‘I’ve only been looking at them for a couple of hours, but that seems to be the case. But as I’ve already said, I need to verify the authenticity of the documents before I can be sure. The material here could be an elaborate hoax. It wouldn’t be the first time that forged war documents have been used to tarnish somebody’s reputation. They might have taken a while to produce, but to bring down someone as rich and powerful as Albert Koch it would have been time well invested.’
‘And what’s your view? Are they genuine or fake?’
‘I don’t know.’ Moench shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘If they’ve been done properly they’d be almost perfect. The only way to find out is to check the original sources.’
‘We’ve already checked the Irish military records for its files on Frank Koch, his brother. They’ve been removed along with a few others. We do know, however, that there was no Frank Koch interned in Ireland, but there was a Franz Kucken. That would tie in with copies of the documents you have. At the very least it appears that Albert Koch was Adolf Kucken.’
‘And it appears that someone has started to remove files from the archives,’ Moench observed.
‘It’s extremely unlikely that whoever it is will be able to locate all the relevant material, especially if they don’t have the copies to work from. If these are genuine,’ McEvoy said, gesturing at the table of documents, ‘then we should know soon enough. Whatever help you need just ask, though remember, I’d like this to remain confidential for as long as possible. Last thing we need is a load of journalists joining in the hunt.’
‘I think you might be underestimating the power of money and old networks,’ Moench said. ‘Albert Koch definitely had the first and, if he is who these files say he is, probably the second.’
‘You really think he’d be able to remove all the incriminating material from the archives? He must have only known he was being investigated for a short while.’
‘How long would it take to send out teams of investigators when money is not a problem? A few large holes in their evidence base would start to discredit the rest. He would claim that they’d made it all up and planted some material in certain places to make it look authentic. Most, if not all, of the witnesses are dead or very old. He brings in some clever lawyers and a good PR company and he buys himself out of trouble.’
‘That sounds pretty cynical,’ McEvoy said.
‘I get the feeling that’s usually your job,’ Moench observed. ‘I would call it realistic. Only a confession would have secured the truth, whatever it was, and now that will never happen. Now it’s all papers, ghosts and conspiracy theories.’
* * *
He’d parked half on the pavement, half on the road. Lined up behind a heavy chain hanging between sturdy bollards were a row of Mercedes cars. Behind them was a large, glass-fronted showroom. McEvoy eased himself from his no-frills Mondeo, pulled up his collar against the driving rain, and hurried between two cars, aware that each probably cost as much his annual salary.
The small, wiry figure of Frank Koch met him at the front door, holding two green-and-white golf umbrellas. He handed one to McEvoy and forced up the other, angling it into the wind.
‘Perhaps I can interest you in one of our cars, Super-intendent? I have just the thing for you – a 320CDi S class. It’s just over here.’ He stepped out of the shelter of the showroom and headed purposefully to the right.
For his mid-nineties, Koch was a sprightly character, dancing towards the row of cars, fighting the gusting wind.
McEvoy forced up his umbrella and trailed after him, trying to avoid the large puddles covering the forecourt.
‘Four years old, one owner, full leather trim, satnav, digital music system. More roomy and comfortable than that thing you are driving now.’ Koch came to a halt next to a large silver Mercedes.
‘I’m not interested in a new car,’ McEvoy replied. ‘You lied to me yesterday. Your real name is Franz Kucken – we’ve looked up the military records. Nobody called Frank Koch was ever interned in Ireland during the war.’
‘We’ll give you a very good trade-in for your Ford and I’ll throw in a free emergency kit,’ Koch said, ignoring him. He opened the driver’s door and gestured for McEvoy to get in. ‘Once you’ve driven one of these you’ll never go back. They’re a different class.’
‘I don’t need a new car, the old one’s fine,’ McEvoy said, trying to keep the frustr
ation out of his voice. ‘It has four wheels and it gets me from A to B.’
‘A philistine,’ Koch said, closing the door. He rounded the front of the car and headed to another three spaces down the line, McEvoy trailing after him. ‘Perhaps this one would suit you better? A CLK 200 Kompressor, 2 door. A coupé. More of a sport’s car than the 320. You must travel a lot, Superintendent. Why not travel in style and comfort? This car practically drives itself.’
‘Weren’t Mercedes vital to the German war machine?’ McEvoy goaded. ‘Didn’t they support the Nazi party?’
‘The war finished a long time ago,’ Koch snapped angrily, before calming again. ‘It’s over. Mercedes helped rebuild the economy. Without them things would have been a lot worse.’
‘You’re real name is Franz Kucken and your brother was Adolf Kucken. You were originally from Frieburg.’
‘My name is Frank Koch. My brother was Albert and we were from Munich.’ Koch passed between the cars heading to the far end of the car park, dodging round the slicks of oil and water.
‘There was no German prisoner named Frank Koch interned in the Curragh,’ McEvoy persisted.
‘Then the records are wrong. Find some of the other prisoners or guards, they will tell you I was there. Mary will tell you.’
‘I’m not denying you were there, I’m questioning your identity,’ McEvoy said.
‘Perhaps a Volkswagon might be a better choice for you?’ Koch said pulling to a stop in front of a racing green Passat. ‘1.9 TDi, ABS brakes, alloy wheels, cruise control, air conditioning.’
