by Rob Kitchin
The photo showed a tall, broad, handsome man with dark short hair swept back from his forehead, a scar pucking his cheek. He was wearing a well-tailored dark suit and was shaking hands with a smiling, younger man. The pair was circled by a group of other men.
‘He led a crack SS division. Rescued Mussolini in September 1943 from an Italian mountain top. He was captured in Austria at the end of the war and was accused of war crimes. He was cleared and in 1949, while waiting to be denazified, he escaped a holding camp and made his way to Argentina. It was rumoured that he was a senior figure in forming and controlling the escape routes for his former colleagues across the Atlantic. He turned up in Spain not long after and became a salesman for an engineering company. By the mid-1950s he was brokering engineering contracts across Europe for recovering German companies, travelling on what was called a Nansen passport – a kind of travel document for stateless people. This photo was taken in Portmarnock in 1957.’
‘Is that…’ McEvoy said, trailing off, his brow furrowing.
‘Charles Haughey,’ Stringer confirmed, naming the future leader of the country. ‘And in the background?’
McEvoy’s eyes traced the crowd, stopping on the serious face of Albert Koch. ‘This was taken in 1957?’
‘In Portmarnock,’ Stringer repeated. ‘Skorzeny is rumoured to have spent the night at Koch’s house. He gave an interview to the Evening Press. He was in Ireland for a week. In June 1959 he purchased Martinstown House in Kildare and 165 acres of land, and in September 1959 he applied for permanent residency which he never received. He continued to visit Ireland and stay in the house until 1969.’
‘He and Koch were friends?’
‘It’s possible. Skorzeny was surrounded by rumours after the war. His name is linked to several different international political scandals. He remained an unrepentant Nazi and open admirer of Hitler until his death in 1975.’
‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘There was a circle of Nazi war criminals living in Ireland after the war?’
‘I’m not sure about a circle, but there were at least two,’ Stringer replied. ‘And they had friends in high places.’
‘Two was more than enough. What the hell was Haughey doing meeting Skorzeny?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, but Skorzeny was the guest of honour. Flew in in a helicopter.’
‘Jesus. Tell Townsend to keep searching; see what else he can unearth. How are you getting on with the funeral arrangements?’ McEvoy asked, redirecting the conversation, his gaze still fixed on the photo.
‘The ceremony and burial is going to take place in Ballyglass. Church of Ireland. It’s only a wee place, built to serve the Big House and family. It can seat less than one hundred and fifty. The site itself is less than an acre. They’re expecting several hundred to turn up, though they think some of the VIPs will duck out now, given the papers this morning – ministers, a couple of TDs. No one wants to be associated with a war criminal. The flip side is that the papers will bring others out. It could be bedlam.’
‘Have you spoken to Traffic?’
‘They’ll have a few teams out. The rest of it will need to be looked after by locals. We’ll have a full team at the church. It’s mostly going to be crowd control. Entry to the church is strictly by invitation. We’re not invited.’
‘I think you’ll find we are. I want at least you and John Joyce in there. I’ll want a full transcript of the ceremony and a detailed report on who was doing what. See if you can get in there tonight and install a couple of discrete cameras. Get one at the front pointing back at the congregation.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to George Carter.’
‘And see if you can get some round the church grounds and on the approaches. The killer might decide to watch things at a distance or mingle in the crowd. What’re the arrangements with the press?’
‘Strictly no press in the church grounds or church. The family needed persuading to let us near the place. I ended up telling them that if we weren’t then we couldn’t let the funeral continue due to health and safety concerns.’
‘How the hell do they think they’d keep the press away if we aren’t there?’ McEvoy asked, annoyed at the family’s stance.
‘Private security drafted in from Ostara’s various plants and offices and coordinated by a specialised service.’
‘Great. Just what we need. You’ve spoken to them?’
‘Yeah, it’s TM Security, Terry Macken’s outfit,’ Stringer said, referring to a company set up by a retired garda inspector. ‘They’re well used to doing rock concerts and open air events. They’ll do whatever we want.’
‘Well, that’s something, I guess. I’ll talk to Terry later. It won’t stop the press getting photos in any case; they’ll all have telephoto lens.’
‘Just as well. If any of them came close to Marion D’Arcy she’d claw their eyes out.’
‘She’s been onto you?’ McEvoy said, surprised.
‘No. But the funeral director says, and I quote, “she’s a fucking nightmare to deal with”. She’s been making his life hell all week.’
‘Poor bastard,’ McEvoy sympathised.
* * *
He was looking at a map of Ballyglass church and the area surrounding it, tracing his finger along the approach roads. Tomorrow would be chaos. The church was on a narrow lane with nowhere for more than a handful of vehicles to park. They’d have to persuade Martin O’Coffey to allow one of his fields that bordered the churchyard to be used as a temporary car park. Given the recent weather it was likely to quickly turn into a mud bath. If the guests didn’t bring wellington boots their finest shoes and clothes would be ruined.
He answered his mobile phone distractedly, ‘McEvoy.’
‘Colm?’ a female voice asked uncertainly.
‘What?’ McEvoy asked, turning his attention to the voice. ‘Sorry, who is this?’
‘Ciara,’ Maggie’s sister said. ‘Are you okay to talk?’
‘Yeah, yeah, you work away,’ McEvoy said contritely, inwardly cursing himself. ‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t got round to returning your call. I’ve been up to my neck in stuff.’
‘It’s okay, Caroline told me you’re heading up the Albert Koch case. It seems he wasn’t what he appeared to be?’
‘And another couple of cases,’ McEvoy said, avoiding any discussion on Koch’s past. ‘Everything’s okay for tomorrow?’ he asked, feeling guilty for his lack of help in the preparations.
‘That’s what I was going to ask you? I’ve got most things in hand. Have you had chance to draft your eulogy?’
‘I’ve made a few notes. I’ll work on them tonight.’ It sounded as lame as it was.
‘And you’ve got a clean shirt and suit?’
‘I’m sure there’s something in the wardrobe. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I won’t make a show of myself. All my suits now fit me,’ he said. After Maggie’s death he’d lost a couple of stone in weight so that his clothes hung off him like a child dressing up in his father’s suit. It wasn’t until after the Raven case that he finally got round to buying a new wardrobe.
‘And your house is ready for your parents?’
‘Shit!’ He’d completely forgotten about his parents coming to stay with him for the weekend. ‘Look, I’ll …’
‘It’s okay, Colm,’ Ciara interrupted. ‘Caroline’s said she’ll take care of them. They’ll be staying with her tonight. Gerry, Liam, and Mary are staying in the Crowne Plaza, along with my parents,’ she said, referring to McEvoy’s brothers and sister. Both brothers were flying in from London with their wives and kids. Mary would be travelling up from Cork with her husband and two kids. Orla, his other sister, was not making the trip home from Toronto. She normally came only once a year, usually at Easter when she’d bring over her Canadian husband and their three kids.
‘Kenny and Joe are both staying with friends,’ Jennifer continued, referring to Maggie’s brothers.
‘Look, don’t worry, Ciara, I�
��ll be there and I’ll be prepared. I’ll even make sure I iron the shirt.’
‘Did you order the flowers for the grave?’ Ciara asked, doubt in her voice.
‘Oh sh… Look, I’ll get on it now. I’ll have it sorted in a few minutes time. White lilies right?’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ Ciara said firmly. ‘You’ve enough to be worrying about. You’re doing too much, Colm. You need some time for yourself.’
‘Yeah, I know, but unless people stop killing each other, there’s not a lot I can do. Is there anything else?’
‘No, no, that’s it. I just wanted to check in with you; make sure you’re ready.’
‘I’ll never be ready, but I’ll be there, don’t worry. I’ll try and ring you later, okay?’
‘Yeah, okay. Take care of yourself, Colm.’ She ended the call.
McEvoy clasped his temples between forefinger and thumb and massaged his forehead. He knew he’d let Ciara down, that he wasn’t pulling his weight in organising Maggie’s commemoration, but the reality was that he couldn’t face into it. He hadn’t made any notes for the eulogy and he had no idea what he was going to say. For some reason he thought he might wing it – speak from the heart on the spur of the moment – but on reflection that probably wasn’t such a good idea. But writing a eulogy would need him to focus all his thoughts on Maggie and that always tore him apart.
‘Are you okay?’ Kelly Stringer asked.
McEvoy dropped his hand from his face. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine; just trying to deal with tomorrow.’
‘You’re trying to organise that as well?’ Stringer said incredulously. ‘Look, if you need a hand with anything…’
‘No, no, you’re fine,’ McEvoy interrupted. ‘Maggie’s sister, Ciara, has everything in hand. I’m just not looking forward to it very much. I’d sooner just spend the day with Gemma than have to face all the family and friends, all of them commiserating with me.’
Stringer nodded her head not sure what to say. Eventually she said, ‘Well, if you need me to help in any way, just give me a call, okay?’
‘Yeah, thanks, Kelly,’ he said, realising he was staring straight into her eyes. He looked away embarrassed, knowing that they had just shared some kind of a moment. ‘Right, well, I better get on,’ he said awkwardly, confused by his swirling emotions.
* * *
‘Why the hell am I having to clear up after you?’ Bishop snapped, though tiredness was evident in his voice.
‘Galligan,’ McEvoy stated evenly.
‘The stupid bollix decided to ring me direct to ask that you be removed from the case and he be put in charge. Lucky for you he proved that he’s got shit for brains. I’ve told him he can either do as he’s told or I’ll make his life fuckin’ hell. My guess is he’s so far up his own arse he’ll try another avenue in; his divisional chief super or an assistant commissioner. Just leave him to me, okay? You’ve already done enough damage; last thing I need is for you to fuck things up even further. If he comes to see you, you refer him back to me. And don’t let him anywhere near the press, you hear, or Koch’s funeral. The eejit’s a complete fuckin’ liability.’
‘I’ll talk to Barry Traynor.’
‘You do that. I’m fed up with watching your back, Colm. I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’ve got to stop pissing off the locals.’
‘It’s not my fault that they’re self-centred eejits.’
‘Well, you need to work on your eejit handling skills then. What are you doing about Koch’s funeral?’
‘Don’t worry, everything’s in hand. The press will be kept well away and the guests vetted before they can pass through an outer security cordon. We’re liaising with Traffic, the locals, and a private security firm that Marion D’Arcy’s organised.’
‘It’s complete madness that it’s going ahead in the first place,’ Bishop moaned. ‘What the hell were you thinking about?’
‘Once Elaine Jones said she was releasing the body there wasn’t much I could do. It was in the family’s hands.’
‘You could have delayed the release. Elaine knows the score.’
‘I didn’t know the papers were going to go crazy. It’ll be fine. We’ve been working on it all afternoon.’
‘Which means you haven’t been working on catching the killer,’ Bishop snapped. ‘And while we’re talking about the press, I want you to take over from Galligan.’
‘I don’t have time to prepare for press conferences,’ McEvoy said, a sinking feeling opening in his stomach. He’d been personally savaged by the media in The Raven case and was still bitter from the whole experience. At least Bishop had defended McEvoy’s position, rather than conceding any ground to Galligan. ‘Perhaps John Joyce could do it?’ he suggested trying not to sound desperate.
‘It has to be Inspector or Superintendent level,’ Bishop insisted. ‘This is a high profile case, not a missing cat. The public expect a senior officer to be talking to them.’
‘How about Johnny Cronin?’ McEvoy said grasping at straws. ‘I’m not available tomorrow, remember?’
‘Cronin’s up to his neck with the scamming case, isn’t he? Maybe it’s best that you didn’t do it. We want them to focus on the case, not the investigating officer. Perhaps Joyce wouldn’t be a bad choice? Get them to use his doctor title – Dr John Joyce, Detective Sergeant, NBCI. That’ll add some gravitas to it all; let them know that we’re using an intellectual heavyweight on the case,’ he said sarcastically.
‘I’ll tell him the good news,’ McEvoy replied evenly, managing to keep his relief from his voice.
‘You never know, the job might suit him,’ Bishop said. He paused before continuing. ‘Keep out of further trouble, Colm. I can’t keep watching your back. I have enough to be doing trying to deal with Charlie Clarke’s gang. We raided two houses this morning – found thirty kilos of cocaine. That’s going to hurt his pocket. I’m going to keep targeting his operations until he gives up the bastards that bombed Hannah Fallon. He’s either going to cooperate or he’s going out of business. Don’t mess up, okay?’ Bishop ended the call.
McEvoy reflected that Bishop’s strategy was what the gardai should be doing all the time – putting high pressure on the criminal gangs, forcing them into errors, disrupting their operations, shutting them down, and sending them to prison. It shouldn’t just be a pressure tactic when particular results were required.
* * *
Martin O’Coffey had been too ill to talk to Kelly Stringer, bedridden with flu, but after a bit of persuading his grandson Peter had reluctantly agreed to let the field next to the church be used as a car park for a small fee.
McEvoy had found time to talk to Terry Macken. He’d been his usual self, full of energy and wisecracks. Whatever McEvoy wanted he was willing to accommodate as long as he still got paid the same amount and it involved no extra work. He would have forty security staff working the church. Every person attending would have their bags checked for cameras and other recording devices; these would be confiscated and held for collection until people left. There would be a one mile exclusion zone for the media.
Macken had been provided by Marion D’Arcy and Ostara Industries with a list of people who could enter the church itself. McEvoy had agreed that TM Security would still operate the outer and inner security, as long as his guards could mix amongst them and Stringer, Joyce and McManus were admitted to the church. If there was any major incident, the guards would step in and take charge. He was apprehensive about missing the event, but then maybe he would be able to sneak away from Maggie’s commemoration by early afternoon. God knows he would need a break by then from the memories and platitudes.
He stood up from the table and stretched his back. Planning the policing for Albert Koch’s funeral had taken up most of the afternoon. He was starting to feel that most things were now under control. Terry Macken knew what he was doing and Stringer and Joyce were competent enough.
He glanced at his watch. It was just coming up to five fifteen. He w
ondered how Joyce would get on with the press conference; it was due to start at the half hour. Enough time for the hacks to do a quick edit and summary for the six o’clock news. He’d tried explaining to him what it would be like now the international press were involved, but it was only through experiencing the full-on glare and the awkward and difficult questions that he’d truly know. Nothing ever really prepared you for that. He’d been through the wringer with the Raven case and had no intention of talking to a journalist again if he could help it.
His mobile phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and stared at the screen. He recognised the caller number but couldn’t place it. He decided to risk it.
‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s George Carter. You better come out to Koch’s farm.’
‘You’ve found the secret compartment?’
‘We’ve found Hitler’s fuckin’ bunker! You won’t believe the place. Any doubts you had about this guy being a war criminal, you can forget them. He was a bona fide Nazi fanatic. The place is like a fuckin’ museum.’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ McEvoy said, bursting out of the doors into the chill air, the sky having already faded to darkness.
* * *
He’d been directed across the farmyard and out the far side to the Gallow’s tree. There he was met by Tom McManus and three guards wearing large, luminous jackets, their caps pulled down tight to try and keep out the frigid air. The men were huddled together, shifting from foot to foot, their breath steaming.
‘You’re not going to believe this place,’ McManus said directing McEvoy toward the derelict shed situated between the oak tree and the outbuildings surrounding the yard.
As they approached, McManus’ torch revealed the faintest of paths. He pulled back some rusted corrugated iron and motioned McEvoy forward. It was almost pitch black inside, the pale night of the sky barely penetrating the glassless window. McManus swung his torch around the floor revealing old agricultural equipment and feed bags. There were shelves on two of the walls holding jars full of nails and old tins.
