by Rob Kitchin
He rounded the corner and practically walked into Caroline and Hannah Fallon’s sister, Catherine. Behind them the entrance to the church was busy with people starting to file in.
‘Jesus!’ McEvoy exclaimed, rising up on his toes, managing to stop his forward momentum.
‘Can I have a quick word, Colm?’ Catherine asked, sharing a conspiratorial look with Caroline. She took him by the arm and walked him back round the corner of the church. ‘Look, I know this is probably a terrible faux pas,’ she said, speaking quickly, ‘but Hannah has money on you disappearing the minute this ends and you’re so busy that no time is a good time. Plus, I’ve got to get back down to Nenagh tomorrow – Gerry’s probably got the kids eating nothing but take-aways. Anyway, I’ve been talking to Caroline and Gemma. You know I was at school with Caroline? We were wondering whether it would be okay for Hannah to, y’know, to move into your house when she gets out of hospital?
‘She doesn’t want to go back to her house. Not after those creeps put the pipe bomb through the door. She’s going to put it on the market as soon as it’s patched up and redecorated. But she can’t come and stay with me as she needs to go to rehab in Dublin, and I can’t come and stay up here all the time because of the kids. I mean, I’ll be back up whenever I can; I just can’t be up here all the time.
‘She won’t be back in work for at least four months, probably six or more. She can be there for when Gemma gets out of school and just help out. What do you think? She’ll be like a housesitter stroke babysitter.’
‘I…’ McEvoy trailed off, dumbstruck.
‘Look, you don’t need to answer now,’ Catherine continued hurriedly, ‘I just wanted to put it out there.’
‘But where would she sleep?’ McEvoy muttered, trying to compute Catherine’s request; trying to deal with its inappropriateness given the event they were about to attend. ‘Will she be able to manage the stairs?’
‘Caroline thought you could put a bed in the dining room. You don’t use it apparently.’
‘I… right.’
Ciara rounded the corner, her face pulled tight in a pained look. ‘Colm! Come on! We’re starting in five minutes.’ She disappeared back out of view.
‘So, what do you think?’ Catherine pressed.
‘I… yeah, whatever,’ McEvoy said dazed, unsure of himself, unable and unwilling to think through the request. ‘I’ll talk to Gemma.’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Colm.’ She steered him back round to the front of the church and gave a guilty looking Caroline a surreptitious thumbs up.
* * *
Maggie’s family were in the first row; her mother, father, sister and brother, along with their kids. McEvoy was sitting behind them, Gemma jammed tight into his side at the end of the pew. On his right were his mother and father, then his brothers and sister. Immediately behind them were aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides of the family. They’d all shaken his hand when he’d entered the church, pulling tight smiles, nodding their condolences, whispering kind words.
He tugged his mobile from his pocket and glanced at the screen. No new messages. Nervous, he swivelled round and looked behind him. The massive church was a third full at best. It had been almost full on their wedding day and to the rafters at Maggie’s funeral. He recognised most of the faces, even if he couldn’t place many of them in his befuddled state. Halfway back was Gemma’s teacher and three rows of kids from her class at school. He spotted Tony Bishop entering the church and taking a seat near to the door ready for a quick getaway. Barney Plunkett was sitting a few rows ahead accompanied by his wife; Hannah Fallon’s sister in the row in front.
He wasn’t sure what he felt about having Hannah move into the house. She was a good colleague and had been one of Maggie’s friends, but it would still be an intrusion into the household. In some ways it would be a blessing, especially with regards to looking after Gemma given the ridiculous hours he was working and Caroline’s pregnancy, but it would also set the tongue of every guard in the city wagging. He could live with that as long as she wasn’t expecting more. More simply wasn’t an option.
He shook his head. He couldn’t believe, on this of all days, that he agreed to Hannah moving in; that he was worrying about what people might think. He felt his heart fill with guilt and remorse. He turned back to face the altar and glanced at his watch. They were ten minutes late starting. His stomach was knotting with nerves.
He pulled his notes from his pocket and scanned through them quickly. They were nothing more than random thoughts scribbled after too much whiskey. He had no idea what he was going to say. He had no idea what was going to happen. He’d left everything to Ciara to organise. Gemma jabbed him in the ribs. He looked up.
A priest had materialised from somewhere. He was speaking but McEvoy could barely hear what he was saying. All he wanted was to get out of there; for the floor to swallow him whole. His shirt felt tight around his neck.
Everyone slipped forward off the pews. He followed, miming the prayer, then slid back up onto the pew. The priest said a few more words, then they were on their feet singing a hymn. He’d barely come to church since he was a child; funerals and weddings were the only times he took part in a service. It was familiar but strange; a weird echo of a ritual mostly forgotten. Everyone sat again.
Gemma slipped from his side and headed to a lectern at the front of the church. She started to tell the congregation why she thought Maggie had been the best mother in the world.
He could feel the tears roll down his cheeks. She looked so vulnerable and yet so strong up there; young and yet older than her years. He heard someone behind him sucking in air as they cried. This is why he didn’t want to be here, it would be like this all day; people reminding him of what was no more; endless hours of wallowing in grief.
His mother tapped his thigh and handed him a tissue. The phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He ignored it and dabbed at his cheeks. He smiled weakly at Gemma as she returned to her seat and took her hand, squeezing it gently.
Next Ciara went up and read a gospel and then there was another hymn. Then he was easing his way past Gemma and walking towards the lectern.
He turned to face his friends and family. Nearly everyone was gazing at him, a few had their heads bowed, many were wiping tears from their eyes. His mobile phone started to vibrate again. He pulled his tattered notes from his pocket, staring down at them, but not seeing the writing.
Eventually he looked up.
‘Look, I’m sorry but I don’t have a speech prepared; just these useless notes.’ He held up a handful of crumpled paper. ‘To be truthful I didn’t want to face up to the task of writing it. I thought, you know, that I could just stand here and tell you what Maggie was like. I mean, I spent over twenty years of my life with her. We had a beautiful child together. I should have lots to say, right? Lots of memories, anecdotes, funny stories; things that would tell you all what a wonderful, funny, beautiful woman she was. But you all know that already. Anybody who ever knew her, knows that. Which is why we all miss her so much. I know I’ll be spending the rest of my life with her. I talk to her everyday and there isn’t a minute when I don’t think about her. I’m sorry, Ciara, I know you went to a lot of trouble organising this. I should have put some more effort in, but the truth is, I commemorate her everyday. I always will.’
McEvoy leant against the lectern for a couple of seconds looking lost then walked back to his seat, his gaze directed at his feet, too embarrassed to look at Maggie’s family or his own. He felt like a fool. Had acted like a fool. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket.
He squeezed in past Gemma. His mother placed her hand on his knee and squeezed. He could hear her sobbing. A couple of hands patted his back. Maggie’s mother turned back towards him and offered a weak smile, her face tear-stained. He looked down at his hands too ashamed to hold her eyes.
The priest continued to drone on. As they rose for another hymn he couldn’t resist pulling his phone discretely from his pock
et. He’d two missed calls and had three new messages – two telling him to ring his answering service and one from John Joyce.
‘Peter O’Coffey dead. Ring when get chance. JJ’
McEvoy slipped the phone back into his pocket and wondered how much longer the ceremony would last and how he might be able to slip away with the minimum of fuss. He was looking for an excuse to avoid the rest of the day – the endless reminiscing, the cold soup and sandwiches at a local hotel, limp handshakes of condolences – but not another death. He couldn’t help speculating as to how O’Coffey had died and who his killer was. Gemma broke his thoughts, tugging him back down as the hymn ended.
* * *
It was ten to eleven before McEvoy and the rest of his and Maggie’s family had managed to exit the church. The next set of people were milling around the entrance awaiting the arrival of the hearse. Bishop had long gone and most of the others had already set off to the local hotel where the reception was being held. The two families were standing together, chatting, reluctant to follow.
Starting to feel impatient, McEvoy pulled Maggie’s sister to one side. ‘Look, Ciara, I need to head off,’ he said apologetically. ‘There’s been another death.’
‘Jesus, Colm, you can’t go just yet,’ she complained. ‘It’s barely eleven o’clock. There are people here who want to say hello; catch up with you. Can’t someone else deal with it?’
‘Not really, no. The victim is Albert Koch’s great nephew. I need to get out there and find out what the hell’s happening. Koch’s funeral’s this afternoon and half the world’s press are going to try and gatecrash it.’
‘And what about Gemma? And Maggie?’
‘I’ve already told Gemma and she’s fine with it. Besides, she has all of you to look after for the rest of the day. And, as for Maggie, as I said in the church I commemorate her every day. Nobody misses her more than I do. Don’t worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘This isn’t good enough, Colm!’ she whispered harshly. ‘You promised you’d take the day off. You can’t just keep abandoning your family for work.’
‘Look, Ciara, this isn’t the time or place, okay?’ McEvoy tried to say as reasonably as he could. ‘I can’t just walk away from my job like other people. I’m always on call regardless of what’s going on in my personal life. If someone gets murdered, I have to go and investigate.’
‘Well, perhaps it’s time you walked away and got a job where you can spend more time with your daughter,’ Ciara said angrily.
‘I spend as much time with her as I can,’ McEvoy said defensively. ‘If I walk away I still need to work, we’ll still need a wage coming into the house. And if I leave the guards there’s no going back. I’m a bit long in the tooth to try and train for a new career.’
‘I’m not asking you to give up the guards, but maybe you could transfer to something that’ll give you more time for Gemma.’
‘Look, Ciara, I appreciate your concerns and I promise we’ll talk about it again, but I need to go. I’m sorry.’ He walked away from his sister-in-law over to where Gemma stood with his parents. He crouched down to her. ‘I’ll be back later, okay, pumpkin. Try and behave yourself.’
She nodded her head. ‘I’ll do my best.’
McEvoy placed his hand on her hair and pulled a weak smile. He levered himself back up. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said to his parents. He twisted on his heels and headed for his car. He felt a mixture of guilt and relief and the slow surge of adrenalin. Ciara was right, he did need to find more time for Gemma, but he also needed his work. It was a conundrum he’d think about once he’d reduced his current caseload.
* * *
He drove most of the way to Ballyglass with the blue lights hidden behind his radiator grill blazing. He’d managed to do the journey in forty minutes. John Joyce had informed him that Peter O’Coffey had been found shortly after nine-thirty by a freelance photographer trying to scout out a possible route to somewhere with a good view of Ballyglass Church. He was lying on the slope down into a dry ditch on the boundary between O’Coffey’s and Koch’s farms. The initial impression was that it was suicide. He’d blown his brains out with an old pistol, possibly the one missing from The White Gallows, and in his other hand he clutched a scrawled note that said, ‘I did it. I’m sorry.’
McEvoy pulled to a stop behind a marked Garda car and stepped out into a light breeze, the sky now threatening rain. Over the hedge to his left he could see activity down across a field in the row of trees forming its boundary. Above him he could hear the chopping of rotor blades. He looked up to see a news helicopter circling high overhead. He hoped that Joyce had made sure the body was covered.
He hurried along the roadway, passing three more parked cars including the state pathologist’s van, to a gate guarded by a uniformed guard.
‘Detective Superintendent McEvoy,’ he announced, showing his identification.
‘You might want to change your shoes, sir,’ the guard said, glancing down at his own muddied trousers and boots. ‘It’s all churned up where the cattle have been.’
McEvoy stared at the gateway entrance and then across the field. ‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself and headed back to the car and his wellington boots. He couldn’t afford to keep replacing suits.
‘Technical have asked that you follow the markers in, sir,’ the guard instructed when he returned.
‘Thanks.’
McEvoy eased his way through the mud in the gateway and then out across the field in a path running parallel to the ditch, passing the figures working amongst the trees, before cutting back diagonally towards them. As he neared he could see that the trees were on the near side of a deep, dry ditch, barbed wire strung between them. Tom McManus and John Joyce were standing on his side of the barbed wire fence watching him approach.
He greeted them both and peered down into the cutting. On the far bank, Peter O’Coffey was lying with his head near to the bottom of the ditch, a dark stain spreading out from under it. He was wearing a green wax jacket, blue jeans and dark grey wellington boots. An old pistol rested amongst the fallen leaves an inch or two from his right hand. It looked as if he’d stood or knelt at the top of the ditch, pulled the trigger, and then slumped forward into the crevice. Thankfully, the tree canopy was protecting the site from the prying eyes of the news helicopter.
George Carter, dressed in a white boiler suit, was standing at the top of the ditch watching Elaine Jones ease herself down next to O’Coffey’s head. For a couple of minutes she inspected him, gently lifting his chin so she could see his face. Off in the field on the far side, Chloe Pollard was working her way back towards a gateway.
‘Well?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Ah, Colm,’ Elaine Jones said peering through the hawthorns. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from Maggie’s commemoration, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I seriously doubt this was a suicide. The bullet passed through his temple and then out just below his left cheek bone.’ She tapped her face, mimicking her description. ‘The angle’s all wrong. He was shot from slightly behind and above. Almost impossible to shoot yourself like that. I’d say he was kneeling down on the edge of the ditch and was then executed.’
‘Executed?’
‘That’s what it looks like to me.’
‘And the note in his hand?’
‘God knows,’ Carter replied. ‘He either killed Koch and this is revenge, or someone is trying to hoodwink us into thinking he killed him.’
‘Either way, we have a killer out there,’ McEvoy observed.
‘We think O’Coffey came in through that gateway over there,’ Carter said, pointing to where Chloe Pollard was presently standing. ‘The photographer who found him came in through the gate up at the road and worked his way down the line of the ditch. We’ve roped off your side just in case whoever killed him headed out your way. I’m trying to limit access this side to preserve whatever evidence there is in here, though tweedle dum and tweedle dee there have marched around in their siz
e twelves messing things up.’
‘We’ve said we were sorry, didn’t we,’ Joyce said, pee-ved. ‘We had to get down to the body. He might have been
alive.’
‘After he’d been shot in the head?’ Carter said sarcastically. ‘I’d say whoever killed him had to drag him forward a little to stop his feet being visible from the field. We’ll see what else we can find. Footprints, hairs, whatever.’
‘Right. Well, I’d better leave you to it. Get that gun prioritised for ballistics analysis. Elaine, can you give me a call as soon as you’ve had chance to do the autopsy?’
‘It’ll be a few hours, Colm. George and Chloe need to finish up here, then we’ll take the body in to Navan.’
‘That’s fine.’ McEvoy turned to Joyce and McManus. ‘Has his family been told yet?’
‘A couple of uniforms went to see his wife half an hour ago,’ McManus said, grateful that it wasn’t him who’d had to go to break the news.
‘Okay, good. Right, John, you’d better get yourself ready to do a bit of media work. Man found dead. Single gun shot to the head. We’re treating it as suspicious. No other details just yet and no further questions. Then get over to Ballyglass Church and give Kelly a hand.’
‘You’re going to let the funeral go ahead?’ Joyce asked.
‘I don’t think we have a choice at this stage. Tom, you’d better come with me. We need to talk to his wife.’
* * *
The uniformed guard stationed outside of Peter O’Coffey’s bungalow directed them up to Martin O’Coffey’s farmhouse. There they were let into the hall by another guard. They found Peter O’Coffey’s wife in the kitchen chopping vegetables. She was a plain faced, broad-shouldered woman in her late thirties with shoulder-length, brown hair, wearing a grey fleece jacket, blue jeans and white runners.
