by Rob Kitchin
‘Mrs O’Coffey?’ McEvoy asked.
She looked up from the chopping board, a hard, determined set to her jaw.
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy and this is Sergeant Tom McManus. We’re very sorry about the death of your husband.’
She nodded her head and went back to slicing carrots.
‘We need to ask you some questions.’
‘I need to finish preparing this soup. The old man’s got a bad case of flu.’
‘Perhaps the soup can wait a while,’ McEvoy suggested.
‘I can answer your questions while I work,’ she said, without looking up. ‘I don’t have time to stop. After I’ve done this, I have a farm to look after, then I have to go and collect the kids from school. They don’t know yet. What do you want to know?’
McEvoy and McManus shared a quizzical look. O’Coffey’s widow seemed remarkably blasé about her husband’s death.
‘Do you have any idea why someone might have killed your husband?’ McEvoy asked.
She stopped chopping and looked up. ‘Killed him? I was told he committed suicide. They said there was a note.’
‘That’s what it looked like at first, but the pathologist thinks he was probably shot by someone else.’
She cut a few more slices of celery and then pulled a kitchen chair out and sat down heavily. ‘I thought the stupid fucker had taken the easy way out, leaving us to pick up the pieces.’
‘You thought suicide was likely?’
‘We… things have not been easy for the past year or so.’ She clutched and pulled her hair, closing her eyes. ‘All while the rest of the country was getting rich, we were struggling to survive. It’s been worse than ever recently. If it wasn’t for the subsidies we’d have gone under years ago and we owe the bank a small fortune.’ She covered her face with both hands, speaking through the heels of her hands. ‘He said he would make it okay. He said he knew how to get the money. When I… I thought he’d done it so we’d get the insurance money.’ She started to cry.
McEvoy sent McManus off to get some tissues and after a couple of minutes of comforting she’d regained her composure.
‘The note found in his hand said, “I did it. I’m sorry.” Do you know what that refers to?’ McEvoy asked.
She shook her head no.
‘Do you know where your husband was Saturday night?’
‘Drinking with that idiot, Francie Koch, in Athboy. They’d meet up most Saturday nights for a blow out.’
‘What time did he get back?’
‘It must have been gone two o’clock. I’d gone to bed a couple of hours before. Him and Francie were like brothers – best friends since school. I thought he was a wee gobshite. He thought he was god’s gift to the world. I don’t think he liked me very much either.’
‘Did he say where he was until two o’clock?’
‘Drinking with Francie. That’s all he said.’
‘But you didn’t tell us that.’
‘It’s bad enough we were on our last legs without him going to prison for some drunken accident! What the hell would I do then? What would the kids do? And Martin? We’d definitely lose the farm.’
McEvoy shook his head. She’d lied for her husband, despite the fact that he might have killed a man. Somehow she’d managed to justify any doubts she had for the sake of the children and farm. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that probably the only reason they had a farm in the first place was because Koch and Martin O’Coffey had robbed two banks. When that came out he wasn’t sure what would happen.
‘You think your husband might have killed Albert Koch?’ he asked.
‘I’m not saying he did it! I asked him and he said no and that was enough for me.’
‘But you had some doubts?’
‘I’ve said enough. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She stood back up and moved to the chopping board.
‘Mrs O’Coffey, someone’s just killed your husband. It might be the same person that killed Albert Koch, or it might be someone else. Do you think your husband was there when Albert Koch died?’
She stopped chopping, but didn’t look up. ‘Look, Peter and Francie were always creeping round Albert Koch’s farm. They were both obsessed with finding his mythical gold. They were searching for some hidden vault. Complete baloney, but they were obsessed. They’d been looking for it since they were kids. Peter thought that if he could find it he could save the farm. Francie just wanted to be rich.’
McEvoy remembered that Roza had once found Francie searching Koch’s bedroom. Perhaps the pair of them had got drunk and decided to sneak round The White Gallows in the early hours trying to find the rumoured secret vault when they disturbed the old man, then accidentally killed him and tried to cover their tracks by placing him back in bed. Given their intoxication, taking the gun and hanging the noose from the tree might have made sense.
‘So you thought that maybe he’d been sneaking around again?’ McEvoy asked.
‘I thought it might have been possible,’ she conceded. ‘He told me that he’d come straight back home after the pub. He swore blind he hadn’t been near to Koch’s place.’
‘But you thought otherwise?’
She ignored him, chopping the vegetables.
‘Mrs O’Coffey,’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Was he at Koch’s farm?’
‘I don’t know. Probably. He was in a hell of a state when he got back,’ she said without looking up. ‘Usually he’s drunk, but this time he was just hyper.’
‘And he was with Francie?’
‘He was always with feckin’ Francie.’
An idea started to form in McEvoy’s mind. ‘How do you think Peter was going to raise the money to save the farm?’
‘I’ve no idea, but he seemed pretty confident. Peter always had some scheme or another. Some sure-fired way to lose more money.’
‘How about if Peter was trying to blackmail Francie?’ McEvoy suggested. ‘Perhaps Francie killed Albert Koch? Francie’s now quite rich from his grandfather’s estate.’
‘You think Francie killed Peter? You’re mad! They were like brothers. There’s no way Francie killed Peter.’
‘Brothers fall out with one another,’ McEvoy suggested. ‘Especially when one of them gains everything and the other is about to lose it all.’
‘No,’ she said quite emphatically. ‘I don’t believe it. Francie’s a cocky little bollix, but I can’t believe that he’d kill Peter in cold blood.’
‘Well, if Francie didn’t kill Peter,’ McEvoy said, doubt in his voice, ‘the question is, who did?’
* * *
‘Well?’ McEvoy asked, now they were back in his car.
‘Francie and O’Coffey killed Koch – accidental or not – then Francie killed O’Coffey.’
‘Seems that way,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘She didn’t want her husband in prison, but I guess she would have preferred it to him being dead. If it was an accident the worst they would have got was manslaughter, might even have been ruled an accidental death with the right judge and jury.’
‘I doubt that’s how they would have seen it,’ McManus said. ‘They probably thought they’d get done for murder. It’s not like they called an ambulance or tried to save him. They carried him upstairs, took the gun, tried to set up a diversion, and left him to die.’
‘True. Right, well, we probably haven’t got enough time to bring Francie in before the funeral. We’ll let him attend his grandfather’s service and then pick him up afterwards. In the meantime, find out if anyone has taken a full statement from the photographer that found the body.’
‘I’m on it,’ McManus said, easing himself back out of the car.
McEvoy turned the ignition and started to head towards Ballyglass Church. A few moments later his mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s Johnny Cronin. You told me to give you a ring. Is now a good time?’
‘Now’s fine. What’s the stor
y?’ McEvoy asked, a bit of lightness back in his voice, confident they were about to wrap up the Koch killing. Shooting Peter O’Coffey had been a pretty dumb thing to do. But then so had been searching The White Gallows in the dead of the night.
‘I met with our scam artist fifteen minutes ago,’ Cronin replied. ‘He’s a border’s man who thinks he’s a bit of a charmer. My guess is Monaghan, maybe Cavan. He spins a very smooth line about scratching each other’s back. For fifty thousand clean notes he’s willing to trade me one hundred thousand in used ones. He wasn’t shy at hinting where it came from. And he didn’t mind letting me know what would happen if the guards turned up.
‘I’ve set up the exchange tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in Clonmellon. It’s just down the road from you. I have someone running his licence plate through the computer at the minute, but my guess is it’ll probably turn out to be false. Hopefully we can track him home.’
‘Right, okay. I’ll try and be there. We might have this Koch case wrapped up by tonight.’
‘You have someone in the frame for it? I heard you have another body?’
‘Peter O’Coffey. Shot in the head this morning. I’m just on my way to pick up the prime suspect – his so-called best friend. Family and friends. I’m telling you, Johnny, you’re better off sticking to strangers.’
* * *
Terry Macken’s outfit had managed to put down metal matting to create a basic road grid to stop the soft ground instantly churning to mud. McEvoy parked on the grass and walked back up to the road and the short distance to the church, his path guided by luminous jacketed security guards. High in the sky a hovering news helicopter droned as it slowly circled, filming the scene below.
The small church was surrounded by a low stone wall that enclosed the old cemetery. Most of the gravestones looked ancient, with only a handful of new ones dotted amongst them. In one corner was a set of old, family crypts, their roofs turfed over, steps leading down to bolted doors. At seemingly random locations were narrow yew trees and the occasional lone pine. To the left of the church was a freshly dug grave, the soil mounded to one side. At evenly spaced intervals along the perimeter were security guards. Except for the helicopter there was no sign of any media presence.
The church itself was compact with tall, thin stained glass windows, and a small spike of a spire. A fairly sizable crowd had already started to gather at its entrance, though not as many as McEvoy had been expecting. Some were queuing to enter, others just milling around, shaking hands and chatting. Two speakers were pinned above the door piping out the organ music from inside.
McEvoy spotted Terry Macken standing to one side with Kelly Stringer, keeping a discreet eye on things. He was dressed in a well-tailored black woollen coat over a smart, grey business suit, a small earpiece pushed into his right ear, a narrow microphone extending across his cheek. He looked calm and collected, his grey hair cut short, eyes alert, his face full of colour. Kelly Stringer looked stunning in a two-piece, black suit, the skirt ending just above stocking-clad knees, her hair worn down. A black mackintosh coat hung on her shoulders. In contrast to Macken, her face wore a concerned look, worried about how the afternoon would unfold.
‘Jesus, Colm, you look like shit,’ Macken said, humour in his voice, as McEvoy approached.
‘Well, at least it matches how I feel. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. I take it business is booming?’
‘I can’t complain. Next gig after this is The Rolling Stones. Then Radiohead. If you want any tickets just let me know, okay? And if you ever want a change of scene I can always use seasoned pros, y’know what I mean?’
‘Well, I…’ McEvoy stuttered unsure what to say, especially after his dressing-down that morning by Ciara.
‘That kid of yours doing alright?’ Macken continued.
‘Yeah, yeah, she’s grand.’
‘And this morning went okay? I was sorry to hear about Maggie, Colm. Shit happens, y’know.’
There was an awkward pause, no one sure what to say.
‘We’ve set it up as you asked,’ Stringer said to fill the silence, ‘a far outer perimeter and another around the church. Dr John is already in the church. It must be pretty full in there. I’ll go in when the hearse and family arrive.’
‘Good. And no trouble?’
‘Not really,’ she continued. ‘Some people who think they should have been invited but weren’t. Some people pissed off they couldn’t bring their cameras and mobile phones into the church. Some press trying to bluff their way in. There’s a small anti-Nazi demo on the road out of Athboy, a dozen or so but they’re mostly behaving themselves.’
‘I guess there’s a neat symmetry to it all,’ Macken said. ‘Albert Koch’s killer topping himself on the morning of his funeral. I guess he couldn’t live with himself.’
‘Peter O’Coffey didn’t kill himself,’ McEvoy said solemnly. ‘More like executed. Once this is all over, we need to talk to Francis Koch. He’s not to slip away, okay?’
‘Executed?’ Macken said, confused. ‘He blew his own brains out is what we were told.’
‘That’s not what Elaine Jones thinks. Someone blew his brains out for him. And O’Coffey’s wife said that her husband arrived home gone two in the morning the night Albert Koch died, all hyper. She thinks he was probably snooping round the farm with Francie Koch looking for buried treasure. If O’Coffey…’
‘Jesus. What the…?’ Macken’s attention had been diverted to a scene at the entrance to the church. Two of his security men and a plain clothes officer were wrestling with a man. ‘Sorry, Colm, I need to deal with this.’
Macken set off for the door, McEvoy trailing behind.
Stefan Freel had been jostled to one side and pinned to the church wall. His face was flushed with anger.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Macken said in a neutral voice. ‘The church is very small and the family have given strict instructions as to who can and can’t go inside. You can pay your respects from outside.’
‘This is ridiculous, I was Albert Koch’s…’ Freel searched for the right word, ‘assistant. I’m the new CEO of the Ostara Trust.’ He spotted McEvoy. ‘Superintendent?’
‘It’s okay, let him go,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘Let’s have a look at that list?’
One of the security men passed it to him.
‘My mother said she does not want him in the church,’ said a man in his late thirties stepping forward. ‘Mark D’Arcy.’ He held out his hand.
‘Ah, the man who makes false alibis,’ McEvoy said sarcastically, ignoring D’Arcy’s proffered hand. ‘A funeral, Mr D’Arcy, is not the place to take petty revenges. Mr Freel was your grandfather’s right-hand man for a number of years. He probably spent more time with him than anyone else. He has the right to pay his last respects.’
‘The family doesn’t want him in the church.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise given he’s now in charge of the Ostara Trust?’ McEvoy cautioned. ‘You should be building bridges not burning them,’ he suggested, the irony of his advice not lost on him.
‘We’ll see about the Ostara Trust. He’s not coming in,’ D’Arcy repeated.
‘Mr Freel?’ McEvoy said.
‘Fuck them!’ Freel snapped angrily. ‘I’ll stay out here. You’ve just made a big mistake, Mark. As the superintendent’s just warned, you really don’t want me as an enemy. I was your grandfather’s apprentice. I’ve learned every lesson he had to teach about how to fuck people over.’ Freel wandered to one side, challenging the stares of onlookers.
‘Jesus,’ Macken muttered.
‘Here we go,’ McEvoy said as a hearse pulled up at the church gates, two black cars pulling up behind it.
The crowd started to part. Mark D’Arcy headed for the cars and Kelly Stringer slipped into the church.
Marion D’Arcy stepped from the first car dressed from head to toe in black, her face covered with a net veil, followed by a man McEvoy took to be her husband. Next followed Charles Ko
ch, followed by a beautiful young woman that McEvoy instinctively knew was Jane D’Arcy given her resemblance to her mother.
From the second car emerged Frank Koch and his wife Mary, Francis Koch looking pale and frayed, and a woman McEvoy didn’t recognise but guessed was Francis’ sister, Emily, and then his brother, Carl.
Collectively the group were worth about one hundred and thirty-five million euro, plus whatever Frank Koch’s motor sales empire was worth. Somehow, McEvoy thought, that wouldn’t be enough for them. Marion D’Arcy and her family wanted it all. They didn’t care about Albert Koch’s criminal past or how he’d built his business empire. They just wanted to get their hands on what they saw as rightfully theirs. Stefan Freel would have his work cut out to maintain the Ostara Trust as set out by Koch in his will. No doubt the family already had a team of lawyers poring over the small print trying to find ways of contesting the division of spoils.
Charles, Francis and Carl Koch and Mark D’Arcy moved to the hearse, lifting the plain oak coffin clear of the long car and up onto their shoulders, each pair clasping each other’s jackets to provide a stable base. In step, they headed for the church entrance, the waiting mourners bowing their heads or crossing themselves forgetting they were attending an old Protestant church. Behind them trailed Marion D’Arcy, her head held high, her wrist threaded through her husband’s arm, followed by Frank Koch and Mary, then Jane D’Arcy and Emily Koch. They entered the church and the old wooden doors closed behind them, the security guards stepping across to block any further access.
McEvoy half-thought about sneaking in, but couldn’t face a second church service in one day. It would be enough to hear it on the loud speakers. Plus he could deal with any situation that arose outside given Stringer and Joyce were trapped inside. Instead he walked to the church gate and leant against the cold stone. The wind had started to pick up and the sky was darkening as a front moved in from the west. If they were lucky the ceremony would be over before the first drops fell.
* * *
