by Rob Kitchin
‘Marion D’Arcy,’ McManus said. ‘She has no alibi and was insistent that he died in his sleep. She’d even got the doctor to go along with it.’
‘And it probably would have worked if Roza hadn’t discovered the body first and called us,’ McEvoy said, nodding his head in agreement.
‘Do you want us to go and collect her?’
‘No, no. We don’t have any firm evidence yet. If we jump in too soon her hotshot lawyer will be all over us and she’ll totally clam up. Let’s see if George Carter can come up with something from either site first; we’ll go and talk to Ewa and Tomas. Come on, hotshot’s twenty minutes are long up.’
McEvoy headed back along the corridor, knocked on the door and gently eased it open.
John Rice had pulled a chair round to Francie’s side of the table. He snapped his head round at McEvoy’s interruption. ‘Five more minutes,’ he barked.
‘Okay, okay,’ McEvoy backed out into the corridor and leant on the wall opposite. ‘Touchy bastard.’
Three minutes later John Rice left the interview room. ‘I want my client released immediately with no charge,’ he demanded. ‘He made his statement under duress and he withdraws it in its entirety.’
‘He confessed to killing his grandfather,’ McEvoy said patiently. ‘He was searching the house with Peter O’Coffey when they disturbed him. They cracked him on the head and left him to die.’
‘He admits to being on the farm and searching for a secret vault, but he swears he did not kill his grandfather. Perhaps that was Peter O’Coffey. He can’t say and you can’t prove otherwise.’
‘I thought you just said he withdraws his confession in its entirety,’ McEvoy said, an amused hint to his voice.
‘Don’t try and mess with me, Superintendent,’ Rice growled. ‘You were questioning him without legal representation present at a time of deep emotional distress. That confession will stand up in court for half a second and you know it. You have no evidence linking my client to the death of Albert Koch.’
‘Except that he confessed in front of two officers and on the record. He hadn’t asked for legal representation and he didn’t object to us recording the conversation. We were simply asking him some questions. He confessed to killing his grandfather and he vehemently denied killing Peter O’Coffey. That’s good enough for me.’
‘Well, it isn’t good enough for me. I want him released immediately.’
‘Well, that isn’t going to happen. I’m about to charge him with murder.’
‘Murder! That’s… Look, Superintendent, we both know that charge’s not going to stick. At the absolute worst what he supposedly confessed to was manslaughter. And we both know that I’ll make sure that doesn’t stick either. Either you come up with some concrete evidence or you let him go.’
‘He smashed a vase on his grandfather’s head and then left him to die, trying to divert suspicion from himself by throwing a noose over the gallows tree. He could have called the emergency services. He could have stayed and looked after him. Instead he fled. The killing itself might not have been premeditated, but everything that came afterwards was done to deliberately try and cover his tracks and ensure that Albert Koch died. I’m charging him.’
McEvoy stepped past Rice and back into the interview room, Rice and McManus trailing.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Superintendent,’ Rice warned. ‘You’re just wasting everybody’s time and costing the taxpayer money.’
‘Says you, who bleeds the taxpayer dry every time he goes to court!’ McEvoy snapped back.
* * *
His mood had soured since tangling with Marion D’Arcy’s lawyer. He knew that John Rice was probably right. Unless they could find some convincing evidence that Francie Koch had smashed the vase over his grandfather’s head, he was likely to be set free. The confession would be picked apart and enough reasonable doubt cast to make any prosecution unlikely. The best they might achieve would be a conviction for accessory to manslaughter, assuming they could make it stick that Peter O’Coffey had killed the old man. And his wife’s lawyers would probably do their best to cast doubt on that.
He pulled up outside of Kells Garda Station and climbed out, Tom McManus clambering from the passenger side. Ewa Chojnacki and Tomas Prochazka had been collected from their hotel and were waiting for him inside.
Cathal Galligan was lurking at the entrance. ‘You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve coming here,’ he barked at McEvoy, blocking his path.
‘Stop acting like a child and get out of the way,’ McEvoy demanded, not in the mood for Galligan’s games.
Tom McManus took a step backwards, unsure of the situation. The duty officer looked on amused from behind a counter.
‘This is my station, McEvoy, and things will be done my way. If you want to interview anyone here, I want to be present.’
‘Like hell you will, now get out of the way before I make a couple of phone calls.’
Galligan held his ground, his eyes blazing.
‘I’m not going to fight with you, Galligan, but I will bring the world down around your ears.’
After a few moments Galligan stood to one side having come partially to his senses. He kept his head held high, his eyes boring into McEvoy. ‘This isn’t over yet,’ he warned. ‘And you’re history,’ he said to McManus.
McEvoy bundled past Galligan and let McManus overtake him to show the way.
‘What an eejit,’ McEvoy snapped. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said to McManus’ back. ‘If anyone’s history round here it’s him. He’s a dinosaur.’
McManus stopped outside of a dark blue door. ‘They’re in here.’
McEvoy knocked gently and then entered. The guard who’d been keeping Ewa and Tomas company nodded at him.
‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. Thanks for babysitting them.’ McEvoy held open the door and the guard passed through. ‘We meet again,’ he said to the couple.
‘Why have you brought us here?’ Ewa asked, standing up. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You lied to us,’ McEvoy replied, sitting down.
‘Lied? We told you the truth,’ Ewa said collapsing to her chair again, casting a nervous glance at McManus who had stayed standing by the door. ‘Your newspapers all believe us.’
‘You lied to us about where you were on the night Albert Koch died. You were at his farm. It was you the bed and breakfast owner heard returning in the middle of the night.’
‘No.’
‘We have two witnesses that saw your car parked near to the farm at two o’clock in the morning. One of them is now dead. The other admitted to accidentally killing Dr Koch. You were there and I need to know what you saw.’
‘You are arresting us?’ Ewa asked, her face crumpling with concern.
‘That depends. You lied to us, now we need the truth. Why were you at the farm?’
Ewa shared a look with Tomas before gathering herself. ‘We were looking for Adolf Kucken’s secret vault. He was an avid collector of Holocaust and Nazi memorabilia. It would be a valuable find and it would confirm that Koch was Kucken and that he was a war criminal. It probably held other papers that we have not been able to locate.’
‘How did you know about the vault?’
‘There were the rumours and he had to be hiding his collection somewhere. We knew that Roza wouldn’t be there on Saturday night, so it was a good time to explore.’
‘And did you find it?’
‘No.’
‘But you did see two other people searching the house?’
‘No.’
‘You saw nobody?’
‘We saw a Mercedes car arrive as we were leaving. It pulled into the drive and parked.’
‘And did you see who got out?’ McEvoy asked, aware that Marion D’Arcy drove a Mercedes.
‘No. Nobody got out. We didn’t want to be seen there, so we climbed over a fence and cut across a field to the road.’
‘Tomas?’ McEvoy prompted the silent Slovakian.
‘It is true. We saw no one.’
‘And you didn’t enter the house?’
‘No,’ Ewa answered. ‘We looked in the yard and outbuildings. We thought it was a more likely hiding place. We heard movement in the house, so we decided to leave.’
‘But you didn’t see who was in the house?’ McEvoy pressed.
‘No. It was dark and we did not want to be seen. We left.’
‘And that’s when you saw the car arrive?’
‘Yes.’
‘And could you see into the car? Could you see who was behind the wheel?’
‘No, they were in darkness.’
‘There were two occupants?’
‘Just a driver.’
‘And what colour was the car?’
‘I don’t know. Something dark – black or blue.’
‘So, I want to get this straight,’ McEvoy said. ‘You were at The White Gallows. You heard someone moving about the house. You saw a car arrive with a single occupant and park, but nobody get out. The next day you hear that Albert Koch was killed during the night and you decided not to tell us any of this?’
‘We were afraid you would think that we killed him. We had a very strong possible motive.’
‘So you decided to lie to us?’
‘The important thing was Adolf Kucken was dead and that the world heard the truth about him.’
‘The important thing was that a murder had been committed and you withheld useful information! There are other forms of justice than death! Because of you another person has been murdered! You do realise that, don’t you?’
Ewa and Tomas did not reply. Tomas continued to stare down at the floor. Ewa stared at the plain, cream wall.
‘You’ve nothing to say?’ McEvoy pressed.
‘We’re sorry,’ Ewa said quietly.
‘Tell that to his wife and children,’ McEvoy said, rising to his feet. He headed to the door.
‘What will happen to us now?’ Ewa asked meekly.
‘Nothing. You will stay here and write out a full statement. Sergeant McManus will wait for you to complete it and then escort you back to your hotel. You will stay there for the time being.’ He opened the door and started to exit, then turned. ‘You were right by the way. There was a vault and it was full of Nazi memorabilia.’
‘Can we see it?’ Ewa said, regaining some of her confidence.
‘No,’ McEvoy said, closing the door behind him.
* * *
It was just gone seven thirty by the time he entered Ballyglass clubhouse. The incident room was quiet, only Kelly Stringer and a couple of guards present. Stringer was talking to one of her colleagues, a wide smile across her face. She was wearing the same outfit as at the cemetery, though she had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The guard said something and she laughed, her whole face lighting up. She really was quite beautiful, McEvoy thought, turning away embarrassed at the thought.
He turned his attention to a table on which was spread out that morning’s newspapers.
The Irish Sun led with, ‘SECRET NAZI VAULT’.
The Irish Times with, ‘KOCH LEAVES OSTARA TO HOLOCAUST CHARITIES.’
He flicked through them quickly. They had all led with stories about either Koch’s past, the secret vault, or details of Koch’s will. Tomorrow’s headlines would all be about the murder of Peter O’Coffey and Koch’s funeral. And the media pressure would ratchet up again, keen to further expose Koch’s past and to speculate on who murdered him and O’Coffey. He hoped that John Joyce was up to the task because if he wasn’t then they would eat him alive.
‘Sir?’ Stringer said from his side. ‘I didn’t see you come in.’
McEvoy turned to face her. ‘I didn’t want to disturb Romeo there. Is he taking you anywhere nice?’
‘I…’ Stringer started to blush. ‘We were just talking about the case. I… He… there was…’
‘Don’t worry, I’m only codding you. Jesus, Kelly, look at the colour of you! Not that I’d blame him for trying, you look fantastic in that suit.’ McEvoy felt himself start to blush. ‘Not that I…’ he trailed off.
‘Not that you what?’ Stringer asked, her hand rising and tangling with her hair.
‘Nothing,’ McEvoy said embarrassed. ‘How are things,’ he asked, trying to change the direction of the conversation, confused by his feelings of desire, guilt and shame.
‘Not too bad,’ she said, lowering her arm and her gaze. ‘The funeral seemed to go okay except for the ending. There didn’t seem to be too many people. It took a while to calm the family down when you took Francie away, but they eventually left for the reception at Marion D’Arcy’s house.’
‘Any news from George Carter or The White Gallows?’
‘George has headed back to Dublin to work on the site material. Professor Moench left the farm about an hour ago; he’s going to come back tomorrow morning. He’s says that Koch seems to have had some kind of conversion over many years – he came to recognise his crimes and the Nazi regime for what they were.’
‘I’m sure that will please his thousands of victims,’ McEvoy said sarcastically.
‘At least he saw the error in his ways; changed his will so that their descendents would get some kind of compensation.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Kelly – it’s been a long day. I’m heading home shortly. The reason I popped in was to ask you to organise some discreet surveillance of Marion D’Arcy. She was at her father’s house the night he died. I think Peter O’Coffey tried to blackmail her and she decided to cut her losses, though keep that to yourself for now, okay? I don’t want to see that in tomorrow’s papers.’ He jabbed at the table.
‘I want to see if George can place her at the site before we bring her in for questioning,’ he continued. ‘It needs to be discreet, okay? If she finds out about it, she and her hotshot lawyer will be shouting the place down.’
‘I’ll get on it now,’ she started to turn away from him.
‘And Kelly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing,’ he said embarrassed, losing his nerve. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning.’
* * *
The traffic back into Dublin had been light and he’d made it to Collinstown cemetery in just under an hour. On the way he’d spoken to Elaine Jones, the state pathologist. She confirmed that Peter O’Coffey had died from a single gunshot to the temple sometime between six and eight that morning. O’Coffey had probably been kneeling, the shooter standing, the gun barrel pressed tight against the skin. The shot had entered high on the right temple, passed through the frontal lobe and out just above the upper left molars. She was confident that he would have died almost instantaneously, though McEvoy doubted that would be any consolation to O’Coffey’s wife and children.
Maggie’s grave was covered in fresh flowers. His white lilies were placed at the base of her headstone. Next to them an arrangement spelt out the word, ‘Mammy’. McEvoy felt the tears prick and role down his cheeks.
He stood there silently for five minutes in the rain and wind, his aborted flirting with Kelly Stringer weighing heavy on his heart and mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually muttered. ‘I’d better go find our daughter. I love you.’
He crouched down, reached through the flowers, and touched the ground, then headed reluctantly back to his car.
Ten minutes later he pulled up a few doors down from Caroline’s house. He eased himself slowly from the car and trudged to the front door. It sounded as if a party was going on inside – lots of voices talking and bursts of laughter. After a few moments hesitation he pressed the door bell.
The door was opened by Jimmy, a can of lager grasped in one hand, his face alive with humour.
‘Colm! Come in, come in. Jesus, bud, you look like fuckin’ shite. You want a beer?’
‘You got any whiskey?’ McEvoy asked, stepping into the warm house, shaking off his wet coat.
‘Is the pope a fuckin’ Catholic. What do you want – Powers, Bush
mills, Jameson?’
‘Whatever’s open. And make it a large one, thanks.’
‘No bother, bud. A large one coming up.’
McEvoy watched Jimmy stagger down the hall towards the kitchen and then pushed open the door to the living room.
Crammed into the room and spilling into the knocked-through dining space beyond were his own and Maggie’s families – their parents, siblings, and nephews and nieces – all chatting and laughing, holding glasses of wine, beer, whiskey or soft drinks. Three albums of family photos were laid open on a coffee table.
‘Dad!’ Gemma shrieked, noticing him standing in the doorway. She clambered up from the floor and launched herself at him.
He wrapped an arm around her and held her in place, her arms ringing his neck.
‘There you go, bud,’ Jimmy said, handing him a tumbler of whiskey, brushing past him into the room. ‘Get that down yer.’
‘Colm!’ his mother shouted, well oiled with red wine. ‘You look like a drowned rat! Come in, come in.’
Everyone in the room either said his name or raised their glass. He felt his sombre mood start to lift. These weren’t people simply mourning the passing of a loved one, they were celebrating the life of a wonderful person. They were remembering the good times – the laughs, the jokes, the stupid stories and anecdotes, the light Maggie brought into their lives – and the bonds that continued to bind them as family and friends. Suddenly he felt relaxed; the weight of his grief and the pressures of work lifting temporarily from his shoulders.
‘Look, you’re on the telly again,’ Gemma said, pointing at the screen in the corner of the room.
It was tuned to Sky News, the sound turned off. The picture was an aerial view of O’Coffey’s farm, five small figures dotted on either side of a row of trees. It then swapped to an aerial view of Ballyglass Church and then to a hearse and two black cars passing a cameraman on a laneway.
‘Can we turn that damn thing off?’ McEvoy asked, stepping into the room. He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it trickle down his throat, warming his body.
Saturday
He rolled over and fumbled for his mobile phone. His head felt thick, his mouth fuzzy. He’d made it home through the wind and rain at a little after two o’clock in the morning, inured against the elements by a whiskey armour. Gemma had long since fallen asleep so he’d left her to stay with his sister.
