The White Gallows

by Rob Kitchin

  ‘His will.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I was looking for his will. I knew that he’d altered it. I was afraid of what he’d done. He seemed to have become a changed man in recent months; he’d become more… distant; introspective. He was losing his mind and God knows what he’d done. I needed to check for myself and it seems I was right to be worried. A few months ago and he’d never have made a will like that. What a mess.’

  ‘And did you find it? Was it you that sent it around to everyone?’

  ‘Me? No, no. My guess is that was Stefan Freel stirring things up. He was the one with the most to gain. He’ll have wanted it in the public domain before Henry Collier produced the old will instead.’

  ‘And Francis?’ McEvoy prompted.

  ‘I didn’t know Francis and Peter had killed my father until I met Peter yesterday morning. I should have known it was them. They were obsessed with finding the vault. They’d been searching for the rumoured hoard of hidden Nazi gold since they were children. They were obsessed by it.’

  ‘You knew about the vault?’

  ‘I was there when it was built. I discovered a way in not long after. It was my playground; my library. I helped him build it up over the years. It’s probably one of the best private collections in the world,’ he said proudly and paused. ‘I knew all about my father’s past, Superintendent. He never confided in me, but we both knew I knew. The evidence was all around me.’

  ‘And you weren’t appalled by it? That he’d helped kill thousands of people?’

  ‘He was a product of his time and culture,’ Koch said evenly. ‘He’d been taught to hate the Jews with a passion. They all were – Hitler’s generation. He did what the regime required him to do.’

  ‘So he was just following orders?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even if those orders were to murder innocent people?’

  ‘They weren’t innocent. Not to the Nazis. They were the enemy; the reason that Germany had been on its knees. They were the parasites that were sucking away the good life.’

  ‘So an entire race deserved to be wiped from the face of the earth?’

  ‘He didn’t invent the final solution, Superintendent.’

  ‘But he did help enact it. He did take part in the Jewish Skeleton Project. He was more than a guard at Auschwitz. And what about the underground museum? Why collect all that memorabilia?’

  ‘The war affected my father deeply. It haunted him constantly that Germany lost and surrendered unconditionally. That all the cities were flattened. Everything destroyed. That the country was split in two. He was a believer in National Socialism – he felt it was his duty to preserve the past; to collect material so that he could try and understand how it all went wrong. Every spare moment he spent reading from his library.’

  ‘So why did you help him?’

  ‘I was his son, why wouldn’t I have helped him?’

  John Rice tipped his head forward and shook it gently.

  ‘Because he was a war criminal. You knew, yet you did nothing about it.’

  ‘He acted under orders. It was war. Awful things happen during a war.’

  ‘He killed numerous people in cold blood, many of them fellow Germans.’

  ‘They’d been sentenced to death.’

  ‘By who? There was no trial, no judge, no jury! They were innocent victims who’d been rounded up, put on a train and taken to a monstrosity of a place to be killed and incinerated – wiped from the face of the Earth.’

  ‘He did what he needed to do to survive and to try and help his country win the war.’

  ‘If he loved his country so much, why did he come to Ireland? Why didn’t he stay in Germany after the war and help to rebuild it?’

  ‘You know why,’ Koch said calmly, picking at a fingernail. ‘He would have been persecuted and possibly executed as a scapegoat for Hitler’s madness. My father did not start the war, nor did he order the killing of the Jews. He was an ordinary German caught up in extraordinary times.’

  ‘He could have taken a different path.’

  ‘You think people had choices? People did what they were told.’

  ‘I thought you said he was a believer in National Socialism? He was a follower, an instigator, not some passive puppet; he actively sought to realise Hitler’s vision.’

  Koch snorted derision. ‘Now you’re just trying to twist my words. My father did his duty, nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘And what about your father’s will? It seems as if he changed his mind. It suggests that he saw himself guilty of a significant crime. After all, he left a fortune to Holocaust charities.’

  Koch shook his head slowly. ‘The family will be contesting the will. He was an old man; he’d started to become confused. He was losing his mind.’

  ‘Or gaining it,’ McEvoy parried. ‘Along with a conscience.’

  ‘Ostara Industries was not built on the back of the Holocaust! My father built it by himself through hard work and vision. We owe the Jews nothing. You hear, nothing!’

  McEvoy slowly shook his head. ‘Ostara Industries was founded on money stolen from two banks in 1955.’

  ‘Now you’re just being facile. You’ll never meet a man who worked as hard as my father. Never. Why would he rob a bank?’

  ‘Why would he kill innocent people?’

  ‘They weren’t innocent! There’s no such thing as innocence – only degrees of guilt.’

  McEvoy sighed. It didn’t matter what he said, Charles Koch would always be an apologist for his father. There was a remote possibility that Koch was simply following orders during the war, but that didn’t negate the criminality of the acts. Yellow Star’s evidence though suggested that he’d been a proactive participant. He’d murdered several, powerless people and participated in genocide, taking an active role in the Jewish Skeleton Project of the Abnenebre. His actions were indefensible however much his son protested.

  But then what did he expect of Charles Koch? He had murdered Peter O’Coffey, one of his own family, in cold blood rather than share the family’s riches to buy his silence and Francie’s freedom. He’d described the murder as the equivalent to peeling a potato – Peter O’Coffey and millions of Jews reduced to inanimate vegetables; entities devoid of family and friends, of feelings and emotions, of rights and entitlements. The Koch dynasty had little to do with family – bonds of shared compassion, forgiveness and hope, rather it was about the ruthless pursuit of industry, power and legacy. Perhaps Albert Koch had begun to realise this as he neared the end of his life? Had come to understand that his victims were as human as he was; were more human than he was given the blood on his hands. His will certainly demonstrated a profound change of view, but it was too late for his kin – they were already set in his image.

  McEvoy felt an over-powering desire to leave the room and call Gemma. Like Albert Koch he’d let work become his dominant focus; an emotional crutch in place of his family. He’d even left the memorial service held for his beloved wife, abandoning his daughter on a day when she needed him most. What kind of father was he becoming? What kind of daughter was he raising? Gemma was everything, and yet that was barely reflected in how he was conducting his life.

  * * *

  McEvoy had left Charles Koch to consult with a deflated and disillusioned John Rice and had headed to a small office to call home. As he withdrew his mobile it rang and, instinctively, he answered it.

  ‘McEvoy.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on, Colm?’ Bishop snapped. ‘Are you congenitally predisposed to go off the rails in the middle of an investigation? First, the Raven case, now this! Arresting Marion D’Arcy on a hunch. A fuckin’ hunch that turns out not to be true! She’s livid and she’s on the war path. For the second time in a day I’ve had that bollix, O’Reilly, on the phone,’ Bishop said, referring to the Minister for Justice. ‘He wants to know what the fuck is going on, and so do I. I’ve enough to be dealing with, without wandering around after you clearing up your fuck-ups. Well? What have
you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ McEvoy muttered, a dark, sinking feeling folding over him. ‘I—’

  ‘Sorry! Is that it? Not only have you probably fucked up any case you were building, but Marion D’Arcy is almost certainly going to throw the book at us. And she’ll no doubt win. It won’t matter a damn that her father was a war criminal. Do realise how damaging that will be? Not only will we have to pay her damages, but our reputation will be in tatters. Please tell me that you haven’t arrested any more of that goddamn family.’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Oh Jesus, Colm. Which one?’

  ‘Charles Koch. He’s…’

  ‘The brother? Which bit of “do not talk to any of the family before talking to me” do you not understand?’ Bishop raged. ‘What is this, double your money? Let him go and stay well away from them. All of them. If you so much as want to look at them, you’re going to have to argue your case with me first. And it’ll have to be a fuckin’ good case. Am I making myself clear here?’

  ‘Charles Koch has just confessed to the murder of Peter O’Coffey,’ McEvoy said quietly, aware that Bishop had every right to be apoplectic with him.

  ‘He’s done what?’ Bishop queried, the wind instantly dropping from his sails.

  ‘He’s confessed to the shooting of Peter O’Coffey. Once we’ve got a search warrant, I’m confident we’ll get all the forensic evidence we’ll need for a successful prosecution.’

  ‘Charles Koch has confessed to the murder of Peter O’Coffey?’ Bishop repeated, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

  ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell the Minister?’ McEvoy suggested.

  ‘Don’t get fuckin’ smart with me, Colm! You’re still in the shit. Right up to your scrawny neck. I want to see a report by the end of the day.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And Colm?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I hope for your sake that he doesn’t withdraw that confession.’ The line went dead.

  McEvoy dropped heavily into a chair and clasped the bridge of his nose before massaging his forehead. He had an overwhelming desire for a whiskey and a smoke. He dialled Caroline’s number.

  It was answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Caroline, it’s Colm, is Gemma there?’

  ‘She’s out the back with Mam and Dad. Is everything okay? You don’t sound too good.’

  ‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just arrested Peter O’Coffey’s killer.’

  ‘Let me guess, Albert Koch’s daughter? She looks like a hard-faced bitch to me.’

  ‘The son, but keep that to yourself, okay; we’ve not told the media yet. I’m telling you sis, never trust family, they’re deadly.’

  ‘What makes you think I trust any of you? Even if I do know how far I can throw you. I’ll just get Gemma for you.’

  The line went quiet for a few moments. McEvoy closed his eyes and massaged them through his lids.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Hiya, pumpkin.’

  ‘Have you managed to eat anything? I bet you haven’t.’

  ‘Not for a while, but I’ll get something in a minute. Look, I’m hoping to finish up here in the next couple of hours. I was thinking that maybe we could go out for a Chinese tonight? You, me, Caroline, Jimmy, and your grandparents.’

  ‘Jimmy’s working a late shift tonight.’

  ‘Well, the rest of us can go. No expense spared. And tomorrow morning I thought we could go for a walk along Dollymount Strand.’

  ‘Have we won the lotto? Two trips in two days?’

  ‘Oi, cheeky. I’ll be back by seven at the latest, okay? I just have to wrap some things up here first. Can you ask Aunt Caroline to book a table for eight o’clock?’

  ‘You’re not going to be smelling of manure again, are you?’

  ‘What? No! That’s only happened the once, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but it still happened. It was embarrassing.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be stinking of manure tonight, okay? Look, I better be getting on; the sooner I finish here, the sooner I can come home. Make sure you behave yourself until then. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Dad. Are you okay? You kind of sound a bit weird.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m just… We’ve just made an arrest. Things are a little chaotic right now. I’ll see you soon.’

  He ended the call and leant back in the chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, waves of tiredness and regret washing over him.

  * * *

  He wandered to the front desk and glanced out onto the street. The press were crowding the road and pavement ever hopeful of a new headline. John Joyce and Barry Traynor were feverishly working up a press release to announce the arrest of Charles Koch for the murder of Peter O’Coffey.

  A few cameras flashed in the low winter light, the congregation starting to part and surge. Frank Koch bustled through the journalists and up to the station door. McEvoy pushed it open and instructed the guard outside to let him in.

  ‘I’ve come for my nephew,’ Koch demanded.

  ‘Your nephew’s going to prison for a long time,’ McEvoy said wearily. ‘He’s confessed to the murder of Peter O’Coffey.’

  ‘We both know that’s nonsense!’ Koch snapped harshly. ‘He’s not going anywhere. You don’t have a case.’

  ‘I’m afraid we do.’

  ‘You’re living in hope, Superintendent. We both know you are out to try and ruin our family. This has become a vendetta for you!’

  ‘Then you’ll be pleased to know that I’m recommending that the investigation into the two bank robberies you did with your brother in 1955 are re-opened and the file passed to the Criminal Assets Bureau,’ McEvoy said losing patience with the old man. ‘We’ll also be sorting through the contents of your brother’s vault to see what other secrets it holds. We might even look into the disappearance of records from the military archives, Gefreiter Franz Kucken.’

  Frank Koch’s face flushed red. ‘Sie bumsendes schwein! Ich sehe sie in der hölle!’ He turned on his heels and left the station cannoning into the waiting crowd.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to like you very much,’ Kelly Stringer said from behind him.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ McEvoy replied, turning to face her.

  ‘I hear that Charles Koch has confessed to Peter O’Coffey’s murder.’ She smiled, her eyes crinkling with delight.

  ‘He seemed to take some kind of perverse pleasure that both he and his son had inherited his father’s capacity to sow death. Somehow they’ve proven their worth.’

  ‘They’ve proven their sickness. I thought… I thought perhaps we could… y’know, maybe go out and celebrate?’ Kelly muttered, her hand buried in her hair. ‘If you’re not, that is—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kelly,’ McEvoy interrupted, aware of his desire but unable to realise it, ‘but I can’t. I need to finish up here and then go home. I’ve been neglecting things of late. I’m taking Gemma out this evening.’ He glanced away, a hollow gap opening in his stomach.

  ‘That’s… that’s okay,’ Kelly said blushing. ‘Maybe some other time.’ She started to move reluctantly away.

  ‘Some other time,’ McEvoy repeated, watching her retreat, aware that he’d done nothing to sever whatever strange, unrealised bond existed between them.

  * * *

  He’d already spoken to Jenny Flanagan, telling her that the earliest he would be able to travel down to Tipperary would be Tuesday. Hopefully she might have made some progress by then, but it seemed as if the case was heading into a quagmire. Ultimately closing the investigation would probably hinge on fresh forensic evidence, a new witness, or the view of the DPP’s office. Sometimes that was just the way it turned out; a discordant song that muddled through to a tuneless fade-out.

  He ended his phone call with Colin Vickers and leant back in the uncomfortable, plastic chair, tipping it up onto two legs. He’d told Vickers that he wouldn’t be atten
ding the late afternoon team meeting in Trim and that he should continue running the case in his absence. Saturday night represented their best chance of identifying the man found stabbed to death on the banks of the River Boyne the previous Saturday night. The pubs would be packed with young people spending their hard-earned cash; alcohol and guilt perhaps freeing some otherwise silent or forgetful tongues.

  He wasn’t holding his breath. They hadn’t had a single solid lead since the body had been discovered. They didn’t even know if he was indeed Lithuanian. Deep down he suspected that the man would never be identified and his killers never caught. Unsolved murders were becoming increasingly common, especially with respect to gangland killings and random acts of violence.

  Which reminded him – he needed to think about how he was going to accommodate Hannah Fallon once she left hospital. He would need to move a bed downstairs and reorganize the living space. He’d talk to Gemma about it this evening; he knew she’d have her own ideas as to how to set things up. It would be strange to have a woman living in the house once again. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not – wasn’t sure what he thought – only time would tell.

  He glanced at his watch and sighed, tipping the chair forward. He pulled a piece of paper towards himself, clicking the top of a pen to reveal its nib, and started to write. After a few moments he stopped. Bishop could wait for his report. He had more important things to be doing late on a Saturday afternoon; things that he’d been neglecting for too long. He pushed back his chair and headed purposefully for the door.

  Acknowledgements

  I had the idea for this book while attending a Klaus Tschira sponsored workshop in Carl Bosch’s villa on the outskirts of Heidelberg. Many thanks to Heike Jöns, Christiane Marxhausen, Peter Meusburger and Edgar Wunder for their invitation to attend and their hospitality. Cian O’Callaghan, John Driscoll, Brendan Bartley, Cora Collins and Mervyn Kitchin read through a draft and made useful comments. John McElligott, a former Detective Superintendent with the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, answered all of my questions with good humour, read through a draft, and gave excellent advice. Sean O’Riain kindly copyedited the proofs.