The White Gallows (44 page)

‘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, Bushmills, 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.

‘Yeah?’ he grumbled into the phone.

‘It’s George Carter. You left a message for me to ring you first thing.’

‘Right.’ McEvoy slowly pushed himself up in the bed and glanced at the alarm clock – 7:48.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Hangover,’ McEvoy muttered, massaging his eyes. ‘I had a few too many last night.’

‘Do you want me to ring you back later?’

‘No, no, it’s fine. I wanted to know if you’d got anywhere with the Peter O’Coffey site?’

‘Jesus, give us a chance. He only died yesterday. We’re going to start work on it in the lab this morning.’

‘I need to know if Marion D’Arcy can be placed there – any footprints her size, whether there are Mercedes tyre treads on the road, any hair samples, whatever. I’m going to go and talk to her later this morning and any concrete evidence would help.’

‘You don’t want a lot then,’ Carter said sarcastically. ‘Tuesday’s more likely.’

‘I’d prefer this morning. I want to keep this thing moving. If she did kill O’Coffey, then the longer we leave it the more chance she has of getting rid of any evidence and to put in place a cast-iron alibi.’

‘Can’t you just go with what you’ve got?’ Carter pleaded.

‘I’d prefer something a little more concrete, George. All I have is a strong hunch and a witness statement from two people that Marion D’Arcy’s lawyer will argue have good reason to point the finger of suspicion at her. He’s a slick bastard.’

‘The best we’re going to be able to do are footprints. Whoever killed him had to have left some prints, the place was a quagmire. I’ll get on it when we get in.’