The Rule Book

by Kitchin , Rob

  ‘And she was running in the Phoenix Park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, what’s her name and age?’ McEvoy asked, giving in, knowing that he had to check it out for his own peace of mind.

  ‘Grainne Malone. She was 32. Married with no children. She lives on Benburb Street in an apartment block. It’s next to Collins Barracks.’

  ‘Right, you’d better send out a couple of patrol cars,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘Tell them to go down every road and pathway and see if they can see anything. Give them a description. There’s CCTV cameras at every gate, get a photo and get someone to check and see if you can spot her leaving. Find out what gate she would have been using. I’ll be there in about 20 minutes; I’m still out in Maynooth. I’ll meet them near the zoo entrance. Tell the husband not to panic and to tell us the minute she turns up.’

  ‘He’s worried she’s been abducted.’

  ‘She’s probably met a friend and gone for a drink,’ McEvoy said, a deepening pit opening in his stomach. ‘Tell him we’re sending someone round for a photo and that we’ve sent a couple of squad cars out to have a look for her. Reassure him that we deal with cases like this all the time and people usually turn up in a couple of hours with a tall story. We’ll get back to him shortly.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get onto it right away.’

  McEvoy disconnected the call and accelerated towards the gate switching on the blue lights. Usually they would put the husband on the long finger for at least 24 hours, but he had a bad feeling about this. At over 1700 acres the Phoenix Park was one of the largest enclosed city parks in Europe, a large wedge of land stretching from the city centre to the old outer suburbs. It was about as isolated a spot in the city as you could find, with open rolling pasture, forests and gardens. It seemed to fit the modus operandi of the killer – a public space yet isolated and open. Except for the fact that it also contained Deerfield House, the American Ambassador’s residence, Áras an Uachtaráin, the residence of the President of Ireland, Farmleigh House where guests of the state stayed when they were visiting the country, and Garda Headquarters, along with the offices of Ordnance Survey Ireland and Dublin Zoo.

  But these were only pockets of high security; little islands in the park’s vast size. The killer probably relished the challenge of murdering within their shadow, though given the size and terrain the risks were no more than Glencree or Maynooth, and it would be easy to stick to the shadows of the trees and vault a wall rather than use one of the gates. As long as the killer stayed away from the high security sites he could wander round the park to his heart’s content and no one would be any the wiser.

  They were walking slowly along the dark, tree-lined roadway tracing the missing runner’s route. A male guard was on the far side of the road, McEvoy and a female guard together. They crept along the tarmac path, their torch beams penetrating deep into the darkness, the trees rising above them. All they’d spotted so far was litter.

  McEvoy sucked on the plastic cigarette, plucked it from his lips, and held it as if sheltering the tip from a wind. He checked his watch again. Ten to midnight. His tiredness had caught back up with him, along with a morose funk. He swivelled his neck and rolled his shoulders trying to ease the stiffness.

  ‘Trying to give up, Sir?’ the woman asked, seeking to start a conversation and fill the cloying silence.

  ‘Trying,’ McEvoy mumbled. ‘Half succeeding.’

  ‘I used the patches.’

  ‘Did they work?’ he asked, a fraction interested.

  ‘Except for when I drink,’ she replied. ‘And when I’m stressed out or nervous.’

  ‘Are you asking me whether I have any cigarettes?’ he replied, cupping the packet in his pocket and pulling them free.

  ‘I’ve not been drinking, Sir,’ she said, teasing a cigarette from the box.

  McEvoy dropped the plastic cigarette inside the box and plucked one out for himself. He sparked a lighter and held it out to the woman. She lit her cigarette, her face glowing orange shadows, and he did the same. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and they moved on in silence, their torch beams dancing in the gloom beneath the canopy.

  Five yards further along the path the woman’s beam stopped and moved back a few degrees. ‘Sir!’

  McEvoy swung his beam to find hers. Up ahead, off to the right was a low, dark mound. If the whole area around it hadn’t been flat, they probably wouldn’t have paid it a second glance. As it was, it was patently out of place.

  ‘Do you think it’s her?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ McEvoy replied, already knowing the answer, his stomach knotting with the knowledge.

  They headed along the path until they were perpendicular to the mound. He swept his torch beam across the ground between themselves and the suspected body. It was clear where she had been pulled from the dirt path and through the grass, the blades flattened and previous year’s autumn leaves dragged aside.

  ‘I’m going to go back up a bit and cut across,’ McEvoy said to the woman, indicating with his arm where he meant. ‘Keep your torch fixed on the mound so I know where I’m going.’

  ‘Okay,’ she mumbled, an involuntary shiver running up her spine.

  ‘And get rid of this for me.’ McEvoy handed her his smouldering cigarette. ‘Don’t leave it on the ground.’ He took a pair of sealed, rubber gloves from his suit pocket, opened the packet and slipped them on. A few yards along the path he headed in under the trees. The grass, wet from dew, soaked his shoes and the bottom of his suit trousers. He eased his way forward, scanning carefully his route before veering left toward the mound.

  As he neared, he slowed to crawl, worried about disturbing any evidence. He lowered himself onto his haunches and, holding the torch in his right hand, lifted the heavy plastic sheet with his left. A bloodied foot and ankle came into view. The toes had all been severed crudely.

  He let the sheet drop, moved to the other end and lifted the sheet again. The woman’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging in their sockets, the middle of her face a bloody mess, the residue of froth stained the edges of her mouth. Her hair was half-pulled from her ponytail. He pushed his left elbow in under the sheet to tent it above the body, the torch beam illuminating the temporary chamber he’d created. He could see that she was still wearing her t-shirt and shorts; an iPod was strapped to her arm, though the headphones seemed to be missing. With his right hand he checked for a pulse. He couldn’t find one.

  He let the sheet fall back into place and closed his eyes, massaging them through the lids. Three days, three dead. There’d be another tomorrow; today, in a minute, given the time. He hoped to God that the killer had left them more to go on with this victim than the previous two. It was all they could do to process the crime scenes and potential witnesses in a day, let alone stop another murder taking place.

  He swivelled slowly on the balls of his feet and shone the torch beam further into the darkness. A few feet away a tree trunk reflected back a small, white oblong. Hung beneath it was a small, clear plastic bag that looked to contain one of the missing toes and a folded note.

  ‘Are you okay, Sir?’ the female guard asked, concern in her voice, unnerved by McEvoy’s silence. ‘Is it our missing runner?’

  ‘You’d better ring it through,’ McEvoy replied flatly, levering himself back upright. ‘We’re going to need a crime scene team out here. Arc lights, the lot. Also get the gates shut and round up anyone still in the park. I want this whole place locked down. And get somebody to call through to Áras an Uachtaráin and the ambassador’s residence and let them know what’s happened.’

  Feeling nauseous and impotent, he started to retrace his steps back to the path.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, April 16th

  McEvoy stepped back onto the tarmac path. Both of his companions were on their mobile phones carrying out his instructions. He pulled his own phone from a pocket. The call was answered after several rings.

  ‘Bishop.’


  ‘It’s Colm McEvoy. We have another body,’ he said steadily. ‘A woman in her early thirties killed whilst running in the Phoenix Park. He strangled her to death.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Bishop muttered, still struggling to escape from his sleep.

  ‘He cut off all her toes and left his calling card. We found her hidden under a sheet.’

  ‘I think Jenny Flanagan’s the next available DI,’ Bishop said, trying to think through the situation. ‘I’ll give her …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ McEvoy interrupted, taking control. ‘I’ll give her a call now. I just wanted to let you know that he’s killed again. And that he’s going to kill one person each day until he’s finished his task,’ he finished balefully.

  ‘I, er,’ Bishop mumbled, unsure what to say. After a pause he continued. ‘Look, you know what to do. We have a press conference in the morning. I’ll need to be fully briefed on this murder and the one yesterday.’

  ‘I’ll be there an hour beforehand,’ McEvoy replied.

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then. Good luck, Colm,’ Bishop said and ended the call.

  McEvoy stared off through the trees and wondered whether Bishop would be able to go back to sleep now or whether the new death would eat into him like a cancer, gnawing at his brain through the long hours of the early morning.

  A garda patrol car turned at the roundabout and shot towards them, its siren howling, its blue lights sweeping the trees. It pulled to a stop, its siren dying, the blue lights continuing to flash, a beacon for the other approaching vehicles.

  He placed the call to Jenny Flanagan. It was answered almost straight away.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jenny, it’s Colm McEvoy. I’m afraid I’m the bringer of bad news.’

  ‘He’s killed again,’ she predicted, an anxious delight in her voice.

  ‘The body’s in the Phoenix Park near to the papal cross,’ McEvoy confirmed. ‘You can’t miss the blue lights. Round up the rest of your team and I’ll see you shortly.’

  ‘We’ll be there as fast as we can,’ Flanagan replied eagerly.

  Another garda car pulled to a halt followed by an ambulance.

  He had a clear view through the nightscope across the expanse of the park. In various shades of green he watched a figure walk to the edge of the car park and come to a halt, staring out into the darkness. Behind him the flashing lights of a garda car spun, pulsing out its call sign.

  His heart was thumping in his chest, his breathing laboured from his trip around the park. He was amazed that they had found the body so fast. It was probably still warm to the touch. He’d been expecting it to lie there until first light when an early runner would have pounded along the path to discover his night’s work. He could live with their good fortune; they’d have a small head start on that part of the investigation, but he was still safe in his anonymity.

  There had been something more satisfying about this killing. The woman had tried to fight back and it had been more visceral, more real. He could actually feel the life being wrung out of her; see the panic and confusion in her eyes. She had wanted to hang onto life, unlike Laura. But while it might have been more gratifying, he knew that he could not take that risk again. The remaining victims needed to be rendered incapacitated immediately, unable to defend themselves.

  He took one last sweep of the park and lowered the scope, placing it back into the rucksack, and retrieved a small sandwich bag at the same time. He placed the sandwich bag in the crook of a small tree and headed back to the wall of the park, comfortable in the security of the dark. He needed his sleep and to re-check his plans for the next murder. He’d leave the rest of the night to the guards.

  McEvoy stood at the edge of a large car park used during the day by numerous coach companies to offload tourists. A metal bar blocked access, a sign attached to it stating that it was padlocked at nine o’clock each evening. At the far corner, a short distance beyond the car park, the tall cross rose tall into the sky, silhouetted against the dull, orange-tinged clouds. Over a million people had gathered at its base in 1979 to hear Pope John Paul II say Mass. Now it cast its shadow over a murder scene. He could hear another car approaching those parked along the roadside and turned to examine the new arrival.

  Elaine Jones’ diminutive figure stepped out onto the pavement, her eyes drinking in the scene, trying to get her bearings.

  McEvoy started to head towards her and called out her name. ‘Elaine!’

  She glanced left, noticed him approaching and waited.

  ‘No Billy?’ he asked as he neared.

  ‘Decided not to disturb him.’ Even at this hour she sounded chirpy. ‘Lad needs all the beauty sleep he can get.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry it’s so late,’ McEvoy apologised. ‘We found the body at around midnight.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped, can it? You find them when you find them. It’s better to look at her now than in the morning. Ah, ah,’ she admonished him as he pulled to a halt. ‘The cheek kissing business. Come on.’ She patted a cheek with her index finger. ‘I’ll get you trained yet.’

  McEvoy rolled his eyes, leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Doesn’t hurt, does it,’ she teased. ‘And it puts me in a good mood. So where am I heading?’ she asked, moving to the back of the car to retrieve a bag.

  ‘The body’s in under the trees covered by a sheet.’ He gestured with an arm. ‘A runner doing a couple of circuits. I think she was probably attacked out at the path and then dragged into the darkness. There’s a trail evident through the grass. One of the paramedics has confirmed she’s dead and took some temperature readings. He’s over in the ambulance there.’ He pointed along the road and they started to walk toward the crime scene.

  ‘I’ll talk to him afterwards. Just make sure he doesn’t disappear on me, will you,’ she instructed. ‘So any ideas as to how she died?’

  ‘Well, her face has been smashed in and her toes cut off. I’m not sure if they killed her though. It was dark and I didn’t want to mess things up too much. I just made sure she was dead.’

  ‘Her toes cut off?’ Elaine repeated.

  ‘He left one pinned to a nearby tree with a note.’

  ‘First the sword, then the paint, now toes. Well, he’s certainly creative.’

  ‘He’s a sick, depraved bastard, is what he is,’ McEvoy stated, a quiet anger in his voice.

  ‘That as well,’ Elaine agreed, keeping her tone light-hearted. ‘Do you have any lights so I can see what I’m doing?’

  ‘We’re waiting on the crime scene people to arrive with some arc lights. I’ll find two volunteers. They can go across with you and hold a couple of torches each. How’s that sound?’ McEvoy hazarded.

  ‘Well, I guess it’ll have to do for now,’ she conceded, clearly not happy with the arrangement, liking things to be performed professionally.

  A dark Audi pulled up on the far side of the road. A woman with long, dark brown hair eased out of the driver’s seat and smoothed down the jacket of her well-tailored, mid-grey business suit. Beneath the trousers she wore flat black shoes. Under the jacket was a white blouse with stiff collars, open a couple of buttons to reveal a small, gold cross on a chain. She surveyed the scene, picked out McEvoy and headed over to him.

  ‘None of my lot here yet?’ she asked as a greeting.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, Jenny,’ McEvoy replied. ‘You ready for this?’ he asked, aware that this was Jenny Flanagan’s first case as a detective inspector. The transfer to NBCI had only taken place a few days earlier, though she had previously worked for the unit as a detective sergeant. ‘Our killer’s a very sick bastard.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m ready. I’ve been waiting my whole career for this; to lead a murder investigation.’

  ‘Well, they’re obviously paying you good money,’ McEvoy said, nodding at the car.

  ‘It’s not mine, it’s Brian’s. I’ve left him with my Peugeot, not that he knows it yet. I’m still hoping he migh
t swap on a permanent basis.’

  ‘Fat chance. Look,’ he said, the pleasantries over with, ‘what I want you to do is take charge of the crime scene. Make sure it’s all taped off properly and that people know what they’re doing. Someone will need to go and talk to the victim’s husband. You if needs be. We need to find out everything we can about her – what she was like, where she worked, who her friends were, everywhere she’d been in the last two weeks, whether she knew Laura Schmidt or David Hennessey – the two other victims. Anything you can think of. Something links these murders together. We need to know what it is.’

  ‘You want me to interview her husband?’ Flanagan asked, aware that if she was doing that then she wouldn’t be able to co-ordinate things at the murder site.

  ‘I don’t care who does it, as long as it’s done,’ McEvoy said, knowing that he didn’t want to do it. They were too emotionally charged; too depressing.

  Flanagan nodded in acknowledgement. That would land on one of the DS’s lap.

  ‘We’re still waiting for the local superintendent to turn up,’ McEvoy continued, ‘and also the crime scene people. Can you try and find out where the hell they are? We need to get some arc lights from somewhere and we also need the site processed. He’s left us another note and I want to know what the hell it says.’

  ‘I’ll get on it right away,’ she replied, pulling an ultra thin phone from her pocket and starting to move away.

  Two more cars turned up in quick succession. Two of Flanagan’s DSs – Diarmaid Savage, wiry and athletic with a shock of black hair just past the stage of needing a haircut, and Declan Greer, stocky, with a gut just starting to hang over his waistline.