‘I don’t care! You can have BoBo the feckin’ Clown as far as I’m concerned, just get on with it!’
McEvoy headed for the door, a mix of anger and anxiety rising in his chest. His left hand instinctively plucked at the plastic substitute in his pocket.
‘I hope for your sake it’s a copycat or something,’ Bishop mumbled, turning back to the window, massaging his throbbing temples. ‘Jesus.’
He was standing on the far bank of the river watching McEvoy exit a car, glancing around before heading into the pub. He knew that the most sensible thing to do was to disappear; to get away from the murder scene, and yet he desperately felt the need to cross over the river and nose around; to find out what was happening; to introduce himself to McEvoy and get a measure of the man; to offer himself to the investigation as a witness – he’d been in the bar at the time and had fled or he’d seen the killer leave and head up the alley. He’d now shed his disguise and knew he could mingle in the crowd without fear of recognition.
Following Cahill from Harcourt Street to The White Horse had been easy. As soon as they set off he knew Cahill was heading to his usual Thursday lunchtime eating spot; a spot that he had scoped out for a killing, along with tens of others, as part of his pattern to frame Brady. He was originally going to target Cahill as a victim, but perhaps now the focus would shift to him instead – he was out at Glencree and he knew Hennessey through Brady; he had all the connections to make him a suspect.
It had certainly been the most exhilarating of the slayings. The second man entering the toilets whilst he was still in the cubicle had added a certain edge and the fact that so many people were around had heightened the adrenaline rush. Someone might have seen through his disguise and recognised him or if things had gone wrong he would have had to fight his way out from the basement and then try and escape through busy streets. He’d killed in broad daylight in the middle of the city – he’d told the world that he could kill anywhere, any time; that The Raven was formidable and The Rule Book infallible. There would be a media frenzy.
He took one last look across the river. He would spend the afternoon watching the world become ever more hysterical about his work and ever more disdainful of the gardai. He turned on heels and headed away, a slow euphoria building in him. Two more deaths and his global infamy would be ensured for centuries.
McEvoy was standing in the entrance to the cubicle, his feet astride a dark pool of blood. He could feel the bile creeping up his throat, his jaw so tight that the muscles on the edge of his cheeks ached. His held his left hand up and looked at it shaking slightly, nothing he could do to stop it. He jammed the plastic substitute between his lips, it trembling between his fingers, and inhaled deeply.
Someone had forced the lock and the door was pushed open to reveal the dead man. His face was vacant, his eyes half-closed and mouth open, the bottom of his top teeth visible. His white shirt matched the deep red of the scarf looped round his neck. The slashes on the man’s left wrist were deep, the bone visible through the clotted blood. The plastic bag on his right arm, hung low, almost touching the ground, the thin rubber band struggling to keep it covering his hand. He could see the two business cards poking up from the top of the toilet roll holder.
Dermot Brady was innocent unless he had a partner and McEvoy doubted that. The Raven operated alone; he didn’t want the risk that someone could reveal his identity. He’d laid a credible false trail, picking places and victims linked to Brady and planting forensic evidence. The White Horse was where Brady used to meet David Hennessey. If he hadn’t already been brought in for questioning, the location would have nudged them a little nearer to suspecting him.
He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand. Bishop would go apocalyptic when he told him, quickly followed by every journalist camped out in Dublin. They’d wasted a day chasing and questioning Brady, letting The Raven plan and execute his next murder.
Barney Plunkett pushed open the door behind him. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘It’s a bloody mess, no pun intended,’ McEvoy replied, standing to one side so that Plunkett could see the body.
‘And it’s definitely The Raven?’ Plunkett asked, blanching.
‘What do you think?’
‘It could be a copycat killing.’
‘Come on, Barney,’ McEvoy hissed. ‘Of course, it’s him. He planted the evidence concerning Brady. He’s the trickster, remember – all that raven mythology nonsense.’
Plunkett nodded reluctantly, turning away from the body.
‘Leave Fay Butler and Kenny Johns working on Laura Schmidt’s murder,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘Dr John can help you here. First thing is to make sure the place is sealed off. At least 50 yards all round. Get onto Traffic – closing the quays is going to cause chaos. And find out where Hannah and Elaine are; we need this site processed – the next chapter has to be here somewhere. Come on, let’s get moving.’ McEvoy brushed past Plunkett and headed up the stairs.
McEvoy spotted Cahill as soon as he entered the bar. He was sat on his own nursing a pint of Guinness, everyone else around him clumped into small groups. ‘You’re going to tell me it’s pure coincidence you were here when The Raven killed again,’ McEvoy stated as way of a greeting.
‘Would you believe me if I said yes?’ Cahill replied flatly. ‘I come here one or two days a week for lunch, Superintendent. I used to come with Dermot Brady.’
‘Well, Dermot didn’t kill the poor bastard downstairs. Did you?’
‘Do you think I’d still be sitting here if I had? I’d have scar-pered.’
‘Whoever the killer is, he has strong nerves,’ McEvoy countered, already knowing that Cahill wasn’t the killer. It was nothing he could articulate, it was just an intuitive feeling; that The Raven was still trying to lay false trails, trying to mislead them. ‘He likes to kill in public places; thrives on the risk.’
‘Well, my nerves are shot to hell, I can tell you.’ Cahill took a small sip of the pint. ‘That could have been me down there. Was probably meant to be me given who else he’s killed. I’d only just come up from the toilet when that young fella over there found the body. I reckon I’ve just had a close escape, though that’s no consolation to the poor bastard he killed. You can do whatever forensic tests you like, but I’m not your killer, Superintendent.’
‘Well, the tests will have to be done in any case,’ McEvoy said, it clear in his tone that he believed Cahill. ‘There’s one thing you can be certain of, whoever the killer is, he knows Dermot Brady’s life inside out. There’s a strong probability you know him as well given how he’s targeted people and places linked to the DHC – Glencree and Laura Schmidt, David Hennessey, The White Horse. I want you to think about who that might be, Tom, and whether they were in this pub this lunchtime.’
‘You think that I …’ Cahill trailed off as a guard in uniform approached.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir,’ the guard said. ‘DS Fallon told me to tell you that she’s arrived.
‘Tell her that I’ll be there in a second,’ McEvoy replied and then turned his attention back to Cahill.
‘I’ve got to go, but don’t go anywhere. Someone will take your statement and do those tests.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Superintendent,’ Cahill replied, lowering his gaze onto the table in front of him. ‘I want this Raven fucker caught.’
McEvoy’s phone rang and he snatched at it. ‘McEvoy.’
‘You were meant to call me, Colm, as soon as you got there,’ Bishop snapped.
‘Sorry,’ McEvoy said, heading for the door, instinctively pulling the cigarette pack from his pocket. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Sir!’ Hannah Fallon called from the fire escape door.
McEvoy glanced over from where he was talking with Barney Plunkett, dropping his cigarette butt and grinding it under foot.
Hannah Fallon pulled a tight smile as they neared. ‘We’ve found the fifth chapter.’ She held out a clear plastic bag that had clearly been folded
up. ‘It had been pushed into the flies on his trousers. We’ve also got a wallet.’ She held up her other hand, the wallet wrapped in a clear evidence bag. ‘His name’s Peter Killick, worked for the Department of Health and Children. It’s just at the end of the street.’ She pointed along the side road at an ugly, 1970s tower block.
‘Can you straighten the bag so I can read the note,’ McEvoy asked, holding up his hands to show he had no gloves on.
She passed the wallet to Barney Plunkett and pulled the bag tight. McEvoy read the note out loud.
The Rules
Chapter Five L: Post-murder W
“The experienced serial killer will always have a post-murder routine. He will clean the site, dispose of any evidence, and depart without witnesses. He will ensure he has a cast-iron alibi and he might even seek to point evidence at someone else. He will continue with his life as if nothing had happened. He’ll either not appear in the list of possible suspects or he’ll be one of many in which it is easy to hide.”
5a. Leave no incriminating evidence - hair, blood, semen, personal items.
5b. Do not leave anything of yourself behind, mementos that will allow them access to your thoughts and life.
5c. Slip away from the scene making sure there’s no trail to your life.
5d. Do not take anything from the scene or the victim that you do not intend to destroy.
5e. Do not hang round the police investigation.
5f. Have no interaction with the victim’s family or friends at any time.
Master rule: Go to ground until it is safe to kill again.
‘Well, it’s definitely him.’ He looked back up at the others. ‘Dermot Brady’s the key to all of this. Whoever The Raven is, he wanted us to think it was Brady. I’m going to go back and talk to him. Barney, you’re in charge. Find out if Peter Killick was here on his own or whether he came with someone and get onto Family Liaison. I want us to be the first to contact them. And see where Elaine Jones is. She should have been here by now. Call me if you find out anything important.’
He headed away towards his car, the start of a headache forming somewhere behind his eyes.
‘Do you believe me now?’ Brady asked, no malice in his voice.
‘I’ve no reason not to,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘Look, I’m sorry about the last couple of days, but all the evidence pointed to you. Of course, you’re free to leave any time you want, but we could really do with your help. The killings are all linked to some aspect of your life – Glencree and Laura Schmidt, Maynooth and David Hennessey, Rathmoylan and Billy Mullins, The White Horse and Peter Killick. Did you know Peter Killick?’
‘He doesn’t ring any bells. Doesn’t mean I didn’t know him though. I’d need to see a picture.’
‘The only one that doesn’t seem to fit is the Phoenix Park and Grainne Malone.’
‘I didn’t know Grainne Malone, but the Phoenix Park is kind of important to me because of the Pope’s Mass in ’79. I don’t know what it was, the million people, the service or what, but it’s always stayed with me. I kind of drew strength from it when I was in prison – the memory helped me find God. It’s difficult to explain.’
McEvoy nodded, the location of the third murder now making sense. ‘The Raven has to be someone you know, Dermot,’ he stated. ‘Someone who’s familiar with your life.’
‘Well, that could be anyone,’ Brady said, opening his arms, relaxing, starting to regain some of his expressive personality now that he knew he was no longer a suspect. ‘I’m pretty open about my life, Superintendent. I don’t have any secrets and I draw on my own experiences all the time when I’m trying to help somebody.’
‘But you must have some idea as to who it might be. Who would want to frame you?’
Brady shrugged. ‘Honestly, Superintendent, I haven’t got a clue. And it’s no good asking me to list down everyone I know. It would be a long list – everyone from church, from the local community, at work and on the streets. Must be a few hundred people.’
‘Jesus!’ McEvoy mumbled. ‘Come on, Dermot, you must have some idea,’ he pressed. ‘We need to stop him killing again.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve been trying to work out if I know him?’ Brady responded, throwing his arms out wide. ‘He tried to frame me for those murders. I’ll help you as much as I can, but I honestly don’t know who The Raven is. Let’s face it, it could be half of Mountjoy. Why don’t you start with them?’
‘Okay, say it is someone from Mountjoy, you must be able to narrow it down. Some must be more likely than others.’
‘I guess.’
‘Can you give me a list?’
Brady nodded reluctantly.
‘Good.’ McEvoy pushed his pen and pad towards him. ‘And, how about where he might strike next? He’s picking places that you knew well.’
‘I don’t know.’ Brady shrugged. ‘I can have a think, but again it could be loads of places – my local church, the DHC, where my apartment is. The list is endless.’
McEvoy was climbing the stairs to the incident room carrying the two lists supplied by Brady. The first detailed the names of 26 former inmates. The second included 15 locations of possible future attacks, the residential addresses of family members and old friends, the DHC on Gardiner Street, his local church, the house he was brought up in, and his old primary and secondary schools. His mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s Barney. Several of the people in the pub remember a man with a beard, dressed all in black, who was sitting by himself. He was near to the end of that table that divided the bar in two and had a perfect view of the toilet door. He didn’t order any food, just nursed a glass of Coke while seemingly reading a novel. He visited the toilets not long before Peter Killick was found and when he came back out he just collected his stuff together and left.’
‘I always go for a piss before I leave a pub as well,’ McEvoy said without enthusiasm, coming to a halt on a landing. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘One of the witnesses said she thought she saw him quickly wipe the table clean where he was sat.’
‘And did he?’ he asked with more interest.
‘Difficult to know; just about every person in the place seems to have put their hands on the surface since then. It’s a bloody disaster. I’ve got a couple of them trying to construct photofits. I think he’s our man though. The way they describe how he was acting – constantly looking about the place, shifting on his seat and fidgeting; where he was sitting.’
‘Right, okay, get hold of Dr John. See if we can pick this guy up walking away from the place. There were at least four cameras on that side street. They were focused on doors but maybe they caught him in any case?’
‘I’ll get onto him now and I’ll also circulate the photofit once it’s ready. We also need to appeal for anyone who was in the pub that lunchtime but left to come forward.’
‘Send the photofit on to Bishop as soon as it’s ready. He can use it in the next press conference. Any more on Peter Killick?’
‘We’ve managed to track down the two people he had lunch with. They both worked with him in the Department of Health and Children. They headed back to the office when he went to the toilet. He was going on to some meeting in the Custom House so they didn’t wait for him. Family Liaison is round with his family at the moment. He was married with two young children aged five and eight. Poor bastards.’
‘Jesus.’ McEvoy leant over the railing and stared down into the stairwell. Three more lives thrown into tragedy and chaos for no other reason than to satisfy the psychotic fantasies of a madman. ‘Look, we’d better have another team meeting. Everything’s changed. Can you round up the others? We just need the DIs for now.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Johnny Cronin hissed. ‘He had his throat slit and his wrists slashed? Thank God I didn’t have to deal with that one.’
‘You think it’s worse than being burnt alive?’ Jenny Flanagan asked.
‘At least they were both unconscio
us, not like Laura Schmidt,’ Barney Plunkett said. ‘Imagine looking along that sword, wondering if the sick bastard is going to ram it through the back of your head?’
‘Have you finished?’ McEvoy said irritably, looking up. ‘They’re all terrible ways of dying. Do we know where Padraig is?’
‘He said he was on his way,’ Plunkett answered.
‘Right, okay, well let’s make a start in any case. I’ll fill Padraig in when he arrives. As you all know, there’s been a fifth murder. Peter Killick, aged 35, an assistant principal officer in the Department of Health and Children. He was killed in The White Horse pub on George’s Quay. Dermot Brady couldn’t have committed that murder because he was being held for questioning at the time. Which means he’s not The Raven and our killer is still on the loose. We need to …’ McEvoy trailed off as the door opened and Charlie Deegan entered the room, a satisfied smirk on his face.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ McEvoy snapped. ‘You’re suspended.’
The other three occupants in the room swivelled round to view the intruder.
‘I was never suspended,’ Deegan replied coolly. ‘That was just your fantasy. As of now I’m back heading up the investigation into the death of David Hennessey. I’ve already spoken to Padraig O’Keeffe.’ He sat down on the edge of a table.
‘You’re what?’ McEvoy said incredulously.
‘I said, I’m back heading up the David Hennessey investigation. So, where are we at? I hear The Raven’s killed again.’ He raised his eyebrows and pulled a wry smile.
The Rule Book Page 18