The Rule Book

by Kitchin , Rob

  ‘Jackie Rollins, CNN. The Raven has so far killed six people, what reassurances can you give the public that it’s safe for them to go about their daily business?’

  ‘We are presently advising people not to fundamentally alter their daily regimes, but to also be extra vigilant. Every person killed so far was on their own in isolated situations. We are suggesting, therefore, that people try to remain with others as much as possible. We have to continue daily life though, we can’t let him shut the country down through fear. Yes, the man in the grey suit, blue tie.’

  ‘Gary Bridges, The Sun. I was wondering whether Super-intendent McEvoy would like to comment on the pictures in this morning’s papers?’

  Bishop looked over at McEvoy, who scrunched up his face and pulled the microphone towards him, turning it on.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve been too busy to read the papers today. Other than the fact that the pictures were a gross invasion of privacy, I think they show the grief that everyone working on this case feels. I’ve been present at all six murder sites, and I’ve seen what he did to those poor people, how he killed them and destroyed their family and friends’ lives. Frankly, anybody associated with this case who hasn’t broken into tears is heartless. All that photographer caught is what every officer has done over the past few days. Like everyone, we’re all in shock and we’re in grief.’ He’d rehearsed the answer for the past 20 minutes with one of the media people and it had come out roughly as intended.

  ‘So you’re not having a nervous breakdown then, as some of the papers have suggested,’ Bridges asked before Bishop could move on.

  ‘Does it look like I’ve had a nervous breakdown?’ McEvoy answered evenly, feeling as though he was teetering on the edge of one, his muscles ridged, his fingers shaking. ‘I’m not going to pretend that I’m not under enormous stress. We all are. We’re doing the best that we can, and we’ll continue to do the best we can under difficult circumstances, stress or no stress.’

  ‘Yes, madam, with the pink shirt,’ Bishop said quickly before the exchange could continue.

  The Assistant Commissioner tapped McEvoy lightly on his arm, reassuring him that he’d done a good job. Nevertheless, he was going to give the nicotine patches a go. And the gum and any other substitutes anyone was prepared to sell him.

  The press conference had ended 40 minutes previously, followed 20 minutes later by one of Bishop’s tirades, venting the pressure of the media circus onto McEvoy.

  The brake lights of the car in front glowed red. They’d only managed to travel a couple of hundred yards since leaving the hotel. McEvoy was thinking of turning the blue lights on and clearing a path ahead. They were late for their meeting with Dermot Brady. He plucked at the plastic cigarette between his fingers with his thumb and tried to resist the temptation to place it between his lips.

  ‘Is it always this bad?’ Jacobs asked, breaking the awkward silence, staring out of the window at the shops nearby.

  ‘Pretty much. We have a chronic traffic problem and crap public transport — this is the result.’

  She turned in her seat, pointing her closed knees toward him. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Talk about what?’ he said defensively.

  ‘About last night. The pictures in the newspapers. The reason you were crying. Your plastic cigarette.’

  ‘No.’

  She paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Are you sure? It might help. I’m a good listener.’

  ‘Look, I know you think you’re trying to help but I don’t need any of your psychology, psychiatry, psychotherapy or whatever the hell it is you do. I’m fine, okay. I was tired. It’d been a long day and it just happened. No one would know about it if it wasn’t for the bastards who’d followed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need any help. What I need is to catch this bastard. Why didn’t you give your preliminary profile to the AC or Bishop?’ he countered, trying to push the conversation elsewhere, put her on the defensive.

  ‘Because they would have used it in the press conference. They were desperate to give them as much as they could. It was enough for them to say that I was working with you on the case. There was no need for anything else.’

  McEvoy nodded. She was probably right, they were anxious to demonstrate any progress, however slight. ‘But you will run the profile past Brady?’ he asked. ‘We need to try and progress things. We’re scrabbling around in the dark.’

  ‘How old is your daughter?’ Jacobs asked, avoiding his question.

  ‘Just drop it, okay? I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making conversation.’

  ‘She’s 12. She was 12 yesterday.’

  ‘Mine are ten and eight. Two boys. Joseph and Adam. Their father was killed in the Hatfield train crash. He was meant to be on the next train but managed to get away early. They stay with my sister when I’m away.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ McEvoy said, not sure how to respond, uncomfortable in the confines of the car. He realised he didn’t have a clue how to handle Kathy Jacobs. It felt like she was shifting the ground underneath him, while at the same time holding him up. He glanced left. She was staring out of the windscreen, her eyes unfocused, then she pulled her mouth tight and turned back to him.

  ‘Joseph wants to be a pilot, Adam a deep-sea diver. One wants to go up, the other down. Did you always want to be a cop?’

  McEvoy broke from her gaze and stared at the car in front unsure whether she was making polite conversation or coming at him from a different angle.

  Brady was wearing a loud, orange and green, stripey jumper, blue jeans, and a serious face. ‘I was 17. It wasn’t a happy time, I can tell you. Prison with drugs. I was happier to get out of there than Mountjoy. At least I deserved to be in Mountjoy.’

  ‘How come you ended up in St Ita’s?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Had one of my turns. Ran from one end of the street to the other, except my feet didn’t touch the ground. Jumped from one car to another, then went on a bit of mad spree round Grafton Street. Totally manic. If it wasn’t for the lithium I’d go uppity up then downity down. Right down into some hellish dark place.’ He motioned with his arm. ‘They could have straightened me out without locking me up.’

  ‘I suppose everyone you know knows you were in St Ita’s?’

  ‘As I told you before, I’ve no secrets from people. My life’s an open book.’

  ‘And how about the in-patients there? Any that you think might be behind these murders?’

  ‘I barely remember the people I was in there with. I don’t really remember a lot to be honest – just long, pale corridors, hard beds, and the smell of disinfectant.’

  ‘I want you to think about all the people you know, Dermot,’ Jacobs said, taking over. ‘Are there really none who might be The Raven?’

  ‘I’ve been through this before. Several times. You even had me list and categorise everyone I know.’

  ‘And you’ve been a great help,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but it’s important. All the murders are connected to you. It’s almost certain that you know him.’

  ‘Look, there were a lot of people a couple of capacitors short of a full motherboard in Mountjoy. Short circuited, y’know? Why don’t you start there?’

  ‘We have,’ McEvoy said. ‘We’ve worked our way through your list. They all have alibis. Have you any more ideas?’

  Brady shrugged. ‘I put down the ones I could think of.’

  ‘How about outside of prison?’ Jacobs asked, before McEvoy could say anything.

  ‘I don’t know. I know a lot of people, but I don’t have any of them pegged as murderers.’

  ‘I want to give you a list of characteristics – see if it reminds you of anybody. That okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I want you to try and think of someone you know who’s ambitious, who wants to make it
to the top, and will do anything to get there. He always lets you know how well he is doing, sings his own praises, talks about nobody but himself or things he’s interested in. He rarely asks questions of others, he’s simply indifferent to their lives. He can be short with people, snappy, will pick an argument, and always has to be right. Maybe has a bit of a temper. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Sounds like an egotistical idiot.’

  ‘Yes, but does that description bring anyone to mind?’

  ‘About half the people walking round Dublin. Most people only seem interested in themselves these days.’

  ‘I’m being serious, Dermot. When you think of that description, does anyone in particular come to mind?’

  ‘And so am I! Look, several people spring to mind, but I can’t see any of them being The Raven. Just because you’re an arrogant prick, doesn’t mean you go around killing people. And what makes you think he’s like that in any case? You don’t know what he’s like except he kills people! I’m not giving you names so you can harass innocent people.’

  ‘He’s going to kill again, Dermot,’ McEvoy stated harshly. ‘Tomorrow. If we have to piss a few people off in order to catch him, so be it. We’re already working through your categories, interviewing everyone. All we’re asking is that you put some order on the names as we’ve got no other leads worth a

  damn.’

  Brady shook his head and looked down at the table.

  ‘It’s important, Dermot,’ Jacobs added. ‘He needs to be stop-ped.’

  ‘Give me some paper and a pen. You better run through that description again.’

  There were five names on Brady’s list, two of which he’d crossed out. Two from his church who both worked in financial services, one from a government department that the DHC had had a run-in with, a warden from Mountjoy prison, and a friend’s brother who had unsuccessfully run for TD in the last election. Amusingly, he had thought Charlie Deegan should have been on it. ‘A Class A wanker, a bully with aspirations above himself,’ was how Brady had described him.

  He remained adamant that while the five people on the list had most of the qualities described by Kathy Jacobs, he didn’t believe any of them to be The Raven, and two of them probably didn’t know that much about him. They were people he’d met a couple of times at most but who’d left a memorable impression because of their self-centredness and conceit. There were others, but he couldn’t remember their names.

  ‘I’ll get someone on these right away,’ McEvoy said to Jacobs, the door to the interview room closing behind them. ‘Arrange for them to be interviewed. See if we can eliminate them from the enquiry.’

  Dr John pushed himself up off the corridor wall as they turned towards him. It was strange to see McEvoy in a uniform. And something that fitted properly. He was barely recognisable except for the sunken and worn out face.

  ‘I’ve cracked the code,’ he said enthusiastically, holding out a bit of paper. ‘Should have cracked it ages ago, but I was playing around with letters not numbers. I thought it would spell out a name or something. Anyway, it’s a location reference. Latitude and longitude like in the Phoenix Park.’

  McEvoy took the bit of paper, glanced down at it and back up to Dr John. ‘Are you sure you’ve got this right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, look.’ He took the sheet of paper back and held it up against a wall so they could all see. ‘With each chapter he gave us two letters. For example, Chapter One M: Choosing a victim R. In total there are six chapters, giving us 12 letters. All he’s done is used a simple substitution code.’ He tapped the sheet.

  a b c d e f g h i j k l m

  3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5

  n o p q r s t u v w x y z

  6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

  ‘If all the letters associated with the chapter bit are grouped together you get MAIXLH. If all the letters with the chapter titles are grouped you get RDKUWC. If you put them into the substitution code, you get a latitude and longitude.’ He tapped the sheet again, smiling.

  MA IX LH RD KU WC

  53,16,40 06,33,55

  ‘53,16,40 North, 06,33,55 West. It’s a cemetery in Oughterard out in Kildare. Between Celbridge and Naas. Not far from Straffan.’

  ‘If it’s just a simple substitution code, why haven’t the papers or their readers already worked it out?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Because the chapters sent to the media didn’t contain the extra letters. They were only in the chapters left at the murder scenes. They were a puzzle for us to solve. He was testing us.’

  ‘Jesus! For God’s sake. Come on, let’s get moving.’ McEvoy hurried towards the exit, his skin tingling, stomach churning, with a sickening realisation that he should have had more people working on the code. ‘I’ve got a map in the car, we can make some phone calls on the way.’

  They sped along the narrow road riding the line of a low ridge, to the left the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains rolled green and brown fields, dotted with trees, one-off housing and farms. Low cloud obscured the hills beyond. Two garda cars were parked ahead beside a couple of houses, just before the road dipped away to the left, down toward the busy N7 carrying traffic between Dublin, Cork and Limerick.

  Two guards watched from the entrance of a laneway, their caps down low, collars up, hands hidden by their coat sleeves, as McEvoy parked in behind the cars. He levered himself out and hurried towards them, the stiff, cold breeze blowing at his back, shoving him forward. As he neared he could see the large iron gates painted black, ‘OUGHTERARD CEMETARY’ welded into the iron work, painted white. To the side was a narrow swing gate.

  ‘Detective Superintendent McEvoy,’ he introduced himself. ‘I don’t want anyone else up this laneway unless they’re a guard, that clear?’

  ‘Sir,’ muttered the elder of the two, sharing a quizzical look with his colleague.

  ‘Good.’

  Kathy Jacobs and Dr John joined him. ‘You’re going to need this,’ she held out his coat.

  ‘Thanks.’ He looked down at his pristine uniform and shrugged the windproof jacket on. He hoped to God he wasn’t going to have to trample across fields. Bishop would have a fit.

  They slipped through the narrow side gate and headed up the gravel laneway. A hundred metres or so up ahead, through the trees to the left and beyond a stone wall, he could see a stunted round tower and what looked like a ruined church. As they neared, it was apparent that half the church was missing a roof and a small tower adjoining the main structure had peeled away, it being held upright by two concrete supports. The cemetery was surrounded by a high stone wall, the entrance blocked by a padlocked gate. A set of stone steps led up and over the structure, two guards standing at its base looking cold and bored.

  ‘You had a look round?’ he asked.

  ‘We were told to wait outside,’ one of them answered.

  McEvoy climbed the steps and looked into the cemetery. It wasn’t large, perhaps 60 metres long by 30 metres wide. The stone wall extended all the way round, beyond it to the right the land sloped away onto the Kildare plain, hedgerow plots stretching to the horizon. The ruined church was immediately inside the gate to the left, the stunted round tower in the far corner behind it. The ground in front of him undulated in soft rounded mounds, the thick grass relatively free of gravestones, which grew in number towards the far wall.

  McEvoy turned round and looked down at the others, the cold wind whipping into his face. ‘I guess we’d better get started. We need to search this cemetery. The problem is we’ve no idea what we’re looking for. It might be obvious or it might be more subtle. He could be pointing us to a family name, perhaps his own, perhaps a victim’s, or maybe he’s left something here for us, I don’t know. If you see something that you think might be of interest call out and we’ll take a look. And be careful where you tread, okay – I don’t want to mess up any evidence. John, you take here to the left and the church. You two take this side,’ he instructed the two guards, pointing to the right. ‘Dr Jacobs and myself will ta
ke the far end. Clear?’

  The four heads nodded their assent.

  He swung his leg over the top of the wall and descended into the cemetery, the wind immediately dying down with the protection of the high barrier. He waited for the others and set off with Kathy Jacobs.

  ‘There’s a lot of history here,’ Jacobs said. ‘This place must go back centuries. These mounds are all family vaults and the stones ahead look ancient.’

  ‘Hardly packed though, is it?’ McEvoy replied. ‘There are only a few plots.’ He looked at the names on the stones – Garnett, Higgins, Christian, Carroll, Farrell, Hanlon, Comerford, Cahill – Anglo-Irish sounding names; most dying in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

  ‘Sir!’ Dr John called from the entrance into the unroofed part of the church.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s an envelope here. Underneath a rock.’

  McEvoy hurried to the archway. Dr John pointed down to the gravelled ground three steps below. Next to a gravestone embedded in the side of the ruined wall a cream envelope, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, peeked out from beneath a flat rock. McEvoy searched his pockets trying to find a pair of rubber gloves, knowing they were in the jacket of his suit.

  ‘For God’s sake! Can you run down to the …’

  He trailed off as Dr John held up a thin box. ‘For emergencies.’

  They descended to the church’s floor, McEvoy tugging on the gloves. He lifted the rock and retrieved the envelope. He teased open the bag and plucked up the unsealed flap. It contained a single sheet of paper. He pulled the sheet free inside the bag and unfolded it, a crumpled five-euro note dropping free. He read the note out loud.

  This is my one concession. If you are in time, this is your chance to cut the book short and make my fame. If you are too late, then I am already safe in my anonymity. Of course, you could be on time and I could still manage to kill the final victims and get clean away. Enjoy a pint of the black stuff on me.