by Rob Kitchin
Copyright © Rob Kitchin 2010
All rights reserved
First published in Great Britain by Indepenpress
ISBN 978-1-78003-073-9
Indepenpress is an imprint of Indepenpress Publishing Ltd
25 Eastern Place, Brighton, BN2 1GJ
Printed and bound in the UK
A catalogue record of this book is available from
the British Library
Cover design by Jacqueline Abromeit and Rob Kitchin
This book is dedicated to my parents,
Irene and Mervyn
About the Author
Rob Kitchin is a Professor at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, where he directs a research institute. The White Gallows is his second novel. He writes a regular blog at http://theviewfromthebluehouse.blogspot.com/
Also by the same author – The Rule Book:
“This book is the best I can ever recall reading in the way it depicts the wretched desperation that the police must experience in the face of something as truly awful as people being randomly and brutally killed and being unable to wade through the morass of evidence in time to save lives… [McEvoy] is a fantastic character: far from perfect but never giving up despite provocation…” Reactions to Reading
“I for one am a big fan of the police procedural as a genre, and Kitchin gives us an excellent version, emphasizing not the lurid crimes committed by the serial killer but the sometimes plodding pursuit of the killer in the detective’s meticulous methodology… The story is tight indeed, moving along at an electric pace that never lets up.” International Noir
“One of the most unusual crime novels to come out of Ireland in recent times. A gripping thriller with characters that ring true coupled with images and acts that would leave even Hannibal Lecter silent! In particular, the novel portrays hard working, decent Gardai, deeply committed to solving crimes in the community. There are more twists than the red cow roundabout, but you will not lose the plot in this clever and unusual crime novel.” Joe Duffy, RTE
“Rob Kitchin has shown there is still some life in the serial killer theme if the main investigating officer and the villain can capture your attention. Policeman Colm McEvoy is a sympathetic character who has so many problems to face, both personal and professional, that you feel for him and can identify with the stress he is under. …This was a very promising first crime novel.” Crime Scraps
“After the first day I was entangled in the web and forgot all about my headache and my runny nose. In the beginning I feared that the combination of serial killer plus male writer might turn into a hard-boiled, graphic story, but in the best traditions of British crime fiction the focus stays with the police work and the increasingly personal battle between McEvoy and the killer. And Colm McEvoy – the very human but frustrated copper and father – is one of those characters you really want to meet again – the sooner the better!” DJs Krimiblog
“Kitchin has written a very good police procedural that features a serial killer. …The way the clues are constructed and what the police do with them is clever, unique even, and adds to the enjoyment of the story. Colm McEvoy is a sympathetic and engaging character. …Kitchin has the foundation for a good series and I closed the book wishing that there already was a sequel available.” Mack Captures Crime
“Two characters lured me deeper and deeper into this book: The Raven, a serial killer who’s completely convinced of his own brilliance, and Colm McEvoy… I found the investigation compelling… With the storyline and pacing – and especially with the character of McEvoy – I’m hoping that The Rule Book is the first in a series featuring the detective superintendent.”
Kittling Books
“The Rule Book puts Rob Kitchin on the Irish Crime map. It’s gripping, gruesome, and a hell of a fun puzzle. It shows careful research and digs deep into an interesting character. I was kept guessing until the end, desperately hoping that this novel would not go the crappy Hollywood route. There is a town called Hollywood in Ireland, but this serial killer’s spree gives it a wide berth.” Critical Mick
Sunday
The young man was lying on the gentle slope down to the River Boyne, his head a foot from the shallow water. He’d been badly beaten. Beneath his short black hair his face was bruised and bloody, his lips thick and split, eyes swollen shut. His right arm lay outstretched into a bed of reeds, the hand clutching a blood-stained kitchen knife. His left arm was crooked across his chest, his hand placed over his sternum, fingers dark red. The sleeve of his black jacket was torn at the right shoulder revealing the orange liner beneath, his jeans scuffed at the knees, a streak of mud running down one leg.
Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy checked his watch – 9.35am – and pushed his six foot three frame up from his haunches. He repositioned his striped tie over a sky-blue shirt, and tugged at the sleeves of a well-tailored suit as he gazed each way along the cinder path hugging the riverbank then across the rapidly moving water to Trim Castle. Dating from 1176, it was the finest Anglo-Norman castle in Ireland – a three storey, crucifix-shaped keep surrounded by a near complete outer wall and moat.
He stared down at the body again, scratched at his thinning hair, and then waved Detective Inspector Jim Whelan over to him. Like McEvoy, Whelan worked for the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the branch of the Gardai that investigated the country’s most serious crimes, including many murders.
‘They didn’t make much effort to hide the body,’ McEvoy observed.
Whelan nodded his head but stayed silent. In his late forties and bald, except for a thin ring of hair that circled from ear to ear, he was a man of few words.
McEvoy sighed to himself, realising his mistake. There was no point making statements to Whelan – he took them as self-serving. A response required a question.
‘Do we have any idea who he is?’ he asked, tiredness in his voice.
‘No.’
‘Nobody’s reported anybody missing?’
‘No.’
‘And there were no reports of any disturbances in the town last night or in the early hours?’
‘No.’
‘And he was found at 6.25 this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there’ve been no reports of any knife wounds at any of the local hospitals?’
‘No.’
‘For God’s sake, Jim,’ McEvoy snapped, ‘this isn’t twenty questions! I need more than yes or no answers.’
‘They were yes or no questions,’ Whelan answered defensively.
‘Are you sure there weren’t any reported altercations last night – late night fights or rows? Saturday night blowouts?’ McEvoy asked, knowing that the town would have been full of young lads from the estates and farmers from the surrounding area all beered up and oozing testosterone. Whoever Whelan had asked, had probably meant there’d been no more disturbances than usual; that there was nothing beyond general loutishness.
‘I’ll check again.’
‘Who’s the local superintendent?’ McEvoy said, shaking his head, annoyed at Whelan’s non-responsiveness. There was no doubting that the man was a very good detective – brilliant at observing, listening, and joining up the dots – but he could be damn frustrating to work with.
‘Tommy Boland.’
‘And where the hell is he? Someone’s murdered on his doorstep and he feckin’ disappears!’ When McEvoy had arrived ten minutes ago there had only been three local guards at the scene, along with Whelan and his team.
‘He’s at the station.’
McEvoy had passed the Garda station on the way to the car park. It was a short distance away on the far side of the castle.
‘Well, get him back here! I need to talk to him for God’s sake. And
get this whole area sealed off properly – I want it locked down from the entrance to the castle car park,’ he pointed across the river to where a short row of shops bordered a near empty parking lot, ‘down to the road bridge.’ He gestured to his left, where a couple of hundred metres away a flat bridge spanned the river.
‘You know the routine,’ he continued, ‘assign one of your DSs to organise a search for evidence and run questionnaires, another to run interviews, and the last to operate an incident room. If the station’s too small, find somewhere else suitable.’
‘Already done,’ Whelan replied, rolling his eyes. ‘Your patches not working?’
‘What? Yes. I mean no. Look, they’re feckin useless.’ Of course Whelan had done the basics. And he was right – he hadn’t had a cigarette for nearly six months, but that didn’t stop the craving; didn’t stop him being irritable and short-tempered. The only explanation he could offer was the stress of the job and a lack of a full night’s sleep. Nicotine had been a coping drug and now it was gone, but he was still addicted to the thought of what it might do.
He watched Whelan head towards the narrow wooden, pedestrian bridge that led back to the car park, then glanced up to his right. On top of a steep bank, the ruined Yellow Steeple, the only surviving remnant of the thirteenth century St. Mary’s Augustinian Abbey, rose into the overcast sky. A murder of crows launched from the crumbling walls and swept across the river to the castle opposite.
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead, bringing his fingers down to clasp the bridge of his nose. He really did need a decent night’s sleep. A full eight hours comatose. He hadn’t slept well since Maggie, his wife of fifteen years, had died of cancer nearly a year before. The killing spree of the Raven six months earlier had only increased his insomnia – nine people had been killed over eight fraught days, ten if the unborn child of one of the victims was counted. McEvoy had been the lead investigator. By any standard the case had been horrific and it was never far from his thoughts, keeping him awake into the early hours. His mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy,’ he said flatly.
‘Colm, what’s the story?’ Chief Superintendent Tony Bishop asked without introduction. McEvoy’s immediate superior, his management style was a mix of passive and aggressive bullying. Losing faith and patience during the Raven case he’d tried to force McEvoy out of his job and there was still little love lost between the two men.
‘I don’t know yet. The victim’s a young man, probably nineteen or twenty. He’s been badly beaten and it look’s like stabbed in the chest. My guess is he lost a knife fight.’
‘Lithuanian,’ Bishop stated with confidence.
‘Possibly,’ McEvoy conceded. In the previous few years there’d been a number of fatal altercations between Lithuanian migrants to Ireland. The deaths were almost exclusively young men with limited English, working in manual jobs such as construction or agriculture. Since the downturn some had left seeking work elsewhere, but a relatively large number had stayed put, collecting unemployment benefit, aware that things were little better in other parts of the world. On the days when they weren’t working the men would often get excessively drunk on cheap vodka, fall into arguments, then fists would be raised or knives drawn. He’d recently read that the murder rate amongst the immigrant group was twice that of their native country. Nobody could explain to him why the phenomenon wasn’t occurring amongst the other Eastern European communities such as the Poles and Latvians.
‘Well, I have another one for you. Albert Koch, 91, late of Ballyglass, near Athboy. He was found dead this morning by his housekeeper. The local doctor says he died of natural causes, but one of our lot isn’t so sure. He thinks there might have been foul play – a fatal blow to the head. Plus his housekeeper thinks that the place has been searched. I want you to get over there and find out how much we need to worry about it.’
‘I’m busy here,’ McEvoy replied, annoyed. ‘And I’ve already got several other active cases – the Raven, the laundering suicide, Kylie O’Neill. I’m up to my eyeballs.’
‘We’re all up to our eyeballs, Colm,’ Bishop snapped. ‘We’ve already passed eighty murders for the year! That’s twenty up on last year. And we could be up to ninety by the end of December. We’re not getting any more new recruits and it’s just us usual suspects at the top, those of us who’re left,’ he said, referring to the exodus created by the hunt for early retirements in order to cut costs. The recession was biting everywhere, all recruitment and promotion in the public sector suspended, contract staff being laid off as their present terms came to an end, senior staff being encouraged to retire but without replacement, overtime curtailed in all but exceptional circumstances, and a pension levy and income tax hike biting into take home pay. ‘Superintendents supervise; just give your DIs their heads.’
McEvoy knew Bishop was right. The Raven had pushed the total up, but so too had the gangland wars between rival families and criminal groups in Limerick and Dublin. There might have been only six recorded cases of manslaughter and murder in 1960, but if things carried on the way they were they’d be investigating over a hundred per annum within a year or two.
‘Who’s the DI?’ McEvoy asked.
‘I was just coming to that. If it is a suspicious death, you’ll need to run the case; Whelan was the last in the pool. That’s everybody now off the Raven case except Barney Plunkett and all leave’s been cancelled. Roche is up to his neck in it down in Limerick. Plus Koch wasn’t a nobody. He was pretty much a recluse, but apparently he was also one of the richest men in Ireland. He owned Ostara Industries and had substantial stakes in other investments, including a large overseas property portfolio.’
‘I thought you just said that superintendents supervise?’
‘Only when there are people to supervise! Otherwise they make do. I wouldn’t be doing this, Colm, except I’ve no damn choice. There’ve been four fatal shootings in West Dublin in the last ten days, and three more in Limerick. Your Lithuanian and Albert Koch make two more. God knows how many open cases we’re dealing with at the moment. We’re pretty much at breaking point.’
‘Look, I’ll get over there once I’ve finished up here,’ McEvoy conceded reluctantly. At one point there had been two superintendents, six inspectors, and an army of detective sergeants and gardai working on the Raven investigation. The worst criminal case in the state’s history had been reduced to a part-time superintendent, one inspector, two detective sergeants and a handful of detective garda due to resourcing pressures. Bishop wasn’t exaggerating when he said they were at breaking point. ‘Who do I have to work with?’
‘Jesus, Colm,’ Bishop said exasperated. ‘Find out if there’s anything worth investigating. If there is, you can sort out the team for yourself. Pick a couple of sergeants and some competent garda. I’ll talk to you later.’ The line went dead.
McEvoy stared at the phone for a moment shaking his head then slipped it into his pocket. At least Athboy, a small rural town on the farming plains of Meath, was only ten miles further out from Dublin than Trim. And the laundering suicide was only about thirty minutes drive further north. Only Kylie O’Neill, a young mother found battered to death, was outside of Meath and Cavan, having been found in her home in Tipperary town, a two-hour drive to the south.
He glanced down at the body again and then headed back towards the wooden bridge. He spotted Jim Whelan walking towards him with Tommy Boland and stopped, waiting for them to cross the Boyne.
Boland was broad shouldered and thick set, a concerned look etched on his round face. ‘Colm,’ he said good naturedly as he neared, holding out a hand.
‘Tommy,’ McEvoy replied, vaguely recognising Boland from some previous case or course. They shook hands and started to head back to the young man’s body. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ McEvoy asked gruffly, offloading some of his frustration with Bishop and the system. ‘And where the hell are your guards?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to sort out,’ Bol
and replied, instantly becoming annoyed at McEvoy’s reception. ‘Three of my lot are off playing for the local GAA. I’ve been trying to draft in replacements from Navan. They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’
‘A murder takes precedence over some local game,’ McEvoy said sourly.
‘Not round here it doesn’t,’ Boland countered. ‘Especially when it’s some little gobshite no one’s ever heard of.’
‘What?’ McEvoy said, taken aback at Boland’s statement.
‘He’s probably just some feckin’ immigrant who’s got too big for his boots. They’re always causing some disturbance round the town. The stupid eejits can’t hold their drink, then they start looking for a fight. Some nights it can be bedlam round here, especially after they’ve been paid.’
‘What makes you think he’s an immigrant?’ McEvoy said obstinately, challenging Boland’s xenophobic assumption and prejudice.
‘The look of him.’ Boland glanced down at the victim and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Bad haircut. Cheap jacket, jeans and trainers. The knife. The fact I don’t recognise him.’
‘A town like this must be full of blow-ins; loads of new estates full of commuters to Dublin,’ McEvoy observed. ‘It could be some young Dublin hood.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Boland conceded. ‘That’s where I’d start, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t worry; the boys from Navan will be here shortly – we can get started then.’
‘We’ll get started now; here’s the technical unit.’ McEvoy nodded his head toward where two white vans were parking across the river. ‘Do we know when Elaine Jones is likely to arrive?’ he asked referring to the state pathologist.
‘Ten thirty,’ Whelan answered flatly.