The White Gallows

by Rob Kitchin

  ‘Would someone hold enough of a grudge to kill him?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a grudge led to murder,’ McManus observed.

  ‘He was rich and powerful, and a cantankerous old bastard; no surer way of making enemies,’ Mannion said.

  McEvoy’s mobile phone rang. ‘Yes?’ he answered, distracted.

  ‘What the hell are you up to, Colm?’ Chief Superintendent Tony Bishop snapped. ‘I’ve just had Paul Cassidy, TD for North Meath, on the phone complaining about how you’re handling Albert Koch’s death. His daughter’s on the war path. She claims she’s being treated with malice and disrespect and that her father died of natural causes.’

  McEvoy wandered away from the other guards. ‘Well, the last bit’s rubbish; talk to Elaine Jones. Albert Koch was killed by a blow to the head. She’s just flexing her political muscles; letting us know how well connected she is.’

  ‘So Koch was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, unless he hit himself on the head.’

  ‘Just tread carefully round her,’ Bishop said calming down. ‘She’s clearly hysterical and she could cause us some grief.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t try to hinder our investigation.’

  ‘If she becomes a problem, pass her onto me, okay? The last thing we need is another media relations disaster after last time,’ he said, referring to the Raven case in which the gardai were severely criticised during and after the killing spree.

  ‘With pleasure. Does that mean I get more people to help?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Colm.’

  * * *

  The incident room had been set up in Ballyglass GAA club, a long, single-storey structure located in front of a large pitch surrounded by a low griselinia hedge and ash trees. At the far end of the hall was a shuttered bar, in front of which had been positioned a clean whiteboard and a notice board on which had been tacked a large-scale map of the area. Along the right-hand wall were a row of three computers placed on bar tables, followed by a table carrying a hot water urn and a stack of styrofoam cups, and two more empty notice boards. Windows ran the length of the left-hand wall giving a view out across the pristine pitch. Several tables were scattered across the hall, each surrounded by a cluster of red upholstered chairs.

  Kelly Stringer and a couple of local, plain clothes detective gardai were standing near to one of the windows deep in conversation. Tom McManus and John Joyce were busy at the water urn making cups of tea. Cathal Galligan hovered nearby in an immaculately pressed uniform, staring into space, looking lost. George Carter and Chloe Pollard were sitting off to one side, silently nursing cups of coffee and trying to stay awake. Hannah Fallon had travelled back to Dublin a couple of hours earlier.

  McEvoy turned away from the white board, which he’d just wiped clean. ‘Right, okay, let’s make a start,’ he instructed. ‘Come on, take a seat.’

  He waited until they settled.

  ‘Well, let’s start with what we know. Albert Koch, aged 91, killed by a blow to the head, probably by a vase, somewhere between one and three in the morning. He was seemingly attacked in the downstairs study and then carried upstairs to his bed. Whoever attacked him left a noose hanging at the site of the old white gallows.

  ‘Koch was reputedly the third richest person in Ireland, the founder of Ostara Industries. He had extensive business interests in Ireland and abroad. It seems he was a difficult person to deal with, was a ruthless businessman, and wasn’t short of enemies or rumours. Whoever killed him was almost certainly searching the house for something and they knew the history of the place. Have we got anything back from the questionnaires?’ McEvoy asked.

  ‘Nothing concrete,’ Joyce replied. ‘We’ve been surveying all of the houses along the approach roads. Nobody saw or heard anything suspicious other than usual late night traffic; people crawling home from the pubs. Koch had been receiving some unwanted attention though. A few months ago a young, East European couple were hanging around the area asking questions about his past. A week or so ago they reappeared.’

  ‘Do we have any idea who they are?’

  ‘Not yet, we’re working on it.’

  ‘And what were they asking about?’

  ‘Maybe you’re better answering this, Tom,’ Joyce said.

  ‘When he turned up in the area?’ McManus said. ‘If people knew who he really was? When did he start his company? When did he start a family? That kind of thing.’

  ‘Right, well, we need to track that couple down as a priority,’ McEvoy observed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nobody seems to have known him that well, but he was a bit of a folk hero round here,’ McManus continued. ‘That said, the same kind of nasty rumours keep coming up – that he’d fled Germany after the war, that he was a Nazi war criminal, that he’d a criminal past, that he’d helped the IRA on occasion back in the 1950s, possibly since. It also seems as if he’d been in a long-standing dispute with one of his neighbours about ownership of a small strip of land. I guess the general impression is that people thought he was a terrible firebrand and crook, but he was their firebrand and the area had benefited from what he had given back. This clubhouse was paid for by a donation from Ostara.’

  ‘Do we know who the neighbour is?’

  ‘Martin O’Coffey. He has a farm bordering Koch’s land; lives on it with his grandson, Peter and his family.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview the pair of them. Kelly, can you try and set that up for tomorrow.’

  ‘No problem,’ Stringer replied.

  ‘As for the other rumours, we need to get a full picture of Koch and his business dealings. I want to know everything about him and his companies. Everything,’ he repeated.

  ‘We also need to identify everyone who was in contact with him in the last two weeks. I want a full timeline of his movements and meetings and I want all of them interviewed. I’ll deal with the family, okay. Nobody else. They’ve already complained about their treatment through a local TD. John, you concentrate on the foreign couple.

  ‘We also need to find the missing vase shards if we can. Widen the search; drag the small lake if necessary. George, Chloe, keep searching for any forensic evidence. And keep an eye out for whatever the person was searching for – and yes, I know you don’t know what that was – or if anything obvious is missing. Whatever it was, it’s the key to all of this. Also, we need to find out what we can about that rope. Right, okay then, does anyone have any questions?’

  Galligan raised his hand. ‘I’m getting hassled by the media. What can I tell them other than he was found with a fatal blow to the head? Can I say anything about the vase or the noose?’

  ‘Say as little as you can,’ McEvoy replied. ‘Tell them we’re following an active line of enquiry and that we don’t want to say anymore than that at present. If they press you on the issue, tell them that we hope to issue a fuller statement in the next forty-eight hours. We can worry about that later.’

  Galligan nodded his head, but didn’t look convinced. It seemed to him that he had to take all the crap from the media without having any say in the investigation. He was just a mouthpiece.

  ‘Anybody else?’

  Everybody stayed silent.

  ‘Right, well I guess we can wrap it up for today. We’ll make a fresh start in the morning.’

  * * *

  The hall had emptied leaving only McEvoy, Kelly Stringer and one garda still sitting in front of a computer screen at the far end of the room.

  McEvoy was staring at a map of the area pinned to the notice board, getting a feel for how The White Gallows fitted into the wider landscape. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Stringer pulling a face and shaking a clawed hand up and down. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, turning towards her.

  ‘It’s just classic symptoms of mobile phone madness,’ she said laughing, though clearly frustrated. The phone beeped several times. ‘Every time I enter a number into this damn thing it disappears!’

  ‘Do you w
ant me to have look?’ McEvoy offered.

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it sorted. Oh, sugar!’ She stabbed at the phone, then tipped back her head and pulled at her hair in mock anger. ‘I’m just flustered at the minute.’

  ‘You’re not going to go to pieces on me are you?’ McEvoy joked. ‘I’m relying on you to run the engine room.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll get everything shipshape; get my sea legs.’

  ‘Not that your legs…’ McEvoy stopped, realising that he was potentially heading into dangerous territory. He wasn’t sure how any perceived flirting would be received, or how he felt about it. Kelly Stringer was thirteen years his junior. He’d been married for the same amount of time. And, if he was honest with himself, it would be a long time before he would be ready to try another relationship.

  He shook his head. He’d gone from sea legs to near marriage in two seconds. ‘I guess I’d better be heading home. It’s been a long day,’ he said, changing the subject, feeling like an old fool. ‘I suggest you do the same.’

  Stringer glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll make a move in a bit. I just need to get this sorted. The cat’s probably dragged something in for dinner at this stage in any case. It’s a good job he can look after himself.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same for daughters,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘She must wonder why this stranger occasionally turns up to say hello.’

  Stringer pulled a tight smile of sympathy. ‘I’m sure she knows it’s not easy.’

  ‘It’s not exactly fair though, is it?’ McEvoy said wistfully. ‘God, listen to me. Look, I know running the incident room’s a step up, but I’m sure you’ll do a good job.’

  ‘I’m glad you think I’m up to it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have picked you otherwise. I know you’ve much more to offer than a good looking pair of sea-legs. Not that…’ McEvoy trailed off, instantly regretting his words, feeling his face flush – so much for good intentions.

  ‘Thanks!’ Stringer laughed. ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll be going then,’ McEvoy said embarrassed. ‘Safe home, okay.’

  ‘And you.’ Stringer turned her attention back to her phone as McEvoy shuffled towards the door. She glanced up coyly as he pulled it open and exited.

  * * *

  The drive towards Dublin was quiet, the road almost deserted of traffic. As he approach Dunslaughlin his phone rang.

  ‘McEvoy.’

  ‘It’s Jenny. You rang earlier?’

  ‘Yeah. I was just seeing how’re you’re getting on?’ The last time McEvoy had travelled down to Tipperary to catch up on the case had been two days ago.

  ‘We’re not. We all know it was the husband, but we’ve got nothing but intuition and poor circumstantial evidence. He’s as cool as cucumber. He knows we’ve got sod all.’

  ‘Just keep working the angles. Something will turn up. What about his alibi? Did you check that out again?’

  ‘His mobile phone records confirm that he was in the Bansha area that morning. He made five calls and received nine between eight and eleven thirty all using the Bansha mast. There wasn’t a large enough gap between calls for him to get home, commit the murder and get back there.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re chasing the wrong suspect?’

  ‘Or he gave his phone to a friend or accomplice,’ Flanagan countered.

  ‘As I said, keep working the angles. Just so you know, I’m not going to be able to come down for a few days as I’m heading up two new cases in Meath. If there’s anything important, give me a call; otherwise just use your own judgement. Perhaps we could meet in Dublin sometime this week?’

  ‘Yeah, no bother. I could do with a trip home; the digs here are a kip. I feel like I’m a student again.’

  ‘If only we were all still that young. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?’ He ended the call.

  Things were going from bad to worse. People were killing each other faster than they could be investigated and the killers were becoming cleverer, learning from the media’s obsession with crime. To add to their woes, court cases were taking longer and becoming more complex. Officers were being pulled between more difficult cases at the same time as being tied up in red tape. They needed more skilled staff and quickly.

  He stabbed at the stereo, flipping between channels until he found something he recognised – Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen. It was only a couple of years since Maggie and himself had seen The Boss at the RDS. He started to mumble along.

  * * *

  It had just gone eleven thirty. All of his cases had been reported on the news bulletin along with another killing in Limerick, four fatal car crashes in which nine people had died, and over two hundred and fifty dead in an earthquake in Peru.

  He turned the stereo off and sat in the dark and quiet. He massaged his tired eyes before pushing open the car door and stepping out into the damp night air. Off to his left the engines of an approaching aircraft were droning, one of the last planes flying into Dublin that evening. He headed towards the locked gates of Collinstown Cemetery.

  As he levered himself up and over the black railings, the plane screamed overhead only a couple of hundred feet above him. He made his way to Maggie’s grave, crouching down on the damp sod to clear autumn leaves away, feeling guilty that he hadn’t visited for a couple of days. He still couldn’t believe that she was gone; that lung cancer had eaten her from the inside out before taking her from him and Gemma. She’d barely made it past her fortieth birthday.

  He stayed for a few minutes, talking to her headstone, before reluctantly heading back to his car. He set off to pick Gemma up from his sister.

  Monday

  There was a loud knock at the door. Hannah Fallon glanced at her watch – 8.06 – stuffed the last of a slice of toast into her mouth and headed out of the kitchen, dressed in a smart business suit. As she neared the front door – the shape of a person visible through the frosted glass – a long, black metal pipe was pushed through the letter box. The person dashed to one side, the pipe clattering to the floor.

  It took a moment before she realised what was happening. The pipe bomb exploded as she dived left through the living room doorway. The blast blew the glass out of the front door and shrapnel cut through her lower legs, twisting her body as she fell and slamming her into the door frame and wall. She landed awkwardly on the arm of a two-seater sofa, tumbling backwards onto the wooden floor.

  Instinctively she tried to pull herself further into the room, afraid that her attacker would enter the house to finish her off. The pain from her legs was excruciating, her head pounding, ears ringing. She felt herself slipping towards unconsciousness as a figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ her next door neighbour snapped, recoiling at the sight of the bloody stump that had been Fallon’s lower right leg, the other a mess of deep cuts, a portion of snapped bone sticking out through the skin. ‘Hannah? Hannah, are you alive?’ She moved forward to try and help. ‘Call an ambulance!’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  ‘Is she okay?’ a male voice asked.

  ‘No, she’s not fuckin’ okay. There’s blood everywhere.’

  ‘Fuck. Yeah, ambulance,’ the man said, turning away.

  ‘And tell them to hurry. She’s bleeding to death.’ The woman knelt down on the floor, leaning over Fallon’s torso. ‘Hannah? Are you okay, love?’

  ‘Don’t touch anything, okay,’ Fallon mumbled, feeling nauseous, drifting on the edge of darkness. ‘I don’t want any evidence fucked up.’

  * * *

  After checking in on Gemma, McEvoy had reluctantly left her sleeping at his sister’s knowing that he would be leaving home early the next morning. He’d left the house shortly before seven o’clock and had made good time.

  He turned right through a metal archway into the Ballyglass GAA car park, passing a couple of early birds from the media, and parked next to a van from the Garda Technical Unit. His plan for the day was to interview Koch’s childre
n, his business manager, Stefan Freel, and Martin O’Coffey, the farmer with whom Koch was in dispute, and to deal with whatever else turned up.

  He levered himself out of the Mondeo and headed for the main door. The day had barely started and already his eyes ached and he felt washed out. As he reached the building his phone rang. He dug it from his pocket.

  ‘Barney?’

  ‘Have you heard?’ Barney Plunkett, the last remaining detective inspector on the Raven case, said excitedly.

  ‘Heard what?’ McEvoy said, not sure whether he should be feeling buoyant or down, but hoping that Plunkett had good news.

  ‘Someone shoved a pipe bomb through Hannah Fallon’s front door. It blew off one of her legs.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill Hannah?’ McEvoy said slowly, doubt in his voice.

  ‘She was just getting ready to leave for court.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ McEvoy spat, the news finally sinking in, jogging back to his car. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She’ll live, but apparently there’s nothing they can do about the leg. I don’t know the full story, but it seems that two men wearing motorcycle helmets arrived at the house on a motorbike. They shoved a pipe bomb through the letter box. The only reason she’s alive is because she dived through a doorway. They’ve taken her to Connolly Hospital.’

  McEvoy started the car, reversed quickly and drove through the gateway, speeding along the potholed road towards Athboy. ‘I told Bishop this would happen! You get rid of Hannah and you get rid of the main forensic witness in a dozen or more cases. Charlie Clarke obviously didn’t fancy taking his chances with her.’

  ‘Is that who you think it was?’ Plunkett asked.

  ‘His trial starts today. It’ll be a couple of his boys or hired help. Clarke would kill his own mother if he needed to. Who’s in charge of the case?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve only just found out the news. Harcourt Street is buzzing,’ Plunkett said referring to the headquarters of NBCI.