by Rob Kitchin
‘His brother. Myself. Martin O’Coffey. Maurice Coakley.’
‘Who’s Maurice Coakley?’
‘He heads up Ostara Pharmacies. Koch and Coakley go way back.’
‘And Martin O’Coffey? I thought they were at war with each other over a piece of land?’
‘They were still friends. They used to take a drink together every Friday evening. It’s the grandson that’s got a chip on his shoulder. As I understand it they’re barely hanging on. The country might have had a boom but not all boats went up on the tide. The rural economy has long been in freefall. God knows how they’re surviving now.’
‘Do you think O’Coffey or his grandson could have killed Koch?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Freel shrugged. ‘The grandson definitely seems to be teetering on the edge. He was up at the house again last week ranting, threatening legal action. Land and money are a potent combination. Who knows, maybe he cracked?’
‘And how did Dr Koch react to the threats?’
‘He just tried to calm him down and reason with him. He knew him well from when he was a child.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Eventually he stormed off saying he was just going to take it back. We did what we always did – sent Simon Farrell, the farm manager, down to keep an eye on the place.’
‘Why didn’t he just give him the land if it’s only a narrow strip? A few feet was hardly going to make a difference given how many other properties he owned.’
‘It’s the principle. Dr Koch owned that piece of land, despite what the O’Coffeys thought. Once you give one concession, you’re on a slippery slope. It’ll then be another bit and then another.’
‘You said earlier that his son and daughter were trying to gain control of Ostara,’ McEvoy said, changing tack. ‘Were they working together?’
‘Not from what I could tell. Marion D’Arcy seems to have become increasingly obsessed with making sure Ostara stays within the family. The fact that her father wouldn’t tell anyone his intentions concerning what would happen when he passed away clearly worried her a lot. Probably with good reason. If I were him I would have lined up alternative successors. She might have built up a mediocre law firm, but she’s not up to running something as large and complex as Ostara. She knows absolute nothing about the sectors it works in and she’s a loose cannon. She has rubbing people up the wrong way down to an art form. Everything would be in disarray within a few weeks.’
‘And Charles? Did he want more than his son taken on?’
‘He just wanted his share. I think he was more worried about Marion. If she was to take over Ostara she’d have no problem freezing him and his side of the family out. All she’s interested in is herself. Ostara would give her serious political and celebrity clout. It would almost certainly make her the richest woman in Ireland. She’d revel in that title and all it would bring.’
‘Surely she’s already moving in all the right circles? Opening nights, gala charity events, the VIP paddocks?’
‘But this would make her the queen bee and also put her on the world map. Until now she’s been the daughter of a billionaire recluse with no access to his money. If she inherits his fortune she’ll move up into the super-rich.’
‘And do you think she’ll inherit his fortune?’
‘I’ve no idea. As I said, none of us do. He kept it to himself.’ Freel made a point of glancing down at his watch. ‘Look, Superintendent, I need to get on. I have a lot of things to get sorted.’
‘Right. Right, yes. One last thing. Can you think of anyone else who I should be taking an interest in? Anyone hanging round? Perhaps threatening him?’
Freel stared up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘There were a couple of East Europeans that called out a few times. He always seemed pretty agitated whenever they turned up. Other than that, no, not really.’
‘Have you any idea what they saw him about?’
‘He never said. It wasn’t business though; he’d have told me if it was. He just wanted them to go away. They certainly got to him, whatever it was; he was always a little distant afterwards.’
‘How many times did they call?’
‘I don’t know; four or five times when I was there?’
‘And when was the last time they called?’
‘Hmm… the Saturday before last?’
‘And do you think they might have been responsible for his death? Were they looking for something?’
‘I’ve no idea, Superintendent. Look, surely that’s your job? I need to get on.’ Freel stood and walked around the desk.
‘Yes, sorry,’ McEvoy pushed himself up out of his chair. ‘Look, perhaps I can talk to you again sometime? I need to get a better idea about Dr Koch and Ostara; get some sense of how everything’s organised.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. How about tomorrow lunch time? We’ll get some lunch on the company tab.’
‘I’d have thought that Dr Koch would have run a tight ship with respect to expenses,’ McEvoy stated.
‘Always feed the animals well before taking them to the market, you’ll get better prices,’ Freel smiled and opened the door.
* * *
As McEvoy neared the door to Ballyglass GAA club it opened and John Joyce exited.
‘You better be wearing a hard hat if you’re going in there,’ Joyce warned, ‘Galligan’s on the war path. He feels he’s being frozen out of the investigation.’
‘He was never in the investigation,’ McEvoy said, agitated. ‘How’re you getting on in any case? Have you found that missing gun yet?’
‘No. We’re going to get the lake dragged.’
‘And do we know what the killer was searching for?’
‘No. Roza, the housekeeper, has been through the whole place, but she can’t see anything obvious missing.’
‘I’m guessing there’s nothing from the questionnaires?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. You’d need to talk to Tom McManus. I did hear one interesting thing though. Marion D’Arcy is not Dr Koch’s natural daughter. He adopted her when he married her mother in the early 1950s. Somehow her family managed to keep her out of a Mother and Baby home; she’d have been a prime target. Marrying Koch gave them some level of respectability.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It gets better. Her mother was an O’Coffey. The neighbour he was fighting with over that piece of land was his brother-in-law!’
‘Well, that explains a few things,’ McEvoy mumbled.
‘Like what?’
‘Like why Koch and O’Coffey used to meet every Friday night for a drink; they were family – blood thicker than water and all that.’
‘Then why fight over a small strip of land?’
‘The principle; they both thought they were right. Somehow they managed not to conflate the personal with the professional, something I’m guessing the grandson wasn’t able to do. I’d better go and have a chat with Martin and Peter O’Coffey.’ McEvoy turned to head back to his car.
‘What about Galligan?’
‘For God’s sake!’ McEvoy wheeled round on his heels. ‘I’ll talk to you later, okay.’
The hum of conversation filled the incident room. Galligan had cornered Kelly Stringer between the coffee table and the white board. Even from the far side of the room McEvoy could see he was giving her a hard time.
‘You were looking for me?’ he asked, interrupting the local superintendent.
Stringer gave a weak smile.
‘What?’ Galligan wheeled round, his face red.
‘I said, you were looking for me?’
‘I… yes,’ Galligan muttered, momentarily knocked off track. ‘This murder happened on my patch. Given it’s my resources you’re using, I should be much more centrally involved in the case. Instead I’m being treated like a pariah!’
‘Look,’ McEvoy tried to say calmly, ‘no disrespect intended, but NBCI is running this investigation. We work closely with the local division and we try to involve t
hem as much as we can, but we run the show. As the local superintendent, we ask that you deal with the media so we can concentrate on trying to catch the killer. That’s it.’
‘I… well… to deal with the media I need to know what the hell’s going on!’ Galligan said forcibly, his face bright red.
‘We’re telling you all you need to know. I don’t want any important information given to the media that might accidentally jeopardise the case. We operate the same way in all cases. If you don’t want to do the job, that’s fine, I’ll find someone else.’
‘No, no. There’s no way you’re pulling that trick on me. I’ll continue dealing with the media, but I need full access to the case.’
‘Well you’re not getting full access; you’ll get what you’re given.’
‘What I’m given?’ Galligan snapped. ‘I’m not some little school child, McEvoy. This is a murder investigation in my divisional area. I’m going further up the chain; this is ridiculous.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ McEvoy warned. ‘Senior management are not in a good mood at the minute given the attempt to blow-up one of their officers this morning. They’ll ungraciously put you back in your place and also mark your card.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘That’s advice. If you want a threat, then I’ll ring them up and tell them that you’re wilfully hindering my investigation.’
‘You’ll do what? You can try and throw your weight around, McEvoy, but just remember that it’s my resources you’re reliant on. Without me, you’ll grind to a halt.’
‘My suggestion is that you leave right now,’ McEvoy said, losing his cool. ‘As of now I’m reassigning the media spokesperson.’
‘You’re doing what? No fuckin’ way!’ Galligan spat. ‘If you want a war, then you’ve got one.’
‘Whatever,’ McEvoy said dismissively. He turned to Stringer, trying to hide his rage.
Galligan stared at him angrily for a moment and then stormed to the door, slamming it behind him.
‘I take it he’s left then?’ McEvoy said, smiling apologetically.
Stringer nodded. ‘Talk about butting stags.’
‘He’s a stupid gombeen. He was giving you a hard time?’
‘Nothing too serious in a chauvinistic, threatening kind of a way,’ she smiled.
‘Well, I don’t know what you’re smiling for; you’re the new media spokesperson.’
‘I’m the what?’ Stringer said, instinctively patting down her hair.
McEvoy’s phone rang. ‘You heard. Yes?’
‘Colm, it’s Jenny. Do you have a minute?’
‘Yeah, fire away,’ McEvoy said, taking a step away from Stringer.
‘I think we might finally be getting somewhere. We have a witness who saw the husband’s car on the road from Bansha to Galbally on the morning that Kylie O’Neill was killed. He remembered it because of the sticker on the back window. “Honk if you’re honkytonk.” I doubt there are many of those around.’
‘And he definitely saw it on the right day?’
‘He thinks so.’
‘He thinks?’
‘He’s pretty certain.’
‘Jesus, Jenny, the case will last two seconds.’
‘He killed her,’ Flanagan said defensively. ‘We all know he did. Do you want to come down if we interview him again?’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t, I’m up to my eyeballs here. I’ll give you a ring later, okay? I know you think he did it, but tread carefully; you don’t want to make problems for yourself later on. See if you can find anyone else who might have seen that car that morning.’
‘Shit,’ Flanagan said, disappointment in her voice. ‘Any news on Hannah Fallon?’
‘Hang on a second.’ McEvoy turned to Stringer. ‘Kelly, any news on Hannah?’
‘She’s out of surgery and she’s doing okay. They managed to save the second leg but she’ll be in hospital for at least a couple of weeks.’
‘Did you get that?’ he asked Flanagan.
‘Yeah, thanks. I hope they string the bastards up.’
‘I think “throw away the key” is the phrase you’re looking for.’
* * *
Martin O’Coffey motioned towards an old wooden chair placed in under a Formica-topped table. The kitchen reminded McEvoy of his childhood – fake wooden laminate over chipboard with cheap plastic handles, an old electric cooker with spiral elements, a large, off-white Hotpoint fridge, and a Belfast sink. Set against one wall was an ancient Aga, pumping out a low heat.
‘Do you live here on your own?’ McEvoy asked, pulling the chair out and sitting down.
‘Aye,’ O’Coffey took a drag on his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the brown lino floor. He was wearing an old, light grey suit jacket over a dirty white shirt, and dark flannel trousers.
‘You’re a widower?’ McEvoy asked, trying to ignore the tantalising smell of O’Coffey’s smoke.
‘Eleven years.’
‘And your grandson?’
‘Next door.’ O’Coffey pointed over McEvoy’s shoulder and moved towards a kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks. You were Albert Koch’s brother-in-law?’
He trickled water into the kettle. ‘Aye.’
‘So you knew him a long time?’
Another lengthy pause. ‘Aye.’
‘He married your sister and adopted her daughter?’
‘Aye.’
McEvoy rolled his eyes. It was like interviewing Jim Whelan, only slower. ‘So Albert Koch was not Marion’s natural father?’
‘No.’ The old man shuffled to a kitchen cabinet and took out a packet of Rich Tea biscuits, the top twisted tight.
‘But he always treated her as such?’
O’Coffey placed the packet carefully in front of McEvoy, avoiding his eyes. ‘Aye.’
‘So who was her father?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘How long had you been arguing with Albert Koch over the strip of land?’
‘Fifty years.’ The kettle was coming near to the boil. ‘Milk?’
‘Please. And you couldn’t come to an agreement in fifty years?’ McEvoy said reproachfully.
‘No.’ O’Coffey shook his head sadly.
‘So why didn’t you just forget about it?’
‘Because it’s our land,’ the old man stated determinedly.
‘So you argued about it?’
‘Sometimes,’ O’Coffey shrugged and pulled open the fridge door.
From where he was sitting, McEvoy could see that all that the large fridge contained was a joint of ham, a carton of milk, and a small lump of cheese.
‘But you still met each other every Friday?’
The kettle clicked off. ‘No reason not to.’ O’Coffey poured the steaming water into two mugs.
‘So you didn’t hold a grudge?’ McEvoy asked as gently as he could, trying to coax the old man along.
‘No.’
‘But your grandson did?’
O’Coffey shrugged and placed an unwashed mug full of milky tea in front of McEvoy.
‘Your grandson argued with him over the land?’ McEvoy pressed.
O’Coffey stayed silent, pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. A cat that McEvoy hadn’t noticed leapt into the old man’s lap. The old man ignored the cat and its purring and reached across the table to the biscuits. He slowly untwisted the plastic wrapping and forced a biscuit up through the opening, tipping the packet towards McEvoy.
McEvoy plucked the biscuit free. ‘Thanks. Your grandson?’
O’Coffey pulled his arm back and freed a biscuit for himself. He dunked it in his milky brew and took a bite before the soggy mass broke free. ‘Once or twice,’ he conceded as he chewed.
‘Did he ever threaten him?’
‘No.’
McEvoy’s phone rang. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he pulled it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, deciding whether to answer it. ‘Yes?’
‘What the hel
l are you playing at, Colm?’ Tony Bishop snapped. ‘Some stupid gobshite named Galligan’s on the warpath. I’ve just had the Assistant Commissioner warm my ear. I don’t care who he is or what he’s done, but you better start re-building some bridges.’
‘I… er…’
‘Just do it, okay? I don’t have time to be clearing up after you.’ Bishop ended the call.
McEvoy stared down at the phone and inwardly cursed Galligan. He was obviously better connected than McEvoy had anticipated. He’d have to reappoint him as the media spokesperson. He glanced up at O’Coffey and pulled an apologetic smile, trying to get his mind back on the case. ‘Sorry about that. Do you still see much of your niece?’
‘Marion?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘She doesn’t have time for her family?’
O’Coffey stayed silent and stared out of the window into the farmyard.
McEvoy took a bite of the biscuit and followed his gaze. The light was fast fading. Two Belgium Blue cattle stared back at them from a shed roofed in red corrugated iron.
‘Mr O’Coffey?’
‘Sorry?’ O’Coffey turned his gaze back to McEvoy.
‘Your niece, Marion D’Arcy?’
‘Yes?’
‘She doesn’t have a lot of time for you?’
‘No.’ He took a loud slurp from his tea and stared down at the table.
McEvoy sighed to himself. He wasn’t going to get much more from the old man. And what little he would get would take hours.
* * *
It was barely past four thirty and it was already nearly dark, his headlights dancing on the rough and patched tarmac. He was heading back to Ballyglass GAA club, trying to decide how to deal with Cathal Galligan. His mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy.’
‘Dad?’ Gemma asked cautiously.
‘Hiya, pumpkin,’ he replied less gruffly. ‘How’re things?’
‘We’ve just heard the news. They said that a bomb had exploded at Hannah’s house and that she’d lost a leg. Is she okay?’ she asked concerned. Gemma had come to know Hannah Fallon over the years. She was one of his few work colleagues that she liked, mainly because Hannah treated her as an equal rather than a child. For a twelve year old there was nothing worse than being patronised by an ingratiating adult.