by Rob Kitchin
‘With all due respect, Superintendent,’ Collier said smiling weakly, ‘Dr Koch’s estate is worth billions of euro. I am not, at present, prepared to share its contents with anyone connected with your investigation. If the murderer was to offer you just a tiny fraction of the estate in exchange for burying evidence you would retire a very, very rich man. As it stands, you wouldn’t know whether any offer has substance or not.’
‘And what if we don’t catch his killer?’
‘Then the estate will remain frozen for the next five years to be released at my discretion.’
‘So you’ll have effective control over Ostara Industries in the meantime?’
‘No, no. Ostara will continue to operate as normal through its Executive Management Board. Only substantial deviations in its business practices will have to be ratified by me, although I will manage the rest of the estate. After five years that estate will pass to his beneficiaries.’
‘At your discretion,’ McEvoy said.
‘Yes, at my discretion,’ Collier repeated, a smug smile spread across his face.
‘From where I’m sitting that gives you a strong motive to kill Dr Koch. Assuming you weren’t caught, you’d gain control of his estate, able to transfer assets for your own ends during the five-year window.’
‘I’d be careful what you say, Superintendent,’ Collier warned. ‘You don’t want to be rash in your accusations. I’ve been Dr Koch’s personal solicitor for over forty years. We were good friends. Believe me, if you do solve the case, which I sincerely hope you do, I will be handsomely rewarded for my service. And I’ll have much more ready access to those funds. It’s in my interest as well that you solve the case quickly. I’m prepared to help as much as I can, but I can’t give you access to the will.’
‘And what do Marion and Charles Koch think about all of this?’
‘Well, neither of them is very happy, as you’d expect. Of course, if they killed their father then they’d be unable to inherit. But if the killer’s not caught then they won’t be able to inherit for five years. They’re both pretty upset by that prospect.’
‘But you’re unwilling to change the procedure?’
‘What if it turns out that in three years time it was revealed that either Marion or Charles was the killer? In those three years they could have plundered the estate and headed overseas to avoid arrest. Not that I think either of them did it, you understand.’
McEvoy nodded. It was clear that Collier was going to stick to his guns. ‘Well, can you at least tell me the last time he altered his will?’ he asked.
‘About three months ago,’ Collier conceded.
‘And were you happy with the changes?’
‘It was his will, Superintendent, not mine. I just acted on his behalf.’
* * *
Kelly Stringer seemed to be in her element. There were now six notice boards around the room, each covered in pieces of paper, stick-it notes and photos. Several other garda were busy at different tables. She was flitting between them giving them instructions and listening to what they’d discovered.
From where McEvoy was standing she looked positively radiant; like a different woman to that who habitually dressed years beyond her age. She was wearing a knee-length, dark green business suit, over a pale, almost translucent blouse, and low black heels. Her hair was let down, covering her shoulders.
As she moved off from the person she’d been talking to, she noticed him watching her. Her face broke into a smile and she crossed the room to join him.
‘You enjoying yourself?’ he asked, grinning tiredly, feeling like a teenager; nerves and lust entwining.
‘You know what,’ she said nodding her head, ‘I am. I’m getting a real buzz out of the whole thing. For the first time, I really feel like I’m at the heart of an investigation, that I’m actually making a difference. I’m not just some routine cog, I’m… I’m the engine oil!’ she laughed.
‘Wait until we run out of fuel and the whole thing grinds to a halt,’ McEvoy said, immediately regretting his negativity.
‘We’ll see. I have a good feeling about this one. There seems to be plenty to go on. Not like the Lithuanian in Trim. That seems to have already hit the wall.’
‘Yeah, that seems to be going nowhere fast,’ McEvoy agreed.
‘I’ve just got this in,’ she said, holding out a sheaf of paper. ‘I got one of the locals to scout around on the web, see if he could find out who the Curragh internees were. He found this real geeky site that lists all of the aircraft that crash-landed on Irish soil or waters, plus their crew members. The important bit is here.’ She tapped a manicured nail on the top sheet. ‘A Heinkel He111H-5 crash-landed in Carlingford Lough, March 23rd 1941 after being hit by anti-aircraft fire from a British navy vessel. The crew were Oberleutnant Heinrich Brauer, Feldwebel Hans Fassbinder, Gefreiter Alois Lehrer – who died from his wounds – and Gefreiter Franz Kucken. The three survivors were interned in the Curragh camp for the rest of the war. There is no Frank Koch on any other German plane.’
‘So Frank Koch really is Franz Kucken?’ McEvoy said looking up.
‘And Ewa Chojnacki and Tomas Prochazka’s copies of the archive files seem to confirm it,’ Stringer said, smiling. ‘I’m trying to find out if any of the other crew members are still alive. According to the records, Franz Kucken is originally from Freiburg, as was Adolf Kucken. It looks like Albert Koch was not who he claimed he was.’
‘Jesus. And the rest of the files?’
‘I’ve been onto the German department at the National University in Maynooth. Professor Moench is going to drive up here tomorrow morning. I’ll get him to sign all the relevant confidentiality clauses and see what he makes of them.’
‘Sounds good. Anything else to report?’
‘No, I don’t think so. We’re just following up on whatever information we’ve got. Superintendent Galligan’s been in a couple of times on fishing expeditions – making a nuisance of himself – but otherwise nothing.’
‘Okay, Jesus, I’ll check-in with him later. How’s Tom McManus been getting on?’
‘Not very well. He’s had teams out all around the surrounding land and there’s no sign of the missing gun or the vase fragments.’
‘And Hannah Fallon?’
‘Pretty much the same as last night – she’s stable and on the mend. The news through the grapevine is Bishop is playing keystone cops. Half of Dublin’s guards are running round chasing ghosts.’
‘Well, it’s about time we made a show of force. Things have gotten out of hand; the gangs think they can do what the hell they like. Look, I’m going to try and catch up on the files,’ McEvoy said, bringing the conversation to a close, pleased that he hadn’t overtly flirted. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for a team meeting just now. I’ll also talk to Dr John, Tom McManus and your friend Galligan.’
His phone rang. He held up a hand of apology. ‘Yes?’
‘Superintendent, it’s James Kinneally. I think we should probably meet.’
* * *
McEvoy closed his notebook, pushed himself to his feet and crossed the hall to where Kelly Stringer was sorting through a thin pile of paper.
‘Kelly, I’m going to head off, okay? Can you get hold of Barney Plunkett, Johnny Cronin and Jenny Flanagan. Tell them to meet me at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at the Costa Coffee near Argos in Blanchardstown for an hour or so to catch up on everything and sort things out. It’s on the way out here and Jenny and Johnny should be able to cut across the M50 easy enough. Perhaps four heads together might make a bit of progress.’
‘I’ll ring them now.’ Stringer turned away, heading to another desk, then swung back around, brushing her tousled hair from her face. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you’re looking pretty frayed round the edges. Have you eaten yet? The locals say the Chinese restaurant in Athboy’s pretty good. Perhaps…’ she trailed off.
McEvoy nodded unsure what to say.
‘Not that…’ Stri
nger continued. ‘I mean… you just look like…’ she trailed off again, blushing.
‘Look, Kelly…’ McEvoy pulled a tight smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m on my way to a meeting with James Kinneally. Then I’ve got to check on how things are going in Trim, and then pick Gemma up from my sister’s. Maybe some other time?’ he suggested, inwardly cursing himself for not ending whatever it was that was going on, if there was anything.
Stringer nodded her head, embarrassed. ‘Yes, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Maybe some other time. I’ll ring the others.’ She started to drift away.
McEvoy turned to one side, catching the curve of her legs below her knee-length skirt from the corner of his eyes, before heading for the door, feeling like he needed a cold shower. There was no denying that he was attracted to her. He could sense the edgy nerves whenever she was near, the butterflies in his stomach. He also knew that it would go nowhere; that it could go nowhere. He wasn’t yet ready; not for the kind of relationship it might become. Not for any kind of relationship. He stepped out into the cold night air, the first spots of rain starting to fall, and headed for his car trying to push carnal thoughts of Kelly Stringer to one side and failing.
* * *
James Kinneally was sitting in the passenger seat of McEvoy’s Mondeo. He appeared to be nervous, glancing around, making sure they were alone.
They were parked in the far corner of a supermarket car park on the outskirts of Trim, hidden in the shadows, away from the other cars.
‘So?’ McEvoy asked, staring across Kinneally at an upturned shopping cart visible through the window.
‘I… we… it’s… it’s about Saturday night,’ Kinneally trailed off.
‘What about Saturday night?’
‘You have to understand that I’d like to keep this confidential.’
‘This is a murder investigation, Mr Kinneally, if it’s important to the case we’ll do whatever’s needed,’ McEvoy lied. ‘What is it?’
Kinneally stared out of the windscreen, his unfocussed gaze, deciding how to proceed. ‘I knew this wasn’t a good idea,’ he said eventually.
‘What wasn’t?’ McEvoy prompted, growing tired of Kinneally’s charade.
‘Meeting you like this. I’m doing this for her, though I doubt she’ll thank me for it.’ He turned towards McEvoy. ‘Marion D’Arcy was with me on Saturday night. We’ve been having an affair for the past eight months.’
‘Well, that explains why you’re always at her place,’ McEvoy said neutrally, unable to see the dominant Marion falling for Kinneally. ‘So where were you on Saturday night?’
‘At her house; I stayed the night.’
‘So you’re withdrawing your story about staying the night in Dublin? That right?’
‘Yes,’ Kinneally snapped irritably. ‘I’ve just told you, I was with Marion.’
‘And I’m to believe that, since you’ve already lied to me once?’
‘Look, I… I’m sorry about that. I was just trying to protect her.’
‘By taking away her alibi?’
‘By keeping our relationship secret. I didn’t know that you would treat her like a suspect! It’s beyond belief. The idea that she’d kill her own father is crazy!’
‘From my experience, nothing is beyond belief. And she will confirm this story?’
‘No, no. There’s no need to ask her,’ Kinneally said nervously. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘And we need to verify it. You didn’t tell her you were coming to meet me?’
Kinneally shook his head and looked down at his lap.
‘So why did you come? To salve your conscience?’
Kinneally stayed silent.
‘Let me guess, you came at Mark D’Arcy’s request?’ McEvoy suggested.
There was a slight nod of the head.
‘Mark D’Arcy knew you were having an affair,’ McEvoy continued, ‘and he knew you were with his mother on Saturday. If he got you to confess as much then we would stop hassling her as a potential suspect. Only she wants the affair to remain secret until she either gains control of Ostara through her inheritance or through her relationship with its CEO.’
‘That’s… that’s…’ Kinneally stuttered, his anger rising again, ‘slander. She doesn’t want her good name dragged through the tabloid papers. I’m only recently separated. She doesn’t want to be cast as a home wrecker. And she isn’t. My marriage had been dead a long time; so had hers. She feels she doesn’t need an alibi as she’s innocent.’
‘Her son feels differently?’
‘Mark thinks that she’s already under enough pressure. There’s no point adding to that when she could be spared any additional stress.’
‘He might have a point,’ McEvoy conceded.
Kinneally nodded. ‘So what happens now?’
‘You and I both head home.’
‘And the affair will remain secret?’ Kinneally asked.
‘I can’t see any reason to tell the whole world just yet, but I can’t promise it won’t leak out eventually.’
‘Thanks.’ James Kinneally eased himself out of McEvoy’s car and slipped behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes, his face pale, scanning the gloom for witnesses to the meeting.
McEvoy watched him leave the car park, turning towards Athboy, before starting his own car and heading to the exit. Kinneally might be the CEO of a large company, but he was a weak and nervous man. He wondered what Marion D’Arcy saw in him other than someone who was easy to manipulate and control; a way of hedging her bets with respect to the future of Ostara.
* * *
It was late in the evening and there had been no significant update from the team investigating the death of the supposed Lithuanian. Officers were out surveying pubs and bars in a broad sweep well beyond Trim’s usual catchment area.
McEvoy eased open the door. The bedroom was cast in an orange glow from the street light seeping in round the fringes of the thin curtains. The walls were covered in posters of footballers and bands; the floor a tangle of clothes. Gemma lay facing him, her eyes closed, the quilt pulled tight under her chin, its fabric gently rising and falling. Everyday she seemed to gain more of her mother’s beauty.
He eased himself into the room and perched carefully on the edge of the bed and watched her for a while. She’d made this space her own. Half her possessions were here; maybe more than half. She was certainly spending more than half her time in his sister’s house.
He wanted to wake her and take her home, but what was the point? He would only be bringing her back a few hours later and long before she needed to be ready for school. He was her father and yet he barely saw her; rarely seemed to do what a parent was meant to do. He would need to be there for her on Friday; to provide comfort and support.
He’d promised he would take the day off work. Only he wasn’t going to be able to make it. He would be hunting the killers of a nameless young man and a mass murderer; too busy to respect the death of his wife and look after the emotional health of his daughter. He massaged his tired eyes and levered himself standing.
Gemma stirred, rolled over, and pulled the quilt in close.
He tip-toed back to the door, closing it quietly behind him, and descended the stairs, enveloped in a sober funk. Somehow he was going to have to find a way of disengaging from work for both Gemma’s and his own sake.
Caroline and Jimmy were sitting together on a black leather sofa, her back resting against his side, her legs stretched along its length. Jimmy’s left arm snaked over her shoulder and rested on her inflated stomach, his right hand clutched a bottle of Czech beer.
‘How is she?’ Caroline asked, turning her attention away from the television and a Bruce Willis film.
‘Fast asleep. I didn’t wake her.’
‘There’s a fridge full of these things if you want one,’ Jimmy said, waving the bottle without taking his eyes from the screen.
‘I’m alright, thanks. I’d better be going. Is it okay if she stays over? I’ll only be bringi
ng her back again early tomorrow morning.’
‘You know it is,’ Caroline said. ‘It’s no bother. You look knackered, Colm. You need to look after yourself. Are you managing to eat properly?’
‘Kind of,’ he said, aware that all he’d had to eat since lunch time was a bar of chocolate. ‘I’ve been thinking of getting a nanny, you know, for when the baby arrives. She can live at the house and keep an eye on Gemma.’
‘She’s no bother, Colm. We hardly notice she’s here. Do we Jimmy?’
‘What?’ Jimmy muttered, his mind on the film.
‘I said, we hardly notice Gemma is here.’
‘Yeah.’ He took a swig of his beer.
‘All the same, when the baby arrives you’ll have your hands full,’ McEvoy said. He’d been thinking about a nanny for a while; someone to take the pressure off his sister and her partner. He’d just never got round to doing anything about it; was unsure of where to even start. There were probably agencies that took care of everything for a small fortune.
‘And she’ll be another pair of hands,’ Caroline said. ‘She’s already a blessing running around for me. Stop worrying about things, will you. Get a beer and sit down.’
‘About Friday,’ he started, then trailed off, staying where he was, hovering by the door.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll both be there. Jimmy’s managed to swap shifts. Everything’s been taken care of.’
‘I’m more worried about whether I’ll be there,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘All leave’s been cancelled since Charlie Clarke decided to try and blow up Hannah Fallon and I’m up to my neck in it with these cases.’
‘Surely they can give you one day off though?’ Caroline said angrily. ‘It’s Maggie’s anniversary for God’s sake! You’re entitled to compassionate leave. And the cases are not going anywhere; you not being there for one day isn’t going to make a difference.’
‘I’m entitled to whatever Tony Bishop decides,’ McEvoy said, knowing that he wouldn’t be pressing for leave; realising that he didn’t want to be there – that he wanted the distraction of work, not the fawning sympathy of friends and family; a whole day of Maggie’s death preying endlessly on his thoughts. It was bad enough now, with the long, lonely nights of insomnia, without it dragging on all day; people constantly reminding him of who and what he had lost. He didn’t want to forget her, he just didn’t want to end up spending the day wallowing in self-pity. ‘The interests of the public come before individual officers,’ he quoted.