by Rob Kitchin
‘Don’t worry; we’ll make sure she hangs herself. It should be fun. She’s a cocky little bitch – she thinks they’ve got away with it. I imagine she’ll either go silent or into wild theatrics and accusations.’
‘Don’t let her and O’Neill meet to swap notes. Interview him at the same time or straight afterwards. Pick apart any divergences or contradictions in their stories. Listen, you don’t need me to tell you what to do. Keep me updated, okay?’
‘No bother. You’ve had a breakthrough?’
‘Not in terms of catching Koch’s killer, but things are developing. I’ll talk to you later.’ McEvoy disconnected the call.
Kelly Stringer waited for him to pocket his phone and stepped towards him. She smiled at him shyly. ‘Martin O’Coffey is on his farm. He’s not feeling that well – he has a cold and would prefer it if we went to him.’
‘I’ll go there now,’ McEvoy said, starting for the door.
‘There’s something else.’
McEvoy turned back towards her. ‘What?’
‘I thought it might be useful to go back through the surveys, see what other rumours there were about Koch that might turn out to be true. I think there are a couple that might be worth investigating further.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a rumour that Koch brought in a small team of builders to his farm sometime in the 1960s, probably near the start of the decade. They stayed on the farm and had no dealings with the locals. They were there for a few weeks. All the building supplies and food were shipped in. The rumour seems to be that they were German, though one person thought Dutch. Koch told people it was restoration work, but…’ she trailed off.
‘But what?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘But others thought it was something else.’
‘Such as?’ McEvoy asked, starting to lose patience.
‘Such as a secret vault,’ Stringer said, slight embarrassment in her voice, knowing that it sounded like a conspiracy theory. ‘To store his Nazi gold,’ she elaborated.
‘Or his stolen bank money or other valuables,’ McEvoy hypothesised.
‘It could be what the killer was searching for?’ Stringer suggested tentatively.
‘Okay, get hold of George Carter and Tom McManus. We’ll do another search of the place, see if we can find anything. Tell McManus to concentrate on the outbuildings, George can look after the house. What was the other rumour?’
‘That Koch supplied the IRA with explosives at the start of the Troubles.’
‘Jesus. This just gets better and better. Talk to Dr John and see if he can find any evidence of a link. I better go and talk to Martin O’Coffey. And while I remember, is there any news on Kinneally’s apartment?’
‘I’m still waiting for Harcourt Street to come back to me,’ Stringer said, referring to the NBCI headquarters in central Dublin. ‘I’ll chase them straight away.’
* * *
The rain had eased off, but the mature beech trees were still twisting in the wind.
McEvoy was met at Martin O’Coffey’s front door by his grandson, Peter. The Wellington boots were gone, replaced by battered brown shoes, but he wore the same check shirt and dirty jeans as at their last encounter in the field on Koch’s farm.
‘He’s not well,’ O’Coffey said as a greeting.
‘I’m only going to be a few minutes,’ McEvoy explained, not saying that he would probably be there hours if O’Coffey admitted to the bank robberies.
‘Just make sure you are,’ the grandson warned, widening the door and beckoning McEvoy in. ‘He’s an old man and I don’t want any stress adding to his condition. Last thing we need is another feckin’ case of pneumonia.’
‘Pneumonia?’ McEvoy asked, concerned. ‘I was told he has the start of a cold.’
‘More like the flu. I just don’t want it settling in his chest. Happened a couple of years ago and it damn near killed him.’ He passed McEvoy and pushed open the kitchen door.
Martin O’Coffey was standing near to a boiling kettle, a grey blanket draped over his shoulders. He turned to face the intruders. ‘Tea?’ he asked, his face the same colour as the blanket, his bloodshot eyes watery and rimmed red.
‘No, no, you’re fine,’ McEvoy replied. ‘I hear you’re not feeling the best?’
‘Been better. Peter?’
‘Please.’
The room descended into silence as Martin O’Coffey made three cups of tea, shuffling back and forth between the fridge and kettle and loudly blowing his nose. He sliced a lemon in half and squeezed one half into his cup.
‘Did you have the flu jab?’ McEvoy asked.
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should get it done? It might help shift your cold and stop it developing further.’
‘I’m fine,’ O’Coffey replied before sniffing. ‘Sit,’ he instructed.
McEvoy took a seat at the kitchen table. O’Coffey joined him, his grandson moving to his cup left by the kettle.
‘I wanted to talk to you in private if that’s okay,’ McEvoy asked filling the silence.
‘I’ve no secrets,’ O’Coffey said.
‘All the same, it might be better…’ McEvoy trailed off.
The old man didn’t reply.
‘Right, okay,’ McEvoy conceded, ‘but if you want Peter to leave at any point just let me know. We’ve been looking into Albert Koch’s past. You used to be close, before you fell out over the strip of land. You used to…’
‘We still want that land back,’ Peter interjected. ‘It’s our land.’
‘Peter,’ O’Coffey senior warned, and then sneezed into a paper tissue.
‘You used to work for him before you bought this place.’
O’Coffey stayed silent.
‘How did you manage to buy it? You worked in a fertiliser factory, yet you could afford a farm.’
‘I worked hard.’
‘But even so, you would have needed a very large deposit and a means of paying the mortgage.’
‘What’s this got to do with Albert Koch’s death?’ Peter asked defensively.
‘It’s background information,’ McEvoy said tartly. ‘You managed to save enough on a labourer’s salary to obtain a mortgage for a farm?’ he asked O’Coffey senior.
‘Aye.’
‘You didn’t have additional help?’
‘What kind of help? What are you implying?’ Peter said angrily.
‘Look, I know you’re trying to help,’ McEvoy snapped, ‘but I’m trying to interview your grandfather, not you.’
‘And I’m making sure that you’re not trying to frame him for something he didn’t do’ Peter responded.
‘I don’t frame people! I’m asking questions potentially important to the case.’
‘You’re asking questions about something that has nothing to do with the case! How my grandfather managed to buy this farm is his business. It has nothing to do with Albert Koch’s death. How could it?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to establish,’ McEvoy explained. ‘I don’t just ask random questions, however it seems to you. So,’ he turned his attention back to Martin O’Coffey, ‘did you have any additional help?’
‘No.’
‘Not from the Bank of Ireland in Navan or Allied Irish Bank in Virginia?’
O’Coffey started to cough, a wheezy, chesty rasp that ended with him spitting phlegm into the tissue.
‘I think that’s enough,’ Peter said, moving in behind O’Coffey’s back. ‘My grandfather’s not well, Superintendent. He needs to be in bed with a hot water bottle.’
O’Coffey stayed silent.
‘I only have a couple more questions.’
‘They’ll have to wait.’
‘Were you and Koch part of the gang that robbed the two banks in 1955?’ McEvoy asked.
‘No.’
‘Superintendent, I must—’
‘Is that how you could afford this place a couple of years later? Stolen bank money?’
‘No,’ O’Coff
ey repeated.
‘That’s enough,’ Peter interjected. ‘These are crazy accusations. Mad stuff. My grandfather bought this place fair and square. We can show you the deeds, if needed. If you want to carry on, we’ll need to talk to our solicitor.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got answers to my questions,’ McEvoy said standing. ‘I doubt your grandfather’s going to change his story however many times I rephrase them.’
‘That’s because they’re true,’ Peter countered.
‘You should get a doctor out,’ McEvoy advised O’Coffey. ‘Get some antibiotics to stop that settling in.’
‘I warned you not to stress him out!’ Peter snapped.
‘No doctors,’ O’Coffey said without looking up.
* * *
The rain had turned to a light drizzle, the wind easing to occasional gusts. Sitting in his car at the edge of the car park at Ballyglass GAA club McEvoy stared across the pitch to the skeleton trees in the distance. He felt certain that Frank Koch and Peter O’Coffey were wrong; somehow Albert Koch’s past was intricately bound to his death. The problem was that Koch was surrounded by so many rumours and myths it was impossible to know which were true and which were fantasies. Koch could have been an ordinary chemist in the Reich and he could have amassed his fortune through his industry and initiative. Or he could have been a war criminal, a looter of gold, and a bank robber. He could have been a family man, a philanthropist and also have helped the IRA, supplying explosives that destroyed lives. He could have been any mix of these things.
He glanced at his watch and then scratched at his scalp. Gemma would still be in school. He needed to find time to spend with her. And he needed to visit Hannah Fallon again. Perhaps he would be able to get away early that evening; do whatever business was needed via the phone.
He sighed to himself, pushed open the car door, levered his tall frame out and headed to the clubhouse door. He almost collided with John Joyce as he stepped over the threshold.
‘How’d you get on with Martin O’Coffey?’ Joyce asked, stepping back to make room.
‘As expected, he denied taking part in either robbery. The poor sod looked like death warmed up. He’s trying to beat off the flu with half a lemon.’
‘The old remedies are sometimes the best. Listen, there’ve been two developments. First, James Kinneally’s story doesn’t stack-up. He arrived at his apartment at,’ he glanced down at his notepad, ‘11.41. He left again at 8.05 the next morning. Probably about the time that Albert Koch was discovered dead.’
‘And he arrived alone and had no visitors?’
‘And no one left with him or within two hours of him leaving.’
‘So Marion D’Arcy’s alibi is worth nothing and James Kinneally’s in the clear for murder, but he’s buggered on deliberately misleading an inquiry and he might still be an accessory?’
‘Look’s like it. What do you want me to do?’
‘We need to question them again, see what they have to say. It should be an interesting experience as I’m not sure that Kinneally’s told her yet that he’s provided her with an alibi. If we make sure she doesn’t know that, we can see if she plays along. And talk to Kinneally’s wife; find out why they separated.’
‘I’ll get on it.’ Joyce made to move off.
‘And the second?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Sugar.’ Joyce stopped in his tracks. ‘The husband of the bed and breakfast owned in Navan is saying that someone let themselves back into the house sometime around two o’clock in the morning on Saturday night, but he’s not sure who. He just remembers being woken by the key in the door. They only had two rooms occupied, so there’s a fifty-fifty chance it might have been Ewa Chojnacki and Tomas Prochazka – I’m sure I’m not saying their names correctly, but anyway. They say they were there all night, but…’ Joyce trailed off.
‘And you haven’t managed to track down the other occupants?’
‘Not yet,’ Joyce shook his head. ‘Mr and Mrs Murphy from Cork – paid in cash; no phone number. They were up for the races.’
‘Jesus. Only thing we can do is appeal for them to come forward. In the meantime put together a full timeline of what the East Europeans say their movements were and get it checked out. If other things don’t match up then it casts doubt on their story.’
‘I’ll get someone working on it.’
‘And make sure they don’t do a disappearing act.’
Joyce headed back into the incident room, making a beeline for Kelly Stringer. McEvoy followed lethargically. Just as one line of inquiry seemed to become more promising, another took a twist. Stringer motioned at him, letting him know that she wanted a word when Joyce had finished.
* * *
Maurice Coakley walked purposefully through the large shop, in behind the counter, through the pharmacy section and into an office. He was wearing a white coat over the top of a brown, tweed suit and highly polished brogues. Neither fat nor thin, he was in good health, with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes and short grey hair that was side-parted; a pair of small, silver-framed glasses was perched precariously on the end of his nose. He took a seat behind the desk and pointed at a red upholstered chair, gesturing for McEvoy to sit.
‘I’ve had a phone call from Martin O’Coffey,’ he stated.
‘So you’ll know what this is about then,’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Not really, no. I know what you’re going to ask, but it sounds to me like you’re grasping at straws. We had nothing to do with those robberies. And what they have to do with finding Bertie’s killer is beyond me. He was killed by an intruder, wasn’t he?’
‘It seems that way. The question is; what was the intruder after?’
‘Whatever he could get for his next fix probably,’ Coakley speculated. ‘If I were you, I’d round up all the local petty criminals and drug users and shake them down. They’ve cost me a fortune in extra security,’ Coakley said, referring to the need to protect pharmacies from theft.
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ McEvoy explained. ‘First, you can’t randomly round people up and, second, we’ve never been able to “shake people down”.’
Coakley snorted his derision. ‘It happened in 1955! That old bastard O’Sullivan shook us like a man possessed. What the book says you can do and what you actually do are different things.’
‘You were petty criminals.’
‘We were innocent victims! He wanted to be the big shot and solve those bank robberies. He didn’t care whether he got the right people or not. It’s not like it’s not happened. Look at the Guildford Four – they spent years in prison for crimes they didn’t commit.’
‘But you didn’t spend any time in prison. You opened a chain of very successful shops.’
‘That’s because I was innocent! As were Bertie, Frank and Martin. O’Sullivan got it into his head that we were involved, but he had no evidence. None. There was none to find. He was a lunatic in a uniform; the power had gone to his head.’
‘So where did the money for the first shop come from?’
‘Hard work! We all spent hours at that factory, breaking our backs; working our fingers to the bone. Bertie kept it to just the four of us, that way we kept the costs down and could make better profits. He promised all of us we’d get our own businesses and he was good for his word. I worked damn hard to be able to afford this place and I worked just as hard to grow the company. There are fifty-six Ostara Pharmacies in Ireland. If it wasn’t for the economic downturn, we’d have been opening nine more in the next two years. Plus we have our own brand products. Nobody is going to take that success away from me.’
‘I never said I would take it away. I was questioning whether it was founded on dirty money. If you were so innocent, why did O’Sullivan take such a keen interest in you?’
‘Because he was looking for scapegoats! We fitted the bill – two German brothers with military experience, one a chemist. He took two and two and made twenty-two. If you need a suspect fast, track down Johnny Foreigner. Berti
e and Frank Koch were good men. They married Irish women, fathered Irish children, worked damn hard to build businesses that employed people for miles around, paid Irish taxes, and gave generously to various charities.’
‘So even if they stole the money, it was a good in-vestment?’
‘If you want to look at it that way, then yes,’ Coakley said tiredly. ‘If they had stolen the money, which they didn’t, then the banks, the state and local people got it back in spades.’
‘And they got rich as well – everyone’s a winner.’
‘You don’t seem to be listening to me, Superintendent. We never robbed those banks. Our success is built on hard work. Everything Albert Koch ever made he ploughed back into Ostara. He didn’t need to rob banks; he was always saving and then investing the nest egg. He had a habit of turning pence into pounds.’
McEvoy nodded but said nothing, trying to decide how to proceed. Coakley was clearly going to keep denying any involvement in the bank robberies.
‘When are you going to release Bertie’s body?’ Coakley asked. ‘He deserves a decent send-off. You need to stop treating him as a criminal and recognise he was the victim.’
‘I’ll talk to the pathologist,’ McEvoy replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll be released to the family shortly. Can you think of any reason why someone was searching Albert Koch’s farm, other than petty theft?’
‘No. He was an old man. He was still active, but he’d stopped making as many enemies as he used to. Doesn’t mean…’ He trailed off and shrugged.
‘What kind of enemies?’
‘People whose businesses didn’t do so well under stiff competition. People he’d bought out at a bargain price. People who didn’t like him muscling in on their patch. Bertie did a lot of good deeds – funded a lot of community services – but he was a ruthless business man. If there was a market to be developed or a profit to be made then he would pursue it. It wasn’t something that endeared him to everyone.’
‘In other words he destroyed some people’s lives?’
‘I wouldn’t quite go that far. All’s fair in business. If they had the chance they’d have done the same to him. Some people succeed, others fail. Has to be that way or there’d only be factory owners and no employees.’