by Rob Kitchin
‘I’ve just had another call from Paul Cassidy, TD for North Meath,’ Bishop continued without apologising. ‘He wants to know why you’re treating Marion D’Arcy as a prime suspect in the death of her father when you don’t have a shred of evidence.’
‘I’m not treating her as a prime suspect. But she doesn’t have an alibi for the night her father died and James Kinneally, the CEO of Ostara, provided her with a false one. They’re having an affair, though you’d never guess it from talking to her. I had no choice but to interview her, only she’s allergic to being questioned.’
‘From what I’ve heard it’s the style of questioning that’s the problem, Colm. She has a lot of powerful friends – friends who could be a real pain in the backside if they wanted to be. Do you understand what I’m saying here?’
‘Yeah, you’re saying that I should treat people differently depending on their wealth,’ McEvoy said facetiously.
‘I’m telling you to treat people differently based on their political clout, you gombeen! Will you be smart for once; there’s no point creating more grief than you have to. She’s on the warpath now. And she’s getting people like Cassidy to do her bloody dirty work for her. Just handle her with kid gloves,’ he said, calming. ‘Don’t do anything to antagonise her, okay. And for God’s sake, don’t arrest her unless you are one hundred per cent sure she’s guilty and you have cast-iron evidence.’
‘I have to be able to ask her questions.’
‘Look, if you need to talk to her again, talk to me first, okay? She requires diplomacy. Lots of it.’ Bishop ended the call.
‘What a scuzzball,’ Gemma said. ‘He sounds like a real langer.’
‘Gemma!’ McEvoy warned, thinking that Bishop didn’t know diplomacy; he only knew its lesser cousin, shenanigans – political manoeuvring and shady deals. It was clear though he’d have to watch how he proceeded. That was now the second time Marion D’Arcy had used Cassidy to try and rein him in. While Cassidy was relatively small time, he could still make his life difficult. And Koch’s daughter probably had more senior figures to pull in if the going got tough, along with Ostara’s considerable clout.
* * *
Official visiting hours were long over by the time they’d made their way through the hospital and up to Hannah Fallon’s private room. A different guard was sitting outside her door. He looked up with a bored expression as they approached, a copy of Cosmopolitan open on his knees.
‘Catching up on a bit of reading?’ McEvoy said by way of a greeting.
‘Learning how the other side thinks,’ the guard replied. ‘Quite frankly it’s scary stuff. I preferred ignorance. I’m afraid visiting hours are over.’
McEvoy pulled his badge from his pocket. ‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. This is my daughter, Gemma.’
‘Fair enough,’ the guard said and dropped his gaze back to the magazine story on how to spot when men were cheating. ‘Just remember that what these magazines say about men is rubbish,’ he said, glancing back up to Gemma.
‘It’s alright, I know,’ Gemma replied. ‘They’re twice as bad as the magazines say.’
The guard snorted derision and once again dropped his eyes.
McEvoy knocked gently on the door and edged it open.
The room was covered in flowers and cards, a pile of presents in one corner. Hannah was propped up by a couple of pillows. Her legs were still raised and covered by a blanket. Her hair was combed, but her face was pasty, dark crescents under her eyes. Her sister, Catherine, was sitting in the chair next to the bed, also looking exhausted. They both turned their gazes away from a small portable television to the door.
‘Colm!’ Hannah exclaimed tiredly. ‘Come in. Jesus, I didn’t expect to see you. And Gemma.’
Colm moved into the room and stood at the end of the bed, his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Look, we won’t stay long. We just wanted to drop by and see how you were.’
‘God, it’s no bother. It’s great you could come. Catherine said you’d come in the night it happened. I was totally out of it after the operation, so I’m afraid I don’t remember – sorry. The last couple of days have been a bit of a blur to be honest. I feel like I’m an animal in a zoo, everyone dropping in to take a look and prod and poke and ask questions. I didn’t realise how many people cared about me. I could open a florists,’ she said gesturing at the flowers. ‘And that’s after I’ve sent half of them to other wards. Take a seat. There’ll be another chair in the hall somewhere.’
‘It’s okay,’ McEvoy said, still standing. ‘We won’t be long. I’m sure you need your rest. How’re you feeling today?’
‘Vengeful. Charlie Clarke better not show his face round here or I’ll club him to death with a crutch. At least I’m going to keep one leg, though it won’t win any lovely leg competitions. The doctors seem to be happy enough with it. They’re going to fit me up with a prosthetic for the other one. I keep thinking it’s still there. A phantom leg they call it. My head’s telling me I’m wiggling my toes, my eyes are telling me there’s no toes there. Once I get the new leg I should be able to walk okay after some rehabilitation.’
‘At least that’s something,’ McEvoy muttered, unsure what to say.
‘Better than I hoped for,’ Hannah said. ‘I thought I might end up in a wheelchair, in which case my career would be totally up the chute. I’d be able to do lab work, but the field stuff would be hopeless. I’m hoping to be back out and about in six months.’
‘That’s a best case scenario,’ Catherine cautioned. ‘It might take a little longer.’
‘Six months,’ Hannah reiterated. ‘So, enough about me. How’re things, Gemma? You managing to keep your father on the straight and narrow?’
Gemma shrugged shyly. ‘I’m doing my best. He’s pretty busy, so I only get to see him now and then. He needs someone to make sure he eats and drinks. He gets so wrapped up in things that he forgets.’
McEvoy felt his chest tighten with guilt and embarrassment. Realising that they might be there for some time he dropped down on the spare chair, pulling Gemma towards him so that she perched on his knee.
* * *
‘Is it too late to talk?’ John Joyce asked.
‘Are you still out in Athboy?’ McEvoy asked, stirring a cup of coffee. He’d got back from the hospital half an hour earlier and had just packed Gemma off to bed.
‘I’m on my way back in to Dublin. I was following up on James Kinneally’s wife. I’ve no idea why he left her as she seemed very pleasant to me. Open, funny, good company.’
‘Money and power,’ McEvoy said cynically.
‘He already has money and power.’
‘You can never get enough apparently. So what did she have to say for herself?’
‘He left about eight months ago. She says she didn’t see it coming at all. He just moved out one day – totally turned her world upside down. She thinks he was seduced by Marion D’Arcy rather than the other way around. She doesn’t have a single good thing to say about her.’
‘She’s probably right.’
‘This is the twist though. She says it took her a while to find her feet again, but that she was going to screw Kinneally for everything that he’s got and also Marion D’Arcy. And she’s now in a relationship with Charles Koch.’
‘Kinneally’s wife is dating Charles Koch?’ McEvoy said incredulously.
‘That’s what she says. She said it started about three months since. She also says she can’t believe she didn’t have an affair years ago. It’s really re-energised her life.’
‘So James Kinneally is dating Marion D’Arcy, and Patricia Kinneally is having an affair with Charles Koch?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do Marion and Charles know this?’
‘I presume so.’
‘The lifestyles of the rich and famous,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘She says she was with Charles Koch on the night of Albert Koch’s death. He stayed at her house.’
‘That’s not what he said. He said he spent the night by himself at his holiday cottage near to Loughcrew. I guess I need to talk to him again. Look, I’ll let you get on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ McEvoy ended the call and took a sip of his coffee. The investigation into the death of Albert Koch was full of surprises – death camps, medical experiments, secret builders, bank robberies, adoptions, and affairs. From a cynical perspective the new pairings were simply about maximising the potential return from Ostara – either through family or business inheritance. McEvoy doubted the relationships were anything to do with love or emotional commitment.
He headed to the stairs and slowly trudged up them, knowing he would now lie awake haunted by his own lost love.
Thursday
It was seven thirty in the morning and McEvoy was making good progress against the ribbon of vehicles heading slowly towards Dublin. He’d spent half the night lying awake, his mind refusing to stop ticking over. It was at it again; a thought was wriggling away just out of reach. They were missing something. Something obvious. They’d been so focused on finding out about Albert Koch’s past they’d neglected to focus fully on his killing.
He started to run through how Koch had been found. He’d been hit on the head with a vase downstairs and then carried up and arranged in his bed. Whoever killed him was hoping that it would be mistaken for a natural death. Why else move the body? But then, why hang a noose from the White Gallows oak tree? It didn’t make any sense. The rope drew attention to the fact that there’d been a visitor during the night. So the killer clearly knew the authorities wouldn’t be fooled and the rope was probably a crude attempt at misdirection. It was almost certainly an improvisation, which meant that by hanging the rope from the tree the killer revealed knowledge about the history of the site. And the killer knew how to make a noose and had the strength to throw its weight over a high branch.
A yellow light lit up on the dashboard interrupting his train of thought. He was low on petrol. He cursed to himself and tried to remember how far it was to the next filling station – hopefully not more than a couple of miles. He tried to re-muster his thoughts, but whatever insight had been hovering just out of reach had now evaporated.
After a couple of minutes he approached a garage. He pulled in, filled up the car’s tank and went inside to pay. As he headed to the counter he passed a row of daily newspapers stacked up in piles. He glanced down at the headlines and pulled to a stop. Each paper led on the same story about Albert Koch.
‘NAZI WAR CRIMINAL’
‘OSTARA’S SECRET AUSCHWITZ PAST’
He reached down and lifted up a copy of the Irish Sun. The headline was, ‘KILLER KOCH!’ followed by, ‘Exclusive: Auschwitz Torturer became Irish Billionaire!’ The story was accompanied by the head shot of the young Albert Koch wearing his SS uniform and cap. He started to read.
‘The billionaire tycoon, Albert Koch, 91, found murdered on Monday was, The Sun can exclusively reveal, an SS killer in the Auschwitz death camp. According to Yellow Star, a Jewish organisation that tracks down aging Nazis, Koch took part in the infamous Jewish Skeleton Project, removing the flesh from corpses for racial experiments.
‘Koch, whose real name was Adolf Kucken, arrived in Ireland in 1948. He established Ostara Industries four years later, reputedly using looted Nazi gold. The company quickly grew to become one of the biggest businesses in Ireland. Wholly owned by Koch, he was rumoured to be the third richest person in the country at the time of his death. Story continued on Pages 4 and 5.’
McEvoy didn’t bother opening the paper. Instead he gathered up a selection of its competitors and paid at the counter.
The media and lawyers were going to be crawling all over the case now. He just hoped to God that the source of the story was Yellow Star and not the gardai. There’d be hell to pay if Galligan or another officer had leaked details of the investigation. And God only knew how Marion D’Arcy, Charles and Frank Koch were going to react. They were probably apoplectic with rage and hurt, which was going to make mining them for additional information almost impossible.
He made his way back to his car, dumping the papers on the passenger seat. He pulled away from the pump, parked at the edge of the forecourt and started to work his way through the papers trying to get an assessment of how much information had been leaked.
Ten minutes later he was fairly confident that the source of the story had been Yellow Star or Professor Moench. All the information had seemingly come from documents collected by Ewa Chojnacki and Tomas Prochazka and there was no mention of the bank robbery or the supposed secret vault.
His mobile phone rang and he glanced at the screen before answering. Experience told him that when a story like this broke, all kinds of people managed to obtain his phone number, including the press.
‘McEvoy.’
‘Colm, tell me we are not responsible for today’s newspapers,’ Bishop snapped.
‘I’ve been through most of them and it’s not us. I’d say it was Yellow Star. It’s all their material.’
‘At least that’s something. I’ve just had my ears warmed by Paul Cassidy again, the greasy little gobshite. Marion D’Arcy and Ostara will be taking libel cases against all the papers and she’s seeking an injunction to stop them publishing any other stories claiming that her father was a Nazi war criminal. What’s your take on it?’
‘I don’t know,’ McEvoy said slowly. ‘According to a professor we’ve bought in to look at the documents there was an Adolf Kucken who worked in Auschwitz. Proving conclusively that Albert Koch was Adolf Kucken might be more difficult though. It looks that way, but without genetic testing, and with a good set of lawyers, I think the papers are going to run into problems.’
‘Good,’ Bishop spat spitefully, himself a recent victim of the media’s ire at the gardai’s inability to stop the gangland wars and murders. ‘The bastards deserve a roasting.’
‘There’s plenty more stories to come out,’ McEvoy continued. ‘It seems likely that Koch was also involved in two bank robberies in Navan and Virginia in 1955. Again there’s no conclusive proof, but it looks that way. And there’s no way we’ll be able to keep a lid on it all, not with an army of journalists trying to sniff out a juicy story.’
‘Jesus,’ Bishop muttered. ‘First Charlie Clarke, now this. This country’s going to hell. Just try and keep a lid on things, okay? And go easy on Marion D’Arcy. She’s going to be like a raging, wounded bear.’ He ended the call.
McEvoy tipped his head back and stared at the car’s roof, before slowly rolling it forward and starting the car. The day had barely started and yet he already wished it was nearly over.
* * *
There were a dozen journalists hanging round the entrance to Ballyglass GAA club being held at bay from the car park by two uniformed guards. McEvoy eased his car slowly through them and parked as far away from them as possible. As he levered himself out, with the day’s papers tucked under his arm, the door of a gleaming, black, Audi A6, parked a few cars away, opened and a well-dressed man emerged. With his slicked back, silver hair, shiny grey suit, and long, black, woollen coat, McEvoy knew he was probably a solicitor or lawyer.
‘Superintendent McEvoy?’ the man asked with a North Dublin accent.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m John Rice.’ The man rounded the car to block McEvoy’s path toward the clubhouse. ‘I’m Marion D’Arcy’s legal adviser.’ He held out his hand.
Reluctantly McEvoy accepted the offer of a handshake, noting that the man must have taken a bath in aftershave.
‘You’ve seen the papers then,’ Rice observed.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ McEvoy said, ‘but it was nothing to do with us.’
‘It’s everything to do with you,’ Rice said. ‘You’re the ones treating Albert Koch’s death as suspicious. If the family doctor had been able to do his job, you wouldn’t be camped out here, and everyone would be getting on with their lives.’
‘Albert K
och was murdered, Mr…’ McEvoy trailed off.
‘Rice. John Rice,’ the man repeated.
‘…Mr Rice,’ McEvoy finished his sentence. ‘You should be talking to the papers, not me. All I want to do is catch Albert Koch’s killer.’ McEvoy rounded the lawyer and proceeded towards the clubhouse. A couple of the journalists started to shout across the car park, desperate to get his attention. He ignored them and kept going. There was no way he was going to talk to them directly unless he had to; not after the way he was treated by them during and after the Raven case.
‘Don’t worry, we are talking to the papers, superintendent,’ Rice said, trailing after him. ‘Damn parasites,’ he said glancing over at them as a flash popped. ‘I need you to put some men outside Marion D’Arcy’s house. She’s being hounded by them.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ McEvoy offered. He pulled open the door into the clubhouse and entered. Kevin Boyle, Ostara’s PR person, was waiting for him in the hallway. McEvoy pulled to a stop and turned to face Rice.
‘See what you can do?’ Rice said incredulously before McEvoy could speak. ‘It’s the least you can do. First, you treat her like a prime suspect and second you let information about the case leak to the media. She trying to organise her father’s funeral for tomorrow afternoon and she’s a nervous wreck. Having the media camped outside her door harassing her is a gross invasion of privacy.’
‘I said, I’ll see what I can do,’ McEvoy stated, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘I’ll have men out there in the next hour. As for Mrs D’Arcy, I haven’t accused her of anything. It’s my job to ask questions. She doesn’t like answering them. And there’s no getting around the fact that she had no alibi for Saturday night and her lover, who happens to be in charge of Ostara, provided her with a false alibi. That, in anyone’s book, is suspicious and demands explanation.’
Rice shook his head in frustration. ‘Marion D’Arcy did not kill her father. We all know that. If you want to speak to her again then I insist that I’m present. As for James Kinneally, I’ve no idea why he did such a stupid thing other than he was trying to protect her from your aggressive tactics. I will do everything I can to protect my client, Superintendent. My suggestion is you start doing the same before I have to start preparing a case against you.’