by Rob Kitchin
‘Yeah?’ he grumbled into the phone.
‘It’s George Carter. You left a message for me to ring you first thing.’
‘Right.’ McEvoy slowly pushed himself up in the bed and glanced at the alarm clock – 7:48.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Hangover,’ McEvoy muttered, massaging his eyes. ‘I had a few too many last night.’
‘Do you want me to ring you back later?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I wanted to know if you’d got anywhere with the Peter O’Coffey site?’
‘Jesus, give us a chance. He only died yesterday. We’re going to start work on it in the lab this morning.’
‘I need to know if Marion D’Arcy can be placed there – any footprints her size, whether there are Mercedes tyre treads on the road, any hair samples, whatever. I’m going to go and talk to her later this morning and any concrete evidence would help.’
‘You don’t want a lot then,’ Carter said sarcastically. ‘Tuesday’s more likely.’
‘I’d prefer this morning. I want to keep this thing moving. If she did kill O’Coffey, then the longer we leave it the more chance she has of getting rid of any evidence and to put in place a cast-iron alibi.’
‘Can’t you just go with what you’ve got?’ Carter pleaded.
‘I’d prefer something a little more concrete, George. All I have is a strong hunch and a witness statement from two people that Marion D’Arcy’s lawyer will argue have good reason to point the finger of suspicion at her. He’s a slick bastard.’
‘The best we’re going to be able to do are footprints. Whoever killed him had to have left some prints, the place was a quagmire. I’ll get on it when we get in.’
‘I’ll be with Johnny Cronin until eleven or so, hopefully arresting our banknote scammer. I’ll call you after that.’ McEvoy ended the call and swung his legs out of the bed. He had a bright spot of pain throbbing just behind his forehead, his eyes aching with tiredness. He slowly levered himself upright and headed for the shower. Once he’d washed and dressed he’d source some aspirin and coffee, then walk back to Caroline’s to pick up his car and head off to Clonmellon.
* * *
He’d made reasonably good time from Dublin, aware the whole way that he was probably still over the alcohol limit. As he neared Clonmellon, a small village fives miles beyond Athboy, located on the road from Mullingar to Kells, he had spoken briefly to Kelly Stringer who confirmed that Marion D’Arcy had not left her house since the funeral reception.
As he drove into the village the road doubled in width, one half forming ample parking for the small businesses and old houses that lined the street. He pulled to a stop opposite a pub and turned the engine off. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The stresses of the week and the previous night’s drinking had caught up with him. All he wanted to do was curl up under a warm duvet and sleep for twelve hours. There was a gentle tap at the window. He tilted his head and opened his right eye. Johnny Cronin stared back grim faced.
McEvoy pushed open the door and levered himself out. The wind was still gusting but the rain had now stopped, patches of blue sky appearing to the west. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘You look like shit,’ Cronin replied. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, blue jeans and white runners.
‘That’s funny, because George Carter thought I sounded like it too. Too much whiskey, too little sleep.’
‘It went okay yesterday?’
‘Yesterday went fine. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it again anytime soon. So, who is he?’
‘No idea. The plates were false and we lost him in the back roads of Cavan.’
‘Jesus, Johnny. How’re you going to do this?’
‘We’ve agreed to meet in front of the market yard,’ Cronin said pointing a little way along the road to where a high set of black, iron railings ran along the street, their length broken by a tall set of gates, a green sign hanging from one of the stone pillars. ‘I wait there in my car. He turns up in his. We swap the money and then I grab him.’
‘That simple, hey?’
‘The simpler, the better.’
‘And what about back-up?’
‘I have two guys ready to box him in. He gives me the money and they top and tail him.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing. Sit and watch. Twiddle your thumbs.’
‘And what if he’s got a gun or back-up of his own?’
‘He’s a one man operation and I doubt he’s got a gun; it’s not his style. If he has then we let him go and follow him. He won’t get far; we’ve got the locals primed. We’ll corner him and call in armed response. Happy?’
‘It’s your show,’ McEvoy said, rubbing at his face trying to massage some life into it.
* * *
McEvoy had moved his car a little further along the street, making sure he had a good view of the market yard. He’d spent the twenty minutes before the bank scammer was due to arrive catching up on the morning’s headlines.
The Irish Sun led with ‘EXECUTED!’
The Independent with the not quite accurate, ‘MAN EXECUTED AT NAZI FUNERAL.’
The Irish Times with, ‘RELATION OF NAZI WAR CRIMINAL SHOT DEAD.’
Johnny Cronin was pacing back and forth at the side of his silver Volkswagen Passat, glancing nervously at his watch every few seconds.
Twenty minutes late a black Mercedes pulled up near to Cronin’s car, facing the opposite direction. Cronin approached, appearing edgy, and leaned down to the driver’s window. After a few seconds he returned to his own car, tugging an Aldi shopping bag from the back seat. He glanced around him, then pulled a wad of notes from the bag and passed them through the Mercedes window.
A couple of seconds later Cronin raised the bag to the window and opened it wide, revealing its contents. A hand snaked out, grabbed a handle and the car shot forwards yanking the bag from Cronin’s grasp. As the car raced back onto the main road the bag disappeared through the driver’s window. A green Opel Vectra pulled away from the kerb and tried to block its path, but the Mercedes veered around it; a red Renault Megane started to do a U-turn and then braked hard to avoid an oncoming SUV, whose driver blared her horn loudly.
‘Shit!’ McEvoy muttered as he watched Cronin scramble into his car and set off in pursuit. He turned the ignition, switched on the blue emergency lights and followed. He really didn’t have time for this kind of caper.
* * *
The scammer had made it as far as Crossakeel before he over-steered trying to take a right-hand turn onto a narrow lane, seeking to lose his pursuers before they realised he’d left the main road. The car skidded sideways across a short verge through a wooden fence and into a ditch. He was scrambling from his car, tugging the Aldi bag free when the first pursuing car arrived, blue lights flashing behind its radiator grill. He thought about running, then raised his hands and pulled a wry smile, waiting to be arrested.
Johnny Cronin arrived a few moments later followed by McEvoy.
‘Had to give it a try,’ the scammer said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘For fuck’s sake, you could have killed someone,’ Cronin snapped.
‘I didn’t though, did I?’
‘Except for Gerald Staunton,’ McEvoy said, drawing level with Cronin’s shoulder. ‘Remember him? He’s the guy you stole fifty thousand from and he topped himself a few days later.’
‘I didn’t know the loser was suicidal,’ the scammer said, becoming more serious. ‘You can’t blame that on me. He’d have done it in any case.’
‘You pushed him over the edge, you stupid fucker,’ Cronin said. ‘He’d lost everything once you’d robbed him of what little he had left. He hadn’t just lost his business, he’d lost his dignity. He couldn’t see any way back.’
‘Don’t try and pin his death on me,’ the scammer said, starting to lose his cool. ‘He was prepared to break the law to keep his business going. He was quite happy to try and double his mone
y. He knew the money was stolen. I was offering him a way out.’
‘So now you were his knight in shining armour?’ Cronin snapped. ‘You didn’t even give him the stolen money! You left him high and dry. You preyed on people’s desperation.’
‘I couldn’t give them the stolen money, could I?’ The scammer smiled weakly. ‘I didn’t have it. Gullible people will believe anything. I just dangled the temptation in front of them.’
‘For God’s sake,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘How much have you made pulling this stunt?’
‘Now that would be telling.’
‘A couple of hundred thousand?’ McEvoy pressed. ‘More?’
The scammer simply shrugged his shoulders.
McEvoy pulled Cronin to one side. ‘Arrogant bastard. Look, I’m going to leave you to charge him and sort this out.’ He gestured at the stricken Mercedes. ‘I need to get back to the Koch case. Hopefully we can wrap that up today as well. Next time, make sure the bad guy gets out of the car before giving him the money!’ He turned and hurried back to his car before Cronin could reply.
* * *
Yet again he was parked up outside Ballyglass clubhouse. The surge of adrenaline from the brief car chase had dissipated and he was back to feeling sluggish and tense. He pulled up a number on his mobile.
‘Carter,’ said a distracted voice.
‘George, it’s Colm McEvoy. You got anything for me yet?’
‘No. We’ve been looking through the photos and the casts we made, but unless she has at least size nine feet she wasn’t there.’
‘There must be something,’ McEvoy said confused. ‘Perhaps she worked her way down the ditch? It was fairly dry, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but she still would have had to get to the field. I think you’re looking for a man.’
‘It has to be her,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘It was her Mercedes at The White Gallows the night her father died. She was the one who insisted that he’d died a natural death and persuaded the doctor to lie for her. She had no alibi for her whereabouts and she’d previously been caught sneaking round her father’s house by the housekeeper and Stefan Freel.’
‘Perhaps she had hired help?’ Carter suggested. ‘She could afford it. Or perhaps she’s working with someone? An accomplice?’
‘James Kinneally, perhaps,’ McEvoy speculated. ‘He’s like a big puppy dog around her.’
‘And he’d kill someone in cold blood for her, would he?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Probably not,’ McEvoy conceded.
‘If I had to put my money on anyone,’ Carter said, ‘I’d put it on Stefan Freel. He seems like a cold-hearted bastard to me.’
McEvoy agreed that Freel was shallow and self-conceited, but Marion D’Arcy seemed more likely. She was at The White Gallows the night her father died and she had a hell of a temper. Carter might not have yet found any forensic evidence to link her to O’Coffey’s murder, but it wasn’t hard to imagine her forcing her nephew to his knees and pulling the trigger.
‘Look, George, I better go, okay?’ he said drawing a close to the exchange. ‘I need to go and talk to Marion D’Arcy.’
McEvoy ended the call before Carter could reply. He eased himself out of the car and headed into the clubhouse.
Kelly Stringer looked radiant in a smart, grey suit and white blouse, three buttons open to reveal a tiny gold cross resting on her pale pink skin. Her hair was down and she smelled of the same perfume as earlier in the week.
‘What’s the latest on Marion D’Arcy?’ McEvoy asked as businesslike as he could, wanting to avoid any more awkward moments.
‘She’s still in her house. Her daughter left about an hour ago, but her husband and son are still there. So’s her brother, Charles. Are you okay? You don’t look too good.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, more brusquely than he intended. ‘Where’s Tom McManus?’
‘Out at The White Gallows with Professor Moench.’
‘Can you tell him to meet me at Marion D’Arcy’s house in ten minutes? And tell the surveillance team that I’m on my way there as well. I think it’s time to ask Mrs D’Arcy some difficult questions, don’t you? She either killed Peter O’Coffey, or she had someone do it for her. And find out where Stefan Freel is as well, will you? I might want to talk to him later.’
* * *
Tom McManus was parked just inside the gates to Marion D’Arcy’s estate. Out on the road was a small gaggle of journalists waiting for the Koch family to emerge and face their questions. McEvoy swept in past two uniformed guards and drove up to the front of the house, parking in the shadow of the portico. McManus pulled in behind him. A marked garda car coasted to a stop a few yards further back.
‘I want to make this quick,’ McEvoy said to McManus as they headed to the front door. ‘We’ll bring her in for questioning; I want to make sure her answers are formally recorded. This charade’s gone on long enough.’ He rapped hard on the door.
A few moments later it was opened by Mark D’Arcy. ‘What do you want?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Time for our daily harassment, is it?’
‘I’m here to talk to your mother,’ McEvoy replied tersely. ‘Can we come in please?’
‘No,’ D’Arcy said firmly. ‘She’s already told you that she’s not prepared to talk to you again.’
‘That’s not her choice to make, is it? We’re investigating a double homicide. That gives us the right to talk to whoever we want – including your mother.’
‘I thought Francie has been charged with the murder of my grandfather?’ D’Arcy said, his face creasing in confusion, still not giving way.
‘He has, now get out of the way,’ McEvoy snapped, pushing open the door and stepping into the large hallway.
‘But… you think my mother killed Peter O’Coffey?’ D’Arcy said incredulously, trailing after McEvoy. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Where is your mother?’ McEvoy demanded, his temper starting to fray. ‘Do we need to charge round the place like bulls in a china shop or are you going to go and find her?’
‘I’m here, Superintendent,’ Marion D’Arcy said, descending the stairs. She was wearing a green waterproof coat over a dark brown polo-neck jumper, tight cream jodhpurs, and knee-length riding boots. She looked tired and drawn; her hair was un-styled, her face free of make-up. ‘I’m just about to take one of the horses out for a canter.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ McEvoy said firmly, ‘we need you to come to Athboy garda station to answer some questions.’
‘About what?’
‘About the night your father died and the death of Peter O’Coffey.’
‘This is a joke, right?’ Marion asked as she reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘We’ve been through all this already. Several times. I was here the night my father died and I didn’t kill Peter O’Coffey. End of story.’
‘We have new evidence. I need you to come to Athboy garda station so we can interview you formally,’ McEvoy insisted.
‘Superintendent, I really think—’ Mark D’Arcy started.
‘I’m talking to your mother,’ McEvoy interrupted, ‘not you. As far as I’m aware this has nothing to do with you.’
‘I… it’s… it’s got everything to do with me,’ D’Arcy stuttered. ‘You’re harassing this family. If you…’
‘Mark!’ Marion D’Arcy snapped, silencing her son. She turned her attention back to McEvoy. ‘If you want to continue this ridiculous charade I’ll answer any questions you want, but it’ll be done here and with my lawyer present.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ McEvoy said as evenly as he could, trying to suppress his bubbling anger. ‘If you don’t want to come voluntarily I have a garda car waiting outside.’
‘Are you threatening to arrest me?’ Marion mocked a laugh. ‘With what? Being related to the two victims? I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Superintendent, because despite the slander in the papers this family still has powerful friends. And we will sue for damages.’
‘I know exactly what I’
m doing,’ McEvoy persisted, aware that he had little concrete evidence on which to arrest Marion D’Arcy except the sighting of her car by two people known to hold a grudge against her. ‘So, are you coming voluntarily or am I going to have to arrest you?’
‘On what charges?’
‘Failing to cooperate in a garda investigation, seeking to pervert the course of justice, conspiracy to murder, they’ll do to be going on with.’
‘That’s a joke, right?’ Marion snapped angrily.
‘No, it’s not a joke, Mrs D’Arcy,’ McEvoy said firmly. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to arrest me.’
‘Mother!’ Mark D’Arcy warned. ‘I really think you should—’
She cut him off with a glare.
‘Fine,’ McEvoy said. ‘Tom, go and get those two outside while I charge Mrs D’Arcy.’
‘Mark, call John Rice and tell him to get to Athboy garda station as soon as possible,’ Marion D’Arcy instructed. ‘And get onto your Uncle Frank, he’ll know what to do. You’re making a big mistake, Superintendent. I had nothing to do with either death.’
* * *
He was pacing the corridor, anxious to make a start. Now that his anger had dissipated he was starting to worry that he’d been too hasty.
Marion D’Arcy had left her house with her head held high and had seemingly welcomed the flashing cameras of the media as they passed through her gates, staring from the back window of the garda car defiantly. Since arriving in Athboy she’d sat imperially in an interview room waiting for John Rice to arrive. Her confidence was unsettling.
His mobile phone rang. ‘McEvoy.’
‘You better know what the hell you’re doing, Colm,’ Bishop snapped. ‘I’ve just had the Minister for Justice on the phone, warming my ear. He didn’t take kindly to having to deal with, and I quote, “this shit”, on a Saturday. I take it that you have forensics or witnesses that link Marion D’Arcy to both murders?’