The White Gallows (11 page)

‘Because you were taking such good care of him.’

‘I was taking such good…’ Roza said uncertainly. ‘You think I was sleeping with Dr Koch?’ she said with disgust, realising McEvoy’s insinuation. ‘I look after the house and cook the meals. I am not a prostitute! I never…’

‘Whoa, whoa, look, I didn’t mean that,’ McEvoy said trying to defuse the situation. ‘I didn’t say you were sleeping with him. I was trying to see why you were doing the job.’

‘Because he offered it to me,’ she said indignantly. ‘He placed advert in newspaper, I answered it. I come here to work for good money.’

‘Dr Koch paid well?’

‘He pay average, but he also provided somewhere to stay.’

‘He was a good employer?’

‘He was… okay,’ she finished lamely.

‘And how about his family or people who visited the house, what were they like?’

‘Okay.’

‘Just okay?’

Roza nodded her head meekly.

‘Yesterday you told me who had visited on Saturday. There was Marion D’Arcy, James Kinneally and his business manager, Mr…’

‘Freel.’

‘Mr Freel,’ McEvoy repeated. ‘Anybody else?’

‘Dr Koch’s son, Charles, was also here in the morning with his son, Francis; Dr Koch’s grandson. They only stayed for half an hour.  They went to the horse racing.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes. Dr Koch has very few visitors. Mostly his brother and Mr Freel. Sometimes Mr Kinneally.’

‘His brother’s still alive?’ McEvoy asked surprised. Since Charles Koch hadn’t proffered that information, he’d assumed that the brother had passed away.

‘Yes. He lives nearby with his wife. He is very old, but quite well. He visited every week, one or two evenings. They listened to old music and speak to each other in German.’

‘Do you know where—’

There was a knock at the door. George Carter poked his head round the frame. ‘Sorry to interrupt but you’d better come and have a look at this.’

‘Can it wait?’

‘Not really. One of Koch’s neighbours is trying to take back what he says is his land.’

‘Mr O’Coffey,’ Roza said rolling her eyes. ‘Him and Dr Koch were always fighting.’

_{* * *}

Whichever way he looked at it he was going to have to wade through thick mud laced with cowpats. He looked up from the sodden ground and stared down the field to where a local guard was remonstrating with a man in his late thirties dressed in a check shirt, a dirty pair of jeans and green wellington boots. Behind him was an old, red, Massey Ferguson tractor, an elderly man behind the wheel looking nonplussed. Several posts and rolls of fencing wire lay on the ground. The cows in the field continued to chew the cud whilst keeping a careful eye on proceedings.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, his shoe sinking into the mud, water edging over into his socks. His suit was already a mess – if he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. He squelched his way down the field.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked the guard as he neared.

‘They’re saying that this land rightfully belongs to them and they’re taking it back.’

‘That true?’ McEvoy asked the man in the check shirt.

‘And who the fuck are you?’

‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of Albert Koch. And you are?’

‘Peter. Peter O’Coffey,’ the man said, calming a little. ‘This is our land.’

‘This is a murder site,’ McEvoy replied tartly. ‘I don’t care if you think it is your land, I want you off it until we’ve completed our searches.’

‘All we’re doing is putting up a fence,’ O’Coffey protested.

‘I don’t care. And from what I hear this is still an open dispute.’

‘All the maps show that this strip of land is part of our farm. We’re just taking back what belongs to us.’

‘What’s the problem, Peter?’ the elderly man shouted from the tractor.

‘They want us to leave,’ O’Coffey shouted back. ‘This is a murder site.’

The old man shook his head dissonantly and stared away across the field.

‘You’ve been fighting over this land for long?’ McEvoy asked.

‘Since before I was born and this is when it ends.’

‘I doubt it. You put this fence up and it’ll end in court.’

‘Nothing new there then. They can employ all the fancy lawyers they want, but this is still our land.’

‘Worth killing over?’

‘Are you accusing me of killing the old bastard?’ O’Coffey said, bristling, squaring up to McEvoy.

‘I’m seeing whether it’s a possibility,’ McEvoy hedged.

‘I didn’t kill him, Superintendent; nor did my grandfather.’ He nodded his head towards the tractor, his mouth set firm.

‘You can account for your movements on Saturday night?’

‘I was at home with the wife and kids. We live on the farm with the old man.’

‘Did you see anyone hanging around the area at all? Perhaps acting suspiciously?’

‘No. I’m up early and I’m to bed early.’

‘Right,’ McEvoy said deciding not to push things. ‘You’d better pack up your stuff and move off. You can have this argument another day.’

‘It
is
our land.’

‘I’m not saying it’s not, but I
am
telling you to leave. Either you do so of your own accord, or I’ll have to have you escorted off.’

_{* * *}

He stared down at his mud-stained trousers. He had tried to wash them in the farmyard with freezing water from an outside tap, but they were still a mess. At least his shoes were clean. He straightened his jacket and knocked on the bright red door of an old, cut-stone bungalow surrounded by well-tended, mature gardens with an immaculately cut lawn.

After a few seconds it was opened by an elderly man with a full head of grey hair, dressed in dark trousers and a tweed jacket over a plain white shirt buttoned at the neck.

‘Yes?’ the man said with a slight accent, staring down at McEvoy’s suit.

‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m investigating the death of Albert Koch. You’re his brother?’

‘Yes. Frank. Frank Koch.’

McEvoy was surprised at the strength of Koch’s handshake.

‘I’m very sorry about your brother’s death.’

Koch shrugged and stood back to allow McEvoy to enter. ‘He was an old man,’ he said to McEvoy’s back, ‘and he led a full life. Please, come in here.’ He indicated a doorway.

McEvoy entered a large sitting room with a floral carpet, a glass cabinet full of figurines, two bookcases crammed full, and a worn, green three-piece suite. Sat in one of the armchairs was an elderly lady, her dark grey hair cropped short.

‘This is the detective investigating Albert’s death,’ Frank Koch said to the woman. ‘Superintendent McEvoy. This is my wife, Mary,’ he said to McEvoy.

‘It was terrible what happened to Bertie,’ Mary said. ‘Terrible.’

‘My wife has arthritis,’ Koch said. ‘Some days are better than others. I walk everyday to keep fit, but Mary’s… she’s not so good.’

‘I manage!’ Mary said defiantly. ‘What do you expect? I’m ninety-two. He’s ninety-three. We’re not bad for our age, hey? Sit, sit. Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Fruit juice?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ McEvoy said, not wanting to create any work.

‘It’s no bother, we’ll be making one for ourselves,’ Koch said, heading for the door. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. What do you want?’

‘Tea. Tea would be great. White, no sugar.’

‘White, no sugar,’ Koch repeated disappearing from view.

McEvoy sat down on the three-seater sofa. Out of nowhere a black and white cat landed on his lap.

‘
Casper
!’ Mary snapped. ‘Come on, get down. Down!’

‘It’s okay,’ McEvoy said, stroking the cat. ‘He’s a nice cat.’

‘He’s spoilt,’ Mary replied.

‘Aren’t all pets?’

McEvoy and Mary Koch swapped small talk for a couple of minutes, the cat purring loudly on McEvoy’s lap, until Frank Koch re-entered the room carrying a tray loaded with a teapot, a small jug of milk, three china cups on saucers, and a plate of biscuits. He placed the tray down on a coffee table and started to pour, handing the first cup and saucer to McEvoy, the second to Mary, before taking the final cup and sitting on the free armchair.

‘So, Superintendent, how can we help you?’

‘I’m trying to get a sense of your brother. He came to
Ireland
after the war?’

‘Yes,’ Koch said warily.

‘He followed you here?’

‘I asked him here. It was better here than in
Germany
.’

‘You met Mary during the war?’

‘What has this got to do with my brother’s death?’ Koch asked, his brow furrowing.

‘Whoever killed your brother left a message. It might be something to do with his past.’

‘What kind of message?’ Koch asked.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that just yet. Let’s just say that it casts doubt on the idea that your brother was killed by an ordinary thief.’

‘He was killed by somebody he knew?’

‘Or somebody who knew about him,’ McEvoy hazarded.

Koch snorted derision. ‘That could be any number of people. My brother was very well known, especially around here.’

‘He was also surrounded by all kinds of rumours. Maybe the killing is related to one of them?’

‘Successful people are always surrounded by rumours,’ Koch said dismissively. ‘Others get jealous. My brother worked hard all his life. He never stopped working. And he funded many things for the local community.’

‘He was a very generous man,’ Mary added.

‘Did you work for Ostara as well, Mr Koch?’

‘For the first couple of years. I then set up my own business selling cars – Volkswagens. I had eight garages by the time I retired,’ Koch said proudly. ‘There are now twelve. My sons also sell Mercedes. I can get you a good deal if you’re interested? Much better than a Ford!’

‘You’re talking to the wrong man, I’m afraid. It’s a garda car. I just drive what I’m given,’ McEvoy said and took a sip of his tea.

‘And your own car?’

‘That’s my only car.’

‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. Mercedes is a good, safe car. Very reliable. And very classy, y’know; good for your image.’

‘Always a salesman, Superintendent,’ Mary said, smiling. ‘He can’t help himself.’