The White Gallows (14 page)

‘I… well… to deal with the media I need to know what the hell’s going on!’ Galligan said forcibly, his face bright red.

‘We’re telling you all you
need
to know. I don’t want any important information given to the media that might accidentally jeopardise the case. We operate the same way in all cases. If you don’t want to do the job, that’s fine, I’ll find someone else.’

‘No, no. There’s no way you’re pulling that trick on me. I’ll continue dealing with the media, but I need full access to the case.’

‘Well you’re not getting full access; you’ll get what you’re given.’

‘What I’m given?’ Galligan snapped. ‘I’m not some little school child, McEvoy. This is a murder investigation in my divisional area. I’m going further up the chain; this is ridiculous.’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ McEvoy warned. ‘Senior management are not in a good mood at the minute given the attempt to blow-up one of their officers this morning. They’ll ungraciously put you back in your place and also mark your card.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘That’s advice. If you want a threat, then I’ll ring them up and tell them that you’re wilfully hindering my investigation.’

‘You’ll do what? You can try and throw your weight around, McEvoy, but just remember that it’s my resources you’re reliant on. Without me, you’ll grind to a halt.’

‘My suggestion is that you leave right now,’ McEvoy said, losing his cool. ‘As of now I’m reassigning the media spokesperson.’

‘You’re doing what? No fuckin’ way!’ Galligan spat. ‘If you want a war, then you’ve got one.’

‘Whatever,’ McEvoy said dismissively. He turned to Stringer, trying to hide his rage.

Galligan stared at him angrily for a moment and then stormed to the door, slamming it behind him.

‘I take it he’s left then?’ McEvoy said, smiling apologetically.

Stringer nodded. ‘Talk about butting stags.’

‘He’s a stupid gombeen. He was giving you a hard time?’

‘Nothing too serious in a chauvinistic, threatening kind of a way,’ she smiled.

‘Well, I don’t know what you’re smiling for; you’re the new media spokesperson.’

‘I’m the what?’ Stringer said, instinctively patting down her hair.

McEvoy’s phone rang. ‘You heard. Yes?’

‘Colm, it’s Jenny. Do you have a minute?’

‘Yeah, fire away,’ McEvoy said, taking a step away from Stringer.

‘I think we might finally be getting somewhere. We have a witness who saw the husband’s car on the road from Bansha to Galbally on the morning that Kylie O’Neill was killed. He remembered it because of the sticker on the back window. “Honk if you’re honkytonk.” I doubt there are many of those around.’

‘And he definitely saw it on the right day?’

‘He thinks so.’

‘He thinks?’

‘He’s pretty certain.’

‘Jesus, Jenny, the case will last two seconds.’

‘He killed her,’ Flanagan said defensively. ‘We all know he did. Do you want to come down if we interview him again?’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t, I’m up to my eyeballs here. I’ll give you a ring later, okay? I know you think he did it, but tread carefully; you don’t want to make problems for yourself later on. See if you can find anyone else who might have seen that car that morning.’

‘Shit,’ Flanagan said, disappointment in her voice. ‘Any news on Hannah Fallon?’

‘Hang on a second.’ McEvoy turned to Stringer. ‘Kelly, any news on Hannah?’

‘She’s out of surgery and she’s doing okay. They managed to save the second leg but she’ll be in hospital for at least a couple of weeks.’

‘Did you get that?’ he asked Flanagan.

‘Yeah, thanks. I hope they string the bastards up.’

‘I think “throw away the key” is the phrase you’re looking for.’

_{* * *}

Martin O’Coffey motioned towards an old wooden chair placed in under a Formica-topped table. The kitchen reminded McEvoy of his childhood – fake wooden laminate over chipboard with cheap plastic handles, an old electric cooker with spiral elements, a large, off-white Hotpoint fridge, and a
Belfast
sink. Set against one wall was an ancient Aga, pumping out a low heat.

‘Do you live here on your own?’ McEvoy asked, pulling the chair out and sitting down.

‘Aye,’ O’Coffey took a drag on his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the brown lino floor. He was wearing an old, light grey suit jacket over a dirty white shirt, and dark flannel trousers.

‘You’re a widower?’ McEvoy asked, trying to ignore the tantalising smell of O’Coffey’s smoke.

‘Eleven years.’

‘And your grandson?’

‘Next door.’ O’Coffey pointed over McEvoy’s shoulder and moved towards a kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘Thanks. You were Albert Koch’s brother-in-law?’

He trickled water into the kettle. ‘Aye.’

‘So you knew him a long time?’

Another lengthy pause. ‘Aye.’

‘He married your sister and adopted her daughter?’

‘Aye.’

McEvoy rolled his eyes. It was like interviewing Jim Whelan, only slower. ‘So Albert Koch was not
Marion
’s natural father?’

‘No.’ The old man shuffled to a kitchen cabinet and took out a packet of Rich Tea biscuits, the top twisted tight.

‘But he always treated her as such?’

O’Coffey placed the packet carefully in front of McEvoy, avoiding his eyes. ‘Aye.’

‘So who was her father?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘How long had you been arguing with Albert Koch over the strip of land?’

‘Fifty years.’ The kettle was coming near to the boil. ‘Milk?’

‘Please. And you couldn’t come to an agreement in fifty years?’ McEvoy said reproachfully.

‘No.’ O’Coffey shook his head sadly.

‘So why didn’t you just forget about it?’

‘Because it’s our land,’ the old man stated determinedly.

‘So you argued about it?’

‘Sometimes,’ O’Coffey shrugged and pulled open the fridge door.

From where he was sitting, McEvoy could see that all that the large fridge contained was a joint of ham, a carton of milk, and a small lump of cheese.

‘But you still met each other every Friday?’

The kettle clicked off. ‘No reason not to.’ O’Coffey poured the steaming water into two mugs.

‘So you didn’t hold a grudge?’ McEvoy asked as gently as he could, trying to coax the old man along.

‘No.’

‘But your grandson did?’

O’Coffey shrugged and placed an unwashed mug full of milky tea in front of McEvoy.

‘Your grandson argued with him over the land?’ McEvoy pressed.

O’Coffey stayed silent, pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. A cat that McEvoy hadn’t noticed leapt into the old man’s lap. The old man ignored the cat and its purring and reached across the table to the biscuits. He slowly untwisted the plastic wrapping and forced a biscuit up through the opening, tipping the packet towards McEvoy.

McEvoy plucked the biscuit free. ‘Thanks. Your grandson?’

O’Coffey pulled his arm back and freed a biscuit for himself. He dunked it in his milky brew and took a bite before the soggy mass broke free. ‘Once or twice,’ he conceded as he chewed.

‘Did he ever threaten him?’

‘No.’

McEvoy’s phone rang.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he pulled it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, deciding whether to answer it. ‘Yes?’

‘What the hell are you playing at, Colm?’ Tony Bishop snapped. ‘Some stupid gobshite named Galligan’s on the warpath. I’ve just had the Assistant Commissioner warm my ear. I don’t care who he is or what he’s done, but you better start re-building some bridges.’

‘I… er…’

‘Just do it, okay? I don’t have time to be clearing up after you.’ Bishop ended the call.

McEvoy stared down at the phone and inwardly cursed Galligan. He was obviously better connected than McEvoy had anticipated. He’d have to reappoint him as the media spokesperson. He glanced up at O’Coffey and pulled an apologetic smile, trying to get his mind back on the case. ‘Sorry about that. Do you still see much of your niece?’

‘
Marion
?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘She doesn’t have time for her family?’

O’Coffey stayed silent and stared out of the window into the farmyard.

McEvoy took a bite of the biscuit and followed his gaze. The light was fast fading. Two Belgium Blue cattle stared back at them from a shed roofed in red corrugated iron.

‘Mr O’Coffey?’

‘Sorry?’ O’Coffey turned his gaze back to McEvoy.

‘Your niece, Marion D’Arcy?’

‘Yes?’

‘She doesn’t have a lot of time for you?’

‘No.’ He took a loud slurp from his tea and stared down at the table.

McEvoy sighed to himself. He wasn’t going to get much more from the old man. And what little he would get would take hours.

_{* * *}

It was barely past
four thirty
and it was already nearly dark, his headlights dancing on the rough and patched tarmac. He was heading back to Ballyglass GAA club, trying to decide how to deal with Cathal Galligan. His mobile phone rang.

‘McEvoy.’

‘Dad?’ Gemma asked cautiously.

‘Hiya, pumpkin,’ he replied less gruffly. ‘How’re things?’

‘We’ve just heard the news. They said that a bomb had exploded at Hannah’s house and that she’d lost a leg. Is she okay?’ she asked concerned. Gemma had come to know Hannah Fallon over the years. She was one of his few work colleagues that she liked, mainly because Hannah treated her as an equal rather than a child. For a twelve year old there was nothing worse than being patronised by an ingratiating adult.

‘She’s going to be fine. She’ll be in hospital for a while, but she’ll be okay.’

‘Are you going to go and visit her?’

‘I was thinking I might pop in on the way home. She’s probably not allowed any visitors but I thought I’d stop by in any case; see how she is.’

‘Can I come too?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Gemma. She’s been operated on for most of the day. I doubt anybody will be able to see her.’

‘But you’re going,’ Gemma pleaded. ‘If you’re going, I want to go. She was my friend as well.’