The White Gallows (16 page)

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It’s not that bad? You absolutely stink! It’s worse than Niamh Giles’ farts and, believe me, they’re the worst.’

McEvoy cracked open a couple of windows and wondered whether he should have changed before heading back out to Blanchardstown. ‘So, how was school?’ he asked, trying to play the fatherly role.

‘It was okay; same as usual.’

McEvoy sighed. An entire day summed up in six words.

‘Nothing exciting?’

‘No. It’s school.’

‘And your friends?’

‘They’re okay.

McEvoy rolled his eyes at her reluctance to divulge her day. ‘So what’s in the bag?’ he persisted in an effort to have some kind of conversation.

‘A card, some Chez Emily chocolates, and your dinner in a plastic container; you’ll have to re-warm it when we get home. It’s chilli con carne.’

‘And you got the flowers in the village?’

‘At the florist. You owe Aunt Caroline ten euros. I bought the chocolates.’

‘I’ll pay you both back later, don’t worry.’

‘Do I look worried?’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘I’d say the Bank of Dad is good for its debts.’

‘You cheeky monkey. The Bank of Dad! Where did you get that? One of your friends?’

‘I saw it on a T-shirt. I was going to buy it for you for Christmas.’

‘Don’t you dare! You’ve done your homework?’

‘Maths, French and Irish. Finished it straight after tea.’

They continued to swap stilted small talk, catching up on each other’s lives for the past two days as the orange street lights flashed by overhead, the frigid air from the open windows swirling around them.

_{* * *}

It took five minutes of driving round aimlessly to find a parking place. He waited for the elderly gentleman to reverse out and then eased the car into the slot and glanced at the clock – 7.50. ‘Come on, we should just make it.’ He levered himself out of the door, twisting in the narrow gap between his own and the neighbouring car.

‘Jesus, Dad, look at the state of you! Your trousers are covered in mud.’

McEvoy glanced down as they walked. Even in the pale glow of the car park’s street lighting, he could see his suit trousers were filthy from the knees down. ‘It’ll wash out,’ he mumbled.

‘It’s a wool suit. It’s ruined! I doubt they’re going to let you in.’

‘It’ll be fine. People come into here from accidents covered in all sorts.’

‘Not onto the wards they don’t.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll use my badge. I guess we go to casualty and see if they know where she is.’

They entered the brightly lit foyer to the Casualty Department, and hurried through a set of double doors into the noise of the main waiting room. There was a short queue to a desk where two hassled looking women were fielding queries. After a couple of minutes, they reached the front of the queue.

‘I’m looking for Hannah Fallon,’ McEvoy said.

‘Another one,’ she replied nonplussed. ‘And you are?’

‘I work with her. Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy.’ He held out his ID.

‘The only people allowed onto the wards are family,’ she said as if repeating it for the hundredth time.

‘I’m a close personal friend. I’ve worked with her for years and she was a friend of my late wife. We’ve bought her flowers.’

Gemma held up the bouquet.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘We’ll only be five minutes. I just want to see how she is. She was working on my case when she was attacked.’

‘Five minutes max,’ the woman said, folding. ‘She’s on Ward 21. She’s probably asleep in any case.’

‘Thanks.’ McEvoy turned, took Gemma’s hand and started to head towards the far end of the room. He’d only got a few yards when the woman called out to him.

‘Whoa! Whoa. Hang on. Stop!’

Several people glanced over at the commotion, wary that an incident was about to burst into life.

The woman came from behind the desk and trotted over to them.

‘You can’t go up like that. Look at the state of you. And the smell,’ she said as if noticing it for the first time above the stench of disinfectant. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Hunting round farmland for a murderer.’

‘Couldn’t you have got changed first?’

‘I’m working sixteen to eighteen hours a day on four different murder cases. It’s a miracle I found enough time to get here, let alone get home and get changed first.’

‘Well, you can’t go up like that.’

_{* * *}

He felt like an idiot. He was wearing a green surgery gown over his suit jacket and a black, plastic bin bag over each leg, taped to his thighs to keep them up.

‘I wish I had a camera,’ Gemma said, still giggling five minutes after he emerged from an ante room.

‘We all agree I look ridiculous,’ McEvoy said as they approached Hannah Fallon’s private room. ‘Five minutes then we’re out of here, okay. She’ll be tired after the surgery.’

There was a uniformed guard that McEvoy didn’t recognise sitting outside of the room. Stacked to one side of him was a pile of flowers and presents. ‘How is she?’ McEvoy asked.

‘And you are?’ the guard said defensively, staring at McEvoy’s attire.

‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy,
NBCI
. I work with DS Fallon. This is my daughter, Gemma, and this is a long story,’ he said holding out the gown.

‘She’s doing okay,’ the guard said, seemingly satisfied with McEvoy’s identity. ‘Well, as okay as someone who’s had a bomb pushed through her front door. Her sister’s in with her.’

‘Do you think it’s alright to pop my head in?’

‘I’ve been told not to disturb her. There’s been a procession of people coming up.’ He pointed down to the pile of flowers. ‘I think she’s tired of all the attention.’

‘Right,’ McEvoy said, regret in his voice. ‘Fair enough. Can you tell her we came by? That we’re thinking of her.’ McEvoy clutched Gemma to his side, knowing that she would be disappointed after her efforts to get them there.

‘Of course. No bother.’ The guard reached out to take the flowers and plastic bag from Gemma.

As he took them the door opened and Hannah’s sister stepped out holding an empty disposable cup. ‘Colm?’ she asked, her hand flying up to her mouth, stifling a laugh.

‘Hi, Catherine. How’s she doing?’

‘Jesus, she has to see this! What the hell are you wearing?’ Hannah’s sister took hold of McEvoy’s elbow and pulled him into the small, darkened room. ‘More visitors,’ she announced. ‘One of them in fancy dress.’

‘What?’ Hannah mumbled from the bed. Her legs were slightly elevated, the bed clothes draped across them. Her hair was tousled and, even in the low light, her face pale.

‘Hi, Hannah.’

‘Colm?’ she asked groggily.

‘And Gemma. At least you won’t be going to court this week.’

‘I wondered what the silver lining was,’ she tried to joke. ‘Why are you dressed for surgery?’ She closed her eyes.

‘They didn’t want me contaminating the place; I’ve come straight from Koch’s farm. I’m wearing bin liners over my trousers.’

‘I wish you’d do the same when you examine crime scenes.’

‘We bought you some flowers and chocolates.’ He nudged Gemma, who placed them on a chair next to Hannah’s bed.

‘Thanks.’

‘We’re all thinking of you.  Anything you want, just ask.’

‘Make sure that scumbag Charlie Clarke rots in hell,’ she whispered without opening her eyes.

‘Bishop’s already working on it. Come on, Gemma, let’s leave Hannah to sleep.’

McEvoy and Gemma left the room, followed by Hannah’s sister who closed the door over quietly.

‘She’s still groggy after the surgery,’ she said, ‘I don’t think it’s really hit her yet. They’ve removed her right leg from below the knee. The other one is still a bit of a mess. They think they’ve saved it, but it’s going to need additional surgery.’

‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘Just let me know if you need me to do anything. Anything, okay?’ He started to walk away, Gemma’s hand grasped firmly in his own, the bags on his legs swishing together.

Seeing Hannah had rattled him, stirring memories of Maggie’s time in hospital. Suddenly he wanted to leave the hospital, to go and find a quiet spot and sink a few drams; if the truth be known to drink to oblivion. He knew that wasn’t an option; that he’d go home, re-heat his dinner, make sure Gemma got to bed, take a shower, and then stare at the bedroom ceiling for a few hours. He’d pay good money for a cigarette right now. Instead he sucked in a lungful of fresh air, letting the breath out slowly.

Tuesday

Bishop glanced at his watch and looked up anxiously at the dimly lit street. His breath steamed in front of him. It would be another couple of hours until the sun rose above the horizon.

A team of four armed guards were crouch-walking behind a garden hedge approaching a red-brick, mid-terrace house located on the edge of a social housing estate in Mulhuddart where over half the residences were now in private ownership. A similar team were making their way to the rear of the house.

He glanced at his watch again. A voice in his ear whispered, ‘Team one, ready.’ A second later, ‘Team two, ready.’

Bishop took one last glance around the silent street. ‘Go, go, go,’ he said quietly but urgently.

The four figures rose from behind the hedge and rushed toward the door. Dressed in dark blue, with bulletproof vests and black helmets with visors they moved confidently, assured by their training. The lead man took up a position flat against the wall next to the door. The second swung a battering ram into the area of the lock. The sound reverberated down the street. He repeated his action and the door popped open. The first man swung round into the doorway and stepped into the hall.

The first bullet hit him dead centre of his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He staggered back a step, his head tipping up, exposing his chin. The second bullet smashed through his jaw, penetrating his neck and exited his back, narrowly missing his spine. One of his colleagues grabbed hold of him and dragged him out backwards through the doorway, another returned fire to the top of the stairs where the waiting gunman continued to shoot.

There was a loud noise from the rear of the property as the second team smashed through the back door. As they cautiously entered the hallway, hugging the wall out of view of the gunman, the shooting stopped. One of the guards, his pistol firmly grasped in two hands, his arms outstretched, tentatively made his way up the stairs, his colleagues covering his progress. He swung onto the landing to find it empty, a step ladder rising through into the loft space. He motioned the next person up.

‘They’re in the roof space,’ he stated loudly into his radio mic heading for the ladder. He started to climb the ladder. ‘Armed response! You’re surrounded! Drop your weapons!’

From outside he heard the dull noise of a motorbike engine kicking into life, revving loudly, and then roaring off; then the voice of Chief Superintendent Tony Bishop, ‘Shit!’