The White Gallows (25 page)

McEvoy eased open the door. The bedroom was cast in an orange glow from the street light seeping in round the fringes of the thin curtains. The walls were covered in posters of footballers and bands; the floor a tangle of clothes. Gemma lay facing him, her eyes closed, the quilt pulled tight under her chin, its fabric gently rising and falling. Everyday she seemed to gain more of her mother’s beauty.

He eased himself into the room and perched carefully on the edge of the bed and watched her for a while. She’d made this space her own. Half her possessions were here; maybe more than half. She was certainly spending more than half her time in his sister’s house.

He wanted to wake her and take her home, but what was the point? He would only be bringing her back a few hours later and long before she needed to be ready for school. He was her father and yet he barely saw her; rarely seemed to do what a parent was meant to do. He would need to be there for her on Friday; to provide comfort and support.

He’d promised he would take the day off work. Only he wasn’t going to be able to make it. He would be hunting the killers of a nameless young man and a mass murderer; too busy to respect the death of his wife and look after the emotional health of his daughter. He massaged his tired eyes and levered himself standing.

Gemma stirred, rolled over, and pulled the quilt in close.

He tip-toed back to the door, closing it quietly behind him, and descended the stairs, enveloped in a sober funk. Somehow he was going to have to find a way of disengaging from work for both Gemma’s and his own sake.

Caroline and Jimmy were sitting together on a black leather sofa, her back resting against his side, her legs stretched along its length. Jimmy’s left arm snaked over her shoulder and rested on her inflated stomach, his right hand clutched a bottle of Czech beer.

‘How is she?’ Caroline asked, turning her attention away from the television and a Bruce Willis film.

‘Fast asleep. I didn’t wake her.’

‘There’s a fridge full of these things if you want one,’ Jimmy said, waving the bottle without taking his eyes from the screen.

‘I’m alright, thanks. I’d better be going. Is it okay if she stays over? I’ll only be bringing her back again early tomorrow morning.’

‘You know it is,’ Caroline said. ‘It’s no bother. You look knackered, Colm. You need to look after yourself. Are you managing to eat properly?’

‘Kind of,’ he said, aware that all he’d had to eat since lunch time was a bar of chocolate. ‘I’ve been thinking of getting a nanny, you know, for when the baby arrives. She can live at the house and keep an eye on Gemma.’

‘She’s no bother, Colm. We hardly notice she’s here. Do we Jimmy?’

‘What?’ Jimmy muttered, his mind on the film.

‘I said, we hardly notice Gemma is here.’

‘Yeah.’ He took a swig of his beer.

‘All the same, when the baby arrives you’ll have your hands full,’ McEvoy said. He’d been thinking about a nanny for a while; someone to take the pressure off his sister and her partner. He’d just never got round to doing anything about it; was unsure of where to even start. There were probably agencies that took care of everything for a small fortune.

‘And she’ll be another pair of hands,’ Caroline said. ‘She’s already a blessing running around for me. Stop worrying about things, will you. Get a beer and sit down.’

‘About Friday,’ he started, then trailed off, staying where he was, hovering by the door.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll both be there. Jimmy’s managed to swap shifts. Everything’s been taken care of.’

‘I’m more worried about whether I’ll be there,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘All leave’s been cancelled since Charlie Clarke decided to try and blow up Hannah Fallon and I’m up to my neck in it with these cases.’

‘Surely they can give you one day off though?’ Caroline said angrily. ‘It’s Maggie’s anniversary for God’s sake! You’re entitled to compassionate leave. And the cases are not going anywhere; you not being there for one day isn’t going to make a difference.’

‘I’m entitled to whatever Tony Bishop decides,’ McEvoy said, knowing that he wouldn’t be pressing for leave; realising that he didn’t want to be there – that he wanted the distraction of work, not the fawning sympathy of friends and family; a whole day of Maggie’s death preying endlessly on his thoughts. It was bad enough now, with the long, lonely nights of insomnia, without it dragging on all day; people constantly reminding him of who and what he had lost. He didn’t want to forget her, he just didn’t want to end up spending the day wallowing in self-pity. ‘The interests of the public come before individual officers,’ he quoted.

‘Bollocks,’ Jimmy said, his eyes never leaving the television.

‘You
have
to be there, Colm,’ Caroline stressed. ‘It’s her anniversary, for God’s sake. Gemma will need you and Ciara has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the Mass. The whole family is travelling up. They’ll want to see you, to support you.’

‘I’ll try and make the Mass.’

‘I hope for your sake that you do. Gemma is pretty understanding, but I don’t think she’d forgive you if you missed Friday. And to be honest, nor will I. You have to be there.’

‘If they try and stop you, just tell them to fuck off,’ Jimmy suggested helpfully.

‘I could end up with a bit more time off than just Friday if I did that. And a big bloody hole in my pocket.’

‘That’s what the fucking unions are for.’

‘You two better stop swearing when this one is born,’ Caroline warned, rubbing her belly.

‘Whatever,’ Jimmy muttered.

‘I better be going,’ McEvoy said. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Tell Gemma I dropped in to see her.’

‘I will. Look after yourself, Colm. Make sure you get something decent to eat, not a bag of chips and half a bottle of whisky.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. He’d follow her advice about the food, but he needed the whisky to deaden the pain and let him drift into murky darkness.

Wednesday

Johnny Cronin and Barney Plunkett were already seated at a table, two large mugs placed in front of them. McEvoy nodded a greeting at them and headed to the counter, wiping droplets from his face. A front had moved in during the night bringing with it high winds and driving rain. He ordered a large mug of tea from an acne-scarred youth. Just as the steaming brew was handed to him he was joined by Jenny Flanagan.

‘Jesus Christ. I’ve only come fifty yards and I’m soaked,’ she said slightly out of breath, holding out the front of her long, black coat and gently shaking it. ‘Sorry I’m a little late, I couldn’t find this place; I was driving about on the other side of the shopping centre.’

‘It’s no bother, what do you want?’

‘Espresso. Thanks.’

McEvoy paid for the coffee and instructed the youth to bring it over to the table when it was ready.

‘How are things?’ he asked, sitting down next to Plunkett, Flanagan taking a seat opposite him, brushing her long, brown hair off her narrow face.

‘Pretty crap,’ Cronin said. The same age as McEvoy, he had a full head of short, dark hair and thick black moustache. He was dressed in a tired blue suit, his tie loosely knotted. ‘How about you?’

‘The same,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘Looks as if Albert Koch was a notorious, Nazi war criminal. He spent the war in Auschwitz and helped carry out experiments on Jewish prisoners. Wait until the media get hold of that; they’ll be circling round like vultures. At least we have a couple of leads worth following, unlike the Lithuanian killed in Trim. That’s going nowhere fast. How’re you getting on, Barney?’

Plunkett scratched at his sandy coloured hair and massaged his neck. ‘Nothing new to report,’ he said referring to the Raven case. ‘We’re still getting reports of sightings and we’re still following them up, but they all seem to be false trails. If he ever surfaces again it’ll be because he wants to. We’ve got bugger all to go on.’

The youth delivered Flanagan’s espresso and slunk away, casting them suspicious glances.

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be back,’ McEvoy responded. ‘Kathy Jacobs was quite certain about that,’ he said, referring to the criminal psychologist drafted in from Scotland to help on the case. ‘He’ll want to parade his ego and make sure people know about his genius – not that anyone is ever going to forget him in a hurry; he’ll be remembered long after we’re all dead.’

‘In the meantime I sit in an office and push paper around and get hassled by journalists looking for insider gossip,’ Plunkett moaned.

‘Some would say you have the cushy number,’ Cronin said. ‘Plenty of guys would like that gig rather than running around the country after shadows.’

‘No joy with our banknote scammer?’ McEvoy interjected before Plunkett could reply.

‘Nothing,’ Cronin confirmed. ‘If he’s any sense he’ll go to ground now. People know about the scam through the papers. If he does, that’ll be the last we hear of him. We don’t have a single lead. The guy’s a ghost.’

‘No luck on licence plates?’ Plunkett asked.

‘No. No one can agree on what car he’s driving, nor can they remember the plates. And he always chooses somewhere with no CCTV, so we’ve no film or photos.’

‘How about a photo-fit?’ Flanagan asked.

‘We’ve tried that. Each victim’s produced a different face. The only thing they agree on was that he had short, dark, uncombed hair, was broad shouldered and was wearing a black, leather jacket.’

‘We just have to hope that if he tries his trick again, that whoever the intended victim is contacts us in advance of any exchange,’ McEvoy suggested.

‘That’s not what the victims want to hear,’ Cronin replied.

‘And what do they suggest?’ Flanagan asked agitated.

‘That we assign as many resources as possible to the case and catch the bastard,’ Cronin said sarcastically.

‘You could try setting a trap,’ Plunkett suggested. ‘Put a story in the paper that such-and-such is in dire straits – their business is going under or their sure-fire investment went belly-up – and see if he bites. He preys on victims, right?’

Cronin nodded his head.

‘If you pose as a rich or once-rich businessman fallen on hard times he might make a pitch. How has he chosen the previous victims?’

‘We’ve no idea. He just seemed to roll into town and cast about for a suitable fall-guy.’

‘Still it might be worth a shot,’ Plunkett persisted. ‘Get the story into one of the dailies or some of the local papers and see what happens.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Cronin conceded.

‘I think Barney’s right, Johnny,’ McEvoy said. ‘Give it a go and see what happens. If nothing does, then we’ve lost nothing. If he bites then we can move in for the kill. God knows we deserve a bit of luck. And make sure it’s near Athboy. If he does bite I don’t want to have to travel to Kerry or somewhere.’

Cronin nodded his head, indicating that he’d pursue the idea.

‘Jenny?’ McEvoy prompted.

‘Well, to continue the theme, we’ve hit a brick wall. We’re fairly confident that the husband killed her. Actually scrap that, I know the bastard killed her. The problem is, he won’t confess and we’ve got damn all evidence. He claims to have been in Bansha at the time of the murders and his phone records also place him there. We have a sighting of his car near to the house but the witness can’t confirm the date. We’ve discovered he’s got a mistress, but she’s a hundred per cent behind him.’

‘What makes you so sure it’s him?’ Cronin asked.

‘Woman’s intuition,’ Flanagan hazarded. ‘It’s written all over his face. He knows we’ve nothing to go on and his supposed grief is skin-deep at best. He couldn’t care less that she’s dead.’