The White Gallows (26 page)

‘Have you checked the phone records for his mistress’ phone?’ Plunkett asked. ‘Perhaps they swapped mobiles? She’s in Bansha with his phone and he’s at home murdering his wife. Did they ring each other that morning?’

‘Twice,’ Flanagan confirmed.

‘Well, check with the phone company where
both
phones were. My guess is that one of the calls from her phone to his was made using the mast nearest to Kylie O’Neill’s house. I take it she claims she was nowhere near there?’

‘She says she was shopping in Caher.’

‘So, if either of the calls was made from near to Kylie’s house she has some explaining to do.’

‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of that,’ Flanagan said, obviously embarrassed. ‘If you excuse me for a minute, I need to make a call.’ She eased herself from her chair and headed for the door, her mobile phone already at her ear.

‘It’s a waste having you messing about on the Raven case,’ McEvoy said bitterly to Plunkett as way of thanks. ‘We all know he’s well hidden at this stage. We’re overstretched and we need people dealing with live cases.’

‘The press and politicians will have a fit if we drop the case, even for a few days,’ Plunkett warned.

‘That doesn’t get round the fact that we’re massively overstretched. You want a cake?’ he asked his companions. ‘I’m starving. You better not be out of ideas, Barney,’ McEvoy said rising, ‘I need all the help I can get on this Lithuanian.’

_{* * *}

Kelly Stringer had reverted to her more conservatively dressed ways, wearing a two-piece, dark blue trouser suit, flat shoes, and a plain white blouse buttoned to the neck, with her hair tied back in a pony tail. Having let McEvoy know that there had been no new developments during the morning, she directed him to a very large man, with long, grey hair and full, dark beard hunched over one of the tables, papers spread in front of him.

‘Professor Moench?’ Stringer prompted.

The man looked up slowly, his eyes drifting from Stringer to McEvoy.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. He’s in charge of the investigation into Albert Koch’s death.’

Moench pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching out a massive hand. ‘Superintendent,’ he said with a faint trace of a German accent.

Now he was standing, McEvoy realised just how much of a giant Moench was. A couple of inches taller than McEvoy’s six foot three, he was also broad and bulky, carrying a substantial stomach. His bushy beard faded to grey at the edges, and his straggly hair tumbled over the top of his brown corduroy jacket that covered a stretched red-and-blue check shirt.

‘These are most interesting,’ he said pointing to the table. ‘Unbelievable even.’

McEvoy motioned Moench and Stringer to take seats, lowering himself down to the table. ‘You think they’re genuine?’

‘That or extremely good forgeries.’

‘And Koch, or should I say Kucken, worked in Auschwitz?’

‘That’s what the files indicate. I need to work on them further and the extra files being flown in from Israel will help, but I’ll also need to cross-check them with the original archives to make sure they’re authentic.’

‘But assuming they are, Koch was a war criminal?’ McEvoy prompted.

‘Auschwitz was a massive complex of camps, Super-intendent. Not everyone working there was an evil sadist. Many were ordinary people caught up in an extraordinary situation. They may have witnessed the atrocities, and they might not have intervened, but they did not carry them out.’

‘That doesn’t exonerate them from the crimes committed
there,’ McEvoy said. ‘They were still complicit in the genocide.’

‘True, but what I’m saying is there are different levels of guilt as the trials after the war illustrated. Only a very few people were prosecuted for their part in the holocaust. If they weren’t prosecuted then, why would they be now?’

‘Justice?’ McEvoy hazarded.

‘You’re an idealist, Superintendent. This is about memory and contrition. And yes, justice, but not through the courts. It is about exposing the lie at the heart of Albert Koch’s life and business empire.’

‘But the files suggest that Koch was more than a bystander at Auschwitz? That he took part in medical experiments and he killed people in cold blood?’

‘I’ve only been looking at them for a couple of hours, but that seems to be the case. But as I’ve already said, I need to verify the authenticity of the documents before I can be sure. The material here could be an elaborate hoax. It wouldn’t be the first time that forged war documents have been used to tarnish somebody’s reputation. They might have taken a while to produce, but to bring down someone as rich and powerful as Albert Koch it would have been time well invested.’

‘And what’s your view? Are they genuine or fake?’

‘I don’t know.’ Moench shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘If they’ve been done properly they’d be almost perfect. The only way to find out is to check the original sources.’

‘We’ve already checked the Irish military records for its files on Frank Koch, his brother. They’ve been removed along with a few others. We do know, however, that there was no Frank Koch interned in Ireland, but there was a Franz Kucken. That would tie in with copies of the documents you have. At the very least it appears that Albert Koch was Adolf Kucken.’

‘And it appears that someone has started to remove files from the archives,’ Moench observed.

‘It’s extremely unlikely that whoever it is will be able to locate all the relevant material, especially if they don’t have the copies to work from. If these are genuine,’ McEvoy said, gesturing at the table of documents, ‘then we should know soon enough. Whatever help you need just ask, though remember, I’d like this to remain confidential for as long as possible. Last thing we need is a load of journalists joining in the hunt.’

‘I think you might be underestimating the power of money and old networks,’ Moench said. ‘Albert Koch definitely had the first and, if he is who these files say he is, probably the second.’

‘You really think he’d be able to remove all the incriminating material from the archives? He must have only known he was being investigated for a short while.’

‘How long would it take to send out teams of investigators when money is not a problem? A few large holes in their evidence base would start to discredit the rest. He would claim that they’d made it all up and planted some material in certain places to make it look authentic. Most, if not all, of the witnesses are dead or very old. He brings in some clever lawyers and a good PR company and he buys himself out of trouble.’

‘That sounds pretty cynical,’ McEvoy said.

‘I get the feeling that’s usually your job,’ Moench observed. ‘I would call it realistic. Only a confession would have secured the truth, whatever it was, and now that will never happen. Now it’s all papers, ghosts and conspiracy theories.’

_{* * *}

He’d parked half on the pavement, half on the road. Lined up behind a heavy chain hanging between sturdy bollards were a row of Mercedes cars. Behind them was a large, glass-fronted showroom. McEvoy eased himself from his no-frills Mondeo, pulled up his collar against the driving rain, and hurried between two cars, aware that each probably cost as much his annual salary.

The small, wiry figure of Frank Koch met him at the front door, holding two green-and-white golf umbrellas. He handed one to McEvoy and forced up the other, angling it into the wind.

‘Perhaps I can interest you in one of our cars, Super-intendent? I have just the thing for you – a 320CDi S class. It’s just over here.’ He stepped out of the shelter of the showroom and headed purposefully to the right.

For his mid-nineties, Koch was a sprightly character, dancing towards the row of cars, fighting the gusting wind.

McEvoy forced up his umbrella and trailed after him, trying to avoid the large puddles covering the forecourt.

‘Four years old, one owner, full leather trim, satnav, digital music system. More roomy and comfortable than that thing you are driving now.’ Koch came to a halt next to a large silver Mercedes.

‘I’m not interested in a new car,’ McEvoy replied. ‘You lied to me yesterday. Your real name is Franz Kucken – we’ve looked up the military records. Nobody called Frank Koch was ever interned in Ireland during the war.’

‘We’ll give you a very good trade-in for your Ford and I’ll throw in a free emergency kit,’ Koch said, ignoring him. He opened the driver’s door and gestured for McEvoy to get in. ‘Once you’ve driven one of these you’ll never go back. They’re a different class.’

‘I don’t need a new car, the old one’s fine,’ McEvoy said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘It has four wheels and it gets me from A to B.’

‘A philistine,’ Koch said, closing the door. He rounded the front of the car and headed to another three spaces down the line, McEvoy trailing after him. ‘Perhaps this one would suit you better? A CLK 200 Kompressor, 2 door. A coupé. More of a sport’s car than the 320. You must travel a lot, Superintendent. Why not travel in style and comfort? This car practically drives itself.’

‘Weren’t Mercedes vital to the German war machine?’ McEvoy goaded. ‘Didn’t they support the Nazi party?’

‘The war finished a long time ago,’ Koch snapped angrily, before calming again. ‘It’s over. Mercedes helped rebuild the economy. Without them things would have been a lot worse.’

‘You’re real name is Franz Kucken and your brother was Adolf Kucken. You were originally from Frieburg.’

‘My name is Frank Koch. My brother was Albert and we were from Munich.’ Koch passed between the cars heading to the far end of the car park, dodging round the slicks of oil and water.

‘There was no German prisoner named Frank Koch interned in the Curragh,’ McEvoy persisted.

‘Then the records are wrong. Find some of the other prisoners or guards, they will tell you I was there. Mary will tell you.’

‘I’m not denying you were there, I’m questioning your identity,’ McEvoy said.

‘Perhaps a Volkswagon might be a better choice for you?’ Koch said pulling to a stop in front of a racing green Passat. ‘1.9 TDi,
ABS
brakes, alloy wheels, cruise control, air conditioning.’

‘You’re deliberately avoiding my questions,’ McEvoy said pointedly.

‘That’s because they are stupid questions. They are irrelevant. My brother was murdered three days ago, not over sixty years ago. You are meant to be finding his murderer, not investigating his past.’

‘But what if his past is the reason for his murder?’

‘Then arrest the couple who were harassing him. They were obsessed with lies as well. They were confusing my brother with somebody else, or they were after some of his money.’ Koch set off towards the showroom. ‘You really should think about a new car, Superintendent,’ he said loudly into the wind. ‘You won’t buy better than a Mercedes and I’ll give you a good deal.’

_{* * *}

He stared at the rivulets of rain spilling down the windscreen. Perhaps Frank Koch was right. Perhaps Koch’s history was irrelevant to his death. Whether Koch was a war criminal or not, they were meant to be finding his killer, not investigating his life; though his supposed past crimes did deserve attention and justice. His mobile phone rang, jogging him out of his trance.

‘McEvoy.’

‘You’re meant to be giving me regular updates,’ Bishop said irritably.

‘I thought you had your hands full,’ McEvoy replied weakly.

‘I have got them full, but I still need to know what the hell’s going on. What am I meant to be, a mind reader?’