The White Gallows (37 page)

‘It’s complete madness that it’s going ahead in the first place,’ Bishop moaned. ‘What the hell were you thinking about?’

‘Once Elaine Jones said she was releasing the body there wasn’t much I could do. It was in the family’s hands.’

‘You could have delayed the release. Elaine knows the score.’

‘I didn’t know the papers were going to go crazy. It’ll be fine. We’ve been working on it all afternoon.’

‘Which means you haven’t been working on catching the killer,’ Bishop snapped. ‘And while we’re talking about the press, I want you to take over from Galligan.’

‘I don’t have time to prepare for press conferences,’ McEvoy said, a sinking feeling opening in his stomach. He’d been personally savaged by the media in The Raven case and was still bitter from the whole experience. At least Bishop had defended McEvoy’s position, rather than conceding any ground to Galligan. ‘Perhaps John Joyce could do it?’ he suggested trying not to sound desperate.

‘It has to be Inspector or Superintendent level,’ Bishop insisted. ‘This is a high profile case, not a missing cat. The public expect a senior officer to be talking to them.’

‘How about Johnny Cronin?’ McEvoy said grasping at straws. ‘I’m not available tomorrow, remember?’

‘Cronin’s up to his neck with the scamming case, isn’t he? Maybe it’s best that you didn’t do it. We want them to focus on the case, not the investigating officer. Perhaps Joyce wouldn’t be a bad choice? Get them to use his doctor title – Dr John Joyce, Detective Sergeant,
NBCI
. That’ll add some gravitas to it all; let them know that we’re using an intellectual heavyweight on the case,’ he said sarcastically.

‘I’ll tell him the good news,’ McEvoy replied evenly, managing to keep his relief from his voice.

‘You never know, the job might suit him,’ Bishop said. He paused before continuing. ‘Keep out of further trouble, Colm. I can’t keep watching your back. I have enough to be doing trying to deal with Charlie Clarke’s gang. We raided two houses this morning – found thirty kilos of cocaine. That’s going to hurt his pocket. I’m going to keep targeting his operations until he gives up the bastards that bombed Hannah Fallon. He’s either going to cooperate or he’s going out of business. Don’t mess up, okay?’ Bishop ended the call.

McEvoy reflected that Bishop’s strategy was what the gardai should be doing all the time – putting high pressure on the criminal gangs, forcing them into errors, disrupting their operations, shutting them down, and sending them to prison. It shouldn’t just be a pressure tactic when particular results were required.

_{* * *}

Martin O’Coffey had been too ill to talk to Kelly Stringer, bedridden with flu, but after a bit of persuading his grandson Peter had reluctantly agreed to let the field next to the church be used as a car park for a small fee.

McEvoy had found time to talk to Terry Macken. He’d been his usual self, full of energy and wisecracks. Whatever McEvoy wanted he was willing to accommodate as long as he still got paid the same amount and it involved no extra work. He would have forty security staff working the church. Every person attending would have their bags checked for cameras and other recording devices; these would be confiscated and held for collection until people left. There would be a one mile exclusion zone for the media.

Macken had been provided by Marion D’Arcy and Ostara Industries with a list of people who could enter the church itself. McEvoy had agreed that TM Security would still operate the outer and inner security, as long as his guards could mix amongst them and Stringer, Joyce and McManus were admitted to the church. If there was any major incident, the guards would step in and take charge. He was apprehensive about missing the event, but then maybe he would be able to sneak away from Maggie’s commemoration by early afternoon. God knows he would need a break by then from the memories and platitudes.

He stood up from the table and stretched his back. Planning the policing for Albert Koch’s funeral had taken up most of the afternoon. He was starting to feel that most things were now under control. Terry Macken knew what he was doing and Stringer and Joyce were competent enough.

He glanced at his watch. It was just coming up to five fifteen. He wondered how Joyce would get on with the press conference; it was due to start at the half hour. Enough time for the hacks to do a quick edit and summary for the six o’clock news. He’d tried explaining to him what it would be like now the international press were involved, but it was only through experiencing the full-on glare and the awkward and difficult questions that he’d truly know. Nothing ever really prepared you for that. He’d been through the wringer with the Raven case and had no intention of talking to a journalist again if he could help it.

His mobile phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and stared at the screen. He recognised the caller number but couldn’t place it. He decided to risk it.

‘McEvoy.’

‘It’s George Carter. You better come out to Koch’s farm.’

‘You’ve found the secret compartment?’

‘We’ve found Hitler’s fuckin’ bunker! You won’t believe the place. Any doubts you had about this guy being a war criminal, you can forget them. He was a bona fide Nazi fanatic. The place is like a fuckin’ museum.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ McEvoy said, bursting out of the doors into the chill air, the sky having already faded to darkness.

_{* * *}

He’d been directed across the farmyard and out the far side to the Gallow’s tree. There he was met by Tom McManus and three guards wearing large, luminous jackets, their caps pulled down tight to try and keep out the frigid air. The men were huddled together, shifting from foot to foot, their breath steaming.

‘You’re not going to believe this place,’ McManus said directing McEvoy toward the derelict shed situated between the oak tree and the outbuildings surrounding the yard.

As they approached, McManus’ torch revealed the faintest of paths. He pulled back some rusted corrugated iron and motioned McEvoy forward. It was almost pitch black inside, the pale night of the sky barely penetrating the glassless window. McManus swung his torch around the floor revealing old agricultural equipment and feed bags. There were shelves on two of the walls holding jars full of nails and old tins.

‘We found this place totally by accident,’ McManus continued. ‘The guard searching the shed stumbled over some of the crap on the floor and grabbed at the shelf, grasping hold of this hook.’ McManus took hold of the slim brass hook and tugged it downwards. He pointed his torch at the far end of the shed.

At first nothing happened, then four square feet of the floor dropped six inches and slid under the remaining dirty concrete to reveal a lighted set of stairs.

‘After you,’ McManus said.

McEvoy shuffled forward and descended the concrete steps. As he neared the bottom a largish room, perhaps ten feet high, forty feet in length and twenty feet wide, came into view. The wall down the left-hand side consisted of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all overfilled with books and spiral-bound manuscripts. At their base were cardboard boxes filled with other volumes. The right-hand wall half consisted of filing cabinets, above which were framed photos, and half of floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. On the far wall, tight into the left corner was a metal ladder rising to the ceiling, to its right was a small kitchen – a work surface, sink, cooker, fridge and presses. The space in the centre of the room was taken up by three, old leather-inlaid desks, piled high with books and papers, two, old office chairs, and stacked cardboard boxes leaving very little of the concrete floor visible.

‘Welcome to Hitler’s bunker,’ George Carter repeated as a greeting.

McEvoy reached the basement floor and looked right at Carter who was sitting on the edge of the bottom part of a bunk bed. Beside him the top drawer of a bedside locker was pulled open.

‘He must have just about every book ever published on the second world war in here,’ Carter continued. ‘You should check out the photos – Albert Koch in his finest hours. The wardrobes are full of uniforms – Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, Navy, SS, you name it – flags, trays of military badges and other mementos.’

‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered as his eyes scanned the bookcases and boxes. The air was musty, a fine layer of dust coating everything. ‘He was still a Nazi?’ he asked shuffling toward the framed photos.

‘He was still obsessed. As to whether he was still a Nazi, I don’t know. One of those bookcases is full of stuff on what he’s labelled moral philosophy and holocaust studies. He’s annotated a few of them in German.’

‘Perhaps we should let Professor Moench have a look at them?’ McEvoy suggested looking up at the photos. All of them were printed in black and white.

Half of the photos were shots of Auschwitz – the infamous iron-work slogan ‘ARBEIT MACHT FREI’ (Work Brings Freedom); aerial shots of row upon row of low level huts; the chimney and cooling stacks of a factory; four emaciated men staring blankly, dressed in tatty striped clothes; three, shaven-headed men standing in a chemistry lab, glass cylinders and tubes in front of them; a clutch of children standing behind a grid of barbed wire, their faces a mix of curiosity and loss; hundreds of men, women and children disgorging from cattle trucks in a railway siding, uniformed men shunting them about; five skeleton-like figures hanging in a row from a gallows, other prisoners lined up in front of them, most of them gazing fixedly at the ground, others staring defiantly ahead.

The other half were of Koch in different situations – a couple on his own, posing in various uniforms and laboratories; the rest standing with other people in uniforms or suits. McEvoy scanned the images. The only person he recognised other than Koch himself was Heinrich Himmler. Koch was walking with him across a scarred landscape, both wearing black SS uniforms with Nazi armband. Himmler had his hands clasped behind his back, his chin jutting out, looking faintly ridiculous with his round glasses and narrow moustache, tall Aryan SS officers standing in the background.

McEvoy let his gaze stray back to the photo of the gallows. At the far end stood an SS man in his characteristic black uniform. His face was half in shadow, but it certainly looked like the young Albert Koch, or Adolf Kucken as he was then known. He moved closer to it, but it was impossible to tell. Whether it was Kucken or not, there was no denying the barbarity of the scene and the fact that Koch had been party to such crimes.

‘He’d be like a child in a playpen,’ Carter said, referring to Moench. ‘The whole lot must be worth a fortune. He must have been collecting this stuff for years. All of the books are first editions.’

‘In his will his home is to become a centre for peace and reconciliation. Perhaps all of this was to be part of the resources?’ McEvoy speculated. ‘Perhaps he changed his mind on things. Why else would he want this to be a reconciliation centre? Why would he have left a huge chunk of fortune to Jewish holocaust organisations and charities?’

‘Doesn’t get round the fact that he was a participant in the mass murder of a few million people,’ Carter said flatly.

‘True,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘But perhaps he came to recognise the madness of it all; to acknowledge his guilt and seek some atonement?’

‘You don’t know that,’ Carter said. ‘And this place wasn’t exactly easy to find. It could have been hidden here for years. It might never have been found. He might not have wanted it found.’

‘But what about the will?’

‘What about it? That could represent the guilt of the nation, not his direct guilt.’

McEvoy didn’t agree, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he wandered round the desks and piles, occasionally lifting up and staring at dusty sheets of paper, most of which were in German. He reached the small kitchen area and opened the presses to find them full of tins of food. He picked up a can of peas and inspected it. Its best before date was 1994.

‘It’s like it’s a nuclear bunker or something,’ he said, more to himself than Carter. ‘Where does the ladder lead to?’

‘Up into the housekeeper’s quarters. It comes up into the press under the sink. The kitchen there is plumbed into the same system. You’d never find the entry though unless you knew what you were looking for. The floor is still six inches thick.’