The White Gallows (41 page)

‘You think Francie killed Peter? You’re mad! They were like brothers. There’s no way Francie killed Peter.’

‘Brothers fall out with one another,’ McEvoy suggested. ‘Especially when one of them gains everything and the other is about to lose it all.’

‘No,’ she said quite emphatically. ‘I don’t believe it. Francie’s a cocky little bollix, but I can’t believe that he’d kill Peter in cold blood.’

‘Well, if Francie didn’t kill Peter,’ McEvoy said, doubt in his voice, ‘the question is, who did?’

_{* * *}

‘Well?’ McEvoy asked, now they were back in his car.

‘Francie and O’Coffey killed Koch – accidental or not – then Francie killed O’Coffey.’

‘Seems that way,’ McEvoy conceded. ‘She didn’t want her husband in prison, but I guess she would have preferred it to him being dead. If it was an accident the worst they would have got was manslaughter, might even have been ruled an accidental death with the right judge and jury.’

‘I doubt that’s how they would have seen it,’ McManus said. ‘They probably thought they’d get done for murder. It’s not like they called an ambulance or tried to save him. They carried him upstairs, took the gun, tried to set up a diversion, and left him to die.’

‘True. Right, well, we probably haven’t got enough time to bring Francie in before the funeral. We’ll let him attend his grandfather’s service and then pick him up afterwards. In the meantime, find out if anyone has taken a full statement from the photographer that found the body.’

‘I’m on it,’ McManus said, easing himself back out of the car.

McEvoy turned the ignition and started to head towards
Ballyglass
Church
. A few moments later his mobile phone rang.

‘McEvoy.’

‘It’s
Johnny Cronin. You told me to give you a ring. Is now a good time?’

‘Now’s fine. What’s the story?’ McEvoy asked, a bit of lightness back in his voice, confident they were about to wrap up the Koch killing. Shooting Peter O’Coffey had been a pretty dumb thing to do. But then so had been searching The White Gallows in the dead of the night.

‘I met with our scam artist fifteen minutes ago,’ Cronin replied. ‘He’s a border’s man who thinks he’s a bit of a charmer. My guess is Monaghan, maybe Cavan. He spins a very smooth line about scratching each other’s back. For fifty thousand clean notes he’s willing to trade me one hundred thousand in used ones. He wasn’t shy at hinting where it came from. And he didn’t mind letting me know what would happen if the guards turned up.

‘I’ve set up the exchange tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in Clonmellon. It’s just down the road from you. I have someone running his licence plate through the computer at the minute, but my guess is it’ll probably turn out to be false. Hopefully we can track him home.’

‘Right, okay. I’ll try and be there. We might have this Koch case wrapped up by tonight.’

‘You have someone in the frame for it? I heard you have another body?’

‘Peter O’Coffey. Shot in the head this morning. I’m just on my way to pick up the prime suspect – his so-called best friend. Family and friends. I’m telling you, Johnny, you’re better off sticking to strangers.’

_{* * *}

Terry Macken’s outfit had managed to put down metal matting to create a basic road grid to stop the soft ground instantly churning to mud. McEvoy parked on the grass and walked back up to the road and the short distance to the church, his path guided by luminous jacketed security guards. High in the sky a hovering news helicopter droned as it slowly circled, filming the scene below.

The small church was surrounded by a low stone wall that enclosed the old cemetery. Most of the gravestones looked ancient, with only a handful of new ones dotted amongst them. In one corner was a set of old, family crypts, their roofs turfed over, steps leading down to bolted doors. At seemingly random locations were narrow yew trees and the occasional lone pine. To the left of the church was a freshly dug grave, the soil mounded to one side. At evenly spaced intervals along the perimeter were security guards. Except for the helicopter there was no sign of any media presence.

The church itself was compact with tall, thin stained glass windows, and a small spike of a spire. A fairly sizable crowd had already started to gather at its entrance, though not as many as McEvoy had been expecting. Some were queuing to enter, others just milling around, shaking hands and chatting. Two speakers were pinned above the door piping out the organ music from inside.

McEvoy spotted Terry Macken standing to one side with Kelly Stringer, keeping a discreet eye on things. He was dressed in a well-tailored black woollen coat over a smart, grey business suit, a small earpiece pushed into his right ear, a narrow microphone extending across his cheek. He looked calm and collected, his grey hair cut short, eyes alert, his face full of colour. Kelly Stringer looked stunning in a two-piece, black suit, the skirt ending just above stocking-clad knees, her hair worn down. A black mackintosh coat hung on her shoulders. In contrast to Macken, her face wore a concerned look, worried about how the afternoon would unfold.

‘Jesus, Colm, you look like shit,’ Macken said, humour in his voice, as McEvoy approached.

‘Well, at least it matches how I feel. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. I take it business is booming?’

‘I can’t complain. Next gig after this is The Rolling Stones. Then Radiohead. If you want any tickets just let me know, okay? And if you ever want a change of scene I can always use seasoned pros, y’know what I mean?’

‘Well, I…’ McEvoy stuttered unsure what to say, especially after his dressing-down that morning by Ciara.

‘That kid of yours doing alright?’ Macken continued.

‘Yeah, yeah, she’s grand.’

‘And this morning went okay? I was sorry to hear about Maggie, Colm. Shit happens, y’know.’

There was an awkward pause, no one sure what to say.

‘We’ve set it up as you asked,’ Stringer said to fill the silence, ‘a far outer perimeter and another around the church. Dr John is already in the church. It must be pretty full in there. I’ll go in when the hearse and family arrive.’

‘Good. And no trouble?’

‘Not really,’ she continued. ‘Some people who think they should have been invited but weren’t. Some people pissed off they couldn’t bring their cameras and mobile phones into the church. Some press trying to bluff their way in. There’s a small anti-Nazi demo on the road out of Athboy, a dozen or so but they’re mostly behaving themselves.’

‘I guess there’s a neat symmetry to it all,’ Macken said. ‘Albert Koch’s killer topping himself on the morning of his funeral. I guess he couldn’t live with himself.’

‘Peter O’Coffey didn’t kill himself,’ McEvoy said solemnly. ‘More like executed. Once this is all over, we need to talk to Francis Koch. He’s not to slip away, okay?’

‘Executed?’ Macken said, confused. ‘He blew his own brains out is what we were told.’

‘That’s not what Elaine Jones thinks. Someone blew his brains out for him. And O’Coffey’s wife said that her husband arrived home gone two in the morning the night Albert Koch died, all hyper. She thinks he was probably snooping round the farm with Francie Koch looking for buried treasure. If O’Coffey…’

‘Jesus. What the…?’ Macken’s attention had been diverted to a scene at the entrance to the church. Two of his security men and a plain clothes officer were wrestling with a man. ‘Sorry, Colm, I need to deal with this.’

Macken set off for the door, McEvoy trailing behind.

Stefan Freel had been jostled to one side and pinned to the church wall. His face was flushed with anger.

‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Macken said in a neutral voice. ‘The church is very small and the family have given strict instructions as to who can and can’t go inside. You can pay your respects from outside.’

‘This is ridiculous, I was Albert Koch’s…’ Freel searched for the right word, ‘assistant. I’m the new CEO of the Ostara Trust.’ He spotted McEvoy. ‘Superintendent?’

‘It’s okay, let him go,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘Let’s have a look at that list?’

One of the security men passed it to him.

‘My mother said she does not want him in the church,’ said a man in his late thirties stepping forward. ‘Mark D’Arcy.’ He held out his hand.

‘Ah, the man who makes false alibis,’ McEvoy said sarcastically, ignoring D’Arcy’s proffered hand. ‘A funeral, Mr D’Arcy, is not the place to take petty revenges. Mr Freel was your grandfather’s right-hand man for a number of years. He probably spent more time with him than anyone else. He has the right to pay his last respects.’

‘The family doesn’t want him in the church.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise given he’s now in charge of the Ostara Trust?’ McEvoy cautioned. ‘You should be building bridges not burning them,’ he suggested, the irony of his advice not lost on him.

‘We’ll see about the Ostara Trust. He’s not coming in,’ D’Arcy repeated.

‘Mr Freel?’ McEvoy said.

‘Fuck them!’ Freel snapped angrily. ‘I’ll stay out here. You’ve just made a big mistake, Mark. As the superintendent’s just warned, you really don’t want me as an enemy. I was your grandfather’s apprentice. I’ve learned every lesson he had to teach about how to fuck people over.’ Freel wandered to one side, challenging the stares of onlookers.

‘Jesus,’ Macken muttered.

‘Here we go,’ McEvoy said as a hearse pulled up at the church gates, two black cars pulling up behind it.

The crowd started to part. Mark D’Arcy headed for the cars and Kelly Stringer slipped into the church.

Marion D’Arcy stepped from the first car dressed from head to toe in black, her face covered with a net veil, followed by a man McEvoy took to be her husband. Next followed Charles Koch, followed by a beautiful young woman that McEvoy instinctively knew was Jane D’Arcy given her resemblance to her mother.

From the second car emerged Frank Koch and his wife Mary, Francis Koch looking pale and frayed, and a woman McEvoy didn’t recognise but guessed was Francis’ sister, Emily, and then his brother, Carl.

Collectively the group were worth about one hundred and thirty-five million euro, plus whatever Frank Koch’s motor sales empire was worth. Somehow, McEvoy thought, that wouldn’t be enough for them. Marion D’Arcy and her family wanted it all. They didn’t care about Albert Koch’s criminal past or how he’d built his business empire. They just wanted to get their hands on what they saw as rightfully theirs. Stefan Freel would have his work cut out to maintain the Ostara Trust as set out by Koch in his will. No doubt the family already had a team of lawyers poring over the small print trying to find ways of contesting the division of spoils.

Charles, Francis and Carl Koch and Mark D’Arcy moved to the hearse, lifting the plain oak coffin clear of the long car and up onto their shoulders, each pair clasping each other’s jackets to provide a stable base. In step, they headed for the church entrance, the waiting mourners bowing their heads or crossing themselves forgetting they were attending an old Protestant church. Behind them trailed Marion D’Arcy, her head held high, her wrist threaded through her husband’s arm, followed by Frank Koch and Mary, then Jane D’Arcy and Emily Koch. They entered the church and the old wooden doors closed behind them, the security guards stepping across to block any further access.

McEvoy half-thought about sneaking in, but couldn’t face a second church service in one day. It would be enough to hear it on the loud speakers. Plus he could deal with any situation that arose outside given Stringer and Joyce were trapped inside. Instead he walked to the church gate and leant against the cold stone. The wind had started to pick up and the sky was darkening as a front moved in from the west. If they were lucky the ceremony would be over before the first drops fell.