The White Gallows (45 page)

‘I’ll be with Johnny Cronin until eleven or so, hopefully arresting our banknote scammer. I’ll call you after that.’ McEvoy ended the call and swung his legs out of the bed. He had a bright spot of pain throbbing just behind his forehead, his eyes aching with tiredness. He slowly levered himself upright and headed for the shower. Once he’d washed and dressed he’d source some aspirin and coffee, then walk back to Caroline’s to pick up his car and head off to Clonmellon.

_{* * *}

He’d made reasonably good time from Dublin, aware the whole way that he was probably still over the alcohol limit. As he neared Clonmellon, a small village fives miles beyond Athboy, located on the road from Mullingar to Kells, he had spoken briefly to Kelly Stringer who confirmed that Marion D’Arcy had not left her house since the funeral reception.

As he drove into the village the road doubled in width, one half forming ample parking for the small businesses and old houses that lined the street. He pulled to a stop opposite a pub and turned the engine off. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The stresses of the week and the previous night’s drinking had caught up with him. All he wanted to do was curl up under a warm duvet and sleep for twelve hours. There was a gentle tap at the window. He tilted his head and opened his right eye. Johnny Cronin stared back grim faced.

McEvoy pushed open the door and levered himself out. The wind was still gusting but the rain had now stopped, patches of blue sky appearing to the west. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘You look like shit,’ Cronin replied. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, blue jeans and white runners.

‘That’s funny, because George Carter thought I sounded like it too. Too much whiskey, too little sleep.’

‘It went okay yesterday?’

‘Yesterday went fine. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it again anytime soon. So, who is he?’

‘No idea. The plates were false and we lost him in the back roads of Cavan.’

‘Jesus, Johnny. How’re you going to do this?’

‘We’ve agreed to meet in front of the market yard,’ Cronin said pointing a little way along the road to where a high set of black, iron railings ran along the street, their length broken by a tall set of gates, a green sign hanging from one of the stone pillars. ‘I wait there in my car. He turns up in his. We swap the money and then I grab him.’

‘That simple, hey?’

‘The simpler, the better.’

‘And what about back-up?’

‘I have two guys ready to box him in. He gives me the money and they top and tail him.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Sit and watch. Twiddle your thumbs.’

‘And what if he’s got a gun or back-up of his own?’

‘He’s a one man operation and I doubt he’s got a gun; it’s not his style. If he has then we let him go and follow him. He won’t get far; we’ve got the locals primed. We’ll corner him and call in armed response. Happy?’

‘It’s your show,’ McEvoy said, rubbing at his face trying to massage some life into it.

_{* * *}

McEvoy had moved his car a little further along the street, making sure he had a good view of the market yard. He’d spent the twenty minutes before the bank scammer was due to arrive catching up on the morning’s headlines.

The
Irish Sun
led with ‘EXECUTED!’

The
Independent
with the not quite accurate, ‘
MAN
EXECUTED AT NAZI FUNERAL.’

The
Irish Times
with, ‘RELATION OF NAZI WAR CRIMINAL SHOT DEAD.’

Johnny Cronin was pacing back and forth at the side of his silver Volkswagen Passat, glancing nervously at his watch every few seconds.

Twenty minutes late a black Mercedes pulled up near to Cronin’s car, facing the opposite direction. Cronin approached, appearing edgy, and leaned down to the driver’s window. After a few seconds he returned to his own car, tugging an Aldi shopping bag from the back seat. He glanced around him, then pulled a wad of notes from the bag and passed them through the Mercedes window. 

A couple of seconds later Cronin raised the bag to the window and opened it wide, revealing its contents. A hand snaked out, grabbed a handle and the car shot forwards yanking the bag from Cronin’s grasp. As the car raced back onto the main road the bag disappeared through the driver’s window. A green Opel Vectra pulled away from the kerb and tried to block its path, but the Mercedes veered around it; a red Renault Megane started to do a U-turn and then braked hard to avoid an oncoming SUV, whose driver blared her horn loudly.

‘Shit!’ McEvoy muttered as he watched Cronin scramble into his car and set off in pursuit. He turned the ignition, switched on the blue emergency lights and followed. He really didn’t have time for this kind of caper.

_{* * *}

The scammer had made it as far as Crossakeel before he over-steered trying to take a right-hand turn onto a narrow lane, seeking to lose his pursuers before they realised he’d left the main road. The car skidded sideways across a short verge through a wooden fence and into a ditch. He was scrambling from his car, tugging the Aldi bag free when the first pursuing car arrived, blue lights flashing behind its radiator grill. He thought about running, then raised his hands and pulled a wry smile, waiting to be arrested.

Johnny Cronin arrived a few moments later followed by McEvoy.

‘Had to give it a try,’ the scammer said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘For fuck’s sake, you could have killed someone,’ Cronin snapped.

‘I didn’t though, did I?’

‘Except for Gerald Staunton,’ McEvoy said, drawing level with Cronin’s shoulder. ‘Remember him? He’s the guy you stole fifty thousand from and he topped himself a few days later.’

‘I didn’t know the loser was suicidal,’ the scammer said, becoming more serious. ‘You can’t blame that on me. He’d have done it in any case.’

‘You pushed him over the edge, you stupid fucker,’ Cronin said. ‘He’d lost everything once you’d robbed him of what little he had left. He hadn’t just lost his business, he’d lost his dignity. He couldn’t see any way back.’

‘Don’t try and pin his death on me,’ the scammer said, starting to lose his cool. ‘He was prepared to break the law to keep his business going. He was quite happy to try and double his money. He knew the money was stolen. I was offering him a way out.’

‘So now you were his knight in shining armour?’ Cronin snapped. ‘You didn’t even give him the stolen money! You left him high and dry. You preyed on people’s desperation.’

‘I couldn’t give them the stolen money, could I?’ The scammer smiled weakly. ‘I didn’t have it. Gullible people will believe anything. I just dangled the temptation in front of them.’

‘For God’s sake,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘How much have you made pulling this stunt?’

‘Now that would be telling.’

‘A couple of hundred thousand?’ McEvoy pressed. ‘More?’

The scammer simply shrugged his shoulders.

McEvoy pulled Cronin to one side. ‘Arrogant bastard. Look, I’m going to leave you to charge him and sort this out.’ He gestured at the stricken Mercedes. ‘I need to get back to the Koch case. Hopefully we can wrap that up today as well. Next time, make sure the bad guy gets out of the car before giving him the money!’ He turned and hurried back to his car before Cronin could reply.

_{* * *}

Yet again he was parked up outside Ballyglass clubhouse. The surge of adrenaline from the brief car chase had dissipated and he was back to feeling sluggish and tense. He pulled up a number on his mobile.

‘Carter,’ said a distracted voice.

‘George, it’s Colm McEvoy. You got anything for me yet?’

‘No. We’ve been looking through the photos and the casts we made, but unless she has at least size nine feet she wasn’t there.’

‘There must be something,’ McEvoy said confused. ‘Perhaps she worked her way down the ditch? It was fairly dry, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but she still would have had to get to the field. I think you’re looking for a man.’

‘It has to be her,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘It was her Mercedes at The White Gallows the night her father died. She was the one who insisted that he’d died a natural death and persuaded the doctor to lie for her. She had no alibi for her whereabouts and she’d previously been caught sneaking round her father’s house by the housekeeper and Stefan Freel.’

‘Perhaps she had hired help?’ Carter suggested. ‘She could afford it. Or perhaps she’s working with someone? An accomplice?’

‘James Kinneally, perhaps,’ McEvoy speculated. ‘He’s like a big puppy dog around her.’

‘And he’d kill someone in cold blood for her, would he?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Probably not,’ McEvoy conceded.

‘If I had to put my money on anyone,’ Carter said, ‘I’d put it on Stefan Freel. He seems like a cold-hearted bastard to me.’

McEvoy agreed that Freel was shallow and self-conceited, but Marion D’Arcy seemed more likely. She was at The White Gallows the night her father died and she had a hell of a temper. Carter might not have yet found any forensic evidence to link her to O’Coffey’s murder, but it wasn’t hard to imagine her forcing her nephew to his knees and pulling the trigger.

‘Look, George, I better go, okay?’ he said drawing a close to the exchange. ‘I need to go and talk to Marion D’Arcy.’

McEvoy ended the call before Carter could reply. He eased himself out of the car and headed into the clubhouse.

Kelly Stringer looked radiant in a smart, grey suit and white blouse, three buttons open to reveal a tiny gold cross resting on her pale pink skin. Her hair was down and she smelled of the same perfume as earlier in the week.

‘What’s the latest on Marion D’Arcy?’ McEvoy asked as businesslike as he could, wanting to avoid any more awkward moments.

‘She’s still in her house. Her daughter left about an hour ago, but her husband and son are still there. So’s her brother, Charles. Are you okay? You don’t look too good.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, more brusquely than he intended. ‘Where’s Tom McManus?’

‘Out at The White Gallows with Professor Moench.’

‘Can you tell him to meet me at Marion D’Arcy’s house in ten minutes? And tell the surveillance team that I’m on my way there as well. I think it’s time to ask Mrs D’Arcy some difficult questions, don’t you? She either killed Peter O’Coffey, or she had someone do it for her. And find out where Stefan Freel is as well, will you? I might want to talk to him later.’

_{* * *}

Tom McManus was parked just inside the gates to Marion D’Arcy’s estate. Out on the road was a small gaggle of journalists waiting for the Koch family to emerge and face their questions. McEvoy swept in past two uniformed guards and drove up to the front of the house, parking in the shadow of the portico. McManus pulled in behind him. A marked garda car coasted to a stop a few yards further back.

‘I want to make this quick,’ McEvoy said to McManus as they headed to the front door. ‘We’ll bring her in for questioning; I want to make sure her answers are formally recorded. This charade’s gone on long enough.’ He rapped hard on the door.

A few moments later it was opened by Mark D’Arcy. ‘What do you want?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Time for our daily harassment, is it?’

‘I’m here to talk to your mother,’ McEvoy replied tersely. ‘Can we come in please?’

‘No,’ D’Arcy said firmly. ‘She’s already told you that she’s not prepared to talk to you again.’