Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘We always argued! We argued about everything. That’s what we did. If you think that I murdered him, you clearly have a screw loose. I was trying to prolong his life – make him take it easy – not kill him!’
‘Perhaps it was his work that kept him going?’ McEvoy hypothesised. ‘Did it frustrate you that he wouldn’t let you help? That he blocked you from working for Ostara?’
‘No! I have my own successful business. He did me a favour by making me stand on my own two feet.’
‘You didn’t resent it?’
‘No, why should I?’
‘Because you could have been at the helm of one of the biggest businesses in
Ireland
.’
‘I still might be, Superintendent,’ she said smartly.
‘And how about your son, Mark?’
‘What about him?’
‘I thought you were grooming him to take over from your father.’
‘He doesn’t need grooming. He’s doing exceptionally well by himself. Even if he wasn’t my father’s grandson he would be where he is today.’
‘And what about James Kinneally? Or Stefan Freel?’
‘What about them?’
‘I would have thought that they would be at the head of the queue for taking over Ostara Industries. Plenty of experience and they’re already doing the right kind of job, aren’t they?’
‘Stefan Freel will take over Ostara over my dead body. He’s a scheming, little…’ she trailed off, aware of her bile.
‘I take it you don’t like Stefan Freel?’
‘I… he’s… he wouldn’t have been my choice as an assistant.’
‘I think he was a little more than an assistant,’ McEvoy said. ‘He seemed to be your father’s hatchet man, running round doing deals here, there and everywhere.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. If I were you, that’s where I would focus my attention.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he would kill his own grandmother if he thought he could make money from it.’
‘Sounds suspiciously like your father. Surely killing your father would be like killing the golden goose?’
‘Not if you think you’re the golden goose in waiting. Are we done yet? I need to be getting on.’
‘I believe you also argued about your father’s will,’ McEvoy persisted.
‘Who told you that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But if you were arguing about his will then it sounds like you weren’t happy with it.’
‘What is it you’re trying to say?’
‘Perhaps you decided to try and find his will to check it? You aren’t, after all, Dr Koch’s natural daughter.’
‘You… what?’ Marion D’Arcy replied, temporarily flummoxed. ‘How dare you… You’ve no right to pry into my affairs!’
‘I’m investigating the murder of your father and exploring
his
affairs. As his daughter you’re part of that. He adopted you when he married your mother?’
‘So what!’
Marion
snapped, her forehead creasing in anger. ‘I… I don’t believe you’re… Albert Koch was as much my father as he was Charles’! He never said or acted otherwise. We were always treated the same. Do you hear, the same!’ She stood up and started towards the door.
‘Mrs D’Arcy?’ McEvoy said, standing, realising that he’d pushed her too hard. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is very difficult, but it’s my job to ask these questions.’
She stopped and turned back to face him. ‘It’s your job to find my father’s killer – if there was a killer – not to make wild accusations. You’re implying that because I was adopted I had a motive to murder my father! That I was searching the house for his will. Why would I be searching the house in the middle of the night when I could look for it anytime? Besides, his will is held by his solicitor,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ve never been… You seem to forget that I’m a lawyer,’ she said, regaining some composure.
‘I might not have studied or practised criminal law for years, but I have many friends who do,’ she continued. ‘If there is one thing you can be sure of, Superintendent, it’s that I’ll be getting the very best legal advice. And I won’t be speaking to you again unless my lawyer is present.’ She paused, challenging McEvoy to say something. ‘And speaking of legal matters and the will, when are we going to find out what my father’s will says? His stupid, old fool of a solicitor says he wants to wait until the killer is caught before he’ll make it public, but we need to start making plans.’
‘Plans for what?’
Marion D’Arcy’s desire to know the contents of her father’s will troubled McEvoy. It would detail the redistribution of billions of euros of assets. People had been killed for much, much less. And when that kind of money was on offer, others could be drawn into the conspiracy or contract thieves or killers hired. Koch’s daughter might not have killed her father directly, but she could still have been the main agent of his death.
‘Plans for the future of Ostara. Our own plans. Just plans!’ she snapped.
‘What’s the rush?’ McEvoy asked as neutrally as he could. ‘A few weeks isn’t going to make a big difference, is it?’
‘Because we need to know,’
Marion
stated firmly. ‘If it’s not released in the next day or so I’ll be seeking legal action.’
McEvoy decided not to pursue the issue. He’d already pressured Marion D’Arcy more than he should have. And now, no doubt, he was going to have to deal with lawyers much more accomplished than those he usually dealt with. Needling her hadn’t been a clever move. No surprise there. His handling of the investigation so far had been haphazard and poorly executed. He was too tired and stressed and it made him antagonistic and impetuous. His mobile phone rang.
He pulled it from a pocket and checked the screen. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I should take this. I won’t be a second. McEvoy.’
Marion D’Arcy rolled her eyes and stormed from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
‘We’ve found the East European couple who’d been asking questions about Koch,’ Joyce said. ‘They’re staying in Navan. They claim they didn’t come forward because they were worried we’d think they’d killed him.’
‘Why would we think that?’
‘Revenge. The woman says Koch killed her grandfather.’ Joyce paused. ‘In Monowitz; a satellite camp of
Auschwitz
.’
‘
Auschwitz
?’ McEvoy repeated. ‘Oh, Jesus. I’m on my way. Don’t let them go anywhere.’ He headed for the door, massaging his tired scalp.
James Kinneally was waiting for McEvoy in the hall. ‘What the hell did you say to Mari… Mrs D’Arcy?’ he snapped. ‘She’s furious.’
‘She didn’t like being questioned,’ McEvoy said unsympathetically. ‘Unfortunately I have to question everyone, including the deceased’s daughter. I’ll be back to interview you further as well.’ He opened the front door and stepped out into the chill morning air. He stopped and turned. ‘And if you see Charles Koch, tell him I’ll need to talk to him again.’
* * *
‘How did you find them?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Persistence and luck.’ Joyce paused. ‘And a tip off.’ He smiled coyly.
They were in Navan, a bustling market town 30 miles to the northwest of Dublin, standing on the steps of a well-maintained bed and breakfast, the genteel ambience somewhat dissipated by the heavy traffic on the road just beyond the gate.
‘And what do you make of them?’
‘They’re driven and they tell a hell of a story. They have a strong
motive, but also an alibi. They were here on Saturday night.’
‘And the owners can verify that?’
‘Well, they were definitely here for some of it, but there’s nothing to say that they didn’t sneak out to take a look round Koch’s place, things went wrong, they killed him, and they crept back here to lay low.’
‘Nothing either to say that they did,’ McEvoy observed.
‘True,’ Joyce conceded. ‘I think they’re more motivated by justice than revenge.’
‘Right, okay, let’s go and talk to them then. Their English is good?’
‘Pretty much perfect; there’s no need for any translators.’
‘Good.’ McEvoy followed Joyce into the house. He glimpsed a nervous looking face at the end of the hall, probably the owner, and turned right into the front room.
The waiting couple rose from a floral patterned sofa, both wearing worried frowns. The woman had an oval face framed by long brown hair that was starting to turn prematurely grey, and sad brown eyes. She was wearing dark blue jeans and a sky blue jumper with a patterned, blue silk scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked into the neckline. It was difficult to judge her age, but McEvoy guessed she was probably in her late thirties or early forties. She was clutching a large, plain brown envelope. The man appeared slightly younger, with short brown hair with a side parting, and clear blue eyes behind small, round glasses. He wore a brown corduroy jacket over a pale blue shirt and faded blue jeans.
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into Albert Koch’s death.’ He shook their hands in turn.
‘Adolf Kucken,’ the woman said firmly with the trace of an eastern European accent.
‘I’m sorry?’ McEvoy asked puzzled, indicating that they should sit down again.
The couple dropped back down onto the sofa, but both perched on the edge of the cushions. McEvoy sat on the arm of an armchair and Joyce continued to stand by the door.
‘Adolf Kucken,’ she repeated. ‘That was Albert Koch’s real name before he changed it. He was a Nazi war criminal.’ She removed a photograph from the envelope and handed it to McEvoy.
The photograph showed a head shot of a young man who clearly resembled Albert Koch. The man was wearing the black uniform of the SS, his officer’s cap, with its distinctive skull badge below an eagle and swastika, tugged rakishly to one side. His eyes were dark, staring fiercely into the lens.
‘Kucken was a member of the SS and a chemist at the Buna factory at
Auschwitz
,’ the woman continued, ‘and he almost certainly took part in the infamous Jewish Skeleton Project.’
‘The Jewish Skeleton Project?’ McEvoy repeated slowly, aware that the case was taking on a whole new aspect.
‘One of Heinrich Himmler’s pet projects. The aim was to create a collection of Jewish skeletons for supposedly “scientific” purposes; that of identifying Jews through their pathology, such as their skulls’ shape and size. The project was part of the
Institute
of
Military Scientific Research
, a branch of the Abnenebre. That was a research organisation founded by Himmler to prove the superiority of the so-called Aryan race,’ she explained in what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech.
‘The process was simple – you take many measurements of a person’s head and body while they are alive, then you kill them, take away the flesh and measure their bones.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. ‘Of course, to make sure it is properly scientific you need Jews from different places and you need a lot of them to have a sufficient sample. A good place for that was somewhere like
Auschwitz
, where millions of people from all over
Europe
were sent to be murdered.
‘The only problem with
Auschwitz
was that
Silesia
was a long way from the laboratory of August Hirt, the scientist responsible for the experiments, and the journey would be un-refrigerated so the bodies would decay. The solution was to ship the intended victims to the Natzweiler concentration camp in the
Vosges
Mountains
near to the Anatomical Institute at the
Strassburg
Reich
University
then kill them there. Bruno Beger, an SS researcher, visited
Auschwitz
in 1943 to select suitable victims, to take initial measurements, and send them on to Natzweiler.