Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘What kind of help? What are you implying?’ Peter said angrily.
‘Look, I know you’re trying to help,’ McEvoy snapped, ‘but I’m trying to interview your grandfather, not you.’
‘And I’m making sure that you’re not trying to frame him for something he didn’t do’ Peter responded.
‘I don’t frame people! I’m asking questions potentially important to the case.’
‘You’re asking questions about something that has nothing to do with the case! How my grandfather managed to buy this farm is his business. It has nothing to do with Albert Koch’s death. How could it?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to establish,’ McEvoy explained. ‘I don’t just ask random questions, however it seems to you. So,’ he turned his attention back to Martin O’Coffey, ‘did you have any additional help?’
‘No.’
‘Not from the Bank of Ireland in Navan or Allied Irish Bank in Virginia?’
O’Coffey started to cough, a wheezy, chesty rasp that ended with him spitting phlegm into the tissue.
‘I think that’s enough,’ Peter said, moving in behind O’Coffey’s back. ‘My grandfather’s not well, Superintendent. He needs to be in bed with a hot water bottle.’
O’Coffey stayed silent.
‘I only have a couple more questions.’
‘They’ll have to wait.’
‘Were you and Koch part of the gang that robbed the two banks in 1955?’ McEvoy asked.
‘No.’
‘Superintendent, I must—’
‘Is that how you could afford this place a couple of years later? Stolen bank money?’
‘No,’ O’Coffey repeated.
‘That’s enough,’ Peter interjected. ‘These are crazy accusations. Mad stuff. My grandfather bought this place fair and square. We can show you the deeds, if needed. If you want to carry on, we’ll need to talk to our solicitor.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got answers to my questions,’ McEvoy said standing. ‘I doubt your grandfather’s going to change his story however many times I rephrase them.’
‘That’s because they’re true,’ Peter countered.
‘You should get a doctor out,’ McEvoy advised O’Coffey. ‘Get some antibiotics to stop that settling in.’
‘I warned you not to stress him out!’ Peter snapped.
‘No doctors,’ O’Coffey said without looking up.
* * *
The rain had turned to a light drizzle, the wind easing to occasional gusts. Sitting in his car at the edge of the car park at Ballyglass GAA club McEvoy stared across the pitch to the skeleton trees in the distance. He felt certain that Frank Koch and Peter O’Coffey were wrong; somehow Albert Koch’s past was intricately bound to his death. The problem was that Koch was surrounded by so many rumours and myths it was impossible to know which were true and which were fantasies. Koch could have been an ordinary chemist in the Reich and he could have amassed his fortune through his industry and initiative. Or he could have been a war criminal, a looter of gold, and a bank robber. He could have been a family man, a philanthropist and also have helped the IRA, supplying explosives that destroyed lives. He could have been any mix of these things.
He glanced at his watch and then scratched at his scalp. Gemma would still be in school. He needed to find time to spend with her. And he needed to visit Hannah Fallon again. Perhaps he would be able to get away early that evening; do whatever business was needed via the phone.
He sighed to himself, pushed open the car door, levered his tall frame out and headed to the clubhouse door. He almost collided with John Joyce as he stepped over the threshold.
‘How’d you get on with Martin O’Coffey?’ Joyce asked, stepping back to make room.
‘As expected, he denied taking part in either robbery. The poor sod looked like death warmed up. He’s trying to beat off the flu with half a lemon.’
‘The old remedies are sometimes the best. Listen, there’ve been two developments. First, James Kinneally’s story doesn’t stack-up. He arrived at his apartment at,’ he glanced down at his notepad, ‘11.41. He left again at 8.05 the next morning. Probably about the time that Albert Koch was discovered dead.’
‘And he arrived alone and had no visitors?’
‘And no one left with him or within two hours of him leaving.’
‘So Marion D’Arcy’s alibi is worth nothing and James Kinneally’s in the clear for murder, but he’s buggered on deliberately misleading an inquiry and he might still be an accessory?’
‘Look’s like it. What do you want me to do?’
‘We need to question them again, see what they have to say. It should be an interesting experience as I’m not sure that Kinneally’s told her yet that he’s provided her with an alibi. If we make sure she doesn’t know that, we can see if she plays along. And talk to Kinneally’s wife; find out why they separated.’
‘I’ll get on it.’ Joyce made to move off.
‘And the second?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Sugar.’ Joyce stopped in his tracks. ‘The husband of the bed and breakfast owned in Navan is saying that
someone let themselves back into the house sometime around two o’clock in the morning on Saturday night, but he’s not sure who. He just remembers being woken by the key in the door. They only had two rooms occupied, so there’s a fifty-fifty chance it might have been
Ewa Chojnacki and Tomas Prochazka –
I’m sure I’m not saying their names correctly, but anyway. They say they were there all night, but…’ Joyce trailed off.
‘And you haven’t managed to track down the other occupants?’
‘Not yet,’ Joyce shook his head. ‘Mr and Mrs Murphy from Cork – paid in cash; no phone number. They were up for the races.’
‘Jesus. Only thing we can do is appeal for them to come forward. In the meantime put together a full timeline of what the East Europeans say their movements were and get it checked out. If other things don’t match up then it casts doubt on their story.’
‘I’ll get someone working on it.’
‘And make sure they don’t do a disappearing act.’
Joyce headed back into the incident room, making a beeline for Kelly Stringer. McEvoy followed lethargically. Just as one line of inquiry seemed to become more promising, another took a twist. Stringer motioned at him, letting him know that she wanted a word when Joyce had finished.
* * *
Maurice Coakley walked purposefully through the large shop, in behind the counter, through the pharmacy section and into an office. He was wearing a white coat over the top of a brown, tweed suit and highly polished brogues. Neither fat nor thin, he was in good health, with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes and short grey hair that was side-parted; a pair of small, silver-framed glasses was perched precariously on the end of his nose. He took a seat behind the desk and pointed at a red upholstered chair, gesturing for McEvoy to sit.
‘I’ve had a phone call from Martin O’Coffey,’ he stated.
‘So you’ll know what this is about then,’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Not really, no. I know what you’re going to ask, but it sounds to me like you’re grasping at straws. We had nothing to do with those robberies. And what they have to do with finding Bertie’s killer is beyond me. He was killed by an intruder, wasn’t he?’
‘It seems that way. The question is; what was the intruder after?’
‘Whatever he could get for his next fix probably,’ Coakley speculated. ‘If I were you, I’d round up all the local petty criminals and drug users and shake them down. They’ve cost me a fortune in extra security,’ Coakley said, referring to the need to protect pharmacies from theft.
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ McEvoy explained. ‘First, you can’t randomly round people up and, second, we’ve never been able to “shake people down”.’
Coakley snorted his derision. ‘It happened in 1955! That old bastard O’Sullivan shook us like a man possessed. What the book says you can do and what you actually do are different things.’
‘You were petty criminals.’
‘We were innocent victims! He wanted to be the big shot and solve those bank robberies. He didn’t care whether he got the right people or not. It’s not like it’s not happened. Look at the Guildford Four – they spent years in prison for crimes they didn’t commit.’
‘But you didn’t spend any time in prison. You opened a chain of very successful shops.’
‘That’s because I was innocent! As were Bertie, Frank and Martin. O’Sullivan got it into his head that we were involved, but he had no evidence. None. There was none to find. He was a lunatic in a uniform; the power had gone to his head.’
‘So where did the money for the first shop come from?’
‘Hard work! We all spent hours at that factory, breaking our backs; working our fingers to the bone. Bertie kept it to just the four of us, that way we kept the costs down and could make better profits. He promised all of us we’d get our own businesses and he was good for his word. I worked damn hard to be able to afford this place and I worked just as hard to grow the company. There are fifty-six Ostara Pharmacies in Ireland. If it wasn’t for the economic downturn, we’d have been opening nine more in the next two years. Plus we have our own brand products. Nobody is going to take that success away from me.’
‘I never said I would take it away. I was questioning whether it was founded on dirty money. If you were so innocent, why did O’Sullivan take such a keen interest in you?’
‘Because he was looking for scapegoats! We fitted the bill – two German brothers with military experience, one a chemist. He took two and two and made twenty-two. If you need a suspect fast, track down Johnny Foreigner. Bertie and Frank Koch were good men. They married Irish women, fathered Irish children, worked damn hard to build businesses that employed people for miles around, paid Irish taxes, and gave generously to various charities.’
‘So even if they stole the money, it was a good in-vestment?’
‘If you want to look at it that way, then yes,’ Coakley said tiredly. ‘If they had stolen the money, which they didn’t, then the banks, the state and local people got it back in spades.’
‘And they got rich as well – everyone’s a winner.’
‘You don’t seem to be listening to me, Superintendent. We never robbed those banks. Our success is built on hard work. Everything Albert Koch ever made he ploughed back into Ostara. He didn’t need to rob banks; he was always saving and then investing the nest egg. He had a habit of turning pence into pounds.’
McEvoy nodded but said nothing, trying to decide how to proceed. Coakley was clearly going to keep denying any involvement in the bank robberies.
‘When are you going to release Bertie’s body?’ Coakley asked. ‘He deserves a decent send-off. You need to stop treating him as a criminal and recognise he was the victim.’
‘I’ll talk to the pathologist,’ McEvoy replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll be released to the family shortly. Can you think of any reason why someone was searching Albert Koch’s farm, other than petty theft?’
‘No. He was an old man. He was still active, but he’d stopped making as many enemies as he used to. Doesn’t mean…’ He trailed off and shrugged.
‘What kind of enemies?’
‘People whose businesses didn’t do so well under stiff competition. People he’d bought out at a bargain price. People who didn’t like him muscling in on their patch. Bertie did a lot of good deeds – funded a lot of community services – but he was a ruthless business man. If there was a market to be developed or a profit to be made then he would pursue it. It wasn’t something that endeared him to everyone.’
‘In other words he destroyed some people’s lives?’