Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘I… I’m not sure. Both Charles Koch and Mark D’Arcy drive Mercedes. So does Francie Koch.’
‘Mark D’Arcy?’ McEvoy said, remembering Charles Koch’s, ‘Nobody’.
‘He has a dark green E240.’
‘And what about Francie?’
‘A gold one. I’m not sure of the model.’
McEvoy stared past Freel into space. He needed to talk to Mark D’Arcy.
* * *
‘George? How are you getting on with those Mercedes?’
‘I’m not. I don’t think whoever killed Peter O’Coffey drove to the field. I think they rode there. I’ve just been back up to the murder site. There are horse prints in the mud at the gate. We could try matching the shoe prints to the horses at Marion D’Arcy’s stables. It’s only about a mile and a half as the crow flies from her house to where we found the body.’
‘And what about car tracks?’ McEvoy asked.
‘I think the horse prints are a better angle,’ Carter persisted. ‘The footprints and the horse prints overlap – sometimes a footprint on top of the horse’s, sometimes the other way round. They
had
to have been made yesterday morning; any other time and that wouldn’t have been possible. Do you see? It would have been one or the other unless he passed by as the murder was happening. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw the stables out here. And a horse hasn’t passed by since we found the body; I’ve checked with the poor bastard who’s guarding the place.’
‘So you think that whoever killed O’Coffey had to have got there by horse?’
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain.’
‘Right, okay, start with the horses of Charles Koch, Francis Koch, and Mark D’Arcy.’
‘Which ones are they?’
‘Koch’s is the middle stable on the right-hand side as you enter the yard; a big, brown, brute of a thing with white nose markings. I wouldn’t go in there on your own,’ McEvoy warned. ‘Francie’s is next door. I don’t know about Mark D’Arcy’s. There was a stable girl there the first time I paid a visit, perhaps she’ll be able to help you?’
‘I’ll track her down and don’t worry, we’ll get some casts and do some comparisons. I’ll also send someone back out to the laneway to see if we can follow the trail back.’
‘Thanks. Give me a call as soon as you’ve got something.’
‘You’ll be the first to hear.’
* * *
McEvoy was back at Marion D’Arcy’s house, sitting in the living room where he’d first interviewed her nearly a week previously. Opposite sat an exhausted looking Mark D’Arcy.
‘You drive a dark green Mercedes E240?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Yes,’ D’Arcy replied tetchily.
‘Can you account for its movements last Saturday night?’
‘Yes. It was in Galway. What is this, Superintendent, am I now a suspect? I thought my cousin has already confessed?’
‘A dark coloured Mercedes was seen arriving at your grandfather’s house at two o’clock in the morning the night he died,’ McEvoy said, ignoring D’Arcy’s assertion.
‘Well, it wasn’t mine.’
‘You were in Galway,’ McEvoy restated.
‘Yes. And I have plenty of witnesses who can confirm that.’
‘How long does it take to drive here from Galway. Two hours? At that time of night, maybe less. You could drive here and be back in Galway before six o’clock and nobody would be any the wiser.’
‘Are you serious? You really think I drove all the way back to my grandfather’s place? For what?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘I didn’t drive back. Jesus!’
‘Do you ride your mother’s horses?’ McEvoy asked, changing tack.
‘Occasionally,’ D’Arcy said slowly.
‘Did you take one out yesterday morning?’
‘No. I was making preparations for my grandfather’s funeral.’
‘So you definitely didn’t go for an early morning ride?’
‘No. I’ve just told you. You actually think I killed Peter O’Coffey,’ D’Arcy stated anger rising in his voice.
‘I think it’s a possibility,’ McEvoy replied. ‘You own a dark green Mercedes and you ride a horse.’
‘So does half of North Meath! Talk about wild accusations. Jesus Christ!’
‘Our forensics teams are presently comparing horse prints found where Peter O’Coffey was murdered with the horses in the stables.’
‘That’s nice for them,’ D’Arcy said sarcastically. ‘Do they have a warrant? Even if one of our horses was up there it doesn’t mean I was riding it!’
‘We have footprints as well,’ McEvoy stated.
‘You’re welcome to take a cast of my shoes,’ D’Arcy lifted his leg towards McEvoy.
‘So who was out riding yesterday morning?’ McEvoy asked ignoring the proffered foot.
‘I’ve no idea. As I said, I was too busy making sure all the arrangements were in place for my grandfather’s funeral. Something that you did your best to ruin.’
‘By arresting his killer?’ McEvoy said, arching his eyebrows. ‘I would have thought the family would have been pleased that we’d caught the person responsible for his death.’
‘Pleased? Are you taking some perverse pleasure out of this fucking nightmare? My grandfather’s been accidentally killed by my cousin and my second cousin has been murdered, and your three prime suspects seem to be my mother, my uncle and myself! There’s absolutely nothing to be pleased about. I was with my car in
Galway
on Saturday night and I did not go out riding yesterday morning. I have plenty of witnesses for both occasions!’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be following up with all of them,’ McEvoy offered weakly.
* * *
He was standing on the back steps of Athboy garda station trying to marshal his thoughts. It was no use; his mind kept drifting back to how he’d managed to make a total mess of the day so far, ignoring procedure and stumbling from one potential perpetrator to another. Clutching at straws was no way for an experienced officer to conduct an investigation. There was every possibility that he’d done immense damage to any case that they might build as the inquiry plodded on.
Bishop was going to crucify him. Not only had he acted unprofessionally, he’d ignored his warning, interviewing both Charles Koch and Mark D’Arcy without his approval. The only thing that might salvage things was a critical breakthrough, but he wasn’t holding his breath.
He massaged his temples and rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand, trying to exorcise the tiredness from his face. He needed to slow down, take his time over things; stick to established procedures and try and repair whatever damage had been done.
So far they’d managed to ascertain that Marion D’Arcy and her daughter Jane, Charles Koch and his son Carl, and Frank Koch, had all been out riding at some point on Friday morning. All of them owned or had access to a dark coloured Mercedes. They were all refusing to cooperate with the investigation and McEvoy couldn’t blame them, given his form in the last few hours.
As soon as his chat with Mark D’Arcy was over he’d pulled George Carter out of the stables and started the process of trying to obtain a formal search warrant. He wasn’t hopeful that they’d be back any time soon; John Rice’s skills and Marion D’Arcy’s political clout would see to that. And whatever they had was probably going to be inadmissible in court. It had been a dumb thing to do in the first place.
He cursed at himself, scratched at his scalp and sucked down a lungful of fresh air trying to imagine it swirling with nicotine-laced smoke. What he needed right now was a miracle. Or at least a lucky break. Something. Anything.
His mobile phone rang.
* * *
McEvoy strode nervously down the corridor towards the interview room. According to George Carter’s analysis of the material he’d managed to collect during his unauthorised search, the person waiting inside was Peter O’Coffey’s killer. One half of his brain was warning caution, the other saw possibilities of redemption; a last chance to try and prise open the case before it descended into a legal and political quagmire that would drag on for weeks, if not years; an opportunity to save himself from a dressing-down and possible disciplinary procedures. He’d already broken half a dozen rules, one last roll of the dice could hardly do more harm.
He opened the door to the interview room and took a seat opposite Charles Koch. John Rice sat to his left; a uniformed officer hovered uncomfortably in the corner of the room. McEvoy turned on the recorder, listed out the formalities and turned his attention to Koch.
‘A few more questions, Professor Koch,’ he said evenly, smiling weakly. ‘The horse you were riding this morning, is it yours?’
‘My client is not prepared to answer any questions until we have a full explanation as to why he’s been brought here,’ Rice interceded.
‘It’s okay, John,’ Koch said, placing his hand on Rice’s wrist. ‘I’m happy to answer any questions the Superintendent has. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can leave. The answer to your question is that it is my sister’s horse. All the horses there are.’
‘But you ride it?’
‘You saw me riding it.’
‘And you’re the only one who rides it?’
‘No, no. The stable girl takes it out occasionally. Sometimes Francis. Perhaps
Marion
.’
‘But you were the only one who has ridden it recently?’
McEvoy could see the concern start to grow in Koch’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ Koch answered more hesitantly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said backtracking. ‘Someone else might have.’
‘But you were riding the horse yesterday morning?’
‘Yes,’ Koch answered slowly, knowing the stable girl had seen him leave.
‘So the only way its footprints could have been found at the gateway to the field in which Peter O’Coffey died was if you had been there?’
‘I regularly ride past that field, Superintendent; it’s part of a circuit I make. The prints there could have been there for some time.’
‘So you passed that gateway yesterday morning then?’ McEvoy asked calmly. If Koch answered yes, then he could be placed at the crime scene at approximately the time of the murder. If he answered no then he would be caught in his own lie. If he refused to answer he was as good as admitting his guilt.
Koch’s face betrayed his inner conflict. ‘No,’ he eventually muttered, shaking his head.
‘So that was a “No”?’ McEvoy pressed.
‘I… er.’ Koch glanced left at his lawyer. The colour had drained from his face.
‘My client does not wish to answer that question,’ Rice said firmly.
‘He’s already given an answer to the question. I’m asking him to confirm it.’
‘My client wishes to withdraw his answer, Superintendent. He didn’t understand the question.’
‘As the recording will testify, Mr Rice, the question was a very simple one and your client gave a straight answer. He said, “No”; meaning that he did not ride past the gateway yesterday morning.’
‘My client is withdrawing his answer,’ Rice insisted.
‘Look, it was a very simple question,’ McEvoy repeated. ‘I don’t understand what the problem is. All I did was ask him whether he rode past the gateway to the field in which Mr O’Coffey was found dead yesterday morning. Surely he can remember what he did only yesterday? If the answer is “no”, then he couldn’t have killed Peter O’Coffey. Surely that’s the answer that you want him to give?’