Authors: Rob Kitchin
McEvoy was leaning against a fence, looking down the length of a field to a small lake. The field was ringed by a hawthorn and ash hedge and the landscape was dotted with clumps of oak and beech trees. To his right was a large hayshed half-filled with large round bales. He glanced back at Fallon as she approached. Several nearby cows looked up then settled back to chewing the cud.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Fallon asked.
‘Just having a look around while I wait for the others to arrive; it’s a pretty modest place for a multi-millionaire – just the farmhouse, the farmyard and the hayshed. And it’s all basic stuff; nothing expensive or flash; no fancy equipment or appliances. It’s as if the house is frozen in the 1960s.’
‘Perhaps that was all he needed?’
‘Perhaps,’ McEvoy repeated, continuing to gaze at the field.
‘I came to tell you that we think we’ve found where Koch was attacked. There’s a tiny amount of blood on the floor and a couple of shards from a vase just inside the door to his study.’
‘And the rest of the vase?’ McEvoy asked, turning towards her.
‘Missing.’
‘I’d better take a look,’ McEvoy said without enthusiasm, setting off back toward the house.
They entered through the front door and turned right. The room was four metres or so square; book shelves ran floor to ceiling round all four walls, the only gaps being two doorways, the window and a fireplace. Lined along the shelves were thousands of books, intermittently divided by various ornaments and knick-knacks. Several other piles of books were scattered across the floor and stacked up on an old mahogany desk inlaid with green leather. Tucked up against the desk was an ancient wooden, swivel chair. The door opposite the window led through to the back of the house.
Fallon crouched down and pointed to a couple of spots barely visible on the dark floorboards.
‘They’re recent enough?’ McEvoy said, lowering himself to join her, the boards creaking under his feet.
‘Last day or so. There’s a shard here.’ She pointed to a piece of white porcelain, one edge stained blue, nestled in against the spines of two books on the nearest shelf. ‘There’s another one at the bottom of this pile.’ She pointed to one side.
‘So he was killed in here and then carried upstairs?’
‘Attacked in here at least, perhaps. He might have died later on.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
Their conversation was disturbed by the noise of two cars crunching up the driveway. McEvoy eased himself up and headed for the front door.
Detective Sergeant John Joyce and Detective Garda Kelly Stringer clamoured out of their respective cars and approached McEvoy. Round faced and boyish looking, Joyce was dressed in a scruffy grey suit, his thin hair shaved close to his head. He’d attained a doctorate in Sociology from Trinity College Dublin before changing career track and joining the gardai. He was still viewed with suspicion by a few colleagues, some of whom felt threatened by his obvious intellect, some of whom suspected they were part of an ongoing ethnographic study. Just over six feet tall, Stringer was conservatively dressed in a two-piece, dark blue trouser suit over a plain white blouse buttoned to her neck that made her look ten years older than her twenty-nine years. Her dark-brown hair was twisted round and pinned up.
‘You took your time,’ McEvoy stated flatly.
‘We had a few problems finding this place,’ Joyce explained. ‘Are we the first to arrive?’
‘You’ll be the only ones to arrive; we’re fully stretched. I’ve recruited a local sergeant, Tom McManus, to help with the questionnaires and searches. John, I want you to work closely with me, okay. You’re the dogsbody. If I get called away on other cases, you’ll be in charge. That alright?’
‘No bother.’
‘Kelly, you’re to set up the incident room.’
‘I’m to what?’ she said, surprised, aware that it was a job usually reserved for somebody more senior.
‘I said, set up the incident room. I hope I’m not going to have to repeat everything. Hannah Fallon and George Carter are inside,’ he continued without waiting for a reply. ‘We need to organise a search of the farm, start the interviews, and talk to the locals. Things are moving too slowly.’
* * *
Roza Ptaszek was a short, thin woman in her late twenties, with shoulder-length black hair tied back in a short ponytail. Her face was pale, her blue eyes rimmed red. Her boyfriend’s apartment, which he shared with two others, was a mess; a scattering of clothes, food wrappers and old newspapers strewn everywhere. She was sitting on the edge of a red sofa, her tall, stocky boyfriend standing behind her looking concerned.
‘Will I be able to collect my things soon?’ she asked with a light, East European accent.
‘Not for a couple of days,’ McEvoy replied neutrally. ‘We need to look for clues as to what happened to Dr Koch.’
‘It was terrible,’ she repeated for the fifth time. ‘Terrible.’ Her boyfriend squeezed her shoulder, offering sympathy.
‘What time did you leave the farm last night?’
‘About
ten o’clock
. We watched television and then we came into town and meet with some friends,’ she said in slightly broken English.
‘And there were no visitors?’
‘I left Dr Koch by himself. I always go out on Saturday night.’
‘And when did you go back?’
‘This morning. I got back to the house at about
eight o’clock
to make the breakfast. Dr Koch did not came downstairs so I went up to see why. He was always at his desk by
eight o’clock
. I know straight away he was dead. Somebody killed him, so I called the police.’
‘What made you think he’d been attacked?’
‘He’d been hit on the head. He was old, but he was… how you say… well. He was very strong.’
‘Do you have any ideas as to who might have attacked Dr Koch?’
‘I don’t… I don’t know. He was a very important man. Very wealthy.’
‘Have there been any visitors recently? Anyone Dr Koch argued with perhaps?’
‘His daughter was there yesterday; Mrs D’Arcy. They argue all the time. Mr Kinneally also visited yesterday. He works for Dr Koch, running one of his companies.’
‘What did he argue with his daughter about?’
‘I don’t know. They always have the door closed. She is not happy person, Mrs D’Arcy. She drinks… how do you say, like a… fish?’ She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
McEvoy nodded his head. He doubted that Roza didn’t know why Koch and his daughter argued, but he didn’t want to press the issue; he’d ask Marion D’Arcy himself. ‘Who else worked at the house? Were you the only one?’
‘No, no. Mr Farrell is the farm manager. He sometimes has helpers. Mr Freel is his business manager. Janek helps with gardens two evenings a week,’ she patted her boyfriend’s hand. ‘Sometimes at weekends.’
‘And were any of them there yesterday?’
‘Mr Farrell was there all day. He left at about
six o’clock
. Mr Freel was there in the afternoon. He was working with Dr Koch. They were always working.’
‘And when did Mr Freel leave?’
‘I don’t know. Before
eight o’clock
. Dr Koch ate on his own.’
‘How about anybody else?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What was Dr Koch like to work for?’ McEvoy asked.
‘He was… He was a clever man. He worked hard.’ Roza stopped, looking embarrassed.
‘He could be difficult?’ McEvoy hazarded.
She nodded her head. ‘He liked things the way he liked them.’
‘Did you get on well with him?’
‘I… we got on well. He was an interesting person. He know all about Polish history.’
‘Did you work for him for long?’
‘Three years. Do you… I no longer have a job?’
‘I don’t know,’ McEvoy said truthfully. ‘You told one of my colleagues that you thought someone had searched the house?’
‘Yes. Many things had been moved. Only a little, but I could tell. They searched everywhere. You think it was a thief?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’ McEvoy shrugged. Thieves were rarely so careful as to try and erase all trace of their presence.
* * *
The sun had long set and it was dark outside, given the absence of the moon and stars and any ambient light of street lamps. He found the quiet and stillness unsettling. One could drift through this landscape, the farmland, ditches, hedges and mature trees, and no one would be any the wiser. Whoever killed Albert Koch hadn’t needed to worry about witnesses beyond the cattle in the adjacent fields and the local fox.
He kicked a small, gravel pebble from the top of the steps out onto the driveway and checked his watch – 5.32. He needed to call home and let his sister and Gemma know what he was doing and then check-in with his inspectors to see how their cases were progressing. He pulled his mobile phone from a pocket and started to pace, uneasy in the silent gloom.
The call was answered after four rings.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be tied up until late.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ McEvoy’s sister, Caroline, said calmly. ‘As soon as I heard the news on the radio I knew you’d be calling. We’ve got in a
DVD
. There’s no problem with her staying over – the room’s set up as usual. Do you want a word with her?’
‘In a minute,’ he answered. Given the hours of his job, and the fact that he could be investigating a case anywhere in the country, his daughter often stayed over with his sister. It was an arrangement that McEvoy was both thankful for and embarrassed by, but there was little choice unless he looked for another line of work, and that wasn’t really an option, especially in the short term. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I feel a bit like a sumo, and it’s only five months, but I’m grand otherwise.’
Once the baby arrived McEvoy wasn’t really sure what would happen with the babysitting. Maybe Gemma could help out. As twelve-year-olds go she was sensible and responsible. Whilst still often childlike, she’d become old beyond her years since the death of her mother. Somehow she was morphing into her. It was strange to witness.
‘If you feel like a sumo now, just wait a couple of months.’ He winced as he said it.
‘Oh, God, don’t! I always remember what mam said to you once – “giving birth to you was like passing a ten pin bowling ball through a ten pence slot.” It put me off starting a family for years!’ she laughed. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be more like a marble. At the most a tennis ball. But, I doubt it somehow. I just hope that when I scream for the drugs, they give them to me! Look, Gemma’s hovering. Here you go.’
‘Hello, Dad?’ Gemma said cheerily.
‘Hiya, pumpkin. How’re things?’
‘They’re okay. We’re going to watch a
DVD
. You’re not getting back until late?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what time I’ll be there to pick you up. I imagine you’ll be asleep.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Who are you investigating – the Lithuanian or the billionaire?’