Authors: Rob Kitchin
McEvoy shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘Good to meet you, Tom. So what have we got?’ he asked the pair.
The two men shuffled out of McEvoy’s line of sight and he crouched down to get a better view. The body was poorly hidden from the path, but well screened from the car park because the area in between contained hundreds of saplings, 3 or 4 feet high, the grass high around them.
‘By the look of him, he’s been dead a while,’ Meaney offered. ‘Some time in the night is my guess. A local man found him an hour or so ago – out walking his dog. It’s a pretty quiet spot despite everyone being on campus. He hit his ball near to the trees and the dog ran in underneath and found the body.
‘Do we know who he is yet?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Not at the moment,’ Meaney replied. ‘All of his clothes seem to be missing. We need to get the bag off his head – no other way of telling. No one locally has reported anyone missing in the last 24 hours, unless he’s from somewhere else and the body’s just been dumped here?’
McEvoy nodded and took a step forward onto the edge of the path. ‘We’ll need to get that checked out. How long until the crime scene people get here?’
‘They’re on their way. I spoke to them five minutes ago. They were just passing Lucan on the motorway.’
‘How about the pathologist?’
‘She’s on her way too. She was just leaving. He left his cards in the cemetery.’ He moved towards the archway. ‘Obviously the same madman that killed the girl up in Glencree.’
‘Looks that way,’ McEvoy said, his mind wandering elsewhere. Two victims killed, potentially five more to go. They’d barely got started on the investigation into Laura’s death and now there was another to deal with. One that looked equally bizarre. He followed Meaney through the archway, noticing the plaque listing names and dates embedded in its 4-foot thick wall. Another uniformed guard was stationed on the far side of cemetery, blocking access in over the low wall, a hedge behind it.
In front of them was a tall, plain, Celtic cross. To the right was what looked like a small stone chapel with a heavy wooden door. To the left was a cluster of 20 or so low, stone Celtic crosses. Meaney led them past the tall cross and a couple more low stone crosses to a set of dark, plain, metal crosses, five in a row. Stuck to the top of them were the business cards.
‘You can only be buried here if you lived and worked in the seminary,’ Meaney explained. ‘These would have probably been students who died while they were studying for the priesthood.’
McEvoy looked at the cards and then cast a glance around the graveyard. ‘Any sign of a note?’ he asked.
‘Nothing beyond the cards,’ Meaney replied. ‘We haven’t done a search of any kind, we were waiting for you and the crime scene team.’
McEvoy nodded at three rows of gravestones, each 15 or so long, opposite the metal crosses. ‘What the hell has happened to those?’ Many of the small crosses attached to the top of the small triangular stones had been knocked off.
‘Local vandals,’ Bacon explained. ‘It’s obviously good craic to smash up memorials to the dead,’ he said sardonically.
‘Jesus Christ,’ McEvoy muttered, anger boiling up in him. If anyone did this to Maggie’s grave there would be hell to pay. The little feckers would wish they hadn’t been born. He wandered over to one of the smashed gravestones. What was the sense in breaking it? The man had been dead over a hundred years.
He turned back to the other two. ‘Right, okay. Who’s the head of security here.’
‘Martin Cleary,’ Bacon answered. ‘Used to be …’
‘I know Martin,’ McEvoy interrupted. ‘We worked together a few times when I was starting out. I wondered what had happened to him when he retired. I always thought he’d head back out west. He still a cantankerous old bugger?’
‘You could say that,’ Meaney replied sourly.
‘Good,’ McEvoy said, ‘I always thought it suited him.’
He set off for the car park. As he neared, a bright red sports car drove in through the orchard gate and pulled to a stop. Charlie Deegan eased his well-toned frame out of the car, brushed a hand through his thick, dark hair, and cast his gaze over the other vehicles. He spotted McEvoy, shut his car door and headed towards him, beeping on the alarm.
‘Sir,’ Deegan smiled.
‘Charlie,’ McEvoy stated flatly. ‘The victim is next to that set of yew trees, by the cemetery wall.’ He pointed behind him. ‘The crime scene people should be here any minute. Take them up there and have a look yourself – see what a sick bastard we’re dealing with. Dermot Meaney’s the local super, he’ll help work the questionnaires, and Tom Bacon’s the local sergeant. They’re stood by that crucifix with some of their men. Who’s your team at the moment?’ McEvoy asked, seeking confirmation that things were as usual.
‘DSs are Grainger, Murphy and O’Keeffe,’ Deegan replied, a slightly amused look on his face. ‘They’re on their way. They left right after me.’
At least the core team were all sound, McEvoy reflected. Good guards with plenty of guile. All he hoped was that their common dislike of Deegan wouldn’t hinder the investigation. He needed everyone pulling in the same direction. ‘And did Tony Bishop brief you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. I’m going to talk to the head of security here, Martin Cleary. See what he has to say. I suggest you introduce yourself to the locals; I’ll find you again afterwards to see how things are going.’
Deegan nodded and set off towards the crucifix.
McEvoy watched him for a moment then turned back towards the car park. He hoped Deegan was going to behave himself.
Martin Cleary was leaning against the bonnet of a white van, its side emblazoned with the crest of the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. His thick, white hair was stuck up in tufts, his face round, cheeks ruddy, and his green tweed suit crumpled. He looked as if he had fallen out of bed after a long night. He was talking to a middle-aged woman. She in contrast was immaculately dressed in a blue trouser suit and black shoes with a slight heel. Her long brown hair framed a stern looking face. They stopped chatting as McEvoy approached.
‘Martin, long time no see. How’s it going?’ McEvoy extended a hand.
‘I’m surviving, Colm.’ Cleary pushed himself forward and shook McEvoy’s hand warmly. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in charge of this rabble?’
‘For my sins,’ McEvoy said. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy,’ he introduced himself to the woman.
‘Clara Russell,’ the woman replied in a clipped accent, ‘health and safety officer for the university.’
‘They made you a detective superintendent,’ Cleary said, doubt in his voice. ‘They must have been desperate, Colm.’
It was always difficult to tell whether Cleary was joking or not. McEvoy’s policy had always been to think that the cantankerous old sod was speaking the truth dressed up in jest. The only way to deal with it was to reciprocate the compliment. ‘Not as desperate as when they made you one, Martin.’
‘You insolent young pup!’ Cleary stated, an amused edge to his voice. ‘I was sorry to hear about Maggie, Colm,’ he said, changing his tone. ‘Cancer’s a terrible thing. A terrible thing,’ he repeated. ‘Colm’s wife recently passed away,’ Cleary explained to Clara Russell.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clara said, without sounding it.
‘It’s okay,’ McEvoy said. ‘We just take one day at a time. So, Martin,’ he said, becoming more businesslike, ‘you have anything that’s gonna help us solve this murder? Any CCTV?’
‘Only bit we have on this side is inside this place.’ Cleary jerked his thumb towards the seminary building. ‘The north campus is pretty well kitted out at this stage, but I’m still trying to convince the stupid buggers to install it on the south campus too. Same problem as ever. Money.’
‘So you have no footage of the grounds? The entrances in and out?’
‘No. Though he could have got in and out over one of the walls easy enough. The perimeter must be a couple of miles long and it’s all fields and the canal on this side.’
‘How about any of your team? Did they see anything?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Campus like this, there are people wandering around all the time. Quite a few people walk round the circuit here in the evening; getting a bit of exercise. We shut the library gates around
ten o’clock
, the main gates at eleven. Plus there are guests staying in campus accommodation and seminarians who live on site.’
‘So he could have easily come and gone without anyone seeing him?’
‘He could have walked out the front bloody gates and we’d not have a record of it,’ Cleary said, a touch of anger in his voice.
‘Jesus. Right, okay.’ McEvoy spotted Cheryl Deale and her team walking down the path towards the crime scene. Just as there was a new investigative team, there was a new crime scene team. A lawyer would have a field day if he knew the same team had processed both sites. Any evidence could have been carried from one site to the other. It didn’t matter that they wore disposable, protective gear, there was a hint of doubt, and that was enough to open a chink in the prosecution’s case.
Charlie Deegan had broken off holding court with the local guards and was heading to meet them. ‘Look, Martin, can you work with the locals to keep this site secured? Maybe pacify everyone being detained while we take statements?’
‘No bother. You have a madman on your hands, Colm. We saw the body.’ He nodded at Clara. ‘Anything you need just give me a call.’
McEvoy met Charlie Deegan at the crucifix.
‘My lot have arrived,’ Deegan explained. ‘I’m going to bring them up here so they can see what they’re dealing with, then I’ll get them set up. I’ve spoken with Meanbag and Bacon Roll and a couple of their lads. I mean Superintendent Meaney and Sergeant Bacon,’ he corrected himself. ‘Sorry about that,’ he continued disingenuously.
McEvoy did his best not to roll his eyes. Deegan wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He was letting McEvoy know what he thought of the locals, which wasn’t a lot. He’d obviously decided that none of them were going to be of any use in building his career.
‘Keep an eye out for Elaine Jones,’ McEvoy instructed, letting Deegan’s insubordination slide. ‘She should be here by now.’
‘Will do.’ Deegan set off back to the car park to meet his DSs.
McEvoy shook his head and strolled down the yew tree laneway. Up ahead he could see Cheryl Deale and her two team members getting suited up.
‘How’re things?’ he asked the team in general.
‘Somebody’s already fucked things up,’ Cheryl Deale replied, agitated, not bothering with any pleasantries. The paper suit covered her slight frame and hair, just her face showing. Her eyes were bright blue above a small button nose. She held a camera in one hand; a video recorder hung round her neck.
‘What?’ McEvoy said, confused. ‘No one’s been near the body.’
‘No, but people have been tromping all over its path. Can you see here?’ She pointed into the low undergrowth. ‘This is where he was dragged in.’ She turned and pointed at the entrance to the avenue. ‘He was probably killed down near that crucifix, pulled in under the trees, across onto the path, along it towards the cemetery,’ she traced the route with her finger, ‘and then back out the other side and into this hollow.’
‘So he was dumped here?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Do you want the sarcastic answer to that?’ Cheryl said caustically. ‘I’ve just told you, he was dragged down the path.’
‘Jesus, Cheryl, calm down.’ McEvoy knew she was feisty, bullish even, but he thought her reaction was a little over the top. His hand instinctively played with the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. ‘Is it going to make a difference?’
‘Of course, it’s going to make a difference,’ she snapped. ‘Any bloody material is going to be contaminated.’