Authors: Rob Kitchin
Bishop stayed silent thinking the situation through.
Unsure about what to do, McEvoy filled the silence. ‘Maybe the best thing to do is ask for an embargo on printing the material? Or maybe they could talk about the material without actually publishing it verbatim? Printing the cards and books are just going to cause a panic. Everyone will know there are more murders to come. That’s what he wants. He wants to create a panic.’
‘There
are
more murders to come if we don’t catch the bastard,’ Bishop snapped. ‘If people knew that then maybe they’d look out for themselves; protect themselves.’
‘That’s not going to stop him,’ McEvoy said patiently. He wasn’t handling this well. ‘There’ll still be people who will leave themselves vulnerable. What can we do, shut down the whole country?’ It was a facetious statement and he knew it.
‘No, we can catch the son-of-a-bitch! But if we don’t catch him and we don’t alert the public, then there’ll be hell to pay. We’re going to have to do something.’
‘I still think a statement is the best thing,’ McEvoy persisted. ‘It means we can set out exactly what we want to say. There’ll be no confusion.’
‘You’re still going to have to talk to them at some point, Colm.’ The edge started to fade out of Bishop’s voice now that they seemed to have a plan. ‘I’ll deal with them for today, but I’m setting up another press conference for tomorrow morning. Early. Say
9 a.m.
You’re going to need to discuss the Hennessey murder in any case. And I don’t want any excuses. Just make sure you’re there and that you look presentable. Dig your uniform out if needs be.’
Charlie Deegan closed the office door and strode down the corridor and out through the automatic doors. He’d looked through Hennessey’s office and interviewed three of his colleagues: a pretentious prick, Miss Prim-and-Proper, and a saucy old cow. As far as Deegan was concerned they were living safe and cosy lives, locked in their ivory towers thinking they knew something about the world, but really knowing nothing about hardship, or poverty, or crime; about the sharp end of the stick. How could they with their heads stuck in books and living boring, middle-class existences in the suburbs? He’d rushed through the interviews, still angry at being belittled by McEvoy at the meeting. And in front of
his
team.
He wanted to get back over the other side of the campus to check on progress; to make sure that things were being run as they should be; to make sure they knew whose team they were playing for. Besides, he would end up doing a better job than McEvoy. The guy was a washout. The only reason he was there was they needed a superintendent. It wasn’t like he was any kind of genius and Deegan would soon make the rank. There was no question of that; he was the rising star of
NBCI
. They might as well have given the case directly to him. Still he’d better give McEvoy a call. Play along with the idiot. He pulled up his number.
‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s DI Deegan,’ he said, businesslike. ‘I’ve just finished over at Hennessey’s office. His diary shows that he was out at Glencree in January. He’s also visited the
DHC
twice this year. Once in January and once in March; both for just a couple of hours. The name in the diary is Angie Jenkins. I’ll get someone to go through his machine, look at his emails. His colleagues weren’t much help. They didn’t seem to know much about what he did or his personal life. They all said he was a quiet, pleasant person who got on well with students, was a good colleague, and was social enough. The usual kind of stuff,’ he said disingenuously as if no one could be as nice as people said. ‘All they knew about his home life was that he was a confirmed bachelor and that he had a brother living in
Dublin
, a sister in Fermanagh and another in the
US
somewhere. I’ll get Jane to take full statements from them.’
‘Did any of them work with him on any projects?’ McEvoy asked.
‘No. Seemed he liked to do things on his own. He’d work with groups and government and that, but he did all the writing himself,’ Deegan clarified. ‘He put in the hours; regularly in here until 7-7.30, and at weekends.’
‘Right. Right, okay.’
He could almost hear the cogs going round in McEvoy’s head. ‘So what now?’ he pressed.
‘We work the search and the questionnaires, we liaise with the other team, and we see what comes up.’
‘I’ll check in on the others. I’ll talk to you later on.’ Deegan ended the call before McEvoy could say anything in response.
He smiled to himself and dropped the phone back into his pocket. He looked down at the notepad, wrapped in clear plastic. The top sheet had Dermot Brady’s name scrawled across it and circled. He wanted to check that out himself. Brady’s name had already come up several times. He had all the appearances of a prime suspect. Which meant he was the logical place to start. Deegan knew if he could crack this case then the promotion to superintendent was as good as in the bag.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s me,’ McEvoy said.
‘I’ve heard the news,’ Caroline replied. ‘You want her to stay over?’
‘Please,’ McEvoy said with apology in his voice. ‘I’m not sure how long this is going to go on, but I’m going to be flat out until we catch the bastard. He’s going to keep killing until we stop him.’
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ve already got the spare bedroom sorted. She’ll be grand. She’s stayed over loads of times.’
‘Tell Jimmy that I’ll treat you both to a weekend away in a hotel somewhere down the country,’ McEvoy offered. He knew Jimmy didn’t mind Gemma staying over, but at the same time he wanted the fact to be acknowledged; that they weren’t being taken for granted.
‘He’ll be happier with tickets to Old Trafford.’
‘I’ll work on it,’ McEvoy said, without any idea about how he’d source them. ‘Look, thanks for doing this, Caroline. I really appreciate it.’
‘It’s no bother. What’s family for? Just make sure you catch him.’
‘I’ll do my best. We’re doing our best. I’ll call you later to talk to Gemma,’ he ended, guilt filling him with regret for the lost time, for not being there, for letting her down; knowing that he would always be doing so given his job. Often he would be away for days or weeks at a time if a murder was committed elsewhere in the country, away from Dublin.
‘McEvoy,’ he answered distractedly, staring down at a witness statement.
‘It’s John Joyce. I’ve looked up the raven in mythology as you requested. Do you want me to send you the file?’
‘No, no, you can give it to me later. Just give me the edited highlights for now.’
‘Well,’ Joyce paused, gathering his thoughts, ‘the raven appears in a whole load of different religions and myths – Norse, Celtic, North American, Greek. It’s associated with death in all of them. It’s either the messenger of death, or a medium of communication with the underworld. It’s also considered by some to be the bringer of war or misfortune, mainly because it hung round battlefields and ate the dead. Er, let me see.’ There was a slight pause as Joyce skipped through his notes.
‘In Irish folklore, the raven is omniscient, all seeing and knowing. It’s linked to a couple of mythical characters – the Celtic goddess Morrigane and the war goddesses of Badbh, Macha and Nemain who took the form of ravens. For North American Indians it seems that the raven appears as a deity and is a powerful shapeshifter, being able to transform into anyone or anything to get what it wants. Or he’s a trickster, fooling people into giving him what he wants, something that might be of great personal harm.
‘According to Wikipedia,’ he quoted, ‘a “raven can be a magician, a transformer, a potent creative force, sexual deviant or ravenous debaucher but always a cultural hero”. The “raven has also been described as the greediest, most lecherous and mischievous creature known to the Haida” – a tribe on the pacific coast,’ Joyce elaborated, “but at the same time Raven always helps humans in our encounters with supernatural beings”. That’s it really. Basically, it’s a dark bird. An eater of flesh. A bird that tricks and cheats, but sometimes for people at the expense of gods. The collective noun is unkindness,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘An unkindness of ravens. Though I found it called a terror in one source. I’ve printed off a few webpages I found using Google.’
‘Jesus,’ McEvoy said, exhaling. ‘The bringer of death, a god, a messenger, a trickster, a shapeshifter. He thinks he’s invincible.’
‘He’s bound to have made a mistake,’ John Joyce offered. ‘He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. Nobody is.’
‘Perhaps not, but he’s definitely put a lot of thought into this. Look, I’ll see you later at the team meeting. Thanks for the update.’ McEvoy terminated the call and tumbled the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Whoever The Raven was, he’d spent months preparing for these murders, carefully constructing the plot, writing the chapters, developing a profile for the media, planning the slayings; making sure it all hung together as a coherent whole. This wasn’t about killing, this was about notoriety. He was probably already in place for the next slaying.
McEvoy cast his gaze round the room. Both teams were present. Barney Plunkett, Fay Butler and Simon Grainger were huddled together swapping notes and ideas, standing next to two notice boards onto which were stuck photos, victim details and sketch maps. Padraig O’Keeffe, Jane Murphy and John Joyce were sitting together chatting and gesturing at a pile of photofits. Kenny Johns and Charlie Deegan stood halfway down the room trying to out-pose each other while tracing the room every now and then with conspiratorial gazes. Hannah Fallon stood by a hot water urn making herself a cup of coffee, surveying the scene, an amused smile on her face. Cheryl Deale and Dermot Meaney hovered nearby, sipping from white mugs.
McEvoy looked at his watch – 7.50 p.m. – and tried to ignore the rumbling of his stomach. Twenty-four hours previously David Hennessey was probably just getting ready to head off on his last evening’s walk. He rapped his knuckle on the blank whiteboard placed just to the right of the lectern. ‘Okay, okay, let’s make a start.’ He waited while they shuffled to their seats. ‘I think the best way to do this is for each team to give an update, then we’ll take it from there. We’ll take the Glencree murder first. Barney, you want to start?’
Plunkett stayed seated. ‘It’s been a slow day. John continued the search of the surrounding area for any evidence – dumped bags and the like – but nothing so far. Kenny’s managed to track down another of our homeless abscondees. There are still two missing. God knows where they are. Fay’s been working through the centre’s records trying to make an inventory of everyone who’s stayed or attended one of their courses. It’s a thankless task. It seems as if every criminal on the island has been through their doors.
‘I’ve been talking to Laura’s family and also to the
DHC
about David Hennessey. He’d been in to see them a couple of times in relation to research projects he’d been doing. It all seems in order. He’d had a grant from Combat Poverty to do the work. As far as anyone knew Hennessey had never come into contact with Laura. That’s about it really. We’re just running the usual routines trying to spot a way in.’
McEvoy nodded. ‘Charlie?’
People twisted round in their seats so that they could see Deegan. Like Plunkett he stayed seated. ‘I’ve been through Hennessey’s office and his computer. Nothing much to report from that. The guy was anally retentive – liked everything neat and tidy; obsessively so if you ask me.’ He didn’t mention the five emails to Dermot Brady arranging to go for a few pints after the
DHC
meetings.
‘O’Keeffe and Murphy have had more luck with the witness statements and door-to-door. They’ve managed to put together a timeline and a photofit. Seems there was someone well wrapped up hanging around the place – baseball cap pulled low, scarf hiding most of his face. The description’s a bit vague – anywhere from 5 feet 7 to 6 feet tall; slim and well-built; but it’s a start. Hennessey was seen walking in the university grounds between 8.30 and 9.00, but he disappears after that. Nothing else to go on at the minute.’ Deegan drew to a close.