Authors: Rob Kitchin
He moved back to the door, shifted the grip of the hammer in his right hand, his skin sweaty inside the thin rubber gloves. With his left hand he checked that the surgical mask was correctly in place and then carefully twisted the door handle. As expected, the door clicked open, and gently he pushed it wide, entering the kitchen. He stood stock still for a moment. A television or radio was on toward the front of the house, the volume turned up loud. He moved towards the sound, out into a hall. In front of him the passageway led to the front door, to the right it extended toward the bathroom and bedroom. The blare of an advert for a car came from the door to his left. He raised the hammer, pushed the door open and darted in.
The man was sitting where he always was; on the dark red sofa immediately inside the lounge door. He had barely started to swivel his grey-haired head to see who the intruder was when the hammer landed a heavy blow on the top of his skull, followed quickly by another. He slumped to one side, his chin on his left collarbone, blood oozing from his wounds, snaking down between the bridge of his nose and eye socket.
The Raven walked to the window, its frame almost the full height of the room, the windowsill near to the floor. He laid the hammer on the carpet and pulled four tea-light candles from his pocket, placing them at intervals on the floor along the length of the curtain, the wicks a couple of inches below the fabric. He struck a match and lit each candle, then he grabbed the hammer and retreated from the room, gently pulling the door closed so that the draft did not extinguish the flames. It would take a few moments for the flame to bite into the wax and grow. A few more for the material above to heat up and catch fire. He had already exited the driveway before the first streaks of gold and orange were visible through the front window.
The mobile phone was ringing. Eventually the noise penetrated McEvoy’s sleep, digging in at his unconsciousness, prodding him awake. After a moment’s confusion, the ringing finally registered and he snuck a hand from underneath the quilt. He groped around trying to locate the phone, finding it just as it stopped ringing.
He withdrew his arm and tried to cling to the last of the dream; to will himself back to sleep. He had lain awake for a long time before finally falling into fitful dreams. Now he was going to have to repeat the trick. He pulled the quilt tighter to himself. The phone started to ring again.
‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered. He snaked a hand out again and grabbed the phone. ‘This better be good,’ he stated flatly.
‘I, er, Detective Superintendent McEvoy?’ a woman asked hesitantly.
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s been another death, Sir. A man burned to death out at Rathmoylan, County Meath. Chief Superintendent Bishop asked me to ring you.’
McEvoy slowly pushed himself up, emerging from the covers. ‘Another death?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Sir. He told me to tell you that The Raven has killed again. Detective Inspector John Cronin is on his way to the scene. The fire brigade and gardai from the local station are already there.’
‘What time was the fire brigade called?’ McEvoy swung his legs out of the bed and looked at the clock. 1.46.
‘Just after one o’clock. A neighbour noticed the blaze and called it in. The whole house is apparently gutted. They’ve found three of his business cards.’
‘Jesus. Okay, thanks. I’m on my way. Can you let DI Cronin know I’ll be there shortly?’
‘I’ll ring him now.’
‘Thanks.’ McEvoy ended the call and started to get dressed. He glanced at himself in a mirror – a gaunt face, black rings beneath the eyes stared back. He barely recognised himself.
McEvoy pulled to a halt behind a marked garda car on the narrow road and edged the passenger door as close into the hedgerow as he dared. He was close to the
village
of
Rathmoylan
, just off the road to Trim. It might have been within 30 miles of
Dublin
, but he was deep in rural Meath.
Along the laneway he could see the flashing lights of the fire engines, wisps of dark smoke still rising from their right, dissipating in the stiff breeze. He levered himself out of the car, rubbed his short hair, and slotted his plastic cigarette into place. Fields stretched out beyond the hedges, long grass to the left, dark, furrowed soil to the right. The sky was tall, grey, racing clouds across snippets of blue, the threat of April showers at any minute. He glanced at his watch – 14.28 – and set off up the road.
The small bungalow was beyond repair. The roof had collapsed in on itself, taking half an outside wall. The wind lifted ash and smoke, dark water pooled on the driveway, red and grey hoses snaking from the road. Firemen milled about, their faces ringed by soot and sweat. He looked for someone he recognised.
DI Johnny Cronin stepped away from a small group of men. His short, black hair was cropped close to his scalp, his upper lip sporting a dark moustache. ‘The victim’s name was Billy Mullins. Sixty-four, a widower and recently retired; used to work in the insurance business. He’d been in a bad way for a while – rheumatoid arthritis; practically made him immobile. His family had been considering putting him in a home. They had a schedule worked out so someone visited him every day, and friends and neighbours also dropped in and kept an eye on the place, but it was becoming unsustainable – they had too many other demands on their time. They feel as guilty as hell now for even thinking it. He would’ve been young to get shunted away like that; 64.’
‘Anyone see anything?’ McEvoy asked, ignoring Cronin’s observation.
‘We’re still checking for witnesses.’
‘And was he attacked beforehand or was he burnt alive?’
‘We don’t know. He might have been, but he probably wouldn’t have been agile enough to get out anyway. They found him sat on the sofa in the front room. They think the fire started there. We’re still waiting for Professor Jones to arrive.’
‘Fear would have made him move,’ McEvoy stated. ‘It might have hurt like hell after, but he’d have shifted. My guess he was knocked unconscious or killed beforehand. Any cards or mementos?’
‘Three cards and chapter four. They’re laid out on the lawn just inside the gate. Here, I’ll show you.’ Cronin led McEvoy in through the entranceway, past a metal gate, painted black, and a large hebe. He stepped onto the lawn. On the far side of the bush was what looked like a small, home-made shrine. Three small, mini crosses were planted into the grass, spaced a few inches apart, The Raven’s business card affixed to the top of each. Inside their crescent was a large, dead, black bird. Clutched in its claws was the top roll of a note. Holding it unfurled was a small, clear glass container, a tea light candle glowing inside, fighting with the breeze to stay alight. McEvoy kept his distance, leaning forward and over to read the note.
The Rules
Chapter Four X: The Murder V
“The victims were vulnerable in many different ways. Their assailant had found a time and place where he could prey on such victims at will. He then took their lives without mercy or guilt.”
4a. Keep things simple.
4b. Be prepared to walk away if the situation changes. Improvise only in exceptional circumstances.
4c. The place – choose a location where there are no or few potential witnesses; where there are no cameras; where there is a good chance of contamination of evidence.
4d. The weapon – non-traceable and an everyday item. Never use a gun or anything that can be traced to a point of purchase.
4e. Do not give the victim the chance to fight back. Do not explain what you are going to do to them; kill them while they are still confused and trying to work out what is going on.
4f. Never give the victim the opportunity to escape.
4g. Ignore their pleas, should they have opportunity to voice them.
Master rule: at all times do not panic and stay in control of how things unfold.
McEvoy wandered along the driveway by himself, surrounded by personnel from the emergency services, yet alone. He surveyed the charred wreckage of the house, a lifetime’s collection of possessions destroyed, trying to marshal his thoughts. Billy Mullins was not a random victim killed in a public place, he was a specific individual murdered in his own home. It was not a chance occurrence that he’d come into the orbit of his killer. Something had drawn them together. Something tantalisingly out of reach.
His mobile phone rang. ‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s Cheryl Deale,’ she said quickly. ‘We’ve a positive match for a hair sample from Hennessey’s murder site. It was stuck to the paint on his left thigh. It belongs to Dermot Brady.’
‘Dermot Brady,’ McEvoy repeated, doubt in his voice. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely positive.’
‘Jesus.’ Brady was the killer. McEvoy felt physically sick, his legs weak. They shouldn’t have pulled the surveillance team off him. He’d killed twice since then. Twice. Two lives extinguished because of his error in judgment. He leant against the front wing of a parked car and held his temples between thumb and forefinger.
‘We’ll keep processing the samples,’ Deale said into the silence, ‘see if we can get some corroboration.’
‘Okay. Okay, thanks for the call.’ He mind started to race. He needed to put out a full alert for the arrest of Dermot Brady. They had to get him into custody before he murdered a fifth victim. He pushed himself back to standing and pulled a number up on his phone.
‘Dispatch. How …’
‘It’s Detective Superintendent McEvoy,
NBCI
,’ McEvoy interrupted, taking command, ‘I want a full nationwide alert for the arrest of Dermot Brady, DI Plunkett has his full details. This needs top priority, you hear? I want every available unit on it. He’s wanted for four murders.’
‘He’s The Raven?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, he’s The Raven,’ McEvoy snapped. ‘And he’s dangerous, okay, so I don’t want anyone risking their lives for a moment of glory. Call in a full arrest team if necessary. And I want to know the minute he’s caught. The absolute first to know, you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Right, get on with it then.’ He ended the call and pulled up Bishop’s number.
‘Bishop.’
‘It’s Dermot Brady,’ McEvoy said more calmly. ‘Brady’s The Raven. Cheryl Deale found one of his hairs stuck in the paint on David Hennessey. I’ve put out a full alert for his arrest.’
‘Dermot Brady,’ Bishop repeated.
‘I can’t believe I’ve been so …’
‘And do we know where he is?’ Bishop interrupted.
‘I’ve put out a full alert for his arrest.’