Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘Five minutes max, okay? I know your five minutes,’ McEvoy said, standing, gathering the plates to take to the sink. He realised he was talking to an empty room. He turned on the tap and squeezed washing-up liquid onto a scouring sponge.
He stared up at the ceiling and the shadows, the bed cold and empty next to him. Things were not going quite to plan. His own partner had realised he was The Raven after only three deaths, one of which she hadn’t yet learnt of. His false trail had worked for a while, but had come to fruition a little too quickly. The guards were being much more effective than he had given them credit for, even if it looked to the world as if they were stumbling round in the dark like idiots. It wouldn’t take them long to work out Brady was not The Raven; the next death would see to that.
That was a shame – he’d invested time creating the misdirection. Brady had been perfect given his past and his present circumstances.
To make things worse, killing the old man had been too easy, too impersonal, too fast. He hadn’t even been aware of what was happening; dead before he could experience the fear and trepidation of suffering. He’d simply clobbered him, lit the fire and run. He hadn’t even stayed to watch the house burn.
The deaths so far had served the purpose of the book, but at one level they were hollow victories. Yes, the whole world was watching and discussing his genius, but ultimately they were meaningless slayings lacking in any satisfaction. There was no terror, no begging for mercy, no bonding, no power beyond a moment. They simply served another end – a good end, the intended end, but somehow deficient.
He swung his legs out of the bed and headed to the bathroom. The woman was still lying naked in the bath, a rancid smell revealing she had soiled herself. Her eyes opened at the light from the doorway, communicating her terror and pleas, her skin goose pimpled from the cold air and fear. She lifted her head and pulled half-heartedly at the bath handles, knowing from a day of struggling that she couldn’t break the bonds.
He sat on the edge of the bath, seemingly immune to the foul smell and traced his index finger along the smooth skin of her stomach. ‘We need to talk,’ he said quietly. ‘Try and come to some arrangement.’
She nodded, trying to communicate agreement.
He reached over to the counter surrounding the sink and picked up a pack of five razor blades, tearing the packing away.
The woman’s eyes bulged with panic and she squirmed hopelessly in the tub.
He removed one of the blades, pinching it between his index finger and his thumb. The woman stopped struggling, her eyes transfixed on the blade. Slowly he drew an arc from the side of her right breast to the top of her pubic bone.
The woman writhed in pain, her eyes imploring him to stop; that she’d do anything he wanted.
He smiled at her wanly, then turned his attention to the wound. The thin red line slowly started to weep, the blood easing out onto her alabaster skin. He watched it with fascination as the blood eased into the tiny wrinkles before swelling and spreading.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t touch your face,’ he whispered as he drew another arc along the length of her right arm. He then put down the blade and took two sheets of toilet paper from a roll. He pressed the flesh on either side of the new wound, easing the thick red blood out, then wiped it away slowly with the tissue paper.
‘You’ll come to worship me, over time, you know,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be the god that bleeds away your sins.’
Chapter Four
Thursday, April 17
th
McEvoy closed the front door gently, but it still clicked shut audibly. He cursed under his breath and headed for the kitchen. The clock on the cooker showed it was
ten past seven
. He placed the paper bag on the table and started to remove the contents he’d bought minutes earlier from a local newsagent – a pack of six cupcakes, a set of cake candles, and a birthday card. He tore the cellophane wrapper on the card with his teeth and pulled it free. On its cover were some lurid cartoon characters he’d once seen Gemma watching on TV, but importantly it had a badge pinned to its top right corner that stated ‘12 today!’
The door to the kitchen started to open.
‘Out!’ McEvoy barked. ‘Go on, I’m busy here. Just give me two minutes, okay?’
‘What are you up to?’ Gemma asked, hopefully.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, moving to the door to stop her entering, his eyes searching the kitchen surfaces for a pen. ‘Look, don’t get your hopes up here, okay? Give me two minutes. I’ll call you.’
‘Two minutes, then I’m coming in,’ Gemma warned.
McEvoy moved to a kitchen drawer and started to rifle through it. Toward the back he found an old biro. He quickly wrote in the card. ‘Dear Gemma. Have a great day! All my love, Dad.’ He stuffed it into the bright red envelope provided and scribbled her name on the front. Next he tore open the cupcakes and placed them on a plate. Taking the candles from their pack he placed two into the icing of each.
‘Thirty seconds,’ Gemma called from the hallway.
‘I know, I know,’ McEvoy replied, moving to the cooker to retrieve a box of matches. He pulled one free, struck it and moved its flame across the candles. After five candles the flame had reached his fingers. He extinguished it with a flick of his wrist, dropping the charred remains onto the table and pulled another one free.
‘I’m coming now.’
‘Hang on,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘Ten more seconds.’
He lit the rest of the candles with the match. ‘Okay, right then, you can come in now.’
Gemma pushed open the kitchen door and tried to stifle a laugh. Surrounding the plate of birthday cupcakes was the debris of packaging.
McEvoy snatched at it, scrunching it up as he started to sing. ‘Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Gemma. Happy birthday to you.’ He paused to lift the plate towards her. ‘For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow and so say all of us.’
She blew the candles out in one go, her face flushed with embarrassment at her father’s antics.
McEvoy placed the plate back down and handed her his card. ‘As I said, it’s nothing special.’
She pulled it free and opened it. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She hugged at his waist and he placed an arm around her, bent down and placed a kiss on the top of her head.
‘I’ve got a couple of parcels for you to open,’ he said. ‘One from Nana and Granddad McEvoy and one from Nana and Granddad Dacey. I’ve also got some cards from your aunts and uncles. I’ll just get them for you.’ He left the room and retrieved the items from the cupboard under the stairs. He placed them on the table in a pile. ‘You can either open them now or later. It’s up to you.’
‘I’ll do half now, and half when I get home from school.’
‘Fair enough. Look, I know it’s your birthday,’ he said, becoming more serious, ‘but I need to go to work. Once you’ve opened the first half can you get changed? I’ll then drop you off at Aunt Caroline’s? She said she was preparing a special birthday breakfast for you.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Gemma replied, smiling. She stood the card on the table and reached for another envelope. ‘Can I take the cupcakes with me?’ she asked.
‘Of course you can,’ he replied, smiling at her happiness, feeling queasy inside. In five minutes’ time he was going to leave this joy and innocence and re-enter the world of The Raven. He still found the transition a difficult one after 20 years; to shift from the comforts of home and family to the darkness of serious crime. He dumped the cellophane wrapping in the bin and started to gather his things.
The traffic lights glowed red. McEvoy drummed out a rhythm on the steering wheel, impatient for the sequence to change. His mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy.’
‘Hi, Sir, er, it’s John Joyce. I’ve managed to locate the source of those quotes. The one’s The Raven’s been using in his chapters. Well, I didn’t exactly, The Guardian did, but, y’know,’ he tailed off embarrassed.
‘And?’ McEvoy prompted.
‘Right, yes, sorry. They’re from a book called
Cartographies of Murder: Mapping Killers
and their Crimes
by M J Draper. He’s a criminal psychologist at the University of California, Los Angeles. I haven’t yet managed to get hold of a copy but he basically seems to be arguing that where a murder occurs is an important component of being able to trace and track the killer; that murders don’t take place in random locations but are selected by the murderer for specific reasons. Constructing a profile by analysing where he attacks people can tell you as much as constructing a profile through victim selection and method of killing. That’s as much as I’ve got so far. I’m going to go and to see if the Garda College library has a copy. If they don’t, I’ll go down to Trinity; they’ve got to have a copy.’
‘Okay, good. I guess that makes sense with hindsight.’ The lights changed and he moved forward 50 metres and re-joined the queue of traffic. ‘All the places where Brady’s committed his murders were familiar to him; places he would have known the geography of; that he was comfortable moving around in. Perhaps the chapters were trying to tell us that? Look,’ he said without waiting for an answer, ‘I’m heading into Harcourt Street for a team meeting. Can you find out whether Brady owns a copy of that book? Maybe he has one in his apartment or at work?’
A mound of newspapers was piled on the desk. Someone had collected together a copy of every newspaper printed in Ireland and quite a few of the British dailies and left them for him. On the top had been a short note from the Assistant Commissioner congratulating him and his teams on Brady’s arrest.
The Raven and his killing spree dominated the front and inside covers of every paper, though none of them yet revealed his real name. They simply stated that a man was being questioned in connection with the murders and that he had previously served time for the manslaughter of a mother and small child. It was clear that the papers thought that the man in question was The Raven. They had all published copies of the cards and the four chapters he had sent them.
Barney Plunkett knocked on the open door and stepped into the office. ‘You reading your fan mail then?’
‘What?’ McEvoy said, looking up. ‘Yes. Yes. Did you buy all of these?’
‘Amazing how they can change their tune so much in 24 hours,’ Plunkett replied, ignoring McEvoy’s question. ‘Yesterday they thought we were a bunch of incompetent fools in need of reform and reorganisation. They hadn’t got a single nice thing to say about us.’
‘Before we copped ourselves on they were right,’ McEvoy stated solemnly. ‘Grainne Malone and Billy Mullins would both still be
alive if we hadn’t dropped our surveillance on Dermot Brady.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Plunkett shrugged, acknowledging that McEvoy was right. ‘We acted in good faith,’ he said lamely.
‘Once the papers get hold of that they’ll change their tune again.’ McEvoy slapped the top of the pile. ‘They’ll want to know why we didn’t catch him earlier. Is everyone here? Shall we make a start?’
‘Yeah, they’re down in the meeting room. What’s happening with Deegan?’ Plunkett asked sheepishly, digging for information. ‘I heard he’s going back to uniform.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ McEvoy replied neutrally. ‘Bishop wouldn’t tell me. I asked for him to be suspended pending an investigation.’
‘And is he suspended?’
‘I don’t know, Barney,’ McEvoy said, coming round the desk. ‘If I did, I’d tell you.’
There was an excited buzz in the meeting room when McEvoy and Plunkett entered. For the first time in a few days McEvoy saw his colleagues smiling. They seemed to be standing taller, more confident in their gait and gestures. The stifling pressure had been lifted off them now that Brady was caught. They knew that it wasn’t over, that they had to ensure that their case was watertight, but they recognised that the hard part was over – the identification and capture of the prime suspect.
McEvoy wrapped his knuckles on a table to attain their attention. ‘Okay, okay, let’s make a start.’ He looked round the small group – the four lead investigators – Barney Plunkett, Jenny Flanagan, Johnny Cronin, and Padraig O’Keeffe standing in for Charlie Deegan; and the five crime scene managers – Hannah Fallon, Cheryl Deale, Michael Foster, Seamus Harte who processed the site at Rathmoylan, and Samantha Norrie who was responsible for searching Brady’s apartment and car. They turned to face him, sitting down on chairs or the edge of desks, quickly finishing off sentences.
‘I guess you’ve seen the papers,’ McEvoy started. ‘They seem to think that Brady is as good as jailed. Now that would be great if it was true, but as you well know there’s a lot more to be done before that happens. What that means is we have to continue to process the evidence and build our case. I don’t want this bastard getting off on a technicality, so I want to make sure it’s done right, okay? I don’t want anyone to cut any corners. It might take longer, but everything’s to be done by the book. Everything. Understand?’
Everyone nodded their head, their face more serious.
‘Barney tells me he hasn’t yet confessed. In fact he’s flat out denying being the so-called Raven. He maintains that he’s been set up; that someone has framed him. I don’t think anyone in this room believes him, but we’ve got to take his account seriously. Where are we at with the crime scene evidence?’
The crime scene people looked at each other, trying to work out who was going to respond. Michael Foster decided to start. ‘Well, we have hair samples from three of the sites. In Glencree there were two hairs in Laura Schmidt’s bedroom, at Maynooth one hair was stuck in the paint on his thigh, and at Phoenix Park we found a couple with the missing toes. We’ve got solid footprint matches at the Phoenix Park and Rathmoylan and partials for Glencree and Maynooth. I’d say that together they pretty much confirm he was at all the murder sites.’
‘Could the hairs have been planted though?’ McEvoy asked. ‘Maybe someone collected some of his hair and has been parcelling it out carefully to make us think it’s him.’
‘The shoe size and tread matches Brady as well,’ Plunkett answered, ‘and when you add it to the other evidence – the fact that he knew three of the victims well, that he was familiar with all the sites, that we can place him directly at two of them, and that he has killed before – it all points to him. He’s just trying to spoof us. We all know he did it. Give him a couple more days and he’ll confess.’
‘Is that what everyone thinks?’ McEvoy asked.
Everyone nodded their head.
‘And do we think that he was working by himself?’
‘I think so,’ Johnny Cronin replied. ‘I can’t see how an accomplice fits into the killings – all the evidence points to him operating on his own.’
‘And do we have anything from his apartment apart from his shoes? Any cards or the remaining chapters?’
‘We haven’t found anything yet,’ Samantha Norrie replied. ‘But he might have made and printed them elsewhere, like an Internet café. He’d have known that we’d search his home if he became a suspect. There’s also no trace of the victims so far, but he could have another base, somewhere which he uses to wash and change.’
‘How about the car? The Fiesta he’d borrowed?’