Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘I’ll try and meet you at the cinema. Text me the details of what you’re watching.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Colm. You’ve got more important things on your plate.’
‘Jesus, the least I can do is show up for some of it,’ McEvoy said, tiredness in his voice. ‘What kind of a father is it that misses his own daughter’s birthday? Especially the first one after her mother dies?’
‘Look, I’ll text you the details, but she’s in good hands and she understands the kind of pressure you’re under. If we see you, we see you, but don’t worry otherwise. We’d all sooner you caught this Raven bastard.’
‘Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.’ He ended the call and cursed again. He should have asked to talk to Gemma. Damn it, he’d just have to make sure he met up with them later.
The pub felt strange emptied of patrons, like a space waiting to happen. It was all set up to go – the tables clear, the seats positioned, the halogen lights slightly dimmed, and the bottles all lined up behind the bar, but without people it felt pregnant with the expectation of what it could be; of being alive, humming to the sound of chatter and laughter and music. He was appreciating the silence, the stillness, standing where The Raven had sat watching the toilet door.
Barney Plunkett pushed open the outside door, letting in the sounds of the city, breaking the moment, and approached McEvoy. He was accompanied by Dr John. ‘What the hell’s the story with Charlie Deegan?’ Plunkett asked to McEvoy’s back. ‘Is he really back on the case?’
McEvoy turned to face them. ‘Look, Barney, direct your questions to Tony Bishop, okay?’ he said evenly. ‘He’s back and that’s it. We just have to live with it.’
‘And there’s nothing you can do?’
‘No. Just drop it. Let’s just concentrate on Peter,’ he waved his hand.
‘Killick,’ Dr John prompted.
‘Peter Killick’s death. Have you got that photofit?’
Plunkett handed him a rolled-up sheet of paper which he flattened on the table. A nondescript face with shoulder-length hair and a beard stared back at him.
‘That’s the best they could come up with?’ McEvoy asked, disappointed. ‘He looks like he belongs in a computer game.’
‘It was difficult to get agreement,’ Plunkett conceded. ‘He’s kind of a composite picture.’
‘Meaning he doesn’t look like how anyone remembers him,’ McEvoy stated. ‘Did nobody get a decent look at him?’
‘It doesn’t seem like it. He chose the perfect spot. His back is to everyone except the toilet door.’
‘And how about you, John? Did you manage to get anything useful?’
‘Not really, no. Nothing from the questionnaires or the CCTV. We’re appealing for witnesses to come forward.’
‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered.
Overhead they could hear shuffling feet and murmured conversation. Hannah Fallon and one of her assistants came into view, descending the stairs from the balcony above.
‘There are still two other people we can’t account for who left the bar when Killick’s death was announced,’ Dr John continued. ‘We’re still trying to track them down.’
Fallon and Carter joined them.
‘How have you got on?’ McEvoy asked.
‘I think we’re just about finished for now,’ Hannah answered. ‘We’ve thoroughly screened the toilet and this floor. We’ll work through the other floors tomorrow, but I doubt we’ll find anything. Nobody saw him go upstairs, nor Killick. He’d wiped this whole area down with a wet wipe, but we found a couple of hairs on the table and floor. Could be his, or could be somebody else’s. Problem with this place is the same as Glencree – dozens of people come here every day.’
‘How about in the toilet?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Loads of blood, piss and pubic hairs. Every woman’s fantasy,’ she said sarcastically. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Well, it doesn’t seem like there’s too much for me to be doing here. I’m going back up to Harcourt Street, then I’m nipping home briefly. It’s Gemma’s birthday. She’s 12. I’ve missed the whole bloody thing. Can you make sure this place is locked up tight and somebody keeps an eye on it?’
‘I’ve already arranged it,’ Plunkett said. ‘Say happy birthday to her for me, will you.’
‘For us,’ Hannah added. ‘You won’t be missed for an hour or so. Don’t worry about rushing back.’
‘Yeah, thanks. An hour is more than enough. I need to work through today’s case notes.’
‘There is one thing,’ Dr John said, reaching into his coat pocket. ‘I managed to get a couple of copies of that book, y’know,
Cartographies of Murder
. Got one from Easons, the other Waterstones.’ He pulled the paperback free and offered it to McEvoy.
‘Right, thanks.’ McEvoy took it and stared at the cover – a black and white map of city streets, six daggers thrust in as markers, small pools of blood where they pierced the paper. He shuffled towards the door, reading the back cover.
Every one of the murder investigations had reached a wall. Instead the teams were working through the phone calls and re-mining old ground in the hope of discovering some missed gem. Nobody seemed particularly hopeful.
McEvoy left the incident room and started down the stairs, heading for his car. His mobile phone rang.
‘McEvoy.’
‘Please tell me you’ve got something positive to report,’ Tony Bishop said.
‘Well, er, I, we’re …’ McEvoy stuttered.
‘I take it that’s a no then?’ Bishop interrupted.
‘Yes. I mean no. I mean no, there’s not been a breakthrough. Brady’s given us a list of former inmates from Mountjoy who he thinks could be The Raven and places he thinks might be targets given where people have been attacked so far. We’re checking the names out and the places will all be under surveillance from midnight.’
‘Jesus, more overtime. This case is costing us a fortune. Bad press and high cost. The feckin’ politicians are going to eat us alive.’
McEvoy stayed silent.
‘The press conference was a disaster by the way,’ Bishop continued, feeling the need to offload his problems onto somebody. ‘The fifth murder and Brady’s release has sent them into a flat spin. They’ve nothing to focus their attention on except us. We just had to sit there and take it. You’ll need to be at the next one. I don’t see why I should be the only poor bastard they’re throwing darts at. It’s at ten o’clock in the Burlington Hotel – we’ve outgrown the Phoenix Park. Make sure you’re there by 9.30.’ Bishop paused.
‘Look, Colm, one of the reasons I called is to let you know that the Assistant Commissioner has called in a profiler. Dr Kathy Jacobs. She’s done a lot of work for Strathclyde and some of the other Scottish forces. Also for the Met. Seems she knows her stuff. Anyway, she arrives in tomorrow morning early from
Prestwick
. I’ve arranged someone to pick her up from the airport and bring her into
Dublin
. She should be with you around eight o’clock. I want full co-operation with her, okay? Full access to the files and crime scenes.’
‘I’ll meet with her, but I doubt she’s going to be much help,’ McEvoy said sceptically. ‘What we need is a solid lead not speculation. She’s not going to stop the next murder.’
‘We need all the help we can get,’ Bishop stated flatly. ‘From what you’re telling me we have no solid leads; we’re chasing a ghost. At least she might be able to give us some ideas that might reveal solid leads. And it doesn’t end with the last murders. We still have to catch him. It’s not going to be a case of meeting her and fobbing her off. Understand? As of now she’s a core member of the team.’
Bishop ended the call.
McEvoy shook his head and pushed open the door. Off to his right a couple of flashbulbs popped and journalists started calling out to him, looking for information. He hurried to his car and made for the exit. Running the gauntlet of journalists and cameramen was beginning to wear thin. There were hundreds of them now in Dublin from every nation, all covering The Raven and his killings.
McEvoy pulled into a parking space at the Santry Omniplex. He glanced over at the entrance and then down at his watch. 9.30. He wasn’t sure how long the film would last but it had to be over soon. God knows what Caroline had taken them to see. He hoped it was something like
The Princess Diaries
, but was probably more like
Die Hard 12
or
Mission Impossible 8
, or whatever bloody number they were up to now.
He tipped his back against the headrest. The first tear fell from his right eye, rolling slowly down between his cheek and nose to his lips. After that they wouldn’t stop coming. He didn’t know whether he was crying for Maggie or Gemma, or for Laura, David, Grainne, Billy or Peter, or for Grainne’s lost baby, or for their families, or for himself. It didn’t matter and he didn’t care. His body shook with the grief and guilt, the pent-up tension and stress, the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. He wiped at his face with his sleeves and hands, sucking in breaths as the tears flowed.
There were a series of very bright flashes to his right, blinding him. Instinctively he threw up his hand to shield his face and turned his head left. Flashes popped into the car through the passenger window.
‘Fuck!’
He swung open his door angrily, slamming it into the side of the photographer, who yelped and jumped back, his camera still trained on McEvoy, it flashing as he levered himself up and out of the car.
‘What the fuckin’ hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, his hands shielding his face.
‘Superintendent McEvoy,’ a voice said from the other side of the car, ‘are you close to catching The Raven? Were you crying for all of the victims? Do you have anything to say to the victim’s families?’ The questions were fired at him quickly, not giving him time to answer. ‘Do you know who is going to be next and are you satisfied that you’re doing everything to protect them?’
The last questions were said to McEvoy’s back as he half-walked, half-ran towards the entrance to the cinema. A stream of people had begun to exit, their progress slowing as they noticed him heading towards them, two people in pursuit. He could see the apprehension in their body language. The fear that he might be The Raven or some other equally deranged lunatic.
He spotted Caroline and Gemma, one of her friends at her side, off to the right, unaware of his presence. Behind them his mother and father came into view. What was he doing? He was leading the press straight to his family. He pulled to a stop. ‘Shit!’
His father spotted him, smiled and waved, tapping Gemma’s shoulder to redirect her attention to him. He motioned them to head back into the cinema, holding his hand up to indicate a phone.
The journalist had caught back up to him. ‘Would you like to give your side of the story, Superintendent? Is he really that good or is it just police incompetence? You can name your price for the story.’ The photographer had his camera trained on the front of the cinema, which lit up with a series of bright flashes, sending people scurrying either out onto the car park or back into the complex. His family hesitated, frozen in the glare of the camera flash, before his father and Caroline bundled them back into the cinema.
McEvoy pushed the journalist out of the way and ran back to his car. He clambered in, started the engine and reversed quickly out of the space, nearly hitting the photographer. He headed for the exit, trying to find Caroline’s number on his phone, as his pursuers headed for their own car.
‘Colm?’
‘Get out of there now, before they come back to find you,’ he instructed.
‘What?’
‘I said get out of that cinema now before the press come and find you. Do it now! I’ll talk to you in five minutes.’