Authors: Rob Kitchin
The journalist and his photographer would never make it to their car in time to catch up with him. As soon as they realised that they’d go in pursuit of whoever he’d been signalling to. He exited onto the main road and headed away, a slow rage building inside of him.
He slotted his key in the front door and pushed it open. Gemma burst from the kitchen and ran up to him jumping up to his chest. He clutched her to him and tried to smile. ‘Happy birthday, pumpkin. How’d you get on?’
‘It was great. We went to the Chinese and I had prawn crackers and spare ribs and sweet and sour chicken.’ He stepped into the hall, closed the front door and carried her towards the kitchen passing a new garda uniform hanging in the hall, a note pinned to the front. ‘And Katie had chicken chow mein. Then we went to the cinema to see Harry Potter. It was brilliant! And Nana and Granddad came as well.’
Caroline, his mother and father were sitting at the kitchen table, cups of tea in front of them, solemn expressions on their faces. He let Gemma down and straightened his back. ‘You’re getting big. And heavy.’
‘Which is more than can be said for you,’ his mother said. ‘Jesus, Colm, look at the state of you. You look like one of them camp survivors. Y’know, Auschwitz or wherever.’ She pushed her chair back and headed for the kitchen counter. ‘You need to eat something.’
‘It’s good to see you as well,’ McEvoy replied sardonically. ‘Will you sit down, Mam, I’m fine.’
His mother pulled a loaf of bread from a cupboard and headed for the fridge.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Look, I’m sorry about before, the press must have followed me. I hope they didn’t startle you too much. They’re a pack of vultures.’
‘No, they just scared the shit out of us,’ Caroline said tetchily.
‘Language, Caroline,’ his mother said.
‘Close your ears, Gemma,’ McEvoy said, trying to bring some light-heartedness to the conversation.
‘We say shit all the time at school,’ she replied, smiling, confident she could get away with it on her birthday, straying over and standing next to her granddad.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ her nana said. ‘It’s not how a lady be-haves.’
‘Did your friends have a good time?’ McEvoy asked Gemma, realising that he was going to have to leave again soon.
‘Only Katie came. But she thought it was great. Especially at the end with the photographer and the chase.’
‘Only Katie came?’ McEvoy repeated.
‘The others weren’t allowed to come,’ Caroline said. She shrugged. ‘Their parents said it was too dangerous. You’re the lead investigator on the biggest murder case in Irish history.’
McEvoy tutted and massaged his temples. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he muttered to himself.
‘Colm!’ his mother snapped. ‘What did I just say about language?’
‘We say …’
‘Ah-ah-ah,’ McEvoy interrupted his daughter. ‘Don’t get too big for your shoes just because you’re 12 today.’ He turned his attention to his mother. ‘Look, Mam, will you forget about that sandwich. I’ve got to go back into work.’
‘Now? It’s nearly half-past ten, Colm,’ his mother said, disbelief in her voice. ‘What are you going to achieve tonight? You’d be better getting a goods night’s sleep.’
‘I’m not going to get a goods night’s sleep, am I? I’m going to lie awake worrying. He’s going to kill somebody else tomorrow. I have to go back in to try and stop that happening. I shouldn’t have come to the cinema in the first place. I only came so I could see Gemma for five minutes on her birthday.’
His mother didn’t respond, knowing that he was right; that waiting wasn’t an option.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back at some point. In the meantime, someone will be stationed out front to stop any unwanted visitors.’
‘Your father can deal with those.’
‘I don’t want him to deal with them. I want you to get some sleep.’
‘There was someone waiting for you when we got back,’ his father said, speaking for the first time. ‘He had a uniform for you. It’s in the hall.’
‘Thanks. It’s no doubt meant to improve my image. Look, I’d better be going,’ he said, opening the kitchen door. ‘Gemma, are you going to see me out and wish me goodnight?’
He knelt on the floor leaning over into the bath. He traced the razor blade along the length of her milky white thigh, the muscle tensing, the leg twisting, trying to escape. At first the trace was invisible and then it cracked red, beads of blood oozing out, collecting into droplets before dashing over crimpling skin and dropping to the bath below.
He re-adjusted the blade between forefinger and thumb and edged another cut diagonally across the first. He didn’t look at her face, her contorted features, her eyes imploring him to stop. He barely noticed the rest of her body either except where he traced his graceful arcs. His attention was focused on her silken skin, fine hairs, and the hypnotic patterns of blood spilling from fresh wounds. This wasn’t torture, it was art.
He was in a different place; a calm place; his mind empty except for what was at hand. There was nothing except the blade, her skin and her blood.
Barney Plunkett levered himself back upright from leaning over a desk. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asked McEvoy.
‘Thanks,’ McEvoy said without looking up from the witness statements, trying to find some chink of light amongst the mundane stories of those occupying The White Horse pub at lunchtime.
Plunkett returned from an urn and placed the mug of coffee down next to him. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’ McEvoy sat back. ‘It’s completely hopeless.’
‘It’s coming up to midnight. I’ll make sure the teams staking out Brady’s suggested locations are awake and being vigilant. Unless we have a breakthrough someone else is for it.’
‘Good idea. I’ll …’ He was interrupted by his mobile ringing. ‘McEvoy.’
‘Superintendent McEvoy? This is Gary Bridges from The Sun. I was wondering if you could answer a few …’
‘How the hell did you get this number?’ McEvoy snapped. ‘This is an operational line.’
‘Whoa,’ the journalist said, trying to placate him. ‘Look, I just want to ask you a few questions. Get the story from your …’
McEvoy disconnected the call. ‘Fuckin’ press,’ he spat.
The phone rang again. ‘Yes?’
‘Look, Superintendent,’ Bridges started, ‘I know …’
McEvoy ended the call again. ‘Jesus Christ. I’m going to kill the bastard who gave them my number. For fuck’s sake.’
‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Plunkett said. ‘It was bound to happen. You’ll just have to screen the calls.’
‘We’ve got enough to be dealing with without the feckin’ press disturbing us every five minutes,’ McEvoy replied tetchily. He took a sip of his coffee.
‘I’ll go and talk to these units,’ Plunkett said, pulling a tight smile and moving away. McEvoy seemed like a man on the edge, primed like a bear trap. One misplaced step and he’d snap. He’d changed over the past few days becoming more moody, distant and aggressive, less predictable and sociable. All with good reason given the stress he was under, but it was wearing. Plunkett felt guilty for leaving him alone, but any release from the tension he was fostering was a relief.
McEvoy looked out of the window at the orange-tinted city extending into the distance. Somewhere out there The Raven was preparing for his next kill and there was nothing he could do about it. Half of him wanted to place his head on the desk and sleep, the other half to throw his chair through the window and shout and rage. Instead he took another sip of the coffee and tried to turn his attention back to the statements. The slight tremble had returned to his left hand. He held it in front of his face and tried to hold it steady, but it continued to shake involuntarily. His phone rang again.
Chapter Five
Friday, April 18
th
The woman ran quickly and confidently along the coastal path. Her dyed blonde hair was plaited into two pigtails, her face lean and tanned. She wore a red windproof jacket over a pair of dark, tight-fitting leggings that stopped at her ankles, and dirty, white running shoes. The cable from her earphones snaked over her chest and into a pocket, the line jumping in rhythm with her steady pace. A stiff breeze whipped in from the green-grey sea, carrying a fine spray, the waves crashing on the sand and rocks.
From his hiding place behind a red brick shelter, a structure that resembled a covered bus stop, The Raven watched her progress as she made her way around the edge of the small bay. On the opposite side of the path the ground disappeared, grass sloping steeply away for ten feet before ending at a drop of six feet down to a rocky, wave-cut platform. He pulled a mask up to his face, tugged down a plain, dark blue cap covering a hairnet, and glanced at his watch – 6.27. As she neared, her feet slapping on the path, he readied himself, his anger starting to flare.
He slightly mistimed his interception, misjudging the pace at which she was running. Rather than hitting her hard from the side, he ended up shoving her half from behind. The result though was what he intended. The momentum of her speed, the re-direction of her trajectory, and her loss of balance sent her sailing off the path, tumbling down the grassed slope, her fingers clawing at the damp sod, and down onto the sharp, grey rocks and loose stones below. She landed heavily, side-on, her right arm extended to try and break her fall. She felt the bones in her wrist snap, her head and hip smacking into the hard and jagged surface adding to the excruciating pain.
The Raven stumbled forward a step and fell awkwardly on the side of the path, starting to slip down the steep incline, but managing to stop himself. He scrambled quickly to his feet, his fury rising phoenix-like. He darted to his right, sliding down the slope where the grass almost extended to the rocks, jumping down the last couple of feet onto a narrow patch of sand and shells. He hurried over to where she lay, retrieving a length of two by four wood he’d salvaged from the beach earlier.
She lay on her side, her right arm at a funny angle behind her back, a trickle of blood running down her forehead. He noticed through his fury that she was much older than he’d thought when he’d seen her running, probably in her late forties, early fifties. She looked up at him with fear in her eyes, knowing who he was, knowing that he intended to kill her. She managed to mutter a ‘please’. He smiled manically, raised the piece of wood high above his head and slammed it down hard onto the left arm she’d raised to try and protect herself. And then again and again and again, losing himself in his rage.
He slowed to a stop, sucking in air from the exertion, becoming aware that he’d lost control, had given in to his anger. He stared down at her battered head and body. Her face was a bloody pulp, nothing left of her nose, her teeth smashed to smithereens, the white of the skull visible through her bleeding scalp. He dropped the piece of wood, and staggered back a couple of steps to retrieve his cap from a pile of rotting seaweed. He jammed it back on his head and glanced anxiously round the bay. They were still alone.
He moved back to her body, tipped her on her back and pulled her by her armpits towards the sea to a small, triangular-shaped rock pool nestled in rocks stained dark grey and green from their daily soak, his feet slipping awkwardly on seaweed. He rolled her over so that her face was submerged in the salty water, then collected the piece of wood and headed along the wave-cut platform to where there was an easy climb back up to the path.
He walked back to the red brick shelter, fuming at himself. The bench that had stretched its length was missing, rusty supports jutting out from the brickwork the only evidence that it had ever been there. He pulled a single card and a folded, clear plastic bag containing a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He wedged the card into a crack between two bricks and stepped out onto the path again. He checked that the woman was still in the same position and then threw the bag into the air, the stiff breeze catching it, whipping it over a low stone wall and across an open field towards a long, low building, a grey centre between two red brick wings.
He watched it for a second or so, twist and twirl, bouncing across the grass and catching on a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Then he set off at a brisk pace along the path towards Portrane, looking back every few yards until her body disappeared from view. Another walker appeared on the far side of the bay and he picked up his pace, veering left, following the headland.
McEvoy took a sip of tea and looked at the screen on his phone before answering.
‘McEvoy.’
‘Have you seen the goddamn papers, Colm?’ Bishop snapped.
‘I, er, no. No, I haven’t.’
‘Your face is on the front cover of every single one of them. Crying. What the hell did you think you were playing at? Letting them take that photo?’
‘Playing at?’ McEvoy repeated, his stomach knotting on a freshly eaten bacon and egg sandwich cooked by his mother.
‘The damn thing makes it looks like you can’t cope with the pressures of the investigation,’ Bishop continued, disregarding McEvoy’s ignorance. ‘That you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown. It’s bad enough trying to manage them as it is without them thinking that the lead investigator is cracking up. What were you thinking of?’
McEvoy stayed silent, unsure what to say, staring down at the greasy plate in front of him, aware of his mother shuffling round the kitchen.
After a couple of seconds, Bishop spoke again, this time more calmly. ‘We’re going to have to meet with the public relations people and work out how to deal with this mess. Be at the
Phoenix
Park
at
nine o’clock
and we’ll work out a strategy before the press conference at ten. And in the meantime under no circumstances are you to talk to the media. You hear me? Stay away from them.’
‘I hear you,’ McEvoy muttered, feeling sick. All he’d wanted to do was see Gemma on her birthday and this was his reward – the front page of papers and a dressing down from Bishop. He massaged his forehead with his free hand. Nothing was ever simple; there always had to be some trial to make life more difficult and complicated. It was bad enough scrabbling around trying to capture The Raven without having to battle his own colleagues and the press. The craving for nicotine clawed away at his skin, his shoulders round and tight.
It wasn’t until the man reached the shelter that he noticed the body on the rocks below. He was going to call out, but then noticed she was lying face down in a small rock pool. He ran back five yards and scrabbled down the grass slope and onto the layered rocks. He hurried over to her, trying to keep his balance on the slippery seaweed. The pool of water was tinged red, the back of the woman’s head a bloody mess, one of her pigtails half unbraided and stained a pinky red. He knelt down beside her and rolled her over, shuffling back to make room for her body. He recoiled at the sight of her face, rocking back onto the balls of his feet and standing.
‘Shit! Jesus, fuckin’ fuck.’ He looked around the bay seeking help and then back at the body trying to decide what to do. He moved to head back the way he had come, then hesitated and shifted back to her. She had been warm when he had knelt next to her.
He lowered himself down again and fought back the urge to vomit. He took her right wrist and sought a pulse, but couldn’t find one. He moved his fingers about in case he hadn’t placed them in the correct position, but still found no sign of life. There was no doubt though that she was still warm. He looked at her face. The water had washed some of the blood away, but it was still a bloody pulp, fresh blood seeping to the surface and clotting. It was almost unrecognisable as a head, more like something from a butcher’s shop. Gingerly he moved forward trying to work up the courage to attempt CPR, but pulled away, running his hand through his salt and pepper hair.
‘Fuck!’ he spat. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
He levered himself back upright and headed back to the path. Once on it instead of heading back the way he had come, he ran up a grassy laneway extending back from beside the shelter towards the red brick buildings of St Ita’s Psychiatric Hospital.
He was pouring over witness statements when his phone rang. ‘McEvoy.’
‘Sir,’ said a nervous female voice. ‘They’ve … They’ve found another body. A woman battered to death on a beach in Donabate. One of his cards was left at the scene.’ She didn’t need to explain whose card she meant.
‘Fuck! Look, sorry,’ he apologised for swearing. ‘I’m on my way.’ He was already out of his chair heading for the door. ‘Tell them to seal off the place. I don’t want the press anywhere near that site. And tell them to put a canopy over the body as soon as possible. They’ll have helicopters up as soon as they hear about it.’
‘I’ll get back onto them straight away.’
‘Good. Right, where exactly in Donabate am I going?’ he asked, heading down a corridor.
‘I’ll have to ring you back with exact directions. The body’s on a beach near to St Ita’s.’
‘I’ll talk to you in a minute then.’ McEvoy ended the call and shoved open a door, standing in its frame. Barney Plunkett, Dr John, Hannah Fallon and a couple of DCs looked over at him, startled looks on their faces. ‘There’s been another murder out at Donabate. Barney, I want you to take over here. Run the team meeting as usual. I’ll call you.’
He pulled the door closed and then pushed it open again. ‘If Charlie Deegan gives you any shit refer it up to Bishop; let him deal with it. Also, that profiler is due to arrive around 8.30. Her flight’s been delayed. Show her around and introduce her to the case.’ He shut the door again and headed for the stairwell, placing a call to Bishop.
It rang three times. ‘Bishop.’
‘There’s been another murder out in Donabate,’ McEvoy said hurriedly, descending toward the car park. ‘I’m on my way there. Jim Whelan’s the next available DI, right?’ Charlie Deegan was next in the rotation after Plunkett given yesterday’s precedent, but there was no way he was letting him anywhere near this victim.
‘What?’ Bishop replied, still trying to compute McEvoy’s news. ‘Yes. Yes, Jim’s next up.’
‘I’ll ring him now then. I’ll ring you when I get out to Donabate.’
‘Will you slow down, Colm, for God’s sake,’ Bishop instructed. ‘Are you sure it’s The Raven? Do you have any details about the death?’
‘He left one of his cards with the body. She’d been battered to death. That’s all I know. Dispatch might have more details.’ He burst out of the door, half-walking, half-running towards his car. ‘Oh, yeah, before I forget, I’ve left Barney Plunkett in charge here. He’s running a team meeting in five minutes.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Bishop spat as if McEvoy’s news had finally hit home. ‘Ring me the minute you arrive, Colm. You hear me, the minute you arrive. I need to know what the hell is happening. The media are going to go mental the minute they find out about this.’
He smashed his fist on the steering wheel. He was annoyed with himself; furious with the victim. He’d lost control; lost his temper. He could barely remember bludgeoning her to death beyond the first couple of blows. He certainly couldn’t remember the moment of death. If anyone had wandered down from St Itas to the beach they would have witnessed everything.
After all of his careful planning, he’d misjudged the attack and then completely lost the run of himself. He’d nearly missed her entirely; if he had there would have been little hope of catching her – it was clear that she was a serious runner. He would have had to have fled and then try to kill a different victim later in the day. The day’s risk would have doubled and his perfect record been blemished.
Despite the folly he was at least confident that McEvoy and his various teams had no idea that he was The Raven. They were still chasing a shadow that was moving too quick for their light. That would still be the case once the runner’s body was found.