Authors: Rob Kitchin
McEvoy felt the hot flush of anger flood his face, his jaw tightening, the eyes of the others on him.
‘We need to shift the focus away from him and his family to the whole investigative team. To make it clear that
all
of them are sickened by what they have witnessed. That they are all grieving for the victims. That they are all desperate to catch The Raven. And that Superintendent McEvoy’s tears are not a sign of a breakdown or of not being able to cope at home or at work, but are a natural reaction to some horrific crimes.’ The man stopped and looked round the table.
‘Well?’ the AC asked, the question clearly directed at McEvoy.
‘I want those bastards kept away from my family.’
‘It’s already been taken care of,’ Bishop said.
‘You can spin this however you want, but keep my daughter out of it.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re saying, Colm,’ Bishop said. ‘We want to deflect the focus away from you. We want them to realise that every guard in the city cares about the victims and about catching The Raven. Don’t worry, we’ll protect Gemma from all of this. You can rest assured on that. If you want her to be moved to a safe house, an anonymous address, we can arrange it.’
‘She’s with her grandparents, she’ll be fine. Just keep the bastards away from the house.’
‘It’s being looked after. If the situation changes we can review things. But just so we’re clear, if they ask you any questions about last night, which they will, then you just say you were expressing what every guard is feeling – grief for the victims and revulsion for The Raven and his crimes.’
The large ballroom was packed with over 300 journalists. The rows of seats were full, the overspill sitting cross-legged or kneeling in the aisles, their digital recorders on, many scribbling on notepads. Cameras ringed the outer wall, their operators jostling with each other, cramped for space. Several angry hacks and crews were stalking the corridors outside trying to find a way in. They were probably breaking every health and safety rule going, but nobody seemed to care.
McEvoy and the Assistant Commissioner were sitting on a temporary stage behind a long table. The surface was covered in a white sheet that stretched to the floor hiding their legs. It was probably just as well – McEvoy’s feet were tapping out a fast rhythm. His innards were weak, knotting and writhing, and he felt like he might vomit at any minute. A microphone on a mini-stand was placed in front of each of them. Bishop was off to their left standing at lectern reading a pre-prepared statement. His face was flushed red, his left hand involuntarily tapping the lectern. Behind him on a screen a data projector cast the words, ‘An Garda Síochána’ and its logo.
McEvoy just wanted it to end, to escape the cloying atmosphere of the room and get back to the investigation.
Bishop was starting to wrap up, explaining that it would be impossible to try and field questions from everyone; that he was only going to take questions from the front two rows. The place erupted, people trying to move forward.
‘Please, Ladies and Gentlemen. Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Bishop lost his temper, wrapping his knuckles on the lectern, his face flushing red. ‘Stay where you are and SIT DOWN! Either sit down or we’ll end this now. It’s crowded enough in here without a stampede.’
The journalists shuffled back to their seats, muttering to each other.
Bishop glanced over at the table for reassurance. McEvoy stared down at the white cloth. The AC simply raised his eyebrows to indicate, ‘good luck.’
‘I’m sure you can all appreciate that there’s a lot of interest in these terrible murders. There are several news teams locked out in the corridor. It’s totally impractical to try and field questions from you all. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I’m sure your colleagues on the front two rows will ask the questions that you all want asked. And, as I’ve already said, we’re not going to answer any operational questions. It is not in the investigation’s or public’s interest for us to do so, so please don’t waste your time and opportunity. Yes, you Madam, in the red necktie.’
‘Jackie Rollins, CNN. The Raven has so far killed six people, what reassurances can you give the public that it’s safe for them to go about their daily business?’
‘We are presently advising people not to fundamentally alter their daily regimes, but to also be extra vigilant. Every person killed so far was on their own in isolated situations. We are suggesting, therefore, that people try to remain with others as much as possible. We
have
to continue daily life though, we can’t let him shut the country down through fear. Yes, the man in the grey suit, blue tie.’
‘Gary Bridges, The Sun. I was wondering whether Super-intendent McEvoy would like to comment on the pictures in this morning’s papers?’
Bishop looked over at McEvoy, who scrunched up his face and pulled the microphone towards him, turning it on.
‘To be honest, I’ve been too busy to read the papers today. Other than the fact that the pictures were a gross invasion of privacy, I think they show the grief that everyone working on this case feels. I’ve been present at all six murder sites, and I’ve seen what he did to those poor people, how he killed them and destroyed their family and friends’ lives. Frankly, anybody associated with this case who hasn’t broken into tears is heartless. All that photographer caught is what every officer has done over the past few days. Like everyone, we’re all in shock and we’re in grief.’ He’d rehearsed the answer for the past 20 minutes with one of the media people and it had come out roughly as intended.
‘So you’re not having a nervous breakdown then, as some of the papers have suggested,’ Bridges asked before Bishop could move on.
‘Does it look like I’ve had a nervous breakdown?’ McEvoy answered evenly, feeling as though he was teetering on the edge of one, his muscles ridged, his fingers shaking. ‘I’m not going to pretend that I’m not under enormous stress. We all are. We’re doing the best that we can, and we’ll continue to do the best we can under difficult circumstances, stress or no stress.’
‘Yes, madam, with the pink shirt,’ Bishop said quickly before the exchange could continue.
The Assistant Commissioner tapped McEvoy lightly on his arm, reassuring him that he’d done a good job. Nevertheless, he was going to give the nicotine patches a go. And the gum and any other substitutes anyone was prepared to sell him.
The press conference had ended 40 minutes previously, followed 20 minutes later by one of Bishop’s tirades, venting the pressure of the media circus onto McEvoy.
The brake lights of the car in front glowed red. They’d only managed to travel a couple of hundred yards since leaving the hotel. McEvoy was thinking of turning the blue lights on and clearing a path ahead. They were late for their meeting with Dermot Brady. He plucked at the plastic cigarette between his fingers with his thumb and tried to resist the temptation to place it between his lips.
‘Is it always this bad?’ Jacobs asked, breaking the awkward silence, staring out of the window at the shops nearby.
‘Pretty much. We have a chronic traffic problem and crap public transport — this is the result.’
She turned in her seat, pointing her closed knees toward him. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Talk about what?’ he said defensively.
‘About last night. The pictures in the newspapers. The reason you were crying. Your plastic cigarette.’
‘No.’
She paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Are you sure? It might help. I’m a good listener.’
‘Look, I know you think you’re trying to help but I don’t need any of your psychology, psychiatry, psychotherapy or whatever the hell it is you do. I’m fine, okay. I was tired. It’d been a long day and it just happened. No one would know about it if it wasn’t for the bastards who’d followed me.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help, that’s all.’
‘Well, I don’t need any help. What I need is to catch this bastard. Why didn’t you give your preliminary profile to the AC or Bishop?’ he countered, trying to push the conversation elsewhere, put her on the defensive.
‘Because they would have used it in the press conference. They were desperate to give them as much as they could. It was enough for them to say that I was working with you on the case. There was no need for anything else.’
McEvoy nodded. She was probably right, they were anxious to demonstrate any progress, however slight. ‘But you will run the profile past Brady?’ he asked. ‘We need to try and progress things. We’re scrabbling around in the dark.’
‘How old is your daughter?’ Jacobs asked, avoiding his question.
‘Just drop it, okay? I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making conversation.’
‘She’s 12. She was 12 yesterday.’
‘Mine are ten and eight. Two boys. Joseph and Adam. Their father was killed in the Hatfield train crash. He was meant to be on the next train but managed to get away early. They stay with my sister when I’m away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ McEvoy said, not sure how to respond, uncomfortable in the confines of the car. He realised he didn’t have a clue how to handle Kathy Jacobs. It felt like she was shifting the ground underneath him, while at the same time holding him up. He glanced left. She was staring out of the windscreen, her eyes unfocused, then she pulled her mouth tight and turned back to him.
‘Joseph wants to be a pilot, Adam a deep-sea diver. One wants to go up, the other down. Did you always want to be a cop?’
McEvoy broke from her gaze and stared at the car in front unsure whether she was making polite conversation or coming at him from a different angle.
Brady was wearing a loud, orange and green, stripey jumper, blue jeans, and a serious face. ‘I was 17. It wasn’t a happy time, I can tell you. Prison with drugs. I was happier to get out of there than Mountjoy. At least I deserved to be in Mountjoy.’
‘How come you ended up in St Ita’s?’ McEvoy asked.
‘Had one of my turns. Ran from one end of the street to the other, except my feet didn’t touch the ground. Jumped from one car to another, then went on a bit of mad spree round Grafton Street. Totally manic. If it wasn’t for the lithium I’d go uppity up then downity down. Right down into some hellish dark place.’ He motioned with his arm. ‘They could have straightened me out without locking me up.’
‘I suppose everyone you know knows you were in St Ita’s?’
‘As I told you before, I’ve no secrets from people. My life’s an open book.’
‘And how about the in-patients there? Any that you think might be behind these murders?’
‘I barely remember the people I was in there with. I don’t really remember a lot to be honest – just long, pale corridors, hard beds, and the smell of disinfectant.’
‘I want you to think about all the people you know, Dermot,’ Jacobs said, taking over. ‘Are there really none who might be The Raven?’
‘I’ve been through this before. Several times. You even had me list and categorise everyone I know.’
‘And you’ve been a great help,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but it’s important. All the murders are connected to you. It’s almost certain that you know him.’
‘Look, there were a lot of people a couple of capacitors short of a full motherboard in Mountjoy. Short circuited, y’know? Why don’t you start there?’
‘We have,’ McEvoy said. ‘We’ve worked our way through your list. They all have alibis. Have you any more ideas?’
Brady shrugged. ‘I put down the ones I could think of.’
‘How about outside of prison?’ Jacobs asked, before McEvoy could say anything.
‘I don’t know. I know a lot of people, but I don’t have any of them pegged as murderers.’