Authors: Rob Kitchin
He glanced round the room. There were two windows, one on each outside wall, each made up of nine small panels set in a dark wood. The walls were papered with a cream, vertical pattern, with a dark dado rail. The carpet was mid-green, once lush but now worn in places. Along one internal wall were positioned four filing cabinets, house plants and paper files positioned on top, along the other was a dark bookcase full of yearbooks, reference texts and knick-knacks. In front of the bookcase was an old desk with leather inlay, its surface free of objects. Behind it was a leather office chair and in front two ordinary, modern chairs.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Yes? Come in.’
Dr John, Kelly Stringer and Michael Foster entered the room.
‘You wanted us to work with you up here?’ Dr John stated as a question, Foster brushing past him, heading for a window, knowing he belonged.
‘That’s right. DI Plunkett will be here for a short while then he’ll head off and relieve us at four. John, you’re to work the window looking out on the Henry Street side. Kelly, you’re to look out at O’Connell Street. You’re to keep the video cameras operating at all times. Anyone suspicious, radio it down to the street and zoom in on them and make sure you get good head shots. There are directional microphones if you need to try and hear any conversations. If required, direct our people in. The zones are working off a clock with the spire at the centre. Up O’Connell Street is twelve o’clock. Understand?’
They nodded their heads.
‘Michael, I want you to oversee the technical side of things. You probably need to give Barney a hand, he’s struggling a bit.’
‘Says the man who relies on his 12-year-old daughter to video things for him because he doesn’t know how the damn thing works,’ Plunkett snapped back.
McEvoy’s phone rang. ‘Yes?’
‘Colm, it’s Kathy Jacobs. Do you have a second? I’ve been going through these files.’
‘Absolutely. What do you want to know?’
‘I’m not ringing with a question. I wanted to remind you he’s chosen the character of The Raven. That’s a deliberate choice. I think a lot of thought went into its selection and he’ll be well aware of the mythology surrounding it. I’ve been reflecting on that. I think he’s probably going to be quite bold. He thinks he’s cleverer than you and your teams, that he’s god-like figure – invincible. He’s also the trickster. That could mean that the spire is an elaborate deception or he’s going to use deception to kill, for example wearing a disguise or setting up a decoy to attract your attention while he commits his crime. I think he’ll use either of the latter. He’ll want to fulfil the promise of his note.’
‘You think he’ll wear a disguise?’ McEvoy repeated.
‘I think he’ll want to act like a raven. He’ll be bold and he’ll use trickery – a disguise, a decoy, or some other type of trick.’
‘Jesus!’
‘I just wanted to warn you, that’s all. He’ll have planned the last murder in detail. Expect the unexpected.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that I’m not sure what you should be looking for or even how he’ll try and kill. It means, good luck.’
Chapter Six
Saturday, April 19
th
Foster had managed to rig up the video cameras so they fed directly into two flat-screen monitors placed on the desk. They’d had to move the desk to the centre of the room to allow the cables to stretch, the rest of their length taped to the floor. McEvoy was sitting watching the screens, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. The chair was comfortable, but his shoulders were tight, his back stiff. His eyes unfocused as his mind drifted to think about the case.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Kelly Stringer exclaimed. She snatched at her radio. ‘A man’s pulled a knife at
four o’clock
. Repeat, knife attack at
four o’clock
. Shit! He’s just stabbed another man in the stomach.’
McEvoy jerked to attention and stared at the screen. ‘We’re going to need an ambulance, Michael,’ he stated.
‘Confirmed,’ a disembodied voice replied via a radio link to Stringer. ‘We’re on it.’
Two groups of young men, surrounded by gesticulating women, had squared off against each other. A man lay on the floor between them. The attacker waved his knife at the stabbed man’s friends, taunting them, stopping them from helping him. Two of McEvoy’s men burst through the women. Bravely, and perhaps rather stupidly, given the man was wielding a knife, Kenny Johns tackled the attacker, sending him sprawling to the floor. The others tried to scatter. Two more plain clothes guards grabbed a couple before they could react, pressuring them to the floor, securing them. A uniformed guard arrived and bent down to help the man on the floor, pushing his hysterical girlfriend out of the way.
‘Everyone else, maintain your positions,’ McEvoy stated into his radio. ‘It’s under control.’
The siren of an ambulance sounded from the top of
O’Connell Street
where it had been waiting on standby at the
Rotunda
Hospital
. Its blue lights scattered late night revellers as it sped to the scene. It slowed to a stop and two paramedics jumped out rushing to the downed man.
‘We need to get some uniforms here to take over from our lot,’ McEvoy stated to Foster as he headed for the door. ‘Call them in. They’re all to be taken into custody and questioned. It looks like it was just a drunken fight between a load of stupid gobshites. I’m going down to find out what the hell’s happened.’
Barney Plunkett knocked on the door, pushed it open and entered. Behind him Diarmaid Savage, Fay Butler and Seamus Harte, the crime scene manager from Billy Mullins’ murder, trailed in.
‘How’s it going?’ Plunkett asked.
‘I’ve had better nights,’ McEvoy replied, exhaustion in his voice. ‘Great if you want to watch kids throw up and fight, but otherwise fairly tedious except for a couple who got fairly amorous in a shop doorway. They obviously couldn’t wait to get home. Personally, I can’t see how any of them can say they’ve had a great night out. Most of them probably can’t remember past
midnight
, the state of them.’
‘You telling me you never used to get drunk and stagger home eating a kebab when you were 19 or 20?’ Plunkett asked.
‘I’m not going to deny it,’ McEvoy said pushing himself to his feet, ‘but I didn’t go around vandalising things, picking fights for no reason, and throwing up in the middle of the street. And I used to wear clothes, and so did the girls. And they definitely didn’t fight. More than half the trouble out there has been young women screaming and fighting, throwing up and collapsing paralytic. I’m telling you, it’s been bloody scary.’
Plunkett shook McEvoy’s shoulder gently. ‘Time to swap over, Colm.’
‘What?’ McEvoy replied from within the warmth of a sleeping bag.
‘I said it’s time to swap over. It’s ten to eight.’
McEvoy rubbed at his face. He’d slept fitfully, uncomfortable on the floor of an office along the corridor and with the demons in his mind. Now that he’d found sleep, all he wanted to do was dive back under. Instead he pushed back the sleeping bag and sat up, turning so he could lean against a wall.
‘Are you okay?’ Plunkett asked. ‘You look like hell.’
‘I’ve been better,’ McEvoy replied, trying to decide what he needed the most – a cup of coffee or a cigarette.
‘I’ll go and get some breakfast. What do you want? Bacon sandwich and a cup of tea?’
‘Coffee. And a shower.’ All the muscles in his body ached, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, the room warm, the central heating having come on sometime in the early morning.
‘I know a good cafe near here. Best bacon sandwiches in
Dublin
. You want anything else?’
McEvoy stifled a yawn and gestured ‘no’ with his hand.
Plunkett left the room, whistling tunelessly to himself.
McEvoy slowly levered himself upright and let the sleeping bag fall, stepping out of it. He then pulled on his suit trousers and jacket, slipped on yesterday’s socks and his shoes, and headed to the bathroom and had a wash, scooping up handfuls of water to his unshaven face, brushing the sleep out of the corners of his eyes. He stared at himself in the mirror. His mother was right. He was starting to look like he could be an extra in
Schindler’s List
. He needed a full wash, a can of deodorant, a toothbrush, some clean clothes and a long holiday.
He headed back to the operational room. Kelly Stringer bounced up the stairs ahead of him. Her hair was brushed, her clothes pressed. Dr John trailed behind her, looking as McEvoy felt.
‘Two-year-olds,’ Dr John muttered. ‘I love her dearly, but Jesus. She was in at 6.30. What happened to you,’ he said to Stringer, ‘you take regeneration pills?’
‘Slept like a log. Felt like I got the full eight hours.’
‘Good for you,’ McEvoy muttered disingenuously, brushing past them. He knocked on the door and opened it.
Seamus Harte turned away from the monitors to look over at their replacements. The desk was covered in cans and chocolate wrappers. Fay Butler and Diarmaid Savage were sitting at the windows.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Deathly dull,’ Butler replied. ‘Hardly a soul around. We had to stand half the team down at around five because we were tripling the numbers on the street. We moved the heavy equipment in at six and closed the street off to traffic.’
McEvoy moved to the window and leaned over Diarmaid Savage to look out. A JCB had been positioned on both dual carriageways on the Liffey-side of the spire, red and white tape running from one pavement to the other, limiting access to the corners of the box. Five workmen in luminous tops were gathered together, looking bored, kicking at stones, waiting for instructions.
‘We didn’t think there was any need to dig the street up,’ Butler continued. ‘We thought that we could just lift a few slabs and open up a couple of boxes. It just needs to look like there’s something happening.’
‘Fair enough,’ McEvoy conceded.
‘The other news is that the last two on Brady’s list both have solid alibis. That’s all five of them in the clear now.’
Plunkett appeared in the doorway. In his right hand he balanced a tray with four cups on top of an identical tray beneath. In his left hand he held a large paper bag. The smell of bacon filled the room. ‘I have four coffees, four teas and eight bacon sandwiches,’ he announced.
‘Just don’t get any grease on the equipment,’ Harte warned.
He’d walked past the spire a couple of times, half an hour apart. He’d worn a woollen beanie and false beard the first time, a baseball cap and a scarf covering his mouth and nose the second. There was no doubt in his mind that the guards had cracked his code and found his note out at Oughterard; there were at least three of them patrolling the space. They were trying to blend in, but the fact that they were milling around seemingly with no purpose, their eyes constantly scanning around them, gave them away.
He felt a small surge of energy, of vigour. The last killing would be a real challenge. Anyone could kill someone when they weren’t expecting it. He had proved that. This time though the finest of An Garda Síochána would be waiting for him and he would murder the final victim right under their noses and walk calmly away. In so doing he would demonstrate the validity of
The Rule Book
and with it the genius of The Raven; that he
was
the trickster, the great bringer of death; that the world was powerless to stop him.
He smiled slyly to himself as he headed away from the spire, up
O’Connell Street
towards the
Rotunda
Hospital
. As he turned the corner into
Parnell Street
he nearly collided with Laura’s friend from the squat.
She looked through him, rather than at him, her face a blank. She took a step back, instinctively rolling her shoulders in, protecting herself, her head dropping. Then she walked past him quickly, keen to avoid confrontation.
He cursed inwardly at his stupidity and complacency. The reconnaissance had been foolhardy; an unnecessary risk. It didn’t matter whether the guards were there or not. The final murder was planned for O’Connell Street. His note – his word – had promised it so. The only reason for adopting an alternative plan was if they had closed off the street in its entirety. Then they would be forfeiting the challenge and he would have no choice – he would still need to complete
The Rule Book
after all.
He needed to stay focused; to concentrate on the job at hand. One more murder and he would achieve his goal. And if Laura’s friend proved a problem then she would pay the ultimate price. But there would be no problem – he had planned every last detail and he knew what he was doing; only a slight of fate would prevent the seventh murder.
The time was twenty to twelve. The room had descended into silence, the occupants tired and tense, concentrating on their jobs.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ McEvoy announced.
‘You mean a cigarette,’ Stringer corrected, without turning.
‘Whatever.’ McEvoy stood up from behind the desk. He stopped and dropped back into the seat. ‘That’s Karen,’ he said to no one in particular, tapping the screen. ‘Laura’s friend. Kelly, can you zoom in on the young woman in black at the bottom of the spire.’
Karen filled the screen.
‘What the hell’s she doing here?’ McEvoy muttered. He watched as Karen approached a middle-aged woman and asked her a question, trailing her for five yards while the woman kept walking, her head down, failing to acknowledge Karen’s presence.
‘I’m going down there,’ McEvoy said, easing himself back out of the seat. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ He left the room and descended to the street. He lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke down, and headed up past the supposed repair works and across to where Karen was hassling an elderly man.
‘Karen.’
She turned to face him, her arms hugging her chest, her shoulders pulled in protectively. Her face was pale, her dark hair greasy. Shoppers streamed either side of them, making their way between Henry and Earl Street. The elderly man took his chance to leave.
‘It’s Superintendent McEvoy. Remember me? I came to talk to you about Laura.’
‘Fuck!’ She glanced around looking for an escape route.
‘Are you okay? Do you want a cigarette?’ He held the packet.