Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘And what was he wearing?’
‘I don’t remember, okay? He was just some bloke.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
She shrugged. ‘What difference would it make? I don’t remember him.’
‘For God’s sake,’ McEvoy mumbled. It was something and nothing. Laura the loner had spent some time with a man; possibly The Raven, possibly not. But that was it. There were over 600,000 men in the Greater Dublin Region. ‘You must remember something about him, Karen,’ he pressed.
She continued to stare at the table top, plucking at the note. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Well, it’s a start,’ Jacobs said, walking back up the stairs.
‘It’s a long shot,’ McEvoy replied without enthusiasm, sniffing. ‘She’s not going to recognise him; she barely recognises her own face.’
‘It’s something to work with though,’ Jacobs pressed. ‘We need to try and reconstruct Laura’s life. We know next to nothing about her. It might be that the man’s not The Raven, but we need to find him to confirm that.’
‘Come on, Kathy,’ he replied, massaging his face, exhausted and moribund. ‘We’ve had appeals out all week for information on Laura and we’ve got bugger all back. She wandered the streets like a ghost. Nobody knows anything about her.’
‘Look, I know you’re tired and pissed off, no doubt with good reason, but you’re still on the case and we need to try and catch him before he kills again. I still think she’s the key.’
McEvoy nodded, conceding the point. ‘Right, okay, let’s go and see Paul Roche,’ he said flatly. ‘Maybe we could organise a few people to go round the north inner city and show people her picture; see if it jogs anyone’s memory.’
‘That almost sounded like the Colm McEvoy I met on the beach in Donabate,’ she teased.
‘Yeah, well, as you say, we need to try and find out something about her.’ He pushed open the door onto the corridor and let her pass through.
The patch of blue off to the west indicated that the light drizzle might stop shortly. McEvoy huddled under a small, black umbrella, hoping for a lucky break. He’d been standing near to the Eccles Street entrance to the Mater Hospital for the last 20 minutes. So far two dozen people had recognised Laura from the papers, but not from the streets, and about half of those also recognised him. He approached a young couple hurrying towards the entrance under a golf umbrella.
‘Excuse me, An Garda Síochána, I’m wondering whether you might recognise this young woman?’ He thrust out the card, blocking their path.
The woman took it, staring down at the four photos, all at least two years out of date. The man looked him over.
‘You’re the guy in charge of this Raven case,’ the man stated. ‘You really fucked up yesterday, didn’t you? How many’s he’s killed now? Seven?’
‘Do you recognise the woman in the pictures, Sir?’ McEvoy prompted, pointing to the sheet.
‘What?’ The man looked down at the card.
‘How about you, Madam?’
‘I’ve seen her in the papers and on TV.’
‘How about on the street? Maybe walking round here?’
‘We don’t live round here, we’re just visiting.’
‘So you haven’t seen her then? Perhaps somewhere else in the city?’
‘No.’
‘How about you, Sir?’
‘Nah. She the one who had a sword shoved through her head? Must have been a right fuckin’ mess.’
‘Peter!’ the woman said, disapproving.
‘I’ll let you get on then. Thanks for your time.’ McEvoy took the card back. He shouldn’t be doing this. That is what uniforms are for. But then what else was he going to do? Roche was in charge now. He was a spare part. He blew his nose thinking that an anti-congestive mightn’t be a bad investment.
A man stepped out of a taxi and approached the hospital entrance while his friend paid the driver. McEvoy stepped across to greet him.
‘Excuse me, Sir, An Garda Síochána. Could you tell me whether you recognise this young woman?’
The man took the card and looked at it. ‘Missing is she?’ he said with a
London
accent.
‘She was murdered earlier this week. She was living rough in the city and we’re trying to find out something about her life. Have you seen her?’
‘I’m not sure. I might have done,’ the man hazarded.
‘Where do you think you saw her?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’ The man’s friend hovered off to one side, his hands jammed into his pockets.
‘Was she with anybody?’
‘Is this what this is about, Superintendent?’ the man asked, tipping the sheet towards his friend. ‘You think she might have known her killer?’
The friend whipped a small camera from his pocket and started to take photos.
‘What? What the …’ McEvoy snatched the card back and lurched towards the photographer, who backed away.
‘Gary Bridges from The Sun,’ said the man who’d been holding the card. ‘Do you have any comment on your dismissal as lead investigator on The Raven murders? Do you accept that you’ve made major mistakes in the investigation?’
McEvoy turned away and started to hurry along Eccles Street, his anger rising, the journalist and photographer in tow. He should have recognised the toe-rag from the press conference at the Burlington.
‘Do you have any idea as to who The Raven is? Do you care?’ Bridges heckled. ‘What have you got to say to the victims’ families?’
McEvoy stopped and turned, the journalist almost colliding with him.
‘If you don’t back off,’ McEvoy snapped, ‘and leave me alone, I’m going to arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.’
‘We both know that’s not going to stick,’ Bridges countered. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘And so am I, now back off.’ He set off again away from the hospital.
The journalist and photographer hit a high five and watched him go, broad grins on their faces.
McEvoy reached his car and slipped into the driver’s seat, seething. No doubt the story and pictures would be all over the following day’s papers. Bishop would go apoplectic and the chances of him making the end of the week would plummet dramatically. He’d be sent home on mandatory sick leave or some other ruse to keep him away from the investigation. He started the car, put it in gear and nosed out into the traffic. There was no point staying, once one vulture found you a whole flock would soon turn up to pick you over.
The Raven exited the taxi and walked tall into the terminal building. In eight hours’ time he would be walking off a plane into a new country and sanctuary. He would then slip into the shadows and bide his time, wait for the opportune time to rise again.
The departures hall was a maelstrom of people moving at different speeds, with varying degrees of purpose. Scattered visibly amongst the throng were pairs of uniformed guards, their heads constantly swivelling, scanning the crowd. He headed for the transatlantic check-in area, threading his way through his fellow passengers, their haunted faces staring through him; a palpable tension in the air. His book might be complete but no one was sure if the killings were going to stop. Many of those around him probably felt they were managing to escape from his potential clutches.
He noticed two airport security guards heading straight for him. They seemed on edge, their hands clutching tightly the sub-machine guns hanging round their necks. He held his head high and continued on his path.
The security was much greater than he expected and he could feel his confidence slipping, evaluating the risks. He should get through okay; after all, they are not looking for him; they didn’t know who they were looking for. They didn’t have any positive leads. Did they? If they did they’d presently be all over him – probing, questioning, checking his story. But they were clueless.
Except for one conversation with the hapless, conceited guard on the day they found David Hennessey’s body he doubted his name had arisen in the enquiry. There was no reason to think that it ever would except for Samantha’s death. That was unfortunate, but necessary.
That said passing through the most security intense zone in the state, one that was on high alert, was probably not the wisest course of action; an unnecessary risk. And there was no need to go. There was no need to keep up the pretence of continuing an ordinary life. That life was coming to an end. Samantha’s disappearance would see to that.
He would return to the apartment and in a couple of days resort to his contingency plan. He wasn’t in a hurry. Samantha wouldn’t be missed for a little while. Her family lived in Wales and she often worked at home, only occasionally heading into the department and the office she shared with two others. He could continue to enjoy the small luxuries he would be without for a while – television, newspapers, central heating, running water – and then he would vanish. And, for a brief moment, he would be the most famous person on the planet, his infamy living on for an age.
He headed for the exit and a taxi to take him back into the city.
The door to the meeting room opened and Jenny Flanagan and her team emerged. McEvoy nodded at them, pushed himself up off the corridor wall, and put his head round the door they’d exited.
Kathy Jacobs was standing to one side waiting, Paul Roche was scribbling on a pad.
‘Can I have a quick word, Paul?’ McEvoy asked, interrupting.
‘What? Yes, yes, come in. These meetings are taking a long time.’ He glanced up at the clock – ten past two. ‘Half the day gone already and I’m going to have to go through them all again tomorrow. I’ve barely scratched the surface. What can I do for you?’
McEvoy glanced at Kathy Jacobs, uncomfortable with her presence, and back at Roche. ‘I was wondering, if it’s okay by you, whether it’s alright to head off. My lot are out on the streets – I’ve tried joining them but I get recognised every two minutes and it’s counter-productive. I just deflect attention from …’ he tailed off, feeling embarrassed. He started again. ‘I’d like, if there’s nothing else you want me to do, to go round the murder sites again now that they’re free of people. I thought revisiting them might spark some fresh insight, maybe I’d spot something we missed before,’ he tailed off again, feeling like an idiot, afraid it sounded as it was – a lame excuse to get away and spend some time on his own.
‘Absolutely,’ Roche replied. ‘If you think it’ll be of use, go ahead. It’s still your case, Colm.’
‘We both know that’s not …’ McEvoy trailed off again. ‘Thanks. I’ll have my mobile on if you need me.’
‘Good, as I might have a few questions for you.’ Roche tapped his note pad.
‘It’s a stringy vest?’ McEvoy asked, suggesting the investigation was full of holes.
‘No more than any other. So far, I’d have done everything pretty much the same way. There are lots of things to follow up on, loose ends, calls from the public, the usual stuff. It’s probably going to take months to work through them all.’
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll call you if I spot anything.’ McEvoy exited the meeting room heading for the stairs, wanting to leave as soon as possible.
He’d just started the engine when Kathy Jacobs burst through the door into the car park, glancing round trying to spot him. He rolled his eyes and looked up at the car’s roof. He knew what was coming. He looked back down and watched her approach, her red scarf swinging across the front of her coat.