Authors: Rob Kitchin
‘He’s come full circle,’ Jacobs said from behind him. ‘She was Laura’s friend and he thought she’d betrayed her; her death pact; betrayed him. She paid the price, dying as Laura did.’
One of the paramedics levered himself up off his knees and hurried from the room, brushing past them.
McEvoy couldn’t disengage his eyes from Karen. She had probably known about Andrew McCormack from the start and yet she had lied for him while he continued to kill. Now he knew why. She’d known what the penalty would be; she’d known that she couldn’t trust the guards to get to him first.
‘Colm?’ Jacobs prompted.
‘What?’ He tried to refocus.
‘I think we should go; let the paramedics get on with their job. We’ve seen enough death for one day.’
He nodded agreement and they headed back out to the landing.
The paramedic and a guard were climbing the stairs carrying a stretcher. McEvoy and Jacobs stood to one side to let them pass and then descended in silence. A nervous looking couple in oddly matched tracksuits were visible in the front room, sitting on a sofa, staring at the blank wall.
‘He’s tying up loose ends,’ Jacobs said as they reached the bottom. ‘The girlfriend. Karen.’
McEvoy moved to the doorway and spoke to the couple.
‘Did you call the ambulance and guards?’
‘She did,’ the young man said without turning his head, accusation and anger in his voice, unhappy that McEvoy and his colleagues had invaded their space.
‘It was a man in a red baseball cap?’
The young woman nodded.
‘Did a girl called Laura ever sleep here?’
The woman nodded again.
McEvoy massaged his forehead. McCormack was still loose in the city. He headed back out onto the street, aware that a thought was hovering just out of reach, teasing him. ‘What did you say to me on the stairs?’ he asked Jacobs, hoping her answer might prod it forward.
‘I said, he’s tying up loose ends.’
‘Brady,’ McEvoy said, the thought revealing itself. ‘Shit! Maybe Brady’s a loose end as well? This whole thing’s been about Brady.’ He started to run to his car, brushing past a man heaving a camera up onto his shoulder.
‘This whole thing has been about Laura and McCormack,’ Jacobs said, setting off after him.
McEvoy had started to reverse the car before Jacobs had got her door shut.
‘Jesus, Colm!’
He stabbed at his mobile.
‘Hello?’
‘Dermot, where are you?’ McEvoy demanded, swinging the car round.
‘I’m in my office.’
‘Lock the door and do not open it to anyone until I get there, you hear?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘McCormack’s on the run. He’s killed his girlfriend and Karen. I’m afraid he might be coming after you.’
They passed Paul Roche racing up to the scene.
‘For me?’
‘He’s trying to tie up loose ends. This whole thing’s been about you. I’m worried he might be …’
‘He’s … he’s on his way here?’ Brady stuttered, interrupting, panic rising in his voice.
‘I don’t know where he is. Just lock the door and don’t open it for anyone except me. Nobody. You understand? He’s psychotic.’
McEvoy leant with his forehead resting against the mirror, the sink at his hips. All of his adrenaline and anger had dissipated to be replaced with a hollowness, an empty yawning in his chest and stomach; another low in a day of roller coaster emotions. He was mentally and physically exhausted, knowing that the day was only half over.
He pulled his head back an inch and tapped it against the mirror. He could have caught McCormack. He’d been less than two feet away when he’d held open the door to Samantha Evans’ apartment block for them. If he’d followed Jacobs’ advice and hadn’t been in such a hurry to enter the building he would have recognised him, could have apprehended him or at least followed him. Karen would still be alive, her boyfriend not fighting for his life.
He pulled back from the mirror and stared at his grey and sunken face, his red eyes and thinning scalp. He was starting to look as Maggie had a couple of weeks before she died; his skin had the pallid cast of death to come.
His mobile phone rang. He rubbed at his temples, then reluctantly fished it out of his pocket. ‘McEvoy.’
‘It’s Paul. Where the hell are you?’
‘Sorry,’ McEvoy said flatly. ‘I wanted to make sure Dermot Brady was okay.’
‘And is he?’
‘Yeah, he’s fine. I’m at the
DHC
offices right now. Any luck your end?’
‘That’s why I’m ringing. We’ve found the blue Fiesta out in Lucan, just off the village square. The front seat is stained with blood. We think he headed out of the city along the Strawberry Beds, following the Liffey. Barney Plunkett’s on the scene and we’ve cordoned off his house in case he tries to return.’
McCormack’s escape route made sense. It was only a short distance from the North Circular Road to the Phoenix Park. From the far end of the park the old main road to Galway, now little used, headed out under the M50 toll bridge, snaking along the valley floor, crossing the Liffey at Lucan.
‘The plates on the car matched those Brady used to travel out to Trim on the day of Billy Mullins’ murder,’ Roche continued. ‘We’re still trying to work out whose car it really is.’
‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered, a sense of dread coming over him – McCormack was getting away. He was already out of the city.
‘McCormack’s own car is a silver, 04 Mercedes 180. I’ve put out a full alert.’
‘He’ll make for the border,’ McEvoy said instinctively.
‘Maybe. I think it’s more likely he’s got a bolthole somewhere. He’s thought of everything else. I’m putting Johnny Cronin in charge of Samantha Evans’ death, Jenny Flanagan on Karen’s; that okay?’
‘Yeah, whatever you want.’
‘I’m heading over to Evans’ apartment right now. Will I meet you there? We need a proper meeting. Bishop’s blown a gasket and the media are going crazy.’
‘Feck the lot of them, I don’t care. Look, Paul, I can’t go back to that apartment right now,’ McEvoy said, feeling ill again at the thought. ‘Not after what he did to her. You’ll understand when you get there.’
‘Yeah, okay, but I think we still need to meet. How about outside the block? There’s no need for you to come back in.’
McEvoy paused. ‘Okay,’ he muttered finally.
‘I’ll see you in what, ten minutes?’
‘Yeah, ten minutes.’ McEvoy ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. He turned on the taps again and washed his face for the third time, trying to wash away his feelings of guilt and shame, the water trickling down onto his tie and shirt.
The world’s media were strung out across the width of the road, held back by a row of uniformed guards. McEvoy barged his way through, ignoring the barrage of questions, the shouts barely penetrating his consciousness. He cut left off the pavement, striding up to the front door of the apartment block. Kathy Jacobs had declined to come, instead heading back to Harcourt Street.
The door was pulled open for him by a uniformed guard who looked barely past puberty and he entered the small atrium. He hovered by the lift for a couple of seconds, then headed back to the guard at the door. ‘Can you go and get Detective Superintendent Roche for me?’ he demanded.
‘He’s just upstairs.’
‘I
know
he’s just upstairs. I want him downstairs. I’ll mind the door.’
The guard nodded and set off for the stairs.
McEvoy wandered over to the mailboxes and stared at the row without seeing them. Samantha Evans probably didn’t have a clue she was dating a monster until a few hours before her torture started; probably thought that McCormack was her future until she stumbled across something she shouldn’t have. Or perhaps there was no reason – McCormack just killed her because he could; because he wanted to; because he needed to. He shook his head at the pointlessness of it all.
‘Colm,’ Roche said behind him.
He swivelled round.
‘Paul. Sorry, I couldn’t come up there,’ McEvoy said apologetically, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I couldn’t face her again.’
‘He enjoyed killing her,’ Roche observed, letting McEvoy know he understood, his face morose. ‘He might have killed the others for the sake of his book, but they were quick and anonymous. He killed her slowly and in full control; he tortured her mentally and emotionally as well as physically. He savoured her. He’s going to rot in hell.’
McEvoy stayed silent, not sure what to say, knowing that Roche was right.
‘There’s still no sign of him and we haven’t found his own car. It’s just a matter of time though. Every person in the country will be looking for him now.’
‘He’ll use one of his disguises,’ McEvoy muttered.
‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll get him. And when we do he’ll get his just rewards. A lot of steps in a police station; a lot of psychos in prison. He’ll come to understand the meaning of pain.’
McEvoy nodded. He had no difficulties with the notion of McCormack being tortured and killed. After what he’d done he deserved no less; he’d only be receiving what he deemed legitimate to do unto others.
The door to the atrium was yanked open and Tony Bishop steamed in dressed in full uniform, his cap pulled low over his eyes. ‘Well?’ he barked. ‘What the hell’s happening?’
Roche turned to face him. ‘Samantha Evans is upstairs in her apartment. McCormack killed her sometime in the last few days; left her to rot in her bath. He fled here just after
one o’clock
and headed to a squat not far away. When he got there he killed a young drug user, Karen Kirke – a friend of Laura Schmidt’s – and seriously injured her boyfriend, before driving to Lucan where he abandoned his car. He’s still on the run.’
‘Jesus! I don’t believe this! You could have had him,’ he said to McEvoy angrily. ‘You were here when he was and you let him get away! How could you have been so stupid?’
‘What?’ McEvoy said, taken aback by Bishop’s fury.
‘You fucked up again. Jesus! I should have never let you back on this case, you’re a complete fuckin’ liability. The press are going to have a fuckin’ field day!’
‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know who the hell The Raven is!’ McEvoy said, his anger re-ignited. ‘And if you hadn’t been so fast to release his name and photo to the media I
would
have got him! He only bolted because he saw himself on the news.’
‘Don’t try and blame me for your incompetence, you …’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ Roche said loudly, coming between them. ‘Nobody’s to blame for anything, okay? Colm did a great job in identifying McCormack. We wouldn’t have a clue who he was otherwise. You did what you had to do. We needed to put out a full alert to warn the public and try and locate him. There’s no point fighting each other; we need to concentrate on trying to track him down.’
Bishop pulled his mouth into an angry line and stared out of the atrium toward the road, unwilling to apologise for his accusations.
McEvoy shook his head in frustration. ‘I’m going out to Lucan,’ he announced, heading for the door.