The Rule Book (45 page)

She opened the passenger door and leaned her head in. ‘Is it okay if I join you, Colm? It would be useful for me to see where he killed.’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He waved her in.

The Glencree Peace and Reconciliation Centre was quiet, its next set of guests not due to arrive until the following day. McEvoy was standing outside of the room Laura Schmidt was killed in, looking down the Glencree valley, the sides covered in cloud, visibility restricted by drizzle. Behind him Kathy Jacobs crouch-walked under the tape that still barred entry to the room back into the corridor.

‘This place feels haunted,’ she observed.

‘Probably is,’ he replied flatly. ‘Tens of children probably died up here when it was a reform school; bullied and beaten and frozen to death.’

She stood next to him and followed his gaze down the valley. ‘Poor mites,’ she said eventually.

He turned and pulled the bedroom door to, the image of Laura, laid out naked on the bed, the sword slotted through her mouth, still fresh in his mind.

‘I thought coming here might help,’ he said absently, rubbing at his nose, trying to stop the steady trickle of the cold he’d developed.

‘Maybe it will,’ Jacobs offered.

‘All it’s done is made me feel worse. Brought back memories I’d sooner forget.’ He leant forward against the windowsill and tried to gather himself.

‘Perhaps we should go?’

He nodded in agreement, unable to shake free the image of Laura, and pushed himself back up straight. ‘Do you want to look at the German cemetery,’ he offered, heading for the fire door, ‘where we found the cards?’

‘If it’s okay with you. I can go on my own or come back another time if you prefer.’

‘No, no. We’re here now.’ He held open the door and let her through, following her down the stairs.

They exited the old barracks, popped up a couple of umbrellas, and headed up the laneway onto the narrow road and the 50 metres to the gate of the cemetery. The place was silent except for the cawing of a couple of crows.

McEvoy hung back at the small shelter puffing on his plastic cigarette and Jacobs wandered around the beds of heather staring down at the names of the dead. After a couple of minutes she rejoined him and they left.

McEvoy followed Jacobs along the path towards the covered crucifix, pulling his plastic substitute from a pocket, jamming it between his lips. She was staring up at it from under her red umbrella when he caught her up.

‘The techies say he was hit around here,’ he pointed to a spot a bit beyond the crucifix, ‘then dragged in under these trees here, through onto the path and down to the cemetery.’

She nodded and set off under the yew trees towards the cemetery, McEvoy trailing after her.

‘From one place of ghosts to another,’ she muttered.

‘What?’ McEvoy said, lost in thought.

‘I said, from one place of ghosts to another. This place gives me the creeps.’

‘You and me both,’ McEvoy replied, knowing that he was killing time and starting to feel sorry for himself.

She paused to stare at the spot David Hennessey had been found and then hurried through into the open skies of the cemetery.

From behind her McEvoy said, ‘Do you think there was any significance in the blue paint?’

‘No,’ she said, studying the names on the crosses nearest to the entrance. ‘I think that’s designed to throw you and generate a bit of hype and notoriety. There’s no consistent pattern or theme and they peter out towards the end of the sequence. There’s the sword, the paint, the toes, the crow shrine and then it just stops. Nothing for the last three victims or at Oughterard. It’s like he got bored, or couldn’t be bothered. He had less time for each killing, but he could have prepared something that he just had to leave.’

McEvoy nodded, agreeing with her assessment, thinking he would be better off just leaving the case to Roche; of retiring disgracefully to some country backwater. He sucked on his plastic stick and tried to ignore his craving.

Garda tape was still stretched across the driveway, blocking access. The house already had the look of a long abandoned property, the smoke gone, the ash wet and stuck to the earth.

McEvoy stopped the car, its bonnet half under the tape. He stepped out and retrieved his umbrella from behind his seat. He was feeling exhausted again, a faint headache starting to form above his eyes.

He wiped at his nose and glanced at his watch – just gone 5.30. It was almost 24 hours since the final murder. The Raven was probably sitting at home with his family, laughing quietly to himself, self-congratulating his own brilliance and police ineptitude. The longer the investigation dragged on, the less likely a lead would appear.

Jacobs was already under the tape and walking towards the house, trying to place herself in The Raven’s shoes. McEvoy followed her, joining her at the window to the front room, broken glass under foot.

‘He died on the sofa by the door,’ McEvoy said. ‘He was hit on the side of the head, probably with a hammer, and knocked unconscious. He then set fire to the house, burning him alive.’

‘Jesus.’ She stepped away, heading for the corner of the bungalow.

McEvoy’s phone rang. He answered it as she disappeared from view. ‘McEvoy.’

‘Sir, it’s Hannah Fallon,’ she said excitedly. ‘We have a second match. A small hair from Glencree with one from Rathmoylan. It was in the bottom of one of candle holders at the little shrine he’d built. I’d say they’re eyelashes or eyebrows.’

‘And any match with the database?’ McEvoy said, looking round, slightly spooked that one of the hairs had been found where he was now visiting.

‘Not yet. We’re also going to check with the UK database and other agencies. It has to be him though, the house at Rathmoylan was hardly well visited. If he’s pulled in for anything else and tested we’ll have him.’

‘Have you spoken to Superintendent Roche?’

‘Yes. He told me to ring you. He said you’d want to know.’

‘He was right. Look, thanks, Hannah. Excellent work.’

‘We’ll get the bastard yet.’

‘Hopefully. Thanks for ringing.’

Kathy Jacobs appeared at the far end of the bungalow having completed a loop. ‘Must have been pretty lonely living out here on your own, especially if you were pretty much immobile.’

‘People came and visited him. It was probably no worse than being stuck in a house on an estate. Come on, let’s get away from here.’

The rain hadn’t let up all afternoon, in fact it had become heavier, the wind rising, the droplets coming in waves. Their umbrellas flexed and twisted, struggling to remain in shape. They were standing on the tarmac path a couple of metres from where Grainne Malone had her legs cut from under her before being dragged away and strangled. Several bunches of flowers were grouped at the base of a tree trunk.

‘He hid the toes all round the park,’ McEvoy said, pointing with his plastic substitute. ‘If you linked them all together on a map they formed the shape of a raven, with this place the eye. I don’t think there’s much point going to them all, we’re just going to get wet.’

‘It’s pretty bleak here,’ Jacobs observed. ‘We’re in the city, but not really. We could be back up the mountains.’

‘There’s usually a lot more people around – running, cycling, taking the dog for a walk.’

Jacobs stepped forward, bending down to read the messages. ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’

‘Very early stages according to Elaine Jones. I’m not sure she knew, or if she did she hadn’t yet told her husband.’

‘It was her husband’s baby?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, the husband was, you know, the father to be,’ she said awkwardly.

‘You think it might have been The Raven’s?’ he said incredulously. ‘She was having an affair?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I was just asking, that’s all. He seemingly knew Laura, I’m wondering if he knew Grainne Malone? Four of the victims have direct links with Dermot Brady, three of the first four. Did the other victims have links to the murderer, but not Brady?’

‘It was the sites that were linked to Brady, not simply the victims,’ McEvoy countered, tiredness in his voice. ‘It would be a hell of a coincidence for the murderer’s own victims to share Brady’s sites.’

‘True. I was just thinking aloud, that’s all.’

‘I’ll drop you off at The White Horse if it’s open or run you to your hotel if it isn’t. I’m heading home, I’m exhausted.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said flatly. ‘The last week’s catching up on me, that’s all. I’ve had damn all sleep and it’s been an emotional roller coaster. I feel like I’ve been pulled through a mangle slowly. This cold isn’t helping. I feel as if someone has stuffed my head with cotton wool.’

‘Well, if you need someone to talk to just call.’

‘Yeah, I will,’ he replied, trying to read her face, undecided whether it was signalling earnestness or invitation.

The road shimmered orange and a bus lumbered past the parked car sending up a spray of water from a pothole. The car smelt of damp clothes and the lingering of scent of Jacobs’ perfume. McEvoy tipped back his head and closed his eyes. If he wasn’t careful he’d fall asleep there and then. He let his chin hit his chest and pulled up Paul Roche’s number on his mobile phone.

‘Roche.’

‘Paul, it’s Colm. I’m just checking in, well checking out actually. I’ve just arrived home, I’m too exhausted to keep going for now. How’re you getting on?’

‘Slowly. I’ve now met with all the teams and I’m working my way through case notes. I’ll probably need to go through a few things with you tomorrow.’

‘No bother. What time do you want to meet?’

‘I’m not sure, I’ll let you know. I’ve got to meet Tony Bishop and the AC tomorrow morning to give them an update. They’re starting to sound desperate.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that. You’re the replacement captain on the Titanic, flown in after I’ve hit the iceberg. They see themselves as major shareholders in White Star Line.’

‘That’s rubbish and you know it. They’re the captains, were down in the boiler house trying to bail water and get the damn thing to limp to shore. Whatever. He hasn’t left us a whole lot to go on, has he?’

‘Well, as he would say, he wrote the book.’

‘Look, feck the book,’ Roche said aggressively. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ McEvoy ended the call and levered himself out of the car.

He slotted the key in the front door and entered the warmth of the house. Gemma was first out of the living room, launching herself up onto his chest. He clutched her with one arm, quickly swapping to two. His mother placed her head round the door.

‘You okay, Colm?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve had better days, I’ve had worse.’

‘You’re dinner’s in the oven. Chicken casserole.’

He entered the living room. Sheila, Des, Caroline and his father were watching
Sky News
. Tony Bishop, his face flushed red and frowning concern, was discussing progress on the case.