The White Gallows by Rob Kitchin

attention back to the horse. ‘I’d won over three thousand euro. Not a bad day’s work.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘Then I went home.’
    ‘And can anyone confirm that?’
    ‘Everyone in the hotel bar. I probably made an idiot of myself, buying everyone drinks. The evening’s a little hazy. The pints and whiskey were flowing.’
    ‘And after the bar?’
    Francis Koch wheeled round to face McEvoy, his face creased in anxiety. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? Am I a suspect?’
    ‘We’re asking everyone who knew Dr Koch the same questions,’ McEvoy replied neutrally. ‘We’re trying to account for everybody’s movements so we can eliminate them from the inquiry.’
    ‘After the bar, I went to the chipper and then I walked home to my big empty house.’
    ‘You’re separated?’
    ‘Never married. I’ve never understood its appeal; being bound to one person for the rest of your life. It would be too claustrophobic; too… predictable.’
    McEvoy reflected that Francis Koch made it sound like a life sentence. For him, being married to Maggie had given him a sense of security and stability. He liked the routine and predictability, the feelings of familiarity. Marriage wasn’t a prison he’d been looking to escape from; it was something he was glad of, that he’d embraced. He’d lost that and yet it was something that Francis Koch was not even interested in attaining. Perhaps if he was more like him, McEvoy reflected, some of the pain might disappear, though it would be a shallow and banal life.
    * * *
     
    The incident room buzzed with the activity of a new case. Several uniformed guards were working at different tables. Kelly Stringer and John Joyce were standing next to the whiteboard still displaying his notes from the previous day.
    Stringer was dressed in a smart, two-piece, grey suit, over a pale blue blouse. She’d undone the top two buttons on her blouse and her hair was down rather than pinned up. The change was quite striking, taking years off her appearance. Somehow it made McEvoy feel his age.
    ‘Any sign of Jim Whelan?’ he asked as he approached.
    ‘Not yet. He’s on his way,’ Joyce replied, staring down at McEvoy’s stained trousers, immediately spotting the source of the foul smell.
    ‘How about identifying this Lithuanian?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Any news on Hannah? Is she going to be okay?’
    ‘She’s in surgery at the minute,’ Stringer replied, backing away and scrunching up her nose. ‘She’s definitely going to lose the one leg from the knee down. They’re trying to save the other. It sounds like she was lucky. If she hadn’t dived through the door…’ she trailed off.
    ‘Charlie Clarke isn’t going to know what hit him,’ McEvoy predicted, unaware of the stench emanating from his suit and shoe. ‘If he thought this was going to scare us off, he’s made a bad mistake.’
    ‘Bishop’s on the warpath,’ Joyce said. ‘He’s called in armed response; the works. O’Reilly’s all over the radio,’ he said, referring to the Minister for Justice
    ‘About feckin’ time. Things have got out of control. Trying to kill Hannah’s the last straw.’
    ‘Have you been to Koch’s farm?’ Joyce asked, changing the subject.
    ‘No. Should I have been?’
    ‘No, no. It’s just… it’s just that you smell like you’ve… y’know.’
    ‘It’s that bad is it?’ McEvoy said concerned, looking down. ‘For God’s sake!’
    ‘It’s a bit ripe,’ Stringer joked, waving her hand in front of her nose.
    ‘Well, I haven’t got a spare pair, so people will just have to put up with it.’
    ‘You could try washing them out,’ Stringer suggested. ‘There’re changing rooms out the back. If you wring them out they should dry quite quickly.’
    ‘I’ll do it after. Do you have anything to report?’
    ‘Nothing much beyond yesterday afternoon. The farm manager has confirmed that the rope is one of his. It was taken from a shed. We’ve arranged for Roza, the