Free The White Gallows by Rob Kitchin

do it in the middle of the night?’
    ‘I’ve no idea,’ Kinneally shrugged. ‘I was just telling you where I would start, that’s all.’
    ‘Just for the record, where were you on Saturday night?’ McEvoy asked, turning the tables on Kinneally, tired of his bitter answers.
    ‘Me?’ Kinneally replied indignantly.
    McEvoy nodded.
    ‘I… I was in my apartment in Dublin .’
    ‘And can anybody confirm that?’
    ‘Am I a suspect, Superintendent?’
    ‘Everybody’s a suspect at this stage until we can eliminate them from our inquiries.’
    ‘Jesus! Well if you must know I was there by myself. My wife was in our house in Kells. I was… we’re… we’re separating,’ Kinneally said, flushing with embarrassment.
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ McEvoy said disingenuously.
    ‘Not as sorry as me, she’s taking me to the cleaners,’ Kinneally said rising, indicating that he’d had enough of the questions. ‘I really need to be getting on, Superintendent. I need to head in to work; the place will no doubt be in turmoil.’
    McEvoy nodded his head, standing. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Dr Koch’s son before I leave?’
    ‘If you can find him,’ Kinneally said, opening the front door for McEvoy. ‘He’ll no doubt be down the fields somewhere. You’d be better off arranging to meet him later; God knows how long he’ll be. I’ll leave a note for him if you like.’
    ‘Thanks.’ McEvoy held out a business card. ‘If you think of anything useful, then please get in touch.’
    ‘I will, I will,’ Kinneally said, shutting over the door.
    McEvoy turned and shielded his eyes from the low angled sun. A shotgun fired in the distance and a horse brayed loudly.
    * * *
     
    The stables appeared deserted except for four horses staring out over their half doors. They watched McEvoy’s progress impassively as he glanced round the small yard.
    Marion D’Arcy was clearly not short of money despite the tight pockets of her father. These weren’t hobby horses, but thoroughbreds. Through the far side of the yard he could see three more horses in a lush field accompanied by a young girl with tied-back, blonde hair, wearing dirty cream jodhpurs and a green wax jacket.
    He heard the trotting horse before he saw it. A chestnut brown mare wheeled into the yard, its tail swishing, its neck covered in sweat, nostrils flaring for air. On its back sat a man in his late fifties, wearing a plain black riding hat, dark blue jacket over faded jeans, and black boots. He was the image of Albert Koch; the same gaunt face and thin frame. He pulled the mare to a halt and swung his right leg over her back, dropping to the ground.
    ‘You’re either a guard or a journalist,’ Charles Koch stated flatly, tugging at the horse’s saddle.
    ‘Guard,’ McEvoy replied. ‘Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy. I’m in charge of the investigation of your father’s death.’
    Koch said nothing, continuing to work on the saddle.
    ‘I’m trying to get a picture of your father and to work out why someone might have killed him.’
    ‘I was led to believe that he was killed by a thief,’ Koch stated flatly.
    ‘We think there might be more to it than that.’
    ‘You do? Why?’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t say more than that just now,’ McEvoy said weakly. ‘You’re a chemist, like your father?’
    ‘Not quite like my father. I’m a very ordinary chemist at a small, Irish university. My father was a brilliant chemist, but he chose the path of business.’
    ‘You weren’t interested in following your father’s footsteps?’
    ‘I was never presented with the opportunity. It was expected that I would become a great chemist; follow the path that he would have liked to have trodden. My father might have licensed and sold my discoveries, should I have had any, but I was to walk the hallowed halls of academia.’
    ‘But that’s not what you wanted?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I wanted, but the truth is I’m no Carl Bosch. I do