Walter Schmidt buried in the cemetery.’
‘Could be just a coincidence,’ she reasoned.
‘That was my feeling, but … look,’ he said, changing his tone, becoming more business-like. ‘I’d better get on and get to this press conference. When you get the rest of the test results in let me know if there’s anything interesting in them.’ He pushed himself up off the chair.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ she promised. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Colm, but you could do with a good feed yourself. And a good night’s sleep as well. You don’t look your usual self and that suit’s hanging off you.’
‘Don’t you start as well, Elaine. I’ve already had this conversation with Gemma this morning.’ He opened the door.
‘It’s only because we care about you. You need to look after yourself. You’ll be no use to anyone if you go off work sick.’
McEvoy ignored Elaine’s concern and let the door close behind him. He made his way out of the building onto a drizzle soaked Pearse Street . Elaine was right. He looked terrible. And what’s more he felt it. He hadn’t eaten or slept properly in months, from well before Maggie’s death. He just couldn’t muster an appetite and insomnia regularly kept him awake until the early hours. He seemed to stagger round in a tired stupor he couldn’t shake off. He fished his plastic cigarette from a pocket and wedged it in his mouth, checked his mobile for the time and messages and picked up the pace to his car. He hoped the worst of the traffic had passed or he was going to be late.
McEvoy stared across the top of the 20 or so journalists and cameramen at a fire extinguisher at the far end of the room, tuning out the statement Chief Superintendent Bishop was reading. He felt out of place on the podium; he was a street cop not a television presenter. He’d been on the media training course, but all it had done was confirm his suspicions that the press wanted a good story, not the truth. They wanted to become partners in the investigation. To nose around and do their own detective work, often messing up lines of police enquiry at the same time and tainting the possibility of getting an impartial jury. They would offer friendship, but were quite happy to stab you in the back if things didn’t work out well, pointing out the failures in the investigation, critiquing the approach taken, and telling you how it should have been done with the benefit of hindsight.
Movement to his left caught his eye and he swivelled his head to see the press liaison officer pull the sword from a bag. The officer held it out, balanced between his two palms. Cameras clicked and flash bulbs popped. Several of the photographers moved position, trying to get a better shot.
‘Please, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bishop said. ‘We can set up a blue screen afterwards so you can get a better shot. Please settle down.’ He waited for the room to quieten a little. ‘We need help in tracing this sword. We need to know who it belonged to. As you can see it is quite plain and any distinguishing features have been erased. Is it a family heirloom? Was it sold recently? Or was it stolen? Any information can be given in confidence to our officers on our hotline.’
Bishop paused, waiting for the majority of journalists to stop scribbling. ‘Well, that’s it for now. Any questions? Yes, Claire.’ He pointed to a short, thin woman in her mid-thirties.
‘Do you have any idea who the girl was? Or why she was killed?’
‘The girl went by the name of Laura. She was homeless and living on the streets of Dublin . Once the family have formally identified the body we’ll be releasing full details. We’ll need help in trying to retrace her last few days.’
‘Do you know why she was killed?’ asked a balding and overweight man, who sat on the right of the room.
‘It’s not very clear at present,’ Bishop replied. ‘It could be simply that she was in the wrong place
‘Could be just a coincidence,’ she reasoned.
‘That was my feeling, but … look,’ he said, changing his tone, becoming more business-like. ‘I’d better get on and get to this press conference. When you get the rest of the test results in let me know if there’s anything interesting in them.’ He pushed himself up off the chair.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ she promised. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Colm, but you could do with a good feed yourself. And a good night’s sleep as well. You don’t look your usual self and that suit’s hanging off you.’
‘Don’t you start as well, Elaine. I’ve already had this conversation with Gemma this morning.’ He opened the door.
‘It’s only because we care about you. You need to look after yourself. You’ll be no use to anyone if you go off work sick.’
McEvoy ignored Elaine’s concern and let the door close behind him. He made his way out of the building onto a drizzle soaked Pearse Street . Elaine was right. He looked terrible. And what’s more he felt it. He hadn’t eaten or slept properly in months, from well before Maggie’s death. He just couldn’t muster an appetite and insomnia regularly kept him awake until the early hours. He seemed to stagger round in a tired stupor he couldn’t shake off. He fished his plastic cigarette from a pocket and wedged it in his mouth, checked his mobile for the time and messages and picked up the pace to his car. He hoped the worst of the traffic had passed or he was going to be late.
McEvoy stared across the top of the 20 or so journalists and cameramen at a fire extinguisher at the far end of the room, tuning out the statement Chief Superintendent Bishop was reading. He felt out of place on the podium; he was a street cop not a television presenter. He’d been on the media training course, but all it had done was confirm his suspicions that the press wanted a good story, not the truth. They wanted to become partners in the investigation. To nose around and do their own detective work, often messing up lines of police enquiry at the same time and tainting the possibility of getting an impartial jury. They would offer friendship, but were quite happy to stab you in the back if things didn’t work out well, pointing out the failures in the investigation, critiquing the approach taken, and telling you how it should have been done with the benefit of hindsight.
Movement to his left caught his eye and he swivelled his head to see the press liaison officer pull the sword from a bag. The officer held it out, balanced between his two palms. Cameras clicked and flash bulbs popped. Several of the photographers moved position, trying to get a better shot.
‘Please, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bishop said. ‘We can set up a blue screen afterwards so you can get a better shot. Please settle down.’ He waited for the room to quieten a little. ‘We need help in tracing this sword. We need to know who it belonged to. As you can see it is quite plain and any distinguishing features have been erased. Is it a family heirloom? Was it sold recently? Or was it stolen? Any information can be given in confidence to our officers on our hotline.’
Bishop paused, waiting for the majority of journalists to stop scribbling. ‘Well, that’s it for now. Any questions? Yes, Claire.’ He pointed to a short, thin woman in her mid-thirties.
‘Do you have any idea who the girl was? Or why she was killed?’
‘The girl went by the name of Laura. She was homeless and living on the streets of Dublin . Once the family have formally identified the body we’ll be releasing full details. We’ll need help in trying to retrace her last few days.’
‘Do you know why she was killed?’ asked a balding and overweight man, who sat on the right of the room.
‘It’s not very clear at present,’ Bishop replied. ‘It could be simply that she was in the wrong place
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