The City of Shadows (24 page)

‘Dermot? What the hell's Dermot got to do with anything?'

‘They have three children, Tom's cousins. They'd happily take him.'

Stefan stared. He hadn't seen where this was going at all. He thought it was still just another opportunity for Father Carey to throw his weight around. But as soon as the words were said, he knew it had been obvious.

‘No, under no circumstances. I'm not even going to discuss it.'

‘We will discuss it, and I'm sure you'll agree what's best for Tom –'

‘I said no.'

‘I can't leave it there.'

‘Jesus, there's a fucking Christmas card on the mantelpiece, from Dermot and Kathleen. “Happy Christmas, all the best for the New Year, hope to see you soon!” Not a word, not a fucking word. See you soon!'

‘I think if you reflect on the situation –'

‘I won't be reflecting on anything.'

‘Then I need to make myself clearer. Mixed marriages are a bane to the Church. They are against God's law and against natural law. The Church shows her displeasure, even when she gives dispensation, refusing the Holy Sacrifice during the marriage. My own view is that too much leeway is given in approving them at all, even with a commitment to bring children up as Catholics. But the commitment is there, irrespective of your wife's death.'

‘And I am carrying that out.'

‘Not as far as I'm concerned. Not as far as the bishop is concerned.'

‘What do you want me to do? Give up my job?'

‘It's not about you being here. The boy's home is entirely unconducive to the health of a young and impressionable Catholic soul. There is no shortage of evidence to demonstrate your inability to bring him up in the faith he was born into. But the sight of Tom praying in a synagogue is beyond anything the Church can accept. His place is with his cousins, with his mother's brother. For his sake, and your own, I would advise you not to fight this. The courts are no place for families. And the end result will be the same, I promise you. As for the damage to your career –'

‘Are you threatening me now?'

‘I'm telling you what will happen, Gillespie.'

‘I promised Maeve –'

‘There is no more to say, Sergeant. You need time to calm down. When you have, we'll talk about this again and put the arrangements in place. It doesn't mean you won't see your son. But when you do, he'll be part of a family, his family. In time you'll understand that the Church's interests and your son's are the same. Those interests should be yours too.'

Stefan stood very still, looking at the satisfaction that Anthony Carey made no real attempt to hide. The curate stood taller than he had, straighter.

‘You've always wanted this, haven't you?'

‘It's about what's right.' The priest shook his head, frowning, almost as if he really did regret what he was doing. ‘It's not about what I want.'

‘That's shite and you know it.'

Carey pursed his lips; he wasn't finished yet.

‘From my little talk with Tom's playmate, Harry Lawlor, I gather that your visit to the synagogue was all about seeing a lady, am I right there?' He smiled a man-of-the-world smile; his sanctimoniousness turning into a sneer as he fixed his eyes on Stefan. ‘All in a day's work for a policeman, eh? I wonder, what would your Maeve have thought about that?'

As Stefan's fist hit the curate's face it was Maeve's name that propelled it rather than the taunt itself. Carey had taken her name and thrown it into a mire of shabby and spiteful innuendo. He spoke as if he knew her, as if there was some part of her precious memory that belonged to him. He staggered back against the desk, but he didn't fall. He was hurt, there was no doubt, yet he could still find a smile. He wiped his mouth and looked down at the blood on the back of his hand. It was Stefan Gillespie's final mistake.

*

Christmas was over. Stefan was back in the detectives' office at Pearse Street. The letter from Father Francis Byrne in Danzig had arrived on Inspector Donaldson's desk with a glowing affidavit from Monsignor Fitzpatrick. It seemed completely at odds with the barely controlled anger the monsignor had shown when Stefan had asked him about the priest little more than ten days ago. Donaldson had made the arrangements, clearly in consultation with Robert Fitzpatrick. The questions Stefan wanted asked had been asked in such general terms that the answers, not worth much in a letter anyway, were worth nothing at all; some questions had clearly not even been put to him. Father Byrne was shocked and saddened to hear of Susan Field's death, naturally. She had been one of his brightest and best students. It was a tragic and irreplaceable loss to her family. He had not known her well outside the confines of the lecture room, but he had certainly liked her and remembered her fondly. He was puzzled where the idea of any close or particular friendship came from. He wasn't fully able to understand the circumstances of her death, of course, but it was all very shocking, and he prayed she was at peace. By the way he didn't know Doctor Hugo Keller.

That was where it ended.

Monsignor Fitzpatrick spent several more pages of his own letter eulogising Father Francis Byrne's almost saintly integrity. He went on to express his indignation that the Gardaí would presume to ask questions based on the fantasies of a woman who was evidently disturbed. He didn't quite say Susan Field had brought it all upon herself, but he didn't need to.

It was as pointless as Inspector Donaldson could have wished. But what Stefan saw clearly was that Francis Byrne had too little to say about the woman he'd had a passionate love affair with, and Robert Fitzpatrick had too much to say about the man he'd felt such aversion to so very recently.

‘Jesus, Stevie.' Dessie McMahon sighed, watching as Stefan re-read the letter.

‘I know,' replied Stefan. ‘Don't start again.' He didn't want to talk about what Dessie was trying to talk about. He didn't want to think about it.

‘I mean what the feck?'

‘What the feck indeed,' he shrugged. Dessie wasn't going to stop.

‘Would he ever just forget about it?'

‘Father Carey's not a turning-the-other-cheek kind of priest.'

‘Did you ever meet one that was?'

The telephone rang. Dessie MacMahon picked it up.

‘It's Inspector Donaldson. He wants you in there, now.'

When Stefan Gillespie walked into Inspector Donaldson's office, the first person he saw was Detective Sergeant Lynch. It wasn't the Jimmy Lynch he'd last met turning over his room. This one had had a bath and was wearing a suit that nearly fitted him and a white shirt that was even ironed.

‘We need to sort these bodies out.' It was Inspector Donaldson who spoke. ‘Sit down, Gillespie. You know Detective Sergeant Lynch of course.'

The two sergeants nodded. Stefan already sensed something was wrong. There was no smirk or smile on Lynch's face. He looked serious, alert, attentive; you could almost have mistaken him for a real detective.

‘The woman first,' announced the inspector. ‘We know she was pregnant. Sadly you've seen the evidence of that yourself. Sergeant Lynch has established that she probably did procure a miscarriage from Keller.'

‘Was that before or after I established it, sir?'

Donaldson ignored him. ‘As is the way with these things, there were complications. And it seems very likely that she died at Merrion Square.'

Lynch looked grim, as saddened by the awful events as the inspector.

‘And how did Sergeant Lynch establish that?' enquired Stefan.

‘Sheila Hogan,' said the inspector. ‘Keller told her what happened.'

‘She was at it with your man, you know that.' Lynch offered up this additional information as if it provided a complete explanation in itself.

‘With a dead woman in his clinic, he had to do something,' continued Inspector Donaldson. ‘The assumption is he put the body in his car and took it out to the mountains and buried her. Unfortunately, I don't imagine it's the first time that sort of thing has happened with these backstreet abortionists.'

‘Is that what Sheila Hogan said too? It's not what she said to me.' Stefan's words were addressed to Donaldson, but he was looking at Lynch.

‘She didn't know the details, Stevie,' said the Special Branch detective grimly. ‘I'm filling in the gaps, but I got what I could out of her.'

‘I know. That's why she was in the Mater Hospital.'

‘That will do!' snapped the inspector.

‘Is there some reason you've decided to help us with this now, Jimmy?'

Lynch said nothing to Stefan; he didn't need to give explanations.

‘I think we'll concentrate on the case please, Gillespie.' Donaldson glared at his sergeant. ‘I haven't been idle on this myself. Mr Keller has questions to answer. We didn't know that before, neither did Sergeant Lynch. If we had he wouldn't have been allowed to leave the country of course. We have good reason to believe he is somewhere in Germany.'

‘Since he was driven to the mail boat by our local Nazi chief, Herr Mahr, after Detective Sergeant Lynch dropped him at the Shelbourne for a Weihnachtsfest do, I'd say it's not a bad guess. Are we all agreed on that?'

‘Let me make something clear, Sergeant. There are a number of reasons why this case is being handed over to Special Branch –'

Lynch just watched, smiling confidently.

‘Like hell it is!'

‘Shut up, Gillespie!'

James Donaldson's fist thumped on the desk.

‘Enquiries about Hugo Keller's whereabouts will obviously have to be directed to the German police. That's not a job for us. It isn't our business to ask exactly why Mr Keller had a relationship with Special Branch in the first place, but we have to accept that in their area of activity, which is the security of the state after all, they encounter their own share of unsavoury informants, in the same way you do as a detective. That doesn't alter the fact that this man Keller is responsible for the death of a young woman and, naturally, every effort will be made to find him and bring him to justice.'

‘My arse!' proclaimed Stefan.

Jimmy Lynch laughed. Inspector Donaldson didn't.

‘Enough! You'll hand any information you have to Sergeant Lynch.'

‘That's one down, sir. What about Vincent Walsh?'

‘Don't waste your time, Stevie.' Lynch stretched back in his chair.

‘Is that a Special Branch case too, Jimmy?'

‘No, I'm just saying the boy had been up there a long time.'

‘You knew him then?'

‘Poofs aren't my speciality.'

‘No?'

Stefan looked at the Special Branch man for a long moment. There was no point arguing with Inspector Donaldson now. There was no point even starting on the way the inspector had pushed aside the need to question Francis Byrne. And there was no point letting Detective Sergeant Lynch know what Billy Donnelly had told him about Vincent Walsh's letters. If Lynch thought it was all done and dusted, it was better to let him think it. Stefan needed to know what it meant; then he might have something to use.

‘The discovery of these two bodies so close to each other seems to be a coincidence. There's nothing to connect them.' Inspector Donaldson put his hands together on his desk; he had dealt with it. However much he disliked Special Branch, Lynch would take it away. That would be that.

But Stefan wasn't done.

‘Except that they were both shot in the head by a captive bolt pistol.'

James Donaldson nodded complacently; he wasn't unprepared.

‘It's an imaginative theory on Doctor Wayland-Smith's part. I know he likes to play the detective, but I understand that what's actually there is simply damage to the skulls, along with all sorts of damage to other bones, all exacerbated by the landslip. I think he's rather cooled off on the idea.'

As Stefan walked back to his office, Jimmy Lynch caught up with him.

‘I've never liked you much, Stevie, but you've surprised me.'

‘What's the matter now?'

‘I tell you, I've a list of priests I'd like to knock the crap out of, that's as long as your arm. I never quite had the balls. Could you do a few for me?'

‘Good news travels fast.'

‘Donald Duck doesn't know yet?'

‘No, but I'm sure he will.'

‘Me too, Stevie, me too.'

Lynch carried on downstairs, whistling cheerfully. Stefan watched the swagger as he went. If he was really looking at a murderer he was looking at one who was being paid by An Garda Síochána to cover up his own crimes.

Stefan walked slowly back into the detectives' office to find Dessie MacMahon looking more forlorn than when he'd left him half an hour ago.

‘You're wanted at Garda HQ. It's the Commissioner.'

They turned to see a slightly wild-eyed Inspector Donaldson standing in the doorway. Only minutes ago, Stefan had left him congratulating himself on getting rid of an uncomfortable case and bringing his detectives under control. The call from the Garda Commissioner had come only seconds later. The news about Stefan's Christmas had reached him at last.

‘You ignorant, fucking, Protestant bollocks, Gillespie!'

*

Through the windows of the Garda Commissioner's office Stefan could see the bare winter trees of the Phoenix Park. Across the desk in front of him sat the Commissioner, Ned Broy, turning the pages of a slim file of letters. His round face was deceptively benign; the severely cropped hair and the small, piercing eyes told more. They didn't really know each other. Broy had been head of the Detective Branch when Stefan joined in 1932. Not long afterwards he had moved into the top job when the new president, Éamon de Valera, had sacked General Eoin O'Duffy, the hostile commissioner he had inherited from the previous government. In response O'Duffy put his Blueshirts on the streets and threatened to march on Dublin. No one was quite sure what the Gardaí would do if it came to a coup. Ned Broy's answer was to draft scores of ex-IRA men into Special Branch. They were immediately dubbed the Broy Harriers after a pack of Wicklow foxhounds. Their job was to take on the Blueshirts if they had to, but no one had any doubt they would take on their new comrades in the Garda Síochána if it came to the crunch. It didn't. That was history now, but in Ireland history never quite goes away. Stefan was reflecting on the conversation at Pearse Street. Jimmy Lynch was one of the Broy Harriers. He was Ned Broy's man.