A June of Ordinary Murders (26 page)

‘Have a look at this,' Lafeyre said. He lifted the covering.

Something approximately human sat on the tabletop. It had the shape and contours of a human head, but it was without eyes or ears. The skin was represented by white and pink plaster of Paris. It was a travesty of the human aspect, and yet it had a form and a shape that were distinctive.

Lafeyre extended a hand in a mock gesture of formality.

‘Allow me to introduce someone. I'm only getting to know her myself by following Professor Hiss's methods of reconstruction. Say hello to “Chapelizod Gate Woman”.'

TWENTY

The peak of the day's heat had passed by the time he left the morgue with Feore, but the city air was humid and cloying. They walked along Abbey Street and turned for Sackville Street. The flower-sellers at the Nelson Pillar had congregated on the northern side of the plinth in order to gain the shade. Every shop along Sackville Street had its blinds and canopies extended to the full.

Cab-drivers had shed their jackets as had most of the men waiting to board the trams that would take them home after their day's work. Here and there in the waiting lines, a lady's parasol splashed colour among the dark suits and white shirts.

The evening newspapers had latched on to the latest violent death with enthusiasm. The poster boards screamed the story.

‘ANOTHER WOMAN BRUTALLY MURDERED IN DUBLIN'

‘MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S BODY IN THE GRAND CANAL'

‘MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN – POLICE BAFFLED'

The clock on the Imperial Hotel showed a quarter to six. Swallow knew it would be too late to secure a warrant to search the dead woman's accommodation and to conduct inquiries among those who had known her at the Fitzpatrick house. It would be morning before he could expect any request to be processed. Since all of the public records offices were now closed, and would not reopen until the day after tomorrow, he was equally unlikely to make any progress on establishing the background or next of kin of the dead Sarah Hannin.

The two G-men turned from Sackville Street along the north quays and crossed the river at Essex Bridge. The faint stirring of the air that Swallow had sensed earlier in the day had abated. There was no hint of a breeze from the bay. He looked westward along the river's course and saw the same perfect blue sky that had extended over the city for six days.

The first signal that something was out of order at Exchange Court was the sight of a grim-looking Tony Swann, flanked by two uniformed constables, guarding the front door. Swann crooked a Remington shotgun in his left arm, his right hand resting on the trigger-guard.

Swallow reached the step.

‘Jesus, are we under siege?'

‘Damned if I know. Boyle told me to take position here. You haven't heard about Tommy McKnight and Charlie Vanucchi?'

‘I've been on a murder inquiry all day. What's happened?'

The G-man jerked his head towards the door.

‘McKnight died of his injuries in the Meath Hospital a couple of hours ago. Shanahan and Collins were with him. The man seemed to be all right. The nurse attending him had just told him that he'd be fine, then he turned over in his bed and died. But they got a dying declaration from him naming Vanucchi for the assault. So Shanahan and Collins arrested Vanucchi in Lawless's public house. There was a riot up there. The two boys had to open fire.'

‘Jesus. Did they hit anyone?'

‘Not as far as I know. But there's blood and damage. And tempers are up.'

Swallow was taken aback. Dublin policemen, even G-men, were rarely obliged to have recourse to their guns. When they did it was usually in encounters with the politicals – Fenians, Invincibles and the like.

He pushed the door and stepped into the public office. Half a dozen detectives milled around behind the counter. The buzz of the conversation was high and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Between the bad air, the heat and the smoke, it was suffocating.

‘Where's Inspector Boyle?' he asked the duty officer.

‘He's upstairs, Sergeant, in the inspector's office with Shanahan and Collins and the prisoner.'

Swallow took the stairs quickly and followed the narrow corridor to the small office at the rear of the building.

The cramped office was barely capable of accommodating the four men inside. Charlie Vanucchi sat on a boxwood chair beside the wall. He leaned forward, head bowed. His handcuffed wrists were thrust forward between his knees.

Duck Boyle was standing in front of the prisoner, a sheaf of papers in one hand, a stubby pencil in the other. Collins sat with his back against a window-ledge. His colleague, Eddie Shanahan, stood by the mantel shelf, packing the bowl of his pipe with tobacco.

Boyle swung around as Swallow entered the room. The inspector's face glowed with excitement. ‘Very nice of ye to join us, Mr Swalla'. Needless to say, ye were elsewhere when these officers under my direction apprehended a murderer this afternoon.'

He waved the papers in his hand. ‘Here's a signed statement by Thomas McKnight, identifyin' the man who assaulted him. A few minutes after signin' it, McKnight died of his injuries. He named Charlie Vanucchi.'

At the mention of his name, Vanucchi lifted his head slightly and appeared to attempt to speak. Boyle's right hand swung sharply and cracked across the prisoner's left cheek. Swallow saw that he was already bleeding from a cut on his lower lip.

‘Shut yer face, ye Eye-talian bastard,' Boyle hissed. ‘Ye'll speak only to answer my questions.'

Vanucchi hung his head again.

‘Now, Vanucchi,' Boyle hissed, ‘I'm givin' ye wan last chance. I want you to make a statement and sign it, admittin' that you assaulted McKnight.'

The prisoner raised his head and looked beseechingly at Swallow.

‘I'm tryin' to tell this man, I don't know what he's talkin' about. I was just havin' a quiet drink with me friends after the funeral when these two eejits walked in,' he nodded towards Collins and Shanahan.

‘They started throwin' their weight around. There was a fight broke out and they took out their feckin' guns. There was a lotta panic and shoutin'. But it wasn't me that caused it. These fellas tell me that Tommy McKnight says I done him over, but it's not true. I never touched him.'

Shanahan strode across the room. He stood aggressively in front of Vanucchi and bunched his fist an inch or two away from the prisoner's face.

‘Don't tell me I'm a liar, Vanucchi. I was with Constable Collins when McKnight made the statement. I'll swear with him. You'll go away for a hell of a long time if you don't come clean now with us and with Inspector Boyle.'

‘I've nothin' to say,' Vanucchi muttered.

Boyle threw his papers and pencil to the tabletop and grabbed Vanucchi by the collar, attempting to lift him from the chair.

‘Ye'd bleddy well better have somethin' to say, Vanucchi!' he shouted. ‘Ye'd bleddy well better tell us or I'll lave every bone sore in yer dirty body.'

Vanucchi shouted back.

‘Go on then! Yer a great fuckin' man, aren't ye? Hit me when I'm chained up and wid yer hard men all aroun' ye. But some fuckin' night, I'll meet ye down a dark street, Misther Boyle, when ye won't have yer hard men and I won't be wearin' these.'

He raised his manacled fists defiantly in front of Boyle's face.

Boyle looked for a moment as if he was about to hit the prisoner again, but he released his grip and stood back. He threw himself into the chair opposite Vanucchi.

‘Well, Swalla' what do ye make o' that?'

Swallow could have answered that of all the methods of interrogating Charlie Vanucchi, the one chosen by Boyle was probably the least likely to achieve the desired result. Anything that the flabby Boyle could physically inflict on Vanucchi would be a trifle by comparison with what the criminal strongman would absorb in an average Saturday night brawl. Instead, Swallow adopted a patient tone, preceded by the dose of flattery he knew was expected.

‘A great catch, Inspector, and damned well done by Shanahan and Collins. You should get great credit for this.'

He saw a smirk cross Boyle's face. ‘Well, if Mr Vanucchi here doesn't want to make a voluntary statement, that's his problem,' Boyle declared. ‘We'll be bringin' him before the court charged with murder on foot of Tommy McKnight's dyin' declaration.'

The smirk extended. ‘I expect you wouldn't know about the effect of a dyin' declaration, Swallow, do ye?'

He paused, savouring the opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge.

‘I mean, seein' as how your education was to be in matters medical rather than legal. Well, let me tell you about it.'

He reached for a textbook on the table beside him, and ostentatiously opened a dog-eared page.

‘
Nemo moriturus praesumitur mentire
– a man will not meet his maker with a lie in his mouth,' he intoned ponderously, articulating each of the Latin syllables slowly.

‘No one at the point of death is presumed to lie. That's what the law says. So McKnight's dying declaration will be accepted as the truth when we bring Vanucchi to court … and if I have me way, on to the gallows.'

He turned to Vanucchi and spat the last words at him.

Swallow nodded thoughtfully as if reflecting on the solemnity of Boyle's legal declamation.

‘There's only one possible snag in the line you're following, Inspector,' he said. ‘The Criminal Procedure Act, if I understand it correctly, says that a dying declaration is only valid if the declarant is absolutely certain that he's facing death.'

He saw Boyle's eyes narrow, irritated by the possibility of contradiction.

‘So what's yer point, Sergeant?'

‘That's what makes a dying declaration so important,' Swallow continued. ‘The declarant has to be sure and certain that his life is at an end. But from what I've been told, McKnight didn't know he was dying. As I heard it, the nurse told him he would be all right. It's far more likely that he simply wanted to finger Charlie Vanucchi, to have us remove him from the scene for a while.'

He turned apologetically to Collins and Shanahan.

‘I'm sorry, lads. You did your best. But this so-called dying declaration isn't worth a toss. You've no evidence against Vanucchi that you can bring into a courtroom without being thrown out on your backsides. My advice is to turn him loose.'

Boyle's mouth dropped open. Collins turned red with embarrassment. Shanahan looked as if he had been struck in the face. The mood in the room changed instantly from elation to despondency.

Except for Charlie Vanucchi, who was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Jesus, there y'are now, listen to Mister Swalla,' he whooped. ‘That man has more brains than the whole feckin' lot of yiz put together. Yiz had better let me out outta here now before I send for a counsel and have yiz all sued for kidnappin' me and assault … for a start.'

Boyle stood rooted to the floor for perhaps a quarter of a minute. Then he went behind Vanucchi and opened his handcuffs.

When he found his voice it was strangled with rage. ‘Sergeant Swallow. Would you please see Mr Vanucchi safely off the premises?'

Swallow gestured to Charlie Vanucchi to stand. He walked him across the room, through the door and down the stairs to the front entrance of the detective office. They stopped inside the threshold.

‘Mr Swalla', I owe ye for this,' Vanucchi said. ‘And Charlie Vanucchi doesn't forget a debt to a friend. I promise ye. Ye won't regret doin' the right thing for me today.'

Swallow pushed him violently through the open door of the waiting room. He kicked the door shut behind him, at the same moment seizing Vanucchi by the lapels of his jacket and lifting him against the wall.

‘For your own sake you'd better make sure that I won't regret it, Charlie. I've gone out on a limb here for you in a way that no other G-man would have. Those fellows were planning to put you out of circulation for a very long time. You know that, don't you? All I had to do was to say nothing.'

Vanucchi nodded, his eyes goggling.

‘I'm taking a calculated gamble that you're the man of the future after Ces Downes's death,' Swallow hissed. ‘I'll be counting on you to tell me everything that's happening around this city. So don't ever forget the debt you owe to Joe Swallow. It's a big one.'

‘All right, all right, Mr Swalla'.' Vanucchi raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘What do ye need to know?'

‘I need to know what these murders in the park are about, the woman and the child. I'm bloody sure some of your people can take a damned good guess at the answers.'

Vanucchi shook his head.

‘Like I told ye on Saturday night, none of my lads would be involved in anythin' like that. But I know Vinny Cussen had men out watchin' the streets and the trams for some woman last week. Mebbe there's some connection there.'

‘What woman, Charlie?' Swallow shook Vanucchi by the lapels again. ‘Vinny must have given them a name, a description, something?'

Vanucchi's eyes were pleading. ‘I swear I don't know any more, Mr Swalla', I swear it. If I did, wouldn't it be in me own best interests to tell you?'

That actually made sense, Swallow acknowledged silently.

He pulled the door open, and releasing his grip on Vanucchi's lapels he propelled him out into Exchange Court.

TWENTY-ONE

When Swallow returned to the inspector's room, Boyle seemed to have recovered his composure.

‘So, Swalla', tell us what you've been doin' to justify yer existence. What's the story on the drownin' up be the Portobello lock?'

‘It's not a drowning,' Swallow said. ‘I've been down at the morgue with Dr Lafeyre for the post mortem. The woman's head was battered in. She was dead before she entered the water. I've had to call Mick Feore off the Chapelizod Gate inquiry and get him to do Book Man on this.'