A June of Ordinary Murders (34 page)

(Please ask for D/Sergeant Swallow or leave a message)

He drew a large square over the text and handed the sheet and one of the prints to the printer-constable.

‘I need a few of these urgently. Then I'll need 100 more run off for later.'

The constable-printer peered at the photograph in puzzlement. ‘That's an interesting one. Who is she?'

‘It's the woman found murdered last Friday with the child at the Chapelizod Gate. But it's not who
is
she; it's who
was
she. It's a plaster and paint reconstruction put together by Dr Lafeyre and an art teacher from Alexandra College. It's an experimental technique from Germany.'

The man held the paper towards the light.

‘This is a new one on me. I suppose anything is worth a try in a case like that, with a woman and child involved. I'll have a few prints for you in an hour. The full print run should be ready by tomorrow morning.'

A couple of minutes later Swallow was at Princes' Street where the offices of the
Evening Telegraph
were located. He went into a public office facing the street and walked up to the high, mahogany counter, passing a noisy line of people queuing to place advertisements.

He showed his warrant card to a thin, young man in a starched collar on a high stool behind the counter.

‘Detective Sergeant Swallow, G Division. I want to see Simon Sweeney from the reporters' office please.'

The young man slid down from his stool to open a hinged section of the mahogany counter for Swallow. ‘Do you know where to go?'

He did. Notwithstanding the current campaign of abuse by Irving at the
Daily Sketch,
Swallow's relationship with the press had by and large been a fruitful one. Until the unsolved murder a year ago of Elizabeth Logan, the prostitute found on Sandymount Strand, there had been general adulation among the journalists for the exploits and successes of Detective Sergeant Swallow.

He climbed a wide staircase to the reporters' room where a score of pressmen were banging out a noisy cacophony on their typewriters. It put Swallow in mind of a mad orchestra. There was a pall of tobacco smoke everywhere with men shouting between desks. Sweeney looked up from his typewriter as Swallow entered.

‘Ah, here's the brave gendarme and devotee of the arts. To what do we owe the honour at this particular time, Sergeant? Are you here to give me a medal for my good work at the Academy on Sunday evening?'

Swallow drew a chair from beside Sweeney's desk and dropped one of the photographs in front of the reporter.

‘No, I'm afraid I haven't got a medal for you, Mr Sweeney, although I was very thankful for your intervention. And I've told Chief Mallon and the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security so.'

He tapped the photograph with his forefinger. ‘Now, Mr Sweeney, you're the man who's supposed to know everything. Who's that, do you think?'

Sweeney took the photograph and laid it on the desk beside him.

‘Jesus Christ,' he said softly.

For a moment, Swallow could see that he had shocked the reporter. He leaned forward so it seemed that his head might fall onto the keys of his typewriter, then he straightened again. He reached into his pocket and dabbed his face with a handkerchief.

‘I'm sorry, Sergeant. I … don't have a very strong stomach. This is rather grotesque. But it's graphic. Who or what is it supposed to be?'

‘I'm sorry if it has upset you, Mr Sweeney. But it's something I need your help on.'

Sweeney nodded slowly. ‘If I can help, I will, of course.'

‘Well, it might help you too, Mr Sweeney, and your newspaper.' Swallow smiled. ‘I'm giving you the opportunity to participate in a new chapter in the history of criminal investigation techniques.'

‘I appreciate that, Sergeant,' the reporter grunted. ‘It's just that I'm not accustomed to being confronted with this sort of image. It's lifelike, of course, and yet it's … unnatural.'

Swallow tapped the picture with his index finger.

‘This is a reconstructed feature image of the woman we found murdered with the child in the Phoenix Park. Dr Lafeyre, assisted by a gifted young art teacher, who happens to be his fiancée, reconstructed the features. He's used the techniques of the celebrated German scientist, Dr Hiss. What you're looking at here is plaster of Paris, dye, glass and paint, applied to a formula that follows the contours of muscle and bone structure. Final honours for the presentation rest with the photographic section of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.'

Sweeney had recovered his composure. He whistled silently.

‘Jesus, that's impressive, Swallow. I'd swear she was real.'

‘She was. She was – or is – “Chapelizod Gate Woman.” Now you and your newspaper will have the chance to be the first newspaper in Ireland, maybe in Britain too, to print the results of this extraordinary technique. And maybe I'll get an identification as well.'

‘We'll have to get one of our art people to make an etching from the photograph. It won't be quite as good as the photographic likeness, but they can capture all the important detail,' Sweeney said.

‘I'll get it on the main news page of the late editions this afternoon for you. You'll need to give me details of this technique and a briefing on the latest developments in the investigation. We'll need to talk to Dr Lafeyre. That's an important angle, you know. I think we can have a headline, ‘
Dublin Medical Examiner at the forefront of New Scientific Method,
' or something like that.'

‘Speed's vital on this, Mr Sweeney. I'm almost a week on this case and I'm not making great progress.'

Sweeney glanced at the clock.

‘It's time enough. I'll drop what I'm on here and I'll talk to the editor right away. We can have it in the later editions of the
Telegraph
this evening. But it's important that we have it exclusively, you understand. You won't bring copies to any other newspaper until tomorrow?'

‘You've got a big readership and that's what I need. The other newspapers won't get copies until tomorrow. It'll be going to all DMP and RIC stations in the morning also, and I'll be getting it posted in as many public buildings as possible – railway stations, post offices, the mail-boat pier and so on.'

‘Good. Let me go and tell the editor. We'll do our interview over a couple of drinks in Dwyer's across the road. You go ahead and I'll join you in a few minutes. Mine's a Powers whiskey. You put it up along with whatever you're having yourself, and tell the barman the
Telegraph
is paying.'

Swallow went down the same wide stairs that he had ascended to reach the reporters' room. He went through the counter area where the skinny youth with the starched collar lifted the hinged barrier to allow him to exit into the busy public office.

As he crossed the office floor he saw a man out of the corner of his eye closing the newspaper file he had been pretending to read. Swallow reckoned that he was moving just a fraction too swiftly as he abandoned his reading, jammed his Derby hat forward on his head and made to follow him out of the door into Prince's Street.

Swallow stepped out of the newspaper office and walked the 50 yards, not to Dwyer's but to another public house that stood two doors away. He turned in the doorway to the public bar and stepped into the shadow. 20 seconds later the man came past him into the bar. Now Swallow was following him.

The man was about 25 years or so, well-dressed, clean-shaven, carrying a small, leather case from which some papers protruded rather obviously, perhaps to give impression of being a clerk or perhaps a commercial representative. But Swallow knew from the methodical way his eyes searched the bar that he was a policeman or agent of some kind. Now the man stood, puzzled, looking up and down the bar for his quarry. Swallow coughed loudly. The man swung around, a mixture of irritation and puzzlement on his face.

Swallow grinned and tipped his hat. ‘Now, my friend, why don't you relax and have yourself a drink. Enjoy it. I'll be next door in Dwyer's if you need me.'

The man muttered something about being in the wrong house and made for the door.

A few minutes later, Sweeney arrived in the bar. Swallow had ordered the drinks as Sweeney had told him, a Powers for the journalist and Swallow's customary Tullamore. They sat on two high stools. Sweeney put his notebook on the counter and started to probe him about the technique involved in Lafeyre's reconstruction of the dead woman's features. When Sweeney had filled several pages with notes he called for two more drinks.

‘How is the investigation going in general? Have you any hope of progress apart from Dr Lafeyre's reconstruction?'

Swallow's instinct was to be cautious, but he needed Sweeney's cooperation. ‘We're working away on a few lines of inquiry. Like I said on the morning the bodies were found, these things can move very slowly, especially when there are problems of identification.'

He decided to throw some bait at the reporter. ‘One thing we do know is where the woman and the boy came from. We're building a fair bit of information around that.'

Sweeney seemed puzzled. ‘What do you mean? Did they come from outside Dublin, outside Ireland?'

‘I can't go any further,' Swallow said. ‘We're piecing this whole thing together slowly but surely. You can't quote me directly on that, of course, but it might help you in getting the right tone for your news report. Let's call it background information.'

Sweeney added two lines to his notes. ‘What's the story on the other case then, Alderman Fitzpatrick's servant that was taken from the canal?'

‘I'm not very much involved in it at this stage,' Swallow said truthfully. ‘I attended at the scene, as you know, but the investigation has been assigned elsewhere.'

Sweeney smiled. ‘I wouldn't be altogether surprised at that, Sergeant Swallow. Alderman Fitzpatrick is supposed to be holding some very sensitive political ground on behalf of the Castle authorities just now. They won't want anyone poking into his affairs.'

Swallow sipped the last of his Tullamore. ‘I wouldn't know anything about that, Mr Sweeney,' he lied. ‘Thankfully, mere detective sergeants don't have to concern themselves with such things.'

When he had finished his drink, Swallow crossed the river by the Ha'penny Bridge and returned to the Castle. His shadow had not had the nerve to follow him into Dwyer's, but Swallow knew as soon as he emerged into the sunlight that he had picked up the tail again. The man had removed his hat and detached the collar of his shirt in an effort to alter his appearance, but Swallow had no doubt that it was the same individual who now followed him across the river and through the narrow streets of Temple Bar into Dame Street.

As he entered the detective office he looked behind. The man was in the doorway of the pet shop that stood at the corner of Exchange Court. Swallow was tempted to stroll over and inquire if he was interested in buying a parrot or perhaps a pet monkey.

TWENTY-SEVEN

It was time to conclude his business with James O'Donnell, Swallow decided. He would be well softened after more than three days in the Exchange Court cells.

The prisoner was asleep on his bunk when Swallow swung the door open. The cell stank as always of dampness and gas.

‘My apologies for interrupting your nap, Mr O Donnell,' Swallow called cheerfully. ‘And I'm sorry it's taken me a while to get back for our chat like I said I would.'

O'Donnell turned to look at his visitor. He pushed the grey blanket under which he had been lying down to his chest. ‘You again,' he croaked, rising slowly into a half-sitting position.

‘It is, indeed, Mr O'Donnell. And I have some very good news for you. I've completed my inquiries into the incident that led to your arrest. I've stated in my report that you got caught up in the melee, nothing more.'

O'Donnell looked wretched. His hair was wild and his three-day growth of beard made him look gaunt. The half-presentable suit he had been wearing when he was arrested was creased and shapeless. His eyes were alert, though, staring at Swallow out of the pallid, grey face.

‘I don't suppose you happened to bring any more of that whiskey with you?' O'Donnell's voice was stronger than might have been expected from his appearance.

‘I'm afraid not, Mr O'Donnell. But we came to an arrangement,' Swallow said tersely, ‘and now I'm going to honour my part of it. I'm going to bring you upstairs to where you'll sign for your belongings. For the sake of appearances, I'm going to ask you to sign an undertaking to be of good behaviour. Then you'll be free to go.'

He gestured towards the open cell door.

‘Remember your side of the bargain. You'll keep Harriet out of all this. You'll not trouble her again. And you and I will keep in touch so that you can give me any information I might need about the activities of the Hibernian Brothers and any other lunatic gang you get involved with. And I warn you, O'Donnell, if you welch on any single aspect of the arrangement that we've made, I'll shoot you like I said.'

O'Donnell nodded wearily.

‘And I'm giving you a code name so you can leave messages for me,' Swallow said. ‘I'm calling you “Mr Brown,” without an “e.” The same colour as shit, in case you forget it.'

The vulgar jibe did not even appear to register with O'Donnell.

‘What about Horan?' he asked.

‘I told you I'd do what I could for him. I'll give evidence that the gun went off accidentally, and with any luck he'll be convicted of simple unauthorised possession. He'll get a stretch in prison, maybe a few months. You'll have to ensure that he keeps his mouth shut about Harriet too. And he'll need to consider himself lucky that he's in on the deal.'