Shamrock Green (46 page)

‘There's a front moving in,' Vaizey said. ‘We'll be in for a wet spell, I fear. Are you soaked?'

‘Just damp.'

‘Dry yourself,' he said. ‘Don't mind me.'

‘I do mind you,' Sylvie said. ‘What are you doing here?'

He shrugged.

‘I take it this isn't a social visit?' Sylvie said.

‘Call it what you like,' Vaizey said. ‘Did I scare the kiddies?'

‘Yes.'

‘I didn't mean to.'

He rotated the hat, round and round, then lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled while Sylvie pulled a towel from the rack above the tin bath and, with her back to the window, began to dry her hair.

‘I could do that for you,' Vaizey said.

She knew he was going to say it and it didn't jar. The offer reminded her of Fran, of what Fran had said and what Fran had done to her right here in this room all those months ago. She dabbed the towel to her throat, unfastened the hook at the collar of her blouse and dabbed the towel across the top of her breasts. She still had milk, would have milk for ages yet.

‘I think I can manage,' she said.

He placed his hat on the quilt, reached for the candleholder and ground out his cigarette on the rim. He returned to his original position, knees apart, and hands – idle now – cupped on his thighs.

Sylvie rubbed her hair with the towel. She knew he was watching her, eyeing the shape of her under the blouse, under the skirt. She was still thick about the middle and her legs had fattened since Sean had been born. She had thought little enough of it. Sean was Fran's child and if Fran hadn't much liked how pregnancy had changed her then Fran had just had to lump it. But Vaizey's scrutiny made her aware that she was no longer lithe and attractive. She felt only contempt for the man for desiring her.

‘Where were you, you and the girl?'

‘What business is it of yours?'

‘I'm just making conversation,' Vaizey said.

‘We went to a séance.'

‘Did you now? Where?'

‘At Madam Lomborosa's house.'

‘That old charlatan,' Vaizey said. ‘Who did she have on show tonight, the Indian in feathers and war-paint, or the African witch-doctor?'

‘Neither,' Sylvie said.

‘They're all just the other woman, Amanda Crowe. She used to be a male impersonator on the variety stage until they teamed up together. They're Sapphos, you know.'

‘Are they indeed?' said Sylvie.

‘Don't you know what that means?'

‘Female poets?' said Sylvie.

Vaizey laughed, a soft purr in the throat. ‘I've always been curious as to what Sapphos do, how they achieve – satisfaction?'

‘I have no idea,' said Sylvie. ‘My posh school education didn't stretch quite that far.'

‘Did Hagarty put in an appearance?'

‘Alas, no.'

‘It's probably just as well,' said Vaizey.

‘Why do you say that?'

When he stood up she did not jump back. He did not have to stoop to kiss her. He did it tentatively, shyly, like a young boy with a first sweetheart. He touched her only with his lips, the moustache feathery against her cheek, then, to Sylvie's surprise, he sat down again.

‘I'm not up for this,' Vaizey said. ‘I thought I would be, but I'm not.'

‘Would you prefer me to resist?'

‘I'd prefer you to button your blouse.'

‘Oh!'

‘And sit somewhere else. Over there by the window.'

‘By all means,' Sylvie said.

‘Flanagan wants his money,' the inspector said.

‘His money? What money?'

‘You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?'

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘And that's the truth.'

‘I don't doubt it,' Vaizey said. ‘Your friend Hagarty was never one for letting the right hand know what the left was doing. He was going to leave you, Sylvie, leave you and the girl, and the wife and the other family…'

‘Other family?'

‘He has yet another family in Cork.'

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘Two sons to a priest's housekeeper.'

‘How did he find time for all of them?'

‘I wish I knew,' said Vaizey.

‘You didn't shoot him on moral grounds, did you?'

‘No. Hagarty was no innocent bystander like some of the others who went to the wall,' Vaizey said. ‘He was a money source for the brotherhoods and linked to a network of spies and gunrunners. He refused to trade with the Germans, I will say that for him. He dealt with us instead, with the British. He bought guns and ammunition from sources in England.'

‘How do you know so much about Fran?'

‘We had a very well-placed informer.'

Sylvie could feel the coldness of the window glass against the back of her neck. The secrets that Vaizey dealt in were not the same as her secrets. She understood now why he had refused to press his advantage over her.

‘John James Flanagan?' she said.

Vaizey did not answer.

Sylvie said, ‘If Flanagan's your informer why didn't you arrest Fran long ago? Why did you have to shoot him? No, wait, I think I understand. You're protecting Flanagan. You have to protect an informer as important and well placed as John James just to keep him out of the limelight. The only way you could be sure of doing that was to be rid of Fran once and for all?'

‘Hagarty wasn't the charming fellow you took him to be.'

‘Did he believe in what he was doing?'

Vaizey sighed. ‘Perhaps. Probably. In the beginning.'

‘Why are you telling me all this now?'

‘Because Flanagan wants the house, this house. He feels he's entitled to it and, I admit, I tend to agree with him.'

‘Of course you do,' said Sylvie. ‘When he whistles, you dance.'

‘That's harsh.'

‘Harsh, is it?' Sylvie said. ‘It'll be harsher still when your bully-boys arrive to evict us. How are you going to explain that to your superiors?'

‘My superiors won't be involved. Hagarty was in partnership with Flanagan in the ownership of property. Hagarty's American sponsors insisted on it and Flanagan had no option but to comply. We knew that the houses were used as arms dumps, of course, but the guns were harmless provided they weren't distributed.'

‘Is that why Fran came to the Shamrock?'

‘Part of the reason.'

‘And the other part?'

‘He needed somewhere safe that Flanagan didn't know about. I don't think he entirely trusted John James by that time.'

‘He didn't bargain on meeting my husband, though?'

‘No, and he didn't bargain on meeting you.'

‘Me?'

‘Hagarty saw no harm in mixing business with pleasure.'

‘Unlike you?'

‘Yes,' said Vaizey, with another little sigh, ‘unlike me.'

‘I was more than a fling to him,' Sylvie said. ‘I gave him a son.'

‘Hagarty had children everywhere.'

‘What do you want from me?'

‘I came to give you warning. I don't care what you think of me, really. I'm used to being disliked. But there are children downstairs and you have a baby and you aren't to blame for what happened.'

‘Am I supposed to grovel and say thank you?'

‘You can't stay here, Sylvie, none of you.'

‘Can we not?'

She leaned on the edge of the table. She could feel the typewriting machine behind her, the hood pressing against her buttocks. The machine was a symbol of all that Fran had stood for. From it had poured articles and reports, lies, half-truths and prevarications, all the perceptive warnings that he had thrown before the Irish people and to which they had turned deaf ears.

‘I've persuaded Flanagan to find a place for you, to give you and the girl a room in a building in the Liberties. Your widow's pension will tide you over and in time – though I don't know when – you may get some money from the compensation board.'

‘Flanagan doesn't have a partnership document, does he, Inspector?'

‘Flanagan doesn't need a partnership document, not with Hagarty gone.'

‘You've come here tonight to make sure I don't have it either.'

‘It doesn't matter whether you do or not…'

‘Well,' Sylvie said, ‘I do.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I do have your precious document,' she said.

‘Where is it?'

‘Hidden away safely. You don't think I'd leave it lying around, do you?' Sylvie said. ‘However, the existence of a partnership agreement will only become an issue if Fran's dead.'

‘You're not going to start that again, are you?' Vaizey said.

‘I know he's dead and you know he's dead, but his wife – his legal wife in Huddersfield – doesn't and she might want a share of the proceeds of his estate. I imagine it wasn't your intention to inform her of Fran's death. After all, from what I gather Fran hadn't been in communication with her for years. She'll assume he's decamped to America and taken his cash with him and that she isn't going to see a penny of it. He has brothers, and a mother still alive, though I don't know where they are.'

‘Galway,' said Vaizey. ‘They want nothing to do with it. As far as they're concerned dear Francis has been dead for years.'

‘Because he was a black sheep, a renegade republican?'

‘Yes,' said Vaizey. ‘Now, where's this document?'

‘With a lawyer.'

‘What are you telling me?'

‘I placed it in safe-keeping with a lawyer,' Sylvie said.

‘What's the lawyer's name?'

‘Now that would be telling.'

He came at her suddenly, plunging across the room from the bed. His reaction took her by surprise. He clasped both hands around her waist, lifted her and held her, struggling just a little, above him.

‘Do you know what I could do to you?' Vaizey said.

‘I know what you'd like to do to me,' Sylvie said.

‘I could make you vanish,' Vaizey told her. ‘I could make you disappear. And what would your daughter do then? Who would take care of your son? That girl downstairs? She can barely take care of herself.'

‘You're hurting me.'

‘I'll hurt you a blessed sight more if you don't tell me…' He lowered her, but did not release her. He leaned into her, pressing and aroused. ‘How did you come by the document? Did Hagarty give it you?'

She lied without a blush. ‘Yes.'

She was not about to blacken Fran's name further by telling the peeler that she had found the deed and its codicils in a box in the cellar. It galled her to think that Fran had been as careless in handling property as he had been with his women. She would not acknowledge the failing, though, no matter what Vaizey did to her.

‘When?' Vaizey said.

‘Three days before Easter.'

‘Why, why did he give it to you of all people?'

‘I think he trusted me.'

‘Oh, you're a smart piece of work, Sylvie McCulloch, perhaps a bit too smart for your own good. Oh, I could…'

‘What? Kiss me again?'

‘Smack you,' said Vaizey

‘It would do you no good,' Sylvie said.

‘Flanagan has to have that document, you know.'

‘So he can destroy it?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's too late.' Sylvie broke his hold on her. ‘I've read it. Now here's a wee surprise for you, Inspector, and for your friend the informer: Fran gave away his half-share in the partnership, signed it away on a witnessed document attached to the property deeds and the partnership agreement.'

‘Signed his share to whom – to you?'

‘Oh no, not me,' said Sylvie. ‘Fran might have been trusting but he wasn't stupid. He left his share to the Catholic Church. Your friend Flanagan is therefore in partnership with His Holiness the Pope, or his Dublin representative. If he wishes to challenge the validity of the documents then I reckon he'd better employ a very sharp team of lawyers.'

‘You're making this up?'

‘I'm not,' said Sylvie. ‘I might just be a heathen Protestant but I feel a whole lot better being under the wing of the Catholic Church right now.'

‘I – Flanagan – we'll need to see these documents.'

‘Of course,' said Sylvie. ‘I'll have the lawyer deliver notarised copies within the week; unless you wish me to put you in touch with the archbishop who, I imagine, will be dealing with the matter personally.'

‘Send them to Flanagan,' the inspector said.

‘Not to General Sir John Maxwell?'

Vaizey let out his breath in a whistling sigh, then, not entirely to Sylvie's surprise, laughed. ‘By God, you
are
a smart one. When did you waken up, Sylvie McCulloch? Tell me, just when
did
you waken up?'

‘The day you murdered Fran,' Sylvie said and, stepping past him, lifted his hat from the bed. ‘Does that answer your question, Inspector Vaizey? Does that answer all your questions?'

‘It does. Alas, it does,' the inspector said, and, with a little shrug of resignation, gave up his pursuit of justice.

*   *   *

The babies were asleep. They lay side by side across Pauline's cot, a light blanket drawn over them. Maeve was seated at the table nursing a cup of tea and scanning a copy of the
Mirror.
Algie stood by her side, the chair leg still clenched in his fist like a cudgel. Pauline knelt by the mattress in the corner, soothing the children's fears and feeding them, each in turn, one pink fondant cream to bring sweet dreams.

‘What did the bastard want?' Maeve asked. ‘What did he have to say?'

‘Are – do we…?' Pauline began. ‘Turned out?'

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘What the inspector wanted, he didn't get. It's settled, or nearly so. Now, Pauline, I need you to give me the name of the priest.'