The City of Shadows (47 page)

‘You've known Sister Brigid a long time then, Seán?' said Stefan.

‘We lost touch during the fighting. I think she guessed I was in the IRA, and she didn't approve. So, I don't know, about five years ago I saw the monsignor saying Mass at the Pro-Cathedral one Sunday, and there she was. She knew me straight away. I was a just a guard then, uniforms. That was before you turned up and got me into Special Branch, Jimmy. We go back a long way too, don't we? Sister Brigid said I should come and hear the monsignor at Earlsfort Terrace. I tell you, I never knew what was going on in the world. It frightened the life out of me. I wouldn't understand it all of course. She says one day Robert, that's the monsignor, one day he'll be a saint. But if you could vote for saints, I tell you she's the one I'd vote for.'

He stopped as if, having said what he had to say, it was over. He got up, smiling at Stefan like an old friend, even as he winced with pain. ‘One to remember you by, Sarge.' He winked at Jimmy Lynch and then he left.

They said nothing for a long moment, listening to Seán Óg Moran's feet going down the stairs. The door slammed as he walked out to Dorset Street. Lynch poured the last of the whiskey from the bottle. He passed a glass to Stefan.

‘Jesus Christ.'

Stefan could only nod in agreement.

*

Detective Sergeant Gillespie did most of the talking. Jimmy Lynch said very little. That was partly because he knew very little and partly because he was terrified of what Stefan was going to say about him. He knew Hugo Keller was dead now, but he felt as if his ghost was going to manifest itself at any moment in the Garda Commissioner's office and point the finger at him. He had nothing to worry about in the end. Stefan stuck to the matter in hand, the murders of Vincent Walsh and Susan Field and the murderer, Garda Seán Óg Moran. There were things Stefan didn't want to say in front of Detective Sergeant Lynch, and Lynch knew that, but it didn't mean they wouldn't be said eventually. He still didn't know how much Keller had told Stefan. Meanwhile the Garda Commissioner, who had spent most of the time standing at the window of his office looking at the trees of the Phoenix Park, was well aware of the gaps in Sergeant Gillespie's story. He wasn't sure he wanted more than he was getting. He might be happy to leave it at that. A guard killing on the instructions of a nun who happened to be the sister of one of the country's most prominent churchmen was more than enough to be going on with.

‘I want every file you've got on this, both of you. Whatever notes there are, whatever paperwork, either at Pearse Street or Dublin Castle, I want it here. I want no copies left for anyone else to find. You tell no one.'

Ned Broy dismissed Jimmy Lynch first, though the Special Branch man seemed reluctant to go. It wasn't that he'd discovered a sudden liking for Stefan Gillespie but just now he didn't want to be separated from him, at least not when that meant leaving him on his own with the Commissioner.

‘Get it done, Lynch!'

The door shut and a worried Detective Sergeant Lynch departed.

‘I'll have to talk to the Minister of Justice. I'm not setting out to cover this up, but I know the first thing he'll say, “Why the fuck did you have to tell me?” I'll be frank, Sergeant, I don't know what we'll do. Whatever you're not telling me is probably best left alone. I don't need to know any more about Sergeant Lynch. The information from Mr Keller didn't only go one way.'

‘I thought Jimmy was working for him.'

‘He was. So he knows who's who. That makes him useful.'

‘I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him myself.'

‘I can throw him a long way, and he'll find that out.' Broy smiled. ‘But you can always do something with a man who'd sell his best friends for a few quid. If you know you can't trust a man, at least you know something.'

By the time Inspector Donaldson heard that Detective Sergeant Gillespie was in the building, every trace of mat-erial relating to the deaths of Vincent Walsh and Susan Field that hadn't been taken by Jimmy Lynch the previous year had been packed into cardboard boxes to be carried out of Pearse Street Garda station by Stefan Gillespie and Dessie MacMahon. There was a car from Garda HQ parked by the entrance. A uniformed guard took the boxes and packed them into the boot. As he slammed the boot shut and walked to the driver's seat, Inspector Donaldson appeared, flustered and red-faced.

‘What are you doing here, Gillespie?'

‘Orders, sir.'

‘What's he taken, MacMahon? He's taken something!'

‘Files, sir.' Dessie took out a Sweet Afton and put it between his lips. This seemed promising.

‘What files?'

‘Detective Sergeant Gillespie told me not to say.'

‘You're still under suspension, Gillespie! You can't walk into my station and – I'll have you kicked so far the Commissioner –'

The back door of the car swung open.

‘Jesus, Stefan, what are we waiting for now? Get in!'

The inspector stared. Then he snapped to attention and saluted.

‘Sir!'

Stefan got into the car and shut the door. As the car drove off Inspector Donaldson was still saluting. Dessie was lighting his cigarette.

‘Drop the sergeant at Annie O'Neill's in Westland Row.'

The Commissioner's driver nodded. Broy leant back into his seat.

‘That's the lid on it as far as you're concerned, Gillespie.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And no more fecking freelancing.'

‘No, sir.'

‘I was never a by guess and by God sort of detective. Neither are you. So the holes in your story don't tell me what a clever feller you are, they tell me you're keeping something to yourself. You'll have your own reasons.'

Ned Broy's face was impassive; his words were matter-of-fact. But Stefan had every cause to believe that despite the Commissioner's disregard for guesswork, he was pretty good at it. He had guessed more than he said.

‘I don't know what you mean, sir.'

‘You wouldn't. But whatever you intend to do with what you've got hold of now, just make sure none of it finds its way back to me. I won't save you twice.'

*

The next morning Stefan Gillespie met Lieutenant John Cavendish upstairs in Bewley's. Cavendish was in uniform. Where his stock-in-trade before had been that he didn't really know what he was doing, now he was more businesslike. Stefan pushed the Jacob's biscuit tin across the table. He had to do something with it. He had been tempted to throw Keller's book into the fire. But it was more important than he wanted it to be. It had to go somewhere.

‘You'll want this.'

Cavendish opened the tin and took out the notebook. He nodded.

‘Where did you get it?'

‘It doesn't matter.' Stefan didn't know whether Eddie McMurrough was still driving his tractor up past the Avonbeg ford to Sheila Hogan's cottage, but he thought he probably was. Wicklow farmers were persistent. There was no reason why she shouldn't be left alone to find some kind of life.

‘What did you make of it, Sergeant?'

‘Some of it you could get from
Thom's Directory
. Like a list of Jews in Clanbrassil Street. Some of it you couldn't. Like which ones have got real money and which ones have got friends in Fianna Fáil. You could move on to the Dáil members Keller treated for syphilis, and people in government who wouldn't squeak too loudly if the IRA found a way to get rid of Dev. I haven't memorised it all if that's what you're worried about. But it's in a simple enough shorthand. Anybody with decent German could read it.'

‘Does it identify Keller's informants?'

‘A lot of them probably. He's very thorough.'

There was nothing more to say. He knew what they really wanted. It wasn't about what Hugo Keller might have passed on to Adolf Mahr in the way of information; it was about where the information came from. It would be a list, another list of people. People who could be trusted and people who couldn't. And one day it might be about who was arrested and who wasn't. The smell of all that had been in his nostrils too long. He'd had enough of it.

‘You've got what you want,' said Stefan.

‘Is Miss Rosen going back to Palestine?' Cavendish asked.

Stefan was surprised. ‘Why would that interest you?'

‘It doesn't, but it interests you I imagine. I don't know if she's finished what she's doing for the Haganah, but I'm reliably informed she'll be lucky to get through London without British Intelligence putting a tail on her. When she gets to Palestine it's unlikely she won't be arrested and questioned by the Mandate Police. Not the Gestapo, but well worth her knowing.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘I talk to all sorts of people.'

‘Does that include British Special Branch?'

‘Please, Sergeant, you've got to draw the line somewhere. But don't think they're beyond exchanging information with German Intelligence, or the Gestapo if it suits them. Obviously she's drawn attention to herself.'

‘I'll tell her. Thank you.' He smiled, remembering that first day in Pearse Street. ‘I've questioned her myself. I'd say good luck to whatever colonial hack draws that straw.'

As he stood up to leave, Cavendish frowned.

‘What did you make of the Nazis?'

‘Make of them?'

‘In their natural habitat.'

‘They didn't surprise me, Lieutenant, if that's what you mean.'

‘That's what's surprising, the fact that there's nothing surprising about them. They tell you who they are. They tell you what they want. They tell you what they're going to do. And when they do it, everyone's surprised.'

Not everything in Hugo Keller's notebook was in the biscuit tin Stefan had handed over to Military Intelligence. As he walked up Grafton Street and on to Stephen's Green, he was heading for Robert Fitzpatrick's house in Earlsfort Terrace. The letters the monsignor had written to Vincent Walsh were still in his pocket. He arrived as the bookshop opened. An elderly man told him that Monsignor Fitzpatrick was at Mass at the University Church and, though Stefan didn't ask, he also told him that Sister Brigid had been taken ill. The man seemed very worried, because the illness had come on so suddenly and he didn't even know where they'd taken her to be treated. Sister Brigid's abrupt illness didn't come as any great surprise to Stefan.

He left the house and walked back to Stephen's Green and the University Church. The Mass had ended now and he passed the last Mass-goers as he moved through the atrium of the long, narrow building. Angelic figures directed him into the blaze of marble and glass that was the nave, each one holding a scroll. ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Domine Deus Sabaoth.' Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord of Hosts. Above the altar, in a half dome of blue and gold and red, the Natural World paid homage to God's creation. At its centre sat Our Lady Seat of Reason. Robert Fitzpatrick knelt at the altar rail. His head was raised up to the Virgin above him, though his eyes were tightly closed. Stefan sat in a pew at the back of the church and waited for him. After a few minutes the monsignor rose from his knees and bowed his head. He crossed himself and turned to leave, but as he walked forward he saw Stefan Gillespie get up and step into the aisle in front of him, blocking his way.

‘I don't think we have any more reason to speak to each other, Sergeant.'

‘I think we have, Monsignor.'

‘That's not my understanding. You certainly have no business here.'

‘It won't involve anything God doesn't know already.'

‘My sister has done nothing. It's a lie.'

‘You think so? She told Seán Moran to get your letters from Vincent Walsh. When his Blueshirt pals buggered it up she sent him back to shut the poor bastard up for good. And when you told her to send a taxi car for Father Byrne, to bring Susan Field to hospital, she sent Seán instead, to clean up the mess. You do know why Vincent wouldn't let go of the letters? He'd got the wrong end of the stick. He actually thought he was protecting you, Monsignor.'

It was difficult to read what was going on in Robert Fitzpatrick's head. For some seconds he simply stared at Stefan. His face was white. There was something almost ferocious in his eyes; it could have been rage or despair. Then, quite abruptly, it was gone, and there was nothing. It was as if a light had been switched off. His face relaxed into a look of calm, bland disdain.

‘There really is no more to say, Sergeant Gillespie.'

‘I don't care what you tell yourself, Monsignor. I don't care what you believe. I'm not here for that.'

‘Then why are you here?'

‘Because I need your help.'

‘And what makes you think I'd want to help you?'

‘I'm sure you will. They can put a lid on a lot, but not on me. I haven't finished with you.'

‘You disgust me!'

Robert Fitzpatrick stepped past Stefan. He gave him a look of withering contempt. Stefan grabbed him. He turned the priest round and held him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close and gazing angrily into his eyes.

‘You need to talk to me. You really do, I promise you.'

He let him go. Fitzpatrick didn't move.

‘Do you know who Father Anthony Carey is?'

The priest was puzzled. The name meant nothing immediately.

‘He's a curate in Baltinglass, but that's not it; he's in your Association of Catholic Strength. I think he's a man you would probably know, Monsignor.'

Fitzpatrick answered warily, slowly, but he answered.

‘Yes, yes, I think I know who you mean. But I don't understand –'

‘Your Church is trying to take my son away from me, because of him. And he's your man, isn't he?' Stefan explained what had happened. He didn't need to go into detail. It all made sense to Robert Fitzpatrick. In fact there was nothing about it that seemed in the least bit unreasonable to him. The contact he had had with Stefan Gillespie now gave him every reason to believe that Father Carey had been doing what any decent priest should have done.