In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  Mallon groaned.

  ‘How did you handle it?’

  ‘I gave as good as I got, Chief. I said that, yes, I’d had a drink. In connection with my duty and that it wasn’t against regulations. In the end I told him I was sorry to see him so upset and that I’d come back when he might be feeling better.’

  ‘He’s got the reputation of being a difficult man at the best of times,’ Mallon mused. ‘I’ll have a word later with the Chief Commissioner and try to deflect any trouble. Did you learn anything useful?’

  ‘I did, actually. It looks as if the gang had a key or some other means of opening the back door. It wasn’t forced. So there’s the possibility of it being an inside job. It turns out there’s a coachman at the house, Timmy Spencer. According to McCartan he’s gone to Cork to bury his mother, but one of the lads at the crime conference earlier said he knew Timmy Spencer from Cork. If it’s the same fellow, he’s a bad one, it seems. He’s on the fringes of the Fenians too, or at least he claims he’s a patriot. So we’re checking with the Cork RIC and in DCR to see if they’re one and the same. If they are, we might be on the right track fairly quickly.’

  Swallow saw as a small degree of satisfaction register in Mallon’s eyes.

  ‘That’s not bad. Any developments on the woman in the Poddle?’

  Swallow recounted his visit to Lafeyre’s morgue, the discovery of the diamonds and half sovereigns, and his inquiries with Ephram Greenberg.

  ‘Ephram’s as good an authority as you’ll get on that sort of thing,’ Mallon said. ‘It’s unusual to say the least. Very few corpses turn up with five hundred pounds’ worth of gems and gold strapped around them.’

  ‘Well, we’re not sure we can connect it to the body, or what’s left of it. But it’s a fair supposition.’

  ‘You’re wise to keep this to yourself and myself for the present,’ Mallon said. ‘If it got out, we’d have every lunatic in Dublin claiming he dropped his grandmother’s life savings into the Poddle. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll minute the details in my journal and I’ll advise Commissioner Harrel. We’ve got to protect ourselves against any accusation of trying to keep the lid on this. The boys in the Upper Yard would be very happy if they thought they could pinch us for trying to line our own pockets.’

  He reached across the desk and lifted a Royal Mail telegram.

  ‘Have a look at that.’

  He pushed it across the desk and turned it for Swallow to read.

  DISCUSSED WITH INDIVIDUAL INVOLVED STOP

  PERHAPS WILLING CO-OPERATE FOR FINANCIAL CONSIDERATION STOP

  TIME NEEDED TO SECURE FUNDS STOP MAY NOT EVEN BE POSSIBLE STOP

  PLEASE TRY DELAY ALL THERE STOP

  SALTHILL

  Mallon jabbed at the end of the telegram.

  ‘He’s obviously talked with O’Shea and asked him to drop or at least to stall the divorce petition, as he said he would. Like most things in politics and police work, it seems that money could do the trick here if he can raise it. Have you heard anything further from Dunlop about what’s happening at The Irish Times?’

  ‘I got a message yesterday to say that “the goods had arrived” and were being examined. But they’d probably be returned in a couple of days. That’s tomorrow. He said he thought they’d be offered elsewhere and he expected them to “go on the market,” as he put it, very quickly. That’s to say that the details of O’Shea’s petition would be published without delay. “Within days, if not hours” as he put it.’

  Swallow had rarely seen John Mallon despondent. But now he saw him drop his shoulders and bring his hands, palms-first, to his face, while uttering something between a sigh and a groan.

  ‘Hours? Not even days? That doesn’t give us much of a chance, does it?’

  ‘No, Chief. Even if we could somehow delay the publication of this stuff it’d only gain a bit of time if Mr Parnell can’t raise the money to quieten O’Shea.’

  Mallon waved a hand expressively. He seemed to brighten.

  ‘I’ve been working on the money problem and I think I can raise enough to keep O’Shea quiet for a while. But there’s not much point if it’s all going to be in the newspapers anyway. Even if O’Shea decides not to go ahead with the divorce petition, the papers will be able to say he’d been planning it and cite the reasons why.’

  This was the first time Swallow had heard anything about Mallon raising money for Parnell. His mind ran through various possibilities. The chief of G-division had a good salary and probably some savings. But the requirement of satisfying O’Shea would go far beyond his capacities. The intelligence fund? He had access to money for informants. But he had never known it to run to more than a couple of hundred pounds, spread among perhaps dozens of informants, at any time. It would hardly cover O’Shea’s dining bills for a month.

  ‘Are you serious, Chief? It would take thousands to solve this problem. We know that O’Shea squanders money like a drunken sailor. He’s on tick at every club and restaurant in London. If Parnell himself can’t raise enough, what can you do, with respect?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Mallon grinned knowingly. ‘But I sometimes mix with a lot of very wealthy people in this city who’d happily sacrifice a little portion of their fortunes to keep Parnell in position.’

  ‘For political reasons?’ Swallow was puzzled. ‘The people who follow Parnell aren’t people with money. They’re farmers or ordinary salaried folk, trying to make ends meet.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mallon said. ‘But the people who have most to lose if the country descends into chaos are the wealthy business families. They’ve got the biggest stake in keeping things steady and they understand that if Parnell falls, what follows won’t serve their interests or be to their liking.’

  ‘There’s quite a few wealthy people and there’s a lot of wealth piled up all over this city,’ Mallon gestured with both hands towards the ceiling. ‘There’s the distillers, the brewers, the railway owners, the people who run the big stores, the families that own those fine ships you see lined up by the Custom House, the people who own the big estates we passed two nights ago, going out to speak with Mr Parnell at Salthill. I’ve put some feelers out already to the Guinnesses, the Jamesons and the Arnotts. They’re all people who love their country even if they don’t go around waving green banners and carrying pikes. The money is there if it’s needed.’

  It made sense, Swallow told himself. There seemed no known limits to John Mallon’s circles of influence or to his connections. But if Mallon could arrange for the financial problem to be solved, it might just be possible that he could deal with the newspapers, or more precisely, the potential source of their information.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to raise hopes unreasonably, Chief,’ he said cautiously. ‘But it could be that our friends in the security section might be persuaded not to put the details of O’Shea’s intended petition into the public domain if The Irish Times refuses to run with the story.’

  Mallon straightened up in his chair.

  ‘Christ, how would we do that? You know that they won’t listen to us up there. The assistant under-secretary for security thinks we’re Fenians and dynamiters that can’t be trusted.’

  The disciplined, policing part of Swallow’s brain told him that his boss had a right to know what he had been told by Polson the previous evening in the Burlington. Something else, perhaps, the free-thinking, independent part urged caution. It might simply be a policeman’s instinct to keep some information in reserve or at least to put some of it in separate boxes. More might be achieved by keeping things to himself for the moment. Occasionally, there were things to be done that the chief of G-division was better off not knowing about.

  One of those things was going to be done very shortly. And he would be the one doing it. Or attempting to.

  He stood.

  ‘I think I might have a way of making those fellows listen on this occasion, Chief. If you can find the money Mr Parnell needs, I can probably do the rest.’
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  Chapter 18

  First, he needed to talk urgently to Andrew Dunlop. He despatched a constable to The Irish Times office with a letter, addressed to the journalist, to be handed in at the newspaper’s public office on Westmoreland Street.

  Sir,

  Important that I see you urgently. Please advise bearer, in writing, of earliest suitable time and location.

  Yours faithfully,

  JS.

  ‘Wait until you have a response to this from Mr Dunlop,’ he told the constable. ‘If he isn’t at the office, find out where he is now and at what time he’s expected back.’

  He spent the rest of the morning scrupulously reviewing the files on the murder inquiry and the follow up on the robbery at the McCartan house at Templeogue Hill. Mallon had not asked him for any update on either, being clearly preoccupied with the problem of Captain O’Shea and the likely consequences if he went ahead with his divorce petition. At all events, any new information on important cases would be relayed to the chief of detectives in the regular reports that were compiled by the clerical staff at the crime office.

  The rain started to ease off around noon and by one o’clock there were patches of blue over the city again. He began to feel more at ease with the day, doing what he was most comfortable with and what he was good at. But he could find nothing significant in the reports so far of the various detectives and constables whom he had set to their tasks. There were no tantalising leads, no trailing strings, no unexplored angles. It was generally the way with crime investigations. At first, there was usually nothing beyond a victim and a crime scene. Then, as the slow-moving gears of the police machine engaged, some useful information should start to come in. And in time, a picture would be formed that would hopefully present more detail and point the way for further inquiries.

  The constable was back from The Irish Times within the hour. Mr Dunlop was in Belfast, he reported, conducting interviews with political figures there, so he had been told. He would be on the three o’clock train out of Belfast to Dublin and was expected at the office by six. A clerk has assured the constable that he would be given the letter immediately upon his arrival. How long would Mr Dunlop be likely to remain at the office upon his return, the constable had inquired? Swallow noted the constable’s initiative. Mr Dunlop would reportedly be at The Irish Times all evening after his return, typing up his copy in the reporters’ room.

  There was little more Swallow could do until Dunlop got back to town, he reasoned. But there was one important arrangement to be put in place for the plan he had in mind. It involved both Tim Hogan, the photographic technician from the RIC Depot, and Billy Gough, the manager at the Burlington. He wrote two short notes, sealed and addressed them and sent for the messenger-constable again. This time the job was to be simple delivery to the addressees.

  His immediate tasks and routines complete, he leaned back in his chair to get the measure of the day. For the first time in the week, he could do some thinking on those parts of his life that had nothing to do with police work or crime. The moment his mind turned from these, however, it engaged with the unhappiness that now permeated his personal life. He felt himself becoming weighed down and helpless. Better to shut it out for the moment.

  He realised, with something close to pleasure that today was Thursday. Lily Grant’s painting class would be starting at two o’clock at the Municipal School of Art on Thomas Street. There was no reason he could not be there for an hour in the afternoon. He had missed the class over the previous three weeks and he was well behind on his assignment, painting a seascape of his choosing in watercolours. He had abandoned an earlier attempt to depict a stormy sea, battering the cliffs at Howth Head, with dark, lowering clouds above. No matter how often he mixed and remixed his blues and blacks and vermilions, he was unable to find the right combination to capture the anger and power he wanted the elements to express in the scene.

  Instead he had chosen a tranquil view of the Shelley Banks, the cockle-strewn beach that stretched between the South Wall and the village of Ringsend. He was much more successful, he believed, contrasting the pale sand with strong blues and whites for the sky. He wanted to put some children and beach-strollers into the scene, but would that simply clutter a beautiful seascape? It was a dilemma, but it was an enjoyable one.

  It was much more enjoyable than agonising on whether he could summon up the will to go back to Grant’s and to Maria for his mid-day meal. There was time enough to get there, to be fed and then to walk down to the art school for the start of Lily’s class. That would be the right thing. But the thought of having to engage now with Maria’s anxieties and unhappiness was too much. He was too tired to take on her sorrow and her unhappiness just at this time. He would feel better after the relaxation of the painting class. It was always a calming experience. If he were to go back to Grant’s now there was every likelihood of further unpleasantness. There would probably be, at best, an uneasy, tense silence. One or other, or maybe both of them, might say things they would later regret. That would only make matters worse.

  He went downstairs and crossed the Lower Yard to the canteen instead. He was early. It would be a while before the various offices would start to shut for the dinner break. Many of the clerks would go home to be fed but it was well patronised by detectives with more predictable hours and uniformed men not working on the regular shift system. There was only a handful of diners when he got there so he had his choice of thick, corned-beef or steamed cod with jacket potatoes, carrots and cabbage. He took the corned-beef. There was porter on draught too, but he rarely touched it and never during the day, maintaining his loyalty to Tullamore, if the occasion for drinking presented itself.

  The corned-beef was good, lean and not too salty. He had almost cleared his plate when he saw Pat Mossop at the door, scanning the canteen. He located Swallow and almost sprinted across the room.

  ‘We’ve found McCartan’s coachman, Timmy Spencer, in DCR,’ he said urgently. ‘He’s all over the system. Robbery, larceny, assault. How in God’s name he ever got work from anyone in the city, much less a Queen’s Counsel, I don’t know.’

  He dropped a bulky file from the Crime Registry on the table.

  ‘Have a look there yourself, Boss. He’s been in and out of Cork jail so often they should name a cell after him. Maybe even a whole wing of the place.’

  Swallow opened the file and flicked through the pages. Tim Spencer was just thirty-four years of age. The photograph showed a clean-shaven young man with strong, handsome features but with hard, defiant eyes. At a quick glance it appeared that all of his adult life, apart from a few years in the army, had been punctuated by spells behind bars. He had convictions in Cork, Limerick and Galway. There were six convictions for burglary or housebreaking, three for assault, three for handling stolen property and three for being found in possession of housebreaking implements, with innumerable charges of loitering, trespass and being found on enclosed premises. There was no record of any political convictions. But there were a few intelligence mentions of his being in company with Fenian activists, mainly in low-class public houses in Cork.

  He found the charge sheet, for Spencer’s initial conviction for possession of housebreaking implements, dated for five years previously. Spencer had been apprehended by RIC officers at night in the grounds of a private house near Bishopstown, outside Cork city. In a canvas bag he was carrying, the RIC men had found two crowbars, a glass cutter, suction cap and a wax mould kit, along with six blank mortice-type keys.

  Clipped to the back of the DCR file he found a copy of Spencer’s discharge from the army along with his service record. He had been stood down from the cavalry two years ago. His discharge was honourable even though the record disclosed a number of Glasshouse detentions for insubordination, brawling and drunkenness.

  ‘And there’s more, Boss,’ Mossop said, once Swallow had run through the file. ‘We sent an ABC to the crime office at Union Quay, asking for any up-to-date intelligence on Spencer
and giving them his registry number. We said we understood he might be in Cork for his mother’s obsequies. Union Quay just telegraphed back to say they know him of old. They say he doesn’t live in Cork now. He visits his family from time to time, goes drinking with his pals but stays out of trouble. What’s particularly interesting, however, is that they say his mother is very well. They seem to know her also.’

  Swallow felt a small surge of satisfaction. He always enjoyed the sense of tentative achievement when the parts of an investigation started to come together. Wherever Sir John McCartan’s coachman had got to, it appeared that he had certainly not gone to bury his mother in Cork.

  He passed the file back to Mossop.

  ‘We need to find this fellow, Pat, don’t we?’

  Mossop nodded.

  ‘I’ll get his photograph out to all stations immediately and we’ll ask Cork for any information they have on his three H’s. Haunts, habits and hoors.’

  ‘Get the photograph circulated to the railway staff at Kingsbridge too,’ Swallow told him. ‘Platform porters, conductors, barmen at the stations. Start with the men who’ve been working on the Cork trains over the past two or three days. He’s not gone to Cork to bury his mother but he might be gone there for some other reason. He seems to go back like a homing pigeon at intervals.’

  He finished his dinner and took a mug of strong tea from the big, steaming dispenser on the canteen counter. Through the canteen windows he could see that the earlier rain had dried off and the sun was back, slanting across the yard, catching the turrets of the Birmingham Tower and the spires of the Chapel Royal. He took his tea outside and sat quietly on a window sill for perhaps a quarter of an hour, taking in the warmth. It would be a pleasant stroll to the art school. He finished his tea, returned his mug to the canteen and departed the Castle by the Ship Street Gate.