by Conor Brady
‘I know that, Chief,’ Swallow acknowledged. ‘But I need to be in a better state in my mind to go back to Maria. I need to be able to give her my full care and attention if we’re to make a go of things again.’
‘Fair enough,’ Mallon said. ‘God knows, I’m not one who particularly leads by example in this, but I’d suggest you cut back on the Tullamore for a bit. The bed is upstairs again for you here tonight, if you want. But when we get these jobs out of the way, I want you to take a bit of leave and look after things at home.’
‘I appreciate the concern, Chief. I genuinely do. And it’s a lot more comfortable upstairs here than in the bunk up there at the office, so I’ll take you up on that offer. I’d be glad if you’d extend my thanks to Mrs Mallon as well.’
He was tempted to climb the stairs to the quiet bedroom at the back of Mallon’s house there and then. He could sleep for a couple of hours. But he knew he could not be certain that he would wake when he needed to. And if he was going to sleep anywhere on this Sunday morning, he told himself, it should be at home in Thomas Street, with Maria. He wondered what she would be doing at this time. Sunday mornings at Grant’s were quiet and unhurried. It seemed an eternity since he had left the house, unable to find the necessary words to comfort her in her distress. He should be going back there, he knew. But he would have to be in better shape and in a clearer, less distracted state of mind, if he was to avoid making a bad situation worse.
Chapter 29
Swallow went to Mass at the Franciscans on Merchant’s Quay. Mossop was Church of Ireland and had gone with his family to service at St Audoen’s, as was his weekly custom. Swallow told him to be at Exchange Court after service to accompany him to Mountjoy, he would need a good notetaker in Timmy Spencer’s interrogation. Then he sent a message on the ABC to Mountjoy police station, situated beside the prison, requesting the governor to have a room made available.
The Franciscans did the kind of Mass he liked. There was no sermon as such. His friend Friar Laurence, who had performed the marriage ceremony for himself and Maria a year previously, was the celebrant. After communion, he turned his back to the altar and addressed the congregation in a way that made Swallow want to stand up and cheer.
‘It’s a beautiful, summer day, my dear people. So I’m not going to keep you in here. Go out and enjoy it.’
He made a blessing with his hand in the sign of the cross.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That’s what Jesus had to say on the Mount. That’s all I have to say too. God bless you.’
In other circumstances he would have gone around to the friary, behind the church, to talk to Laurence and spend a little time with him. The elderly priest was passionate in politics, a fervent Home Ruler and Land League supporter. Swallow might even have confided in him and sought his advice about the difficulties that had arisen between Maria and himself, but the day ahead was already full. He filed out of the church along with the rest of the congregation and made his way back to Exchange Court to rendezvous with Mossop.
They took a northbound tram from Westmoreland Street to Mountjoy. Sackville Street was quiet, its shops and offices shut for Sunday. Even the flower sellers at Nelson’s Pillar were having their day off too, although a small queue of people, some with children, had formed in the sunshine to climb the one hundred and sixty-eight steps to the viewing platform at the top of the monument, erected by public subscription to honour the victor of the naval battle at Trafalgar eighty years previously. In happier times, on a fine Sunday like this, Swallow remembered, he had climbed it with Maria. It was the best threepence-worth of a view that anyone could have, they had laughingly agreed later when they took afternoon tea at the Imperial Hotel. The great sweep of the bay stretched to the east, from Howth to Killiney. The mountains rolled away to the south towards Wicklow. The great central plain of Ireland lay to the west, shimmering in a green haze. Away to the north they could make out the peak of Slieve Foy in the Cooley Mountains.
The interview room provided by the governor for the questioning of Timmy Spencer at Mountjoy was not unpleasant. It was located to the front of the prison, close to the governor’s own office. Its two windows were high and barred, but they faced to the south, receiving good light from the day outside.
With Spencer seated across the table, Swallow gestured to the two prison officers who had brought him from his cell, to remove his handcuffs. The bruising across the prisoner’s face where Swallow had hit him with his Bulldog was turning from black to a mottled blue and yellow.
‘Is the grub any better, now?’ Swallow asked him, after the officers had left to take up their positions outside the door.
Spencer seemed to be in good spirits.
‘Not great now, but there’s a bit more of it. It’s better than the army. Not as good as down in the monastery. I wouldn’t mind a few pints of porter though. Murphy’s, if you can arrange it. I wouldn’t touch that Guinness stuff.’
‘That’s not within my gift,’ Swallow smiled. ‘But I have something else for you. Can you read, Timmy?’
‘Enough.’
Swallow took Mallon’s letter and pushed it across the table. Spencer opened the envelope and read the single sheet, topped with the crown and the insignia of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, slowly and carefully.
‘That’s what I want, alright. You’re a man of your word, Mr Swallow,’ he said finally.
‘Now, Timmy,’ Swallow said, ‘you’re going to give me your statement about the murder of Sarah Bradley. Sergeant Mossop here will take it down and you’ll sign it. But before we do that you’re going to give me all the information I need about the robbery at Templeogue Hill and the other robberies that you’ve been involved in around Dublin. I want to know who else is involved, where I can find them and I want to know where the cash and valuables are that were taken in these jobs. You have a written promise there from Chief Superintendent Mallon that you won’t be prosecuted for any offences to do with them.’
Spencer shifted uneasily in his chair.
‘And you’re going to swear that I didn’t shoot that peeler down in Tipperary?’
‘I can swear that you aimed wide. I can swear there were shots flying around from his own men’s guns. I can swear he didn’t say he was a policeman and that you had no way of knowing who was chasing you.’
‘That’s the truth of it, Mr Swallow,’ Spencer said. ‘I thought it was one of the gangs from here in the city. They don’t like the idea of anyone operatin’ in their territory. I know they were lookin’ for whoever was doin’ them robberies all over the place. There was even goin’ to be a reward from yerselves for whoever could finger us. That’s why I took off for Tipperary and stayed in the monastery. Like I told you, I knew a few lads from Cork who’d gone up there for a cure from the drink.’
He paused for a moment.
‘Do you think they’ll believe ye when I’m tried?’
Swallow shrugged.
‘I don’t know. There aren’t any certainties. But I’m the best hope you have of avoiding the gallows. The only hope, I’d say. You’ll be put on trial. Maybe for murder, maybe for manslaughter. If it’s manslaughter and you’re convicted you’ll do time. Anything up to ten years, I’d say. But you might get off. It depends on the jury and what they think of you.’
Spencer was silent again.
‘I’ll tell you what you want to know so, about them robberies,’ he said finally.
He turned to Mossop.
‘Write down these names. Richard Walsh. Tommy Dillon. Andy White. Jackie Doolan. They’re the lads in the robberies.’
‘I need addresses,’ Swallow said.
Spencer laughed uneasily.
‘They’re all together. Portobello cavalry barracks. That’s where I did my own time, serving Her Majesty’s Empire, and all that. Walsh and Dillon are grooms there in the stables. White’s a farrier. Doolan’s a sergeant, looking after the officers’ horses.’
Swall
ow felt like kicking himself. It was all so simple and it all made sudden sense. G-men had worn out their boots, tramping around the city, checking boarding houses and dives to find some trace of the housebreakers who were not part of any of the usual criminal gangs. Nobody had thought of checking the various military barracks, half a dozen in all, dotted around the capital. The Military Police were generally well up to any anything of a criminal nature going on among the ranks. They had to have nodded in this case.
‘Who’s the main man, then?’ he asked. ‘Who came up with the idea?’
‘That’d be Jackie Doolan. He’d know the houses likely to be worth a job. Then he’d roster the others so they’d all have their passes on the one night. They’d leave the barracks at different times and then they’d meet in a house off Clanbrassil Street to change out of their uniforms into mufti. They’d head out to do the job and they’d be back at the house in a couple of hours, change back into uniform and be back in the barracks before lights-out.’
‘How would Doolan know what houses were going to be “worth a job” as you put it?’ Swallow asked.
‘Same way as he knew McCartan’s would be a good mark. There’s coachmen and stable lads all over the city who’re out of the regiment. Like myself. You get an honourable discharge and it’s easy enough to get fixed up with a job. I had my discharge papers and I, well, equipped myself with a couple of references. McCartan thought he was lucky to have me.’
‘So, you’re saying these fellows tip the word to Doolan? Did you do that with McCartans?’
‘Yeah, Doolan keeps in touch with them all. His lads, as he calls them. They’ll fill him in on what’s in the house. Is there silver? Or good jewellery? Cash? How many servants? Is there a dog? What locks are on the doors? All the details that you’d need to do a job. Then there’s a few quid in it for the information.’
‘Where’s this house exactly that you’ve told us about, near Clanbrassil Street? Who lives there?’ Mossop asked. ‘We need details.’
Spencer shrugged.
‘I don’t know the address but I could bring you there. I was only there the once. That was when they – we – did the job on old McCartan’s place. Doolan’s brother lives there. If he owns it or if he’s lodging, I don’t know.’
‘That’s where the loot is, I assume,’ Swallow said.
‘I’d say so. When we did the job at McCartan’s that’s where we brought what we’d got. Doolan gave each of us twenty pounds and handed everything else over to the brother.’
‘What’s the brother’s name?’ Mossop asked.
‘Bartholomew. “Bart,” for short. Bart Sullivan.’
There was something familiar about the name, Swallow told himself.
‘Would we know him?’ he asked Spencer
Spencer laughed.
‘You should. There’s a third brother. He’s a bobby.’
Chapter 30
There were six G-men available, waiting beside three unmarked side-cars in the Lower Yard, ready for the raid on McCartan’s. The drivers, also in plainclothes, stood gossiping and joking and occasionally grooming their patient horses, standing in line inside the Palace Street gate. Swallow and Mossop would travel in the first car. Shanahan and Swift would come behind. Vizzard and Feore would bring up the rear.
Swallow reckoned the right hour to reach Tempelogue Hill would be around nine o’clock. The household would not have retired to bed. The roads around the house would be quiet, with few passers-by likely to see the activity and possibly alert the neighbours that something untoward or unusual was happening. There would still be sufficient light in the evening for at least a preliminary search of the house. In any event, Mossop had provided every man with a Bullseye lantern for the illumination of any dark spaces, such as cellars or attics.
Harry Lafeyre had been taken aback when Swallow presented himself at his house on Harcourt Street, with a request that he sign the search warrant for the McCartan house in his capacity as a magistrate.
‘I’ll do it, of course,’ he told Swallow. ‘But you’ll need to tell me what evidence you have to suspect him of murder. He’s not the most pleasant of men but he’s highly respected and well-known.’
Swallow handed him the signed statement that Timmy Spencer had made under caution earlier in Mountjoy.
‘Read that. It’s not conclusive, but it’s enough to justify a search and putting questions to him. The physical descriptions we have of Sarah Bradley match what you were able to tell us about the woman in the Poddle. And we have evidence, admittedly at second hand as of yet, that McCartan was down where the river flows across open ground the night that Bradley disappeared.’
Lafeyre spread the statement on the surgery desk and read it slowly and carefully.
‘I agree. It certainly justifies suspicion,’ he said when he had finished. ‘He heard what he describes as a heated argument between McCartan and the housekeeper. He heard the dogs snarling or barking. And he saw McCartan load what he says was Sarah Bradley’s body into his trap and drive it away. Down here at the end, he says he hasn’t been threatened or offered any inducements to make this statement and that he’s doing it of his own free will. I suspect I could cause you difficulties if I were to press you on that, Joe.’
‘I’d argue that offering to turn Queen’s evidence is a well-recognised ground upon which to offer immunity to someone who’s been involved with others in a crime. It’s been done a score of times that I can recall over the years. We did it with the Maamtrasna murders. We did it with the Invincibles.’
‘That’s true,’ Lafeyre agreed. ‘Mallon’s supporting you on this?’
‘Of course. But I’ll put all my cards on the table to you,’ Swallow said. ‘Spencer hasn’t been threatened. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. He’s facing a murder charge and he’s going to be hanged if he’s convicted. But I’m not sure he actually shot Fleury, the RIC inspector. My evidence would honestly be that he fired a shot but he didn’t want to kill the man. At least three of Fleury’s own men were blazing away. It’s at least possible that he was shot by one of his own.’
Lafeyre frowned.
‘Are there forensics? Can they identify the gun that fired the fatal shot?’
‘I’m afraid not, it passed through. It could be anywhere in a wide area of rural North Tipperary.’
Lafeyre reached to the inkstand, drew out the quill and signed the warrant with a rapid flourish.
‘You’ll take something since you’re here? A glass of wine? Or something stronger?’
‘I’d welcome a pot of tea, if that can be arranged.’
Lafeyre pulled on the bell-cord by the fireplace. After a brief interval his housemaid appeared.
‘We’ll have some tea please in the parlour,’ he told her.
They crossed the hallway when they heard the clinking sound of china being laid in Lafeyre’s parlour a few minutes later.
‘You’re being very temperate, Joe,’ Lafeyre said casually, dropping sugar lumps into his teacup.
‘Ah, I think I’ve been overdoing it a bit.’
Lafeyre nodded.
‘Lily tells me you and Maria aren’t doing so well. Has that anything to do with it?’
‘Well, you know, things haven’t been good since she lost the baby. She doesn’t seem to have a lot of heart now. Or energy.’
He poured tea into his cup.
‘I think I’ve tried everything I can to get her back to her old self. But it’s not working, really.’
‘There are physical side-effects of a miscarriage that can be distressing for a woman,’ Lafeyre told him. ‘And there are emotional side-effects. There are a number of medical men around the city who specialise in what the French call les maladies mentales. Someone might be able to help. Would you like me to raise that possibility with her?’
Lafeyre meant well, Swallow told himself. But he felt himself disquieted at the suggestion that Maria might require anything more than time to recover from the loss of the baby.
‘No, thank you Harry. I think we can get the better of the situation between us. At least I hope so.’
He finished his tea, took the warrant and walked back to Exchange Court along St Stephen’s Green, North King Street and South Great George’s Street. The tea had been soothing and refreshing and had cleared his head. Now he had to concentrate on the business in hand.
Chapter 31
Swallow knew minutes after he had entered the house at Templeogue Hill and presented an outraged and astonished Sir John McCartan with Harry Lafeyre’s warrant, that a disaster of his own making was unfolding before him.
He had deployed Vizzard and Feore to the rear of the house in accordance with standard procedure, while he and Mossop climbed the granite steps to the front door. Mossop rang the bell-cord while Shanahan and Swift stayed out on the gravel driveway, watching the windows to the front. When Cathleen Cummins, the maid, answered the bell, he and Mossop had stepped smartly into the vestibule.
‘We need to speak with Sir John,’ he told her. ‘Tell him it’s police business.’
Before she could answer, the door to the drawing room opened and McCartan stepped into the hallway.
‘Inspector? What on earth do you want at this hour? We’re about to retire for the night.’
The tone was both interrogative and irritated.
Swallow stepped forward and handed him the warrant.
‘As you can see, Sir, this is a warrant, duly signed by a magistrate. It authorises me and my colleagues to search this house to seek and secure any evidence that may relate to the suspected murder of one Sarah Bradley at a date unknown. I hope we’ll have your full co-operation.’
McCartan took the warrant in both hands to read it in the dim light of the hallway. Then he seemed almost to stagger, as if he had been pushed. He backed towards the drawing room door through which he had come. Swallow and Mossop followed.
The room was darker again than the hall. It succumbed earlier to the onset of dusk since its windows faced east. After a moment in which their eyes adapted to the gloom, they saw McCartan’s wife half-rising from an armchair beyond the fireplace.
