by Conor Brady
Ephram Greenberg refilled Swallow’s glass, and drained the last of the wine into his own. He rang the silver bell again.
‘Because it isn’t right, Joseph. There is something seriously amiss. As I said, there are other coins appearing in other shops too. There are tetradrachms, Roman denarii, silver shekels from Jerusalem. It must be that somewhere a sizeable collection has been broken up and is being sold off for a fraction of its worth.’
He stayed silent when the young maid entered, carrying another decanter of wine. She set it on the tray and removed the empty one. Katherine refilled the glasses.
‘Those of us who love beautiful things from antiquity – things like these – do not like to see them thrown around, bartered by people who have no understanding, no respect for what they are handling,’ Ephram said. ‘And when it happens, it also causes confusion in the trade. Nobody knows what anything is worth.’
Swallow understood. Ephram might be an aesthete, genuinely pained to see treasures from the old world changing hands like greasy sixpences at a fair. But he also wanted to ensure that the bottom did not fall out of the market in which he traded.
He nodded. ‘It’s something the police will have to look into. For a start, we’ll have to find this woman who sold you the coins. Have you any idea who she might be or where we might find her?’
‘I think I might know her name, or part of it,’ Katherine said. ‘On the second visit, she left her bag open on the counter. I happened to see that she had a Post Office savings book with a name on it.’
Swallow poised his pencil over his notebook.
‘What was the name?’
‘I believe it was Clinton. That is what I saw.’
Swallow wrote it in his notebook.
There was nothing that could be done to follow it up until the next day. For the moment, he decided he would enjoy Ephram Greenberg’s Lebanese wine from the Beqaa Valley, with the September sun settling behind the city.
SATURDAY OCTOBER 1ST, 1887
SIXTEEN
John Mallon went through G-Division the next morning like an avenging angel come to punish.
Swallow had breakfasted early with Harriet in Heytesbury Street. Her teaching schedule required her to be at the school on the South Circular Road by 8.30. The local girl they had hired as a day maid had their porridge, fresh brown bread, some dried figs and tea on the table in the little dining-room an hour before that.
He hated the figs. But Harriet insisted on them.
‘They’re healthy. Good for your bowels.’
‘They’d want to be,’ he told her. ‘They taste like camel dung.’
‘You don’t know what camel dung tastes like.’
His protests made no difference. She instructed the maid to put them on the table each morning.
He had returned late from Greenberg’s. He and Katherine finished the second bottle of Lebanese red after Ephram had retired. The young maid had gone to bed too.
Katherine had gone to the kitchen and come back with a platter of thinly sliced beef – she called it speck – with bread and cheese. They talked about her mother, Lily Grant’s painting class, his misspent days at medical school, her training in the business, missed opportunities.
‘I think maybe you and I could have more in common that might appear,’ she said when the wine was gone. ‘We each might have had very different lives. But here we are, drinking wine in Capel Street, telling stories.…’
Swallow noticed how fine her hands were. They were beautifully formed, tapering. Jeweller’s hands that might have been doctor’s hands, as his own might have been. The warming wine and the conversation were good. He had enjoyed the evening with Katherine.
She led him down the stairs, and let him out the front door on to Capel Street.
Harriet had been later still coming home. He knew that she would be at a meeting of some society or a political gathering. But his supper was laid out on the kitchen table. This time, there was chicken in the sandwiches. He nibbled at one for the sake of appearances, but the food at Greenberg’s had taken care of his appetite for the evening.
He heard the front door closing sometime after midnight, followed by Harriet’s footfall on the stairs as she made her way to her bedroom.
She greeted him at the breakfast table.
‘Dia duit ar maidin’
Of late she had started to drop Irish phrases into her conversation with him. It irritated him intensely.
‘I don’t speak Norwegian.’
‘You know very well I’m wishing you a good morning. It’s a pity you can’t be civil. And it’s a pity you can’t speak your country’s native language.’
‘We spoke English in Newcroft. That’s my country.’
She sighed in exasperation.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ she said after an interval, spooning her porridge. ‘And you look tired.’
The wine had been stronger even than he realised.
‘I suppose so. There’s a problem in an investigation. In fact, there’s a whole lot of problems.’
She had become accustomed to hearing unhappy tales from him.
‘I heard about the pawnbroker being murdered,’ she said. ‘It was in the evening papers. But what’s happened to his sister?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘Have you been assigned the case?’
There was no humour in his laugh.
‘By default. My direct superior was drunk.’
He poured himself more tea.
‘Did you do anything interesting last night?’
‘Oh yes, I had a fascinating evening,’ she said, choosing a slice of brown bread from the basket.
‘I went to a meeting of a group called the Hermetic Society. It concerns itself with science, spiritualism, theology. And there are such interesting people involved.’
‘I can imagine.’ His tone was dry.
‘Yes, we had an address by a young man called Yeats. I’ve met him before with some of my friends. He’s about my own age. He’s from a Protestant family in County Sligo, although he’s spent time in England. He has fascinating ideas about the world of mysticism. He talked about Eastern philosophy and the old gods of Celtic Ireland. I could’ve listened to him all night.’
That sounded harmless enough, Swallow thought. The old gods of Celtic Ireland were less likely to cause trouble than some of the mortals currently around the city. He had heard of the Hermetic Society, but not of the young Mr Yeats. He finished his tea, and stood from the breakfast table.
‘You look a little tired yourself. Since it’s Saturday, you’ll be finishing school early. You should take advantage of the free afternoon and rest here.’
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re going to Maria’s tomorrow,’ she reminded him. ‘She’s arranging a special dinner for Michaelmas. It’s an old Scottish tradition she follows from her husband’s people.’
He had forgotten, of course. With a murder and a missing woman on his mind, social engagements were not high priorities. And the more he thought about it, the more he feared that the evening would be a challenge.
God knows what schemes Harriet and Lily might have in mind. Maria herself would be frosty and unforgiving. He would prefer to get out of the arrangement. But he knew he could not.
‘Of course,’ he lied. ‘It will be a very pleasant evening, I’m sure.’
‘Good. And I’ll thank you not to lecture me when we’re at Maria’s. I’ve invited Mr Yeats to come along, and he has accepted. He respects me for my views and opinions. So I don’t want to be treated like a child by my policeman brother.’
Early autumn dew had freshened the small rectangles of grass that fronted the terraced houses on Heytesbury Street. On the mornings when he walked to the Castle, he invariably encountered the cleaning women, cooks and maids who trudged in the opposite direction to work in the new, affluent villas of Pembroke, Rathmines and Rathgar. This morning, he noticed, many of the women clutched their shawls or coats against the chill.
The first portent of the day’s vicissitudes was the newsboy’s bawling of the morning headlines across the junction of Bride Street and Bishop Street.
‘Journal, Times and Sketch … Journal, Times and Sketch … read about the shockin’ crimes in Dublin.…’
Swallow read the headlines on the news-stand.
PAWNBROKER WAS DEAD FOR A WEEK
Now his sister may be murdered too
INORDINATE DELAY BY DUBLIN POLICE
Shit and damnation, he thought. Some reporter had been tipped off. A policeman somewhere had a ten shilling note in his pocket or a few pints under his belt from one of the newspapers. It hardly mattered which rag started it. Once the story was out, they would all have it. Headlines about crime and murder would have the Castle authorities in an uproar. The civil servants and the Under-Secretary’s coterie would be frantic.
Orders and demands, more often than not self-contradictory, would be fired off to the Police Office in the Lower Yard. The Commissioner would be down on John Mallon like a ton of bricks, and Mallon would be down on the crime detectives, driving for results.
Swallow’s heart sank. It was not as if the inquiries into the death of Ambrose and the disappearance of Phoebe Pollock had got off to a good start. As of now, there were no leads and no identifiable suspects. There were no witnesses. There was no clear motive for the killing. And nobody knew where Phoebe Pollock was.
He turned into Golden Lane and followed the curtilage of the Castle wall until he reached the Ship Street Gate. He climbed the Castle Steps, making for Exchange Court, his heart heavy with each step.
The crime conference was set for 9.30, almost an hour away. But the building was already buzzing with activity.
Three police side-cars were drawn up outside the main entrance. Two constables stepped down from the first, a handcuffed prisoner between them. There were two more prisoners, similarly manacled in the second car. Swallow recognised them as junior members of the crime gang led until her death a few months ago by ‘Pisspot’ Ces Downes, and now directed by her former lieutenant Charlie Vanucchi.
Inside, the parade room was filling. Pat Mossop looked up anxiously as his superior entered.
‘Mornin’, Skipper. It’s pretty lively here this morning.’
‘So I can see. I read the newspaper posters as I was coming in.’
Mossop nodded. ‘Yeah, the news is out about Phoebe Pollock. Chief Mallon is taking the crime conference himself, and he’s startin’ early. The shit’s flyin’ from the Upper Yard as you’d expect.’
The mornings that John Mallon chaired the crime conference were rare. Mossop gestured to a sheet of paper on the desk. Swallow recognised the Commissioner’s distinctive stamp on the top.
‘You’d better read that.’
DUBLIN METROPOLITAN POLICE
Chief Commissioner’s Office
Lower Yard
Dublin Castle
Murder of Ambrose Pollock:/Whereabouts of Phoebe Pollock:
To all Divisions, Stations and Members DMP
A serious neglect of duty has resulted in an inordinate delay in the investigations into the above outrages. Appropriate disciplinary action is in hand.
All members are hereby instructed to accord absolute priority to these cases. This applies equally to members on general duties as well as to members of G-Division and others engaged in crime matters.
I have assured the office of the Chief Secretary that the police will spare no effort and will not relent until the perpetrators of these violent crimes have been apprehended and brought to justice.
J.J. Harrel
Chief Commissioner
With that gone out to every station and beat shift, the reporters’ jobs were done for them, Swallow thought cynically.
Ten minutes after transmission on the telegraph system, there would be a copy in every newspaper office in the city. The Commissioner himself knew that, of course. It was clear now why half a dozen convenient suspects had been rounded up for questioning. The police had to be seen to have sprung into action.
A G-man put his head around the door.
‘Conference is starting now. Mr Mallon’s just arrived.’
Every chair and bench in the parade room was taken. Uniformed constables sat with their helmets on their laps. The G-men clustered together like barnyard fowl, muttering to each other, trading speculation and scraps of knowledge.
Even though the early September morning was cool, the air was heavy and laden with tobacco smoke. Swallow and Mossop found spaces to stand between the windows looking down into the Lower Yard.
John Mallon looked grim, as he intended.
Swallow tried to recall when last the chief of the G-Division had chaired a morning crime conference.
It was probably five years ago, at the time of the assassinations in the Phoenix Park.
The murders of the country’s two top administrators had been a shocking lapse of security. But the aftermath swept John Mallon to the heights of power within the police structure. He assembled a team of G-men that smashed the conspiracy within weeks.
After that, Mallon, the Catholic farmer’s son from Armagh, could do no wrong in the eyes of the administration. The current Chief Secretary, Arthur Balfour, was reputed to have told the Cabinet in London, ‘Without Mallon we are nothing in Ireland.’
The buzz of conversation faded to whispers. ‘Duck’ Boyle, who would normally chair the conference, rose to face the room.
‘Whisht now … whisht. We’ll have quiet for Chief Mallon.’
When the silence in the parade room was complete, Mallon tapped the two green crime files in front of him.
‘Members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police should hang their heads in shame. We’re so far behind on these cases it’s an absolute, bloody disgrace.’
He paused for effect.
‘Ambrose Pollock was dead for at least a week. It took Sergeant Doolan to add two and two together from the beat reports before anyone even missed him. Is everyone else in the A-Division blind, deaf or just plain thick?’
He ran angry eyes across the room.
‘If the “mules” down at Kevin Street had been on the job as they should have been, the likelihood is that Phoebe Pollock would be in custody.’
Swallow saw a uniformed inspector from Kevin Street, seated directly in front of Mallon, go pale. Most of the constables were A-Division men too. They sat with their eyes cast down. Some shifted uneasily in their seats. Two or three handkerchiefs were produced to mop sweat from faces taut with embarrassment.
‘I don’t have to tell you that we’re in bad odour with the authorities over this. Bloody bad odour. The Lord Mayor and God knows who else has letters in to the Chief Commissioner.’
Mallon dropped his tone.
‘Happily, I’m not the one who has to sort out the mess in the A-Division. My job, and your job now, is to locate the missing woman, clear up this case, find who killed Pollock and bring them before the courts.’
He looked directly at Swallow.
‘I’m putting Detective Sergeant Swallow in charge. I want him to have all the resources he needs: men, cars, technical support. He’ll report directly to me, hourly if necessary.’
Swallow silently flushed with anger. Across the room, ‘Duck’ Boyle’s eyes bulged with fury at the brutal slighting of his own rank and seniority.
‘There’s a compliment,’ Pat Mossop whispered in Swallow’s ear.
He had his fill of compliments. He had played his role in the breaking of the Invincibles without any acknowledgment by way of promotion. The entire G-Division knew he was entitled to it. In June, he had cleared up the murders of Louise Thomas and her son at the Chapelizod Gate as well as the murder of Sarah Hannin near Portobello. Still there was no tangible acknowledgment of his successes. Now he was being pushed into the firing line again.
Mallon waited for an acknowledgment.
Eyes across the room turn expectantly towards Swallow. He felt the hot blood flooding his
face as he fought to contain his anger. Conditioned obedience to authority won out. Slowly, the burning in his cheeks subsided. The pounding of the blood in his temples eased. He heard himself respond.
‘That’s understood, Chief. I won’t let the job down.’
SEVENTEEN
Mossop was sympathetic.
‘You got the shitty end of the stick again, Boss. But we’ll crack this one. If I was Chief Mallon, I’d be lookin’ to you too, instead of Boyle.’
The little Belfast detective was unconvincing, and Swallow was not in a mood to be comforted.
‘It’s fucking great to have a full-time optimist around,’ he replied.
He knew the trail was stone cold. In fact, there was no trail worth talking about at this stage. His only consolation was that he had as good a team as G-Division could field.
Mossop was doing book man on the Phoebe Pollock investigation while ‘Duck’ Boyle had appointed Detective Tony Swann to that role for the investigation into her brother’s murder.
Swallow was content to keep Swann on the team. He had the qualities a good book man required: grasp of detail, a capacity to spot patterns and connections and the ability to write passable English.
He retreated to the crime sergeants’ office to think. He needed to consider how best to deploy his resources and to establish priorities.
He would leave Mick Feore to work on the guest and staff lists at the Northern Hotel. The big Galway man had an easy way about him that often worked with witnesses who were nervous or reluctant to help in police matters.
Stephen Doolan and his team would carry on with their task of inventory at the pawnbrokers. Beat men across the divisions would continue checking with the chemists and apothecaries to see if the prussic acid found in Phoebe Pollock’s room might be traced.
Then there was the matter of the Greek coins appearing at Greenberg’s and other dealers’ shops around the city. Someone would have to be assigned to follow it up.
There was a possibly useful line of inquiry in the disappearance of Phoebe Pollock. Her drinking companion had to be traced. Would anyone else in Currivan’s public house have recognised him? It was worth canvassing the clientele there.
