In the restaurant, waiters were ladling out mulled wine. Someone started playing the piano. After only a few notes an abrupt and almost complete silence descended on the noisy gathering. A boy of nine or ten was lifted up on to one of the tables. He started to sing. As he did, everyone in the room who wasn’t already standing, rose. Detective Sergeant Gillespie was one of the few people – besides the partygoers – who understood the words. They had nothing to do with Christmas, but after some of the day’s events they made him feel very uncomfortable. ‘Deutschland erwache aus deinem bösen Traum! Gib fremden Juden in deinem Reich nicht Raum!’ Germany wake from this fearful dream. Give Jews no room to live and scheme. Germany arise, our battle cry. Our Aryan blood shall never die! There were tears in watching German eyes. Even Dessie MacMahon, who understood not a single word, was captivated by the boy’s perfect voice.
‘Let’s go, Dessie,’ said Stefan abruptly.
As they turned, he beckoned the porter over. He looked back into the room once more, pointing to where the two men who had been with Keller stood, watching the boy as he sang, with the same rapture as everyone else. There was no sign of Keller now. He didn’t seem to be there any more.
‘So who are the two fellers who were with Mr Keller, Anto?’
‘I don’t know the young one, Mr Gillespie. He’s something to do with the German embassy though. But everyone knows the older one. That’s Mr Mahr, Adolf Mahr. He’s the director of the National Museum. We know him very well in the Shelbourne.’ There was just a hint of condescension. Anybody who was anybody ought to know who Adolf Mahr was.
Stefan nodded. He knew the name well enough, even if he didn’t know the face. Was it The Irish Times that had called Adolf Mahr ‘the father of Irish archaeology’? Or was it Éamon de Valera? Mahr was an important man. He was certainly a friend of de Valera’s, which made you an important man now, whatever you did. He was also head of the Nazi Party in Ireland.
Then all at once the whole dining room erupted into song as the first verse was repeated, with everyone singing now – Adolf Mahr and the man from the German embassy too. The sound seemed to fill the Shelbourne Hotel. ‘Germany arise, our battle cry. Our Aryan blood shall never die!’
Stefan and Dessie walked out on to Stephen’s Green.
Dessie was still humming the tune he’d heard inside.
‘I’ll say that for the Jerries, they know how to throw a party.’
Stefan was aware that he was still holding something in his hand. He looked down at the small brass lapel pin Santy had given him. It was the size of a farthing, a black swastika on white enamel. Round the edge was a circle of red with the words ‘Deutschland Erwache’. Germany Awake.
Neither of them had noticed the fair-haired man sitting in a leather armchair by the porter’s desk in the Shelbourne lobby. As they left he was still reading the same page of The Irish Times he had been reading when they stepped inside the hotel. Folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm, he sauntered out after them with a nod to the porter, whistling the music that still echoed from the dining room. He stood on the steps, watching the detectives walk to the corner. Dessie MacMahon crossed over and continued along Stephen’s Green; Stefan Gillespie turned into Kildare Street. The fair-haired man walked to the same corner, lighting a cigarette. He waited until Stefan had left the lights of the Shelbourne behind and then followed him.
Kildare Street was almost empty. The National Library and the National Museum were dark, along with the buildings of government they framed at Leinster House. On the other side of the road the offices in the flat-fronted Georgian terraces were dark as well. A few taxis trundled up to Stephen’s Green in search of customers. A man walked past with a Yorkshire terrier. A young couple, slightly drunk, crossed the road, arm in arm, giggling, as Stefan made his way home to Nassau Street. A lot had happened, but very little about the day made sense. Keller, the clinic, Hannah Rosen, Jimmy Lynch and Special Branch, the Convent of the Good Shepherd, Susan Field. As he passed the National Museum the unlikely company Hugo Keller kept struck him again. Why had a Special Branch detective sprung him from custody, only to deliver him to the Shelbourne for a conversation with a German embassy official and the director of the National Museum? And what about the missing woman? Was he right to trust Hannah Rosen’s instincts? Was it really so unreasonable that a pregnant woman couldn’t face an abortion and just ran away? For a moment the questions faded, and he smiled to himself, thinking about Hannah again. He remembered not wanting the conversation with her to stop. Perhaps he should have felt more uneasy about that, because it had nothing to do with what they were talking about. Yet he wasn’t. He was thinking about her in ways he still only associated with his dead wife. And there was nothing wrong with it. There was an exhilaration in him now that he had almost forgotten. But none of that had anything to do with why he trusted Hannah’s instincts. That had to do with being a policeman. Since leaving Hannah in Rathgar, the sense that something very nasty had happened to Susan Field had only grown in him.
The wall of Trinity College, with the tall trees behind it, stretched ahead of him as he reached Nassau Street. It was noisier here. The pubs and restaurants were still turning out. There were taxis and trams; there were Christmas decorations in the shop windows; there was the breath of beer and whiskey in the cold air. He unlocked the narrow door squeezed in between O’Dea’s optician’s and Duval et Cie’s Parisian Dyers and Cleaners. The two rooms in Nassau Street he rented from James O’Dea were above the optician’s shop, on the first floor. The room at the front looked out over the gardens of Trinity. Mr O’Dea had told him, as if he should be paying extra, that if you stood on a chair you could see over the wall. In the year he had spent at Trinity he knew the gardens well enough. In fact the college gardens were the only thing he’d ever really liked about the place. But he never did have any desire to stand on a chair in the window to look at them. As he opened the door on to the steep staircase, the fair-haired man had stopped at the corner of Kildare Street. He watched Stefan Gillespie go in.
Stefan was surprised to see the light on in the hall. It wasn’t very welcoming; a bare bulb, no shade, and only twenty-five watts. But the optician didn’t usually let the lights burn late. He had a habit of taking the fuses out at night so none of his tenants could leave them on and waste his money. Late home always meant feeling your way up the stairs and along the landing in the darkness. But now, when Stefan reached the turn in the stairs, he could see the door to his room was open. Someone was inside.
He leapt the remaining stairs and raced across the landing. He stood in the doorway. The room had been turned inside out and upside down. The drawers had been tipped out, the sofa was on its back, books had been swept off the bookcase on to the floor; the contents of the kitchen cabinet were everywhere. Then he heard a sound. There was someone in the bedroom. He moved more quietly now, across the room to the door by the window. But even as he took the first steps, he sensed there was someone behind him, someone who must have heard him coming. He didn’t have time to turn round. Hard wood hit his head. And he collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.
There was darkness inside his head and a dull throbbing pain. Before full consciousness came, he felt as if he was struggling to climb out of that darkness; when he tried to move his limbs nothing happened. Then his eyes opened abruptly and adrenalin pumped the realisation of danger through his body. He knew his attackers were still there. Cold water was dripping down his face. There was the smell of whiskey. A round, red face looked down at him, so close that for a moment he saw only the eyes. A hand poured water from a jug. As the face retreated he saw the mouth open into a grin of uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. He was being pulled up by his shoulders from the floor. For an instant he was upright, but only for an instant, before he was pushed into an armchair. Detective Garda Seán Óg Moran looked down at him. The grin was instantly replaced by a look of vacancy, as if the guard had just shifted into neutral, and was simply marking time. Stefan turned his
head. It hurt. And it would hurt more. He already knew who he’d find looking at him next. There was a smile on Detective Sergeant Jimmy Lynch’s pinched lips too. Or maybe he’d just bitten into a lemon.
‘You should have said, Jimmy. I’d have had the kettle on.’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘I’ll have to see if I can a find a surprise for you some time.’
‘They say you’re quite the clever lad, Stevie.’
‘I’ve been cleverer.’ He raised his hand to touch the back of his head.
‘I told Inspector Donald Duck to keep his fucking nose out of Special Branch business, and yours. Did the holy bastard not pass that on to you?’
‘He did say something. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘I can say it louder.’
Lynch looked round. Moran stepped forward.
‘If you told me what Special Branch business it was –’
Seán Óg’s fist hit his face full on. It may have been luck that it wasn’t harder, or maybe the detective garda knew how to judge these things. If it had been harder, it would have broken Stefan’s nose. As it was he could feel the warm trickle of blood; seconds later he tasted the salt on his lips.
‘That’s a lot clearer. It’ll be a matter of national security then.’
‘No, it’ll be a matter of how far Seánie can push your nose into your face if you don’t do what your inspector said. I can’t stand insubordination. That’s right, isn’t it, Seánie?’ Lynch smiled. Moran’s yellow teeth showed again; his shoulders moved up and down several times; a snort of laughter.
‘I’m missing something, that’s the thing, Stevie.’
For the first time, Stefan didn’t reply. For the first time, Jimmy Lynch was giving him information about what he was doing here.
‘I want everything you took from Keller’s,’ he continued.
‘You’ve got it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Inspector Donaldson gave it to you. Dessie said you took the lot.’
The pinched lips became a little more pinched and Lynch’s smile screwed itself into something less assured. The expression wasn’t very different, except that the lemon he’d bitten into now was even sourer than the first. But it told Stefan more. Lynch had come here believing something had been taken from Hugo Keller’s clinic, something that wasn’t with the other evidence. That’s what the two of them had been looking for in his room. Whatever it was, the Special Branch sergeant wasn’t sure Stefan had it after all now. It wasn’t difficult to be convincing; he had no idea what Lynch was talking about. The Special Branch man was becoming uneasy; to go any further he would have to reveal what he was looking for. But he had spoken to Keller. He knew what Stefan Gillespie had said in the Shelbourne.
‘Why did you ask Keller if he’d found what he was looking for?’
‘Because you pissed me off. You’d get a lot of that, I expect.’
‘You piece of shite.’ Garda Moran moved forward again. But a look from his sergeant stopped the blow that was about to follow. Lynch was dimly aware that his interrogation was giving more than it was getting back. And he was right. Stefan knew Keller must have phoned Jimmy Lynch from the hotel. That’s why he was turning the place inside out. He also knew he needed to persuade Jimmy he was wasting his time before things got worse.
‘Some arsehole walks off with my prisoners and a case that might not have done me any harm at Garda HQ. I get a bollocking from my inspector for doing my job. I wanted to find out whether anything else was coming my way. Why would I take any notice of Donald Duck? So I went back to Merrion Square. I wanted to know what was going on. Wouldn’t you?’
Here was something Lynch understood; begrudgery and self-interest.
‘I thought you’d be at the Shelbourne with Keller, that’s all, Jimmy.’
The Special Branch sergeant got up from the chair. It was a movement that told Garda Moran the interrogation was over. He could relax. Seán Óg was not a man who took pleasure in inflicting physical violence on people; it was just his job. And now, for the moment anyway, the job was finished.
‘Will we go back and try the woman again, Jimmy?’
The detective sergeant frowned, his mind elsewhere. Stefan Gillespie was no longer relevant. He nodded at Moran, then turned to go to the door.
‘No chance of you lads helping me clear the place up so?’
‘You’ve got the message now, Stevie?’ Lynch glanced back.
‘Oh, yes, loud and clear, Jimmy.’
And with that he was gone. Moran followed. Stefan pulled himself up out of the armchair, gasping at a sudden surge of pain. Seán Óg was still in the doorway. He smiled awkwardly, almost childishly. This time the stained teeth were hidden. The smile was entirely genuine now. He had done his job, that’s all. And naturally, there were no hard feelings, why would there be?
‘Thank you, Sarge.’
Stefan felt he had no option but to return the smile. No, no hard feelings. The Special Branch detective closed the door. As the footsteps sounded down the stairs the door swung open again. The lock was on the floor. Also on the floor was a half-bottle of whiskey. Stefan bent down – grimacing – and picked it up. He unscrewed the cap and drank what was left.
5. Clanbrassil Street
The next morning Stefan Gillespie walked along Nassau Street, still aching from the attentions of Seán Óg Moran, to the telephone kiosks in Grafton Street. The city centre was quiet; it was Sunday and still early. He got through to the number in Rathgar that Hannah Rosen had given him. A man answered. It was an elderly voice, cautiously polite; it would be her father. When he gave his name as Detective Sergeant Gillespie, he could feel the coldness at the other end. It was the palpable wish that whatever was going on simply wasn’t going on. Stefan doubted that Hannah would have told her father very much of the previous day’s events; it felt like even the little she had said had been too much. When Hannah came to the phone, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t pleased to hear her voice. There was a slight awkwardness as the conversation began. He asked her how she was. It wasn’t an unreasonable question after everything that had happened. Her answer sounded a lot more brusque than he either expected or wanted.
‘I’m fine. Have you found anything out?’
‘Not about Susan.’
‘When are you going to talk to Hugo Keller?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘What does that mean?’ There was a hint of exasperation already. She wanted results and it felt like he was fobbing her off. He was. He didn’t have any information about her friend, and after the Shelbourne Hotel and the visit from Jimmy Lynch last night, his head was full of things he couldn’t even tell her, let alone explain. He couldn’t explain them to himself yet.
‘I wanted to see the letters, that’s all. Susan’s letters to you. I wondered if you could bring them in to me? I haven’t got that long today –’
When he had decided to phone her, he had only half worked out why. He did need to see the letters of course, and the train journey to Baltinglass, travelling home to see his son for the day, would be a quiet opportunity to read them. It wasn’t just an excuse to meet her, but it was partly that too.
‘I can come into town.’ She wanted him to have the letters; at least it meant something was actually happening. But she also wanted to see him.
‘I won’t be here this afternoon. I thought –’
‘I can come now. Are you at Pearse Street?’
‘No. Maybe I could meet you somewhere.’ He hadn’t planned on going into the station anyway. It was his day off. But after last night he felt that the less anyone, especially Inspector Donaldson, knew about what he was doing, the more likely it was that he would be allowed to do it.
He left the phone kiosk and carried on up Grafton Street. He turned into the little alleyway that led past the stone arch into St Teresa’s Church. There were a few early mass-goers heading that way. He could read their thoughts as they
looked at his bruised face and blackened eyes. He would be better off going in through the arch and getting down on his knees than walking past. He was unaware that the fair-haired man who had been looking at the Christmas display in Switzer’s turned into the alley after him, following him as he walked on to Clarendon Street and Golden Lane, then along Bull Alley, past St Patrick’s Cathedral and into Clanbrassil Street.
The ancient cathedral was very still. It would be another hour before the great bells started to ring for the Eucharist, calling the scattered remnants of Anglican Dublin to worship in what had once been the public heart of the city. In the new Ireland it was already a forgotten backwater; the power was somewhere else now. It brooded over Dublin like a befuddled, senile uncle whose past life it wasn’t quite decent to talk about. As a child Stefan had lived on the other side of Clanbrassil Street, in the Coombe, before his father’s promotion to inspector brought a move out of the cramped flat to a suburban terrace in Terenure. For four of those years he had gone to the cathedral’s choir school. He had sung in the choir stalls at matins and evensong and the Sunday Eucharist. Matins would be over now. As he glanced across at the great stone tower, he could see the light of the stained-glass windows he had once looked up at, day after day. He heard a snatch of half-remembered music in his head; Stanford’s maybe. ‘To thee all angels cry aloud.’ He walked on towards the noise and bustle of Lower Clanbrassil Street, a narrow, crowded corridor into the city from the suburbs to the south that was always busier on a Sunday than anywhere else in Dublin.
It was the smell of bread that reminded him how he had walked home each Sunday after the Eucharist with Sam Mortimer, each of them eating a warm bagel from Weinrouk’s bakery. Mr Moiselle had always baked the bread there, but the smell of yeast and baking bread was only the first of the smells in Clanbrassil Street on a Sunday morning. He breathed it in now and other smells followed almost immediately. There was blood from the meat and poultry, slaughtered before dawn, hanging outside Myer Rubinstein’s butcher’s shop; the smell of new milk and sour cream from Jacob Fine’s dairy; through the open door of Doris Waterman’s grocer’s a pungent mix of salami and garlic sausage, salted fish and herrings, spices and pickled cucumbers. He had walked along Clanbrassil Street from time to time since he knew it as a child; as a student at Trinity in the brief, unhappy year he spent there; and as a recruit to the newly formed Garda Síochána soon afterwards, in an unforgiving uniform, to the sound of whistles and laughter from shopkeepers and their customers amused by his youth. But he had always been on the way somewhere else. He had never stopped. Today he did. He stepped into Weinrouk’s bakery, catching the sharp mix of words that was as pungent as Clanbrassil Street’s smells; the familiar voices of Dublin, the thick accents of Poland and Lithuania, and all the overlapping voices in between, loud and laughing and argumentative, peppering the English Dublin had made so distinctively its own with Yiddish.
The City of Shadows Page 7
