The City of Shadows

by Michael Russell

  Inspector Donaldson might sideline the references to Adolf Mahr and Special Branch, but Byrne was another matter. However much he wanted to ignore it he knew he couldn’t. And so he had already tackled the problem.

  ‘I understand that and I have spoken to Monsignor Fitzpatrick.’

  Stefan was surprised. The smile on Donaldson’s face was troubling.

  ‘You should have asked me before speaking to him yourself.’

  ‘I wanted to find out where Byrne was. It was the shortest route.’

  ‘That wasn’t a decision for you to make, Gillespie.’

  ‘It was a simple question, sir.’

  ‘It was a series of scandalous allegations against a priest!’

  ‘I have good reason to believe Francis Byrne was the man Susan Field was having an affair with, that he was the father of her child and, according to her letters, that he was the man who arranged for her abortion with Hugo Keller. He also paid for it. That makes him one of the last people to see Miss Field alive. And he left the country within a few days of her disappearing.’

  It was more troubling that the inspector seemed untroubled by this.

  ‘As I said, I have spoken to Monsignor Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘So when do I get to question your man Byrne?’

  ‘Everything you’ve said about Father Byrne is speculation.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  James Donaldson frowned. It was there again, ‘sir’, as a kind of insult.

  ‘The woman never even mentions his name in these letters.’

  ‘Come on, how many priests did she know at UCD?’

  Donaldson’s tight lips grew even tighter.

  ‘She was pregnant, Sergeant. Sadly we know that was true. As for the rest, a woman in that sort of trouble might come up with any kind of story. Shame does strange things, particularly to women. She may not even have known who the father of the child was. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has fantasised about a good man being the father of an illegitimate child. Monsignor Fitzpatrick has no doubt about Father Byrne’s integrity. He is a fine man and a fine priest. He knows him. The man lived in his house!’

  Stefan stared at the inspector. He had already heard this. Hadn’t another policeman said the same thing to Susan’s father? But he doubted it could have been said with such conviction. He struggled to keep the word ‘bollocks’ in his mouth, but there wasn’t another word that would do.

  ‘I didn’t pick the questions, sir. I just need to ask them. And the man I need to ask is Father Byrne, sir. He’s the only witness there is now.’

  ‘I understand. That’s exactly what I’ve said to the monsignor.’

  ‘Does than mean Father Byrne is coming back to Ireland?’

  ‘Not in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t I be going to him in Danzig?’

  ‘I hardly think we’ll be sending you to the Baltic, Sergeant Gillespie.’ Donaldson laughed. Reluctant as he had been to enter into this, it was done. It hadn’t been so hard after all. Detective sergeants could be controlled.

  ‘Monsignor Fitzpatrick will speak to Father Byrne. He can telephone him if necessary. I suggest you draw up a list of questions and we can send them straight off. If the letter is sent via London the air mail system will have it in Danzig in less than twenty-four hours. Let’s deal with this speculation head on, Sergeant. Let’s get it out of the way and clear the air.’

  It was not often that real determination showed in Inspector Donaldson’s face, but Stefan recognised it when he saw it. There would be no argument. If the inspector had, even for a second, wondered about the relationship between Father Francis Byrne and Susan Field, Monsignor Fitzpatrick had demonstrated, with infectious infallibility, that there really was nothing to wonder about. The list of written questions was an empty gesture. It meant that the investigation had already reached a dead end.

  There was a mug of tea waiting on Stefan’s desk when he returned. Dessie MacMahon didn’t have to be in Donaldson’s office to work out what was happening. The inspector knew there was a priest in it now all right; he was as agitated as hell. Hadn’t he been to Mass twice that day already? But it wasn’t the first thing Dessie said when Stefan returned.

  ‘She was in to see you.’

  Stefan ignored the smile that went with it; Dessie didn’t miss a thing.

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour ago maybe. She waited a bit, then she had to go.’

  For once Stefan was glad Hannah hadn’t stayed. Everything she might have anticipated about the way Francis Byrne was going to be treated had just happened. If anything it was worse. Not only had Donaldson decided that Susan Field never did have an affair with the priest, the man would be questioned by post. Stefan had two bodies, two murders, and nowhere to go. He reached across the desk for a file. It wasn’t there. He had been looking at it when the summons from Inspector Donaldson came. He looked round, puzzled, then saw some sheets of paper on the floor. He bent and picked them up. As he put them back he peered at the desk again. Things were not where he had left them. His desk was the exact opposite of the tip that was Dessie’s. He knew where everything was; except now it wasn’t, not quite.

  ‘Here’s an odd thing, Sarge.’ Dessie leant back. ‘Billy Donnelly.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Six months for getting his cock out in a jacks.’

  ‘You said. That’s not so odd, is it?’

  Stefan was still looking down, frowning.

  ‘Have you been looking for something over here, Dessie?’

  ‘You think I don’t know better than that?’

  ‘Why are these papers all over the floor? Everything’s in the wrong –’ He smiled; it was simple enough. ‘Did you leave Hannah here on her own?’

  ‘I’ve got the report on Billy.’ Dessie got up, ignoring Stefan’s question. ‘Here. “The defendant approached the detective and said, isn’t that a fine big one. It’ll give you the horn.” Jesus wept!’ He was laughing.

  ‘She’s gone through everything.’

  ‘You know who it was, Sarge?’ Dessie still wasn’t listening.

  ‘Who what was?’

  ‘The detective in the jacks.’

  ‘What do I care who was in the bloody jacks?’

  ‘It was Jimmy Lynch, keeping the Free State’s toilets safe.’

  It was about as far from Special Branch work as you could get.

  Billy Donnelly wasn’t feeling great. He could take his drink but he’d drunk himself senseless through most of that afternoon. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to his barman when they opened the pub, but Derek Blaney had walked out and said he wasn’t coming back. He would, but he’d leave it a couple of days to make his point. The dreary, familiar campery in the bar that night had made Billy want to take the lot of them by the scruff of the neck and kick the shite out of them till they said something, anything different. He felt he’d been listening to the same empty conversations all his life and what lay ahead was just the same thing, over and over, night after night after night. And he was right. But he had drunk himself into a stupor and out the other side now. He was sober and wished he wasn’t. The knock on the door was the last thing he needed, but he had no anger left to hurl at the unwanted visitor. He opened the door. Stefan Gillespie stood there.

  Billy didn’t bother to protest. He hadn’t got the energy. He walked back to the bar and sat down. He left Stefan to close the door as he came in.

  ‘I thought we were done.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Stefan sat down opposite him.

  ‘Tell me about the letter.’

  ‘There wasn’t a letter.’

  ‘Tell me about Jimmy Lynch then.’

  ‘He’s a gobshite, the same kind of gobshite you are.’

  ‘He put you inside.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Eighteen months hard labour. You were out in six.’

  ‘I was lucky.’

  ‘No one’s that lu
cky. Jimmy put you in there and Jimmy got you out.’

  ‘That what he said?’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I thought he was just doing his job, locking up queers.’

  ‘Then maybe I should take a leaf out of Jimmy’s book. I’ll put in a report that you approached me in a public urinal. I’ll have Dessie MacMahon back me up on it. It’ll be the usual thing, gross indecency. It’ll be your third time.’

  Billy didn’t answer. He was remembering those six months.

  ‘Three years at least, maybe more with the wrong judge.’

  Stefan waited for it to sink in.

  ‘That’s hard labour too. You’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘You’re not Jimmy Lynch, Mr Gillespie.’

  ‘I won’t break your arms first if that’s what you mean. But I will put you away if I have to.’

  ‘What the hell does it matter to you? Vincent’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘What was in the letter Vincent sent you?’

  There was nowhere for Billy Donnelly to go; he had to talk now.

  He sat back, remembering that night.

  ‘All right the Blueshirts didn’t just turn up. They wanted Vincent.’

  ‘I’d worked that out.’

  ‘There was a feller he’d been with. He’d written Vincent some letters. The sort of things people write and wish to God they never had. Vincent was mad about him. From up the arse to true fucking love! Jesus! He wasn’t just anybody, this feller, either. I don’t know what happened but he wanted the letters back. The Blueshirts came to get them. All Vincent had to do was hand them over, but he couldn’t see it was your man who sent the bastards in the first place. He thought he was protecting the feller, hiding his fecking billiedoos. So he ran. He stuck the letters in a bloody envelope and sent them to me! They wouldn’t look in the same place twice! That’s what he wrote.’

  ‘So did he come back here that night?’

  ‘No. The letters came, a couple of days later, but he never did.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Billy Donnelly still didn’t want to say it.

  ‘You know, don’t you, Billy?’

  ‘I gave them to Sergeant Lynch. I don’t know how he found out they were here, but he did. I’d kept them. I did think Vincent would come back. I should have just put them on the fire, but I couldn’t. They didn’t mean a thing to the man who wrote them but they meant everything to him. Jimmy Lynch turned up about a year later, asking about Vincent, about the letters. It didn’t matter what I said; he knew. So he put me away. I took six months of it. For what? Vincent was dead all that time. But then, I still thought he –’

  ‘Was Jimmy Lynch there that night, with the Blueshirts?’

  ‘No, he was fucking IRA before he was a Broy Harrier, wasn’t he? I don’t know who they were.’

  ‘What about the man who wrote the letters?’

  ‘There wasn’t a name. All I know is what Vincent told me. He was some sort of teacher, not a school teacher … it was the university. And the bastard was a priest.’

  11. Adelaide Road

  The train from Baltinglass arrived at Kingsbridge just after ten the next morning. It was barely a week till Christmas now. Tom had come to Dublin with his grandmother and grandfather and Stefan had a day off. It was a day to gaze at the windows of the shops in Grafton Street and O’Connell Street, to look at Christmas trees and Christmas lights, to buy the small presents they would put round the tree in the sitting room at Kilranelagh. A day to eat dinner in the restaurant in Clery’s and have tea at Bewley’s Café. And there would be a long time to spend looking in one window in particular, just to the left of the clock outside Clery’s, where the tricycle still sat, surrounded by glitter and tinsel, toy soldiers and dolls, tin drums and teddy bears.

  Stefan and Tom were in Bewley’s when Dessie MacMahon found them that afternoon. Pretending they had something else to do, David and Helena were out Christmas shopping for Tom and Stefan; Tom and his father had been Christmas shopping for them too. It had involved another slow walk past Clery’s window, and a last look at the tricycle, which Tom had, with impressive resolution, persuaded himself Santy might not be able to bring all the way to Baltinglass. Dessie came over to the table with a cup and saucer and sat down. He poured himself some tea from the pot. It was thick, black and tepid, but nothing was undrinkable with enough sugar in it.

  ‘She’s been on the phone. That’s three times today.’

  He eyed the coconut macaroon in the middle of the table.

  ‘You can have it if you want it, Dessie,’ said Tom.

  ‘Well, if it’s going begging.’ He didn’t wait to be asked twice.

  ‘I think she’s a bit pissed off with you. Jesus, that tea’s disgusting!’

  ‘I can’t do anything now, Dessie. I’ll phone her later.’

  ‘Well, she’s at the synagogue in Adelaide Road with Mr Field. Funeral arrangements and all that. That’s where she was going anyway.’

  He got out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘She was on about seeing you.’

  The grin on Dessie’s face was irritating Stefan now.

  ‘Did she have something to say?’

  ‘I should think that one’s always got something to say.’ He winked at Tom. Tom laughed, though he hadn’t got any idea what he was laughing at.

  Stefan hadn’t thought about Hannah all day, but now she was in his head. He wanted to see her, and he wanted to see her as himself, not as Detective Sergeant Gillespie. This was who he was, sitting here with his son. The rest was only what he did. They still knew almost nothing about each other. And he was sure she must want to see him too. That’s why she kept phoning. There were two hours before he had to meet his mother and father at Kingsbridge Station. He looked at the bill on the plate beside him and fished in his pocket for some shillings and a half crown. When he got up to leave with Tom, Dessie stayed where he was. He called over the waitress.

  ‘Can you freshen this pot up, darling? It’s stewed to buggery.’

  The tram to Adelaide Road was another part of Tom’s day in Dublin; sitting upstairs, looking at the streets and the people, was its own entertainment. As they walked past the terraced houses to the synagogue it started to rain. Hannah was waiting on the steps of the big red and white brick building.

  ‘This is Tom. Tom, this is Hannah.’

  ‘Hello.’ Tom looked slightly sheepish; he wasn’t used to new people.

  Hannah smiled, sensing his awkwardness.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Tom. Are you having a good day?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been to Clery’s.’

  ‘Looking at toys? Well, you would be just now, wouldn’t you?’

  Tom’s expression was very serious. ‘Were you at Clery’s at all?’

  ‘Yes, lots. I can’t remember the last time though.’

  ‘Did you ever see the bike?’

  ‘I don’t think I did, no.’

  ‘It’s in the window, right by the clock. It’s a tricycle.’

  ‘Will I have a look next time I’m up there?’

  Tom thought she should. She glanced at Stefan and winked. She already knew about the tricycle. Her eyes seemed very bright as Stefan looked at her. Tom’s nervousness had suddenly gone and he was smiling. He liked her. The rain was falling harder now. Hannah took Tom’s hand.

  ‘Come on, you’ll both be soaked,’ she laughed. ‘We all will!’

  She hurried up the steps with Tom. Stefan followed, running. The rain was beating down. As they entered, he instinctively reached to take his hat off. Hannah touched his arm, smiling, pushing it back on his head.

  ‘It’s the other way round. Just leave it on!’

  Tom looked at the dark interior. It was full of unfamiliar things, but it was enough like a church to feel familiar all the same. It smelt like one too.

  ‘Is it a church, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, a Jewish church.’

  Tom watched as several childre
n walked past, wet from the rain.

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot you were having the day off.’ Hannah spoke more quietly. ‘I hope I didn’t mess it up. You should have ignored me!’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He felt she seemed slightly more awkward now. Perhaps it was just being in the synagogue, perhaps it was the sense that they were still somehow standing on the bridge between what was personal and what was professional in their relationship. More children hurried past them. Tom was looking at the dark interior more closely now, the rows of pews and the high gallery above, but his eyes kept coming back to the children, his own age and older, now closely packed in front of the Torah Ark, by a branched candelabrum, laughing as the elderly rabbi told then the Hanukkah story.

  ‘You can go and listen,’ said Hannah gently.

  Tom looked up at Stefan doubtfully.

  ‘Come on.’ She took his hand again and walked him towards the other children. Stefan followed. He could see Tom’s doubts had already gone.

  ‘This is Hanukkah,’ she continued. ‘It’s about a bad, bad king and the people who kicked him out and sent him packing. We light candles to remember that.’ She caught the rabbi’s eye, and pushed Tom gently forward.

  ‘And what’s your name?’ asked the rabbi.

  Tom looked back at his father for reassurance. Stefan nodded.

  ‘It’s Tom, Father.’

  The other children giggled. Tom didn’t understand why, but it felt welcoming and good-humoured enough, so he just smiled back at them.

  ‘All right, Tom. First the battle, then the miracle. Well, if God’s going to take the trouble to give us a miracle he expects us to put some work in too. That’s the battle. I think it’s fair, don’t you? Now, we have a wicked king, a very wicked king, more wicked than you could ever imagine. Antiochus was his name.’ The others hissed and booed. ‘And we have a hero, Judah the Maccabee, fighting the evil king, to save Jerusalem. He was a brave man and his soldiers were brave, but there were only a few of them, and at first Antiochus chased them all into the hills with his great army.’

  ‘Like Michael Dwyer and Sam MacAllister,’ said Tom. ‘They hid in the mountains behind our farm, when they were fighting the redcoats.’