‘Yes, it was just like that, Tom. And like Michael Dwyer, Judah and his men had no weapons, no food, no shelter. In Jerusalem the wicked king’s soldiers were eating the people out of house and home and putting up statues of the Greek gods in the Temple of the Lord.’ More hisses and boos; Tom joined in. ‘Everyone thought the war was over and Antiochus had won!’
Hannah and Stefan had walked a little way back towards the doors.
‘He’s like you,’ she said quietly.
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s so bad.’
They were silent for several seconds. She seemed reluctant to speak.
‘You wanted to talk to me, Hannah?’
‘I wanted to know if there was any more news?’
‘There’s nothing new.’ The question had been surprisingly vague. It was the same question she asked every day. After three phone calls he had assumed she had something to tell him. And he wasn’t really sure she had forgotten about his day off. He knew there was something else going on.
‘I know you’re still not telling me everything, Stefan. I’m trying to understand that, but I’m also waiting for more. I think you owe me more.’
He was surprised, almost hurt. It sounded like she was using the fact that they had slept together as a lever. But as he looked into her deep eyes, the honesty and the openness told him instantly that she wasn’t. It was simply that she believed he owed her the truth, whatever that meant. And the part of him that wasn’t a policeman said she was right. But there was still something else, something different about her unfamiliar awkwardness.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, trying to read her face.
‘The thing is, I have to go. That’s why I needed to talk to you.’
She tried to throw the words away, as if they weren’t that important, but her face told a different story. She didn’t like what she was saying.
‘Go where?’
‘I have to leave Ireland.’
It was the last thing he expected to hear. There was no reason why Hannah shouldn’t leave Ireland, but it was out of step with everything that had happened since they met. All her attention had been on Susan Field.
‘You mean you’re going back to Palestine?’
‘Eventually, yes. I need to go to England. I have some work to do.’
It felt like a brush-off. She was only telling him part of it. He realised he hadn’t ever asked what she did. And she hadn’t told him. He realised how little he knew about her again. He knew about the death of her friend. He knew something about her childhood, from Susan’s letters and an hour in a pub. He knew there was a man in Palestine, Benny; a farm where they grew oranges. It wasn’t much. Perhaps she’d never intended him to know much.
‘Back to the oranges?’ he smiled, trying to make a joke of it.
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t your fiancé grow oranges?’
She moved closer to him. This wasn’t easy for her. She wanted to tell him that he mattered to her. She wanted him to understand that there were reasons she had to go. But she couldn’t explain the reasons. Not now.
‘I’m sorry. I was never going to be home very long.’
‘I wish I’d known that.’
The sound of laughing children filled the synagogue.
He knew she had more to say. And he knew she wouldn’t say it.
‘I want to know what happens, Stefan.’
‘Yes, naturally. If you tell me where you are –’
‘If you find anything, my father will be able to contact me.’
Now she wouldn’t even give him an address.
‘I’m not going because I want to, Stefan.’
‘When do you go?’
She took a moment to answer.
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘And that’s that?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Could we see each other tonight?’
He took a deep breath and nodded; he was still surprised.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking his hand.
He looked at her, not at all sure what to make of her behaviour, then all of a sudden he was conscious of the time and the train and his mother and father waiting at Kingsbridge Station. There wasn’t time to say any more.
‘I’ve got to get Tom to the station. My parents will be there.’
‘I’ll be at Neary’s tonight, Stefan.’ She let go of his hand.
They walked back towards the children, now gathered tightly round the menorah. The rabbi held the lighted shammus candle that sat between the eight others, four on each side, as he said the blessing. The Hebrew words were as unfamiliar to Stefan as to Tom, though Stefan had heard similar words spoken over Susan Field’s body. For Tom they were no less impenetrable than the Latin he heard at Mass; he happily assumed it was the same language he heard every Sunday. As the rabbi spoke he translated the words for Tom. ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu.’ Blessed are you, Lord God. ‘Melekh ha’olam.’ King of the universe. ‘She’asah nisim la’avoteinu bayamim haheim baziman hazeh. Amein.’ Who wrought miracles for our fathers at this season long ago. Amen. He gave the shammus to the youngest children in turn, then to Tom, guiding his hand to the fifth candle; the others would remain unlit today. As the rabbi took the shammus and put it in the centre of the menorah, Tom crossed himself and bowed his head. The other children giggled good-naturedly again; he didn’t notice. Stefan rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. He knew who Tom’s silent prayer was for.
Hannah and Stefan sat in Neary’s again that night. It was only the second time they had been together like this. He knew it would be the last time too. She didn’t want to talk about leaving Ireland, or about where she was going, and he didn’t ask her. They were both conscious that there were things they weren’t saying and couldn’t say. Then quite unexpectedly, she asked him about Maeve. He was surprised that it made things easier. He told Hannah about the camping trip in the mountains and the night by the lakes at Glendalough. How he woke in the morning to find he was in the tent on his own with his two-year-old son. He knew what Maeve was doing. She was swimming in the lake. They had swum together the evening before. But when he went outside he couldn’t see her. It was midday before the body was found. He would never know whether it was the cold of the water, or cramp, or whether she had just swum too far. She had drowned. It was as sudden and as meaningless as that. He told the story of Maeve’s death well. He had told it too many times not to. Sometimes, even now, it felt as if it was a story, someone else’s story. He was barely aware that for most of the evening he spoke and she didn’t; she was more relaxed when she was listening. Several times she did begin to tell him something about Palestine and her failings as an orange grower, but then she laughed and stopped abruptly, as if she had thought better of it. She seemed to need to keep Ireland and Palestine apart. Neither of them wanted to talk about the future either, even about the next day. But it didn’t matter; what mattered was that they were together tonight. That was all they had now. When they left the pub, she put her arm through his. And he didn’t ask her if she was going home.
*
The next day Stefan Gillespie sat in the upstairs drawing room of a flat-fronted Georgian house at thirty-two Fitzwilliam Place. He hadn’t forgotten the conversation with Lieutenant Cavendish on the train to Baltinglass. He hadn’t forgotten that Dessie MacMahon watched Cavendish and another man searching Hugo Keller’s house two days after the abortionist left Ireland, or that Dessie had followed them to Fitzwilliam Place. Now that he had hit a dead end with Frances Byrne it was time to see what he could get out of the Military Intelligence operation no one else knew about, not even Dessie. The interest G2 had in Hugo Keller made sense from what Cavendish had told him, but Detective Sergeant Jimmy Lynch was something else, and it was Jimmy Lynch he kept bumping into in one way or another in this investigation. Lynch didn’t only connect to Keller, now he connected to Vincent Walsh.
A fire blazed in the grate and
there was a Christmas tree in the window, hung with what were unmistakably the home-made decorations of young children. When Lieutenant Cavendish brought in a tray of tea, Stefan heard children’s voices and the pit-a-pat of feet running up to the next floor. Neither Cavendish nor the older man was in uniform. They had seemed only slightly surprised to find him on the doorstep. Cavendish did ask how he had found them but Stefan didn’t reply. It felt like a good idea to suggest it was something cleverer than Dessie MacMahon following them from Merrion Square. He had assumed he would find a military office; instead he was in Captain Gearóid de Paor’s home. It reminded him of what he had already worked out about the G2 operation; whatever it was, it wasn’t officially sanctioned. That was his leverage. The lieutenant sprawled on a horsehair sofa that hadn’t seen much horsehair in a long time. Stefan shifted uncomfortably in an armchair with a broken spring. The older man, de Paor, sat by the fire with a cigarette that he didn’t seem to smoke; he was tall and dark, with a neatly trimmed moustache. He had been writing Christmas cards as Stefan walked into the room. He listened to what the detective told him as if he couldn’t quite understand what it had to do with him, but the amiable smile didn’t fool Stefan. He watched the man’s eyes; they were less amiable. If there was anything useful to be found, it would be extracted and filed.
‘Intriguing stuff, but I’m not sure what we can offer you, Sergeant.’
‘You can tell me more about Hugo Keller, sir.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I wouldn’t mind starting with where he is.’
‘We can’t do any better than you there. Germany’s as far as we’ve got. He’s of no real interest to us now he’s out of the country anyway.’
‘If Susan Field didn’t come out of his clinic alive, that’s murder.’
‘I suppose it would be.’
‘You don’t seem very bothered, Captain.’
‘If he’s responsible for the woman’s death then he should pay the price. Whether he is or not, I haven’t got the faintest idea. That’s your show. Two bodies makes it all rather more complicated of course. Not much of a connection between the man and the woman from what you’re saying. But when all’s said and done, it’s got nothing to do with Military Intelligence.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s got something to do with Special Branch.’
The two officers looked at him. Cavendish stopped sprawling.
‘Detective Sergeant Lynch went to considerable trouble to get hold of some letters that belonged to Vincent Walsh,’ continued Stefan. ‘Jimmy was happy to perjure himself and put a friend of Walsh’s in Mountjoy in the process. That was more than a year after Walsh disappeared. Now he’s turning Dublin upside down for Keller’s memoirs, or whatever it is he keeps in his little book. I assume that’s why you two were searching Merrion Square. Jimmy’s not so dumb he wouldn’t have found it if it was there by the way. I keep bumping into Jimmy, that’s the thing. I don’t know why.’
‘I can’t help you there,’ smiled de Paor.
‘No one’s helping me very much anywhere. As far as my inspector’s concerned, exactly the opposite. So I have to help myself.’
‘That’s admirable, Sergeant. I still don’t see –’
‘I’d like to find Hugo Keller.’
‘Easier said than done now, I imagine.’
‘So what’s in it, Captain? The book.’ Stefan wasn’t going to let go.
De Paor lit another cigarette that he wouldn’t smoke. He looked across at Lieutenant Cavendish, who shrugged. The captain said nothing.
‘Look, Keller’s door is where my investigation into Susan Field’s death stops,’ continued Stefan. ‘It’s a dead end. But it’s a very busy one. It’s got Special Branch pulling Keller out of a Garda cell and dumping a woman they don’t know at a Magdalene Laundry. It’s got the director of the National Museum driving Dublin’s favourite abortionist to Dún Laoghaire after a Nazi shindig at the Shelbourne. It’s got detectives beating up all sorts of people, including other detectives. And it’s got Military Intelligence breaking into crime scenes and following Special Branch men all round Dublin, not to mention me. Now whatever Jimmy Lynch is up to, you don’t really expect me to believe you’ve got orders to spy on Special Branch, do you? I think you’re doing it off your own bat. Or have I got it all wrong?’
The captain threw his cigarette into the fire and stood up.
‘Do you think there’s going to be a war, Sergeant?’
‘Are we expecting the English back?’
‘In Europe, I mean.’
‘Not according to Herr Hitler. Isn’t that the last thing he wants?’
‘Your family’s German, Mr Gillespie.’
Stefan was surprised. It was clear they had checked up on him.
‘It’s always useful to know who people are, Sergeant.’
‘I see. Well, my grandmother was German.’
‘You follow these things?’
‘Up to a point, Captain.’
‘So is it the last thing Herr Hitler wants?’
‘I’d say that depends who he’s talking to,’ smiled Stefan.
Cavendish laughed. ‘Spot on!’
‘And what do you think about the Nazis?’ continued the captain. Stefan was conscious he was the one who was being asked questions now. ‘Do you have an opinion?’
‘My mother still gets Christmas cards from her cousins. For the last two years they’ve come with swastikas on them. She doesn’t put them up. I’m not looking for Hugo Keller because he’s a Nazi. That’s his business.’
‘Everywhere there are Germans, there’s a Nazi Party,’ said de Paor, now turning to look out towards the street. ‘We’ve got our own here, as you know, run by Herr Doktor Adolf Mahr, when he’s not doing a thoroughly admirable job on the archaeology front, as director of the National Museum. You were at their Weinachsfest bash, of course, at the Shelbourne.’
‘I didn’t get an invitation though.’
‘Maybe next year.’
‘I’m not sure I couldn’t find something better to do.’
‘Everyone likes the flags and the uniforms, don’t they, Mr Gillespie? We’ve a bit of a soft spot for all that ourselves, trench coats and Sam Browne belts. But there’s a little bit more to it as far as the Nazi Party is concerned. Every German who’s living in Ireland, working, studying, is expected to belong to the Party. Choice is not an option. There’s the Hitler Youth too, just like the Boy Scouts they say, lots of hiking and cooking sausages on an open fire. But you don’t join the Party for the craic. I’m not so sure the craic would be that good. There are jobs to be done. You have to earn your keep.’
‘And what was Keller, the Party abortionist?’ asked Stefan.
‘When you take away the cultural evenings and the women’s baking circle, it’s all about information. The first thing is information about Germans in Ireland. If they’re not in the Party, why aren’t they in the Party? If they’re against the Party, who are they, who do they spend their time with, who are their friends, what family have they got back in the fatherland? Then there’s all the stuff about us. Who’s who? Who thinks Adolf Hitler is the cat’s pyjamas? Who thinks he’s a loudmouthed gobshite? Who thinks the new Germany’s heaven on earth? Who thinks it’s the road to hell? Who wants the government closer to Germany? Who wants to keep quiet ties across the channel? Where are the socialists and communists? If the time came, who’d plant the bombs below while they dropped them from the sky?’
‘You mean O’Duffy and his Blueshirts? They’re finished surely?’
‘Kaput as our friends would have it. No, the Blueshirts are old hat. They never counted for much anyway, did they? It’s the IRA that’s cosying up to the Nazis now. De Valera may have forgotten that England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity, but they certainly haven’t. Dev may have dumped the IRA but some of the friends he left behind have got their eyes on the war no one thinks will happen. Mahr’s probably got a longer list of those fellers than we have.
Not that you’d want to be heard saying it in polite society.’
‘So you’re spying on the spies,’ said Stefan.
‘I’m sure Herr Mahr would be shocked, genuinely shocked, to hear you use the word spy. I’ve had dinner with him several times. He’s a man with a great love for Ireland. And a real admiration for Dev too. They all think there’s something coming down the road though, any Nazi you speak to, and by the time the brandy bottle’s been round the table a few times you get a whiff of it. And somewhere what’s coming means England getting its just deserts. Mahr is doing what he’s meant to do, collecting information and sending it home. And I’m sure he feels he has got the interests of both Germany and his newly adopted home at heart.’
‘And Keller was a part of all this?’
‘Keller’s a different kettle of fish, Sergeant. I doubt he’s any more of a Nazi than he needs to be. Information is a business for him. He’s earned a good living here providing certain services the state prohibits. Along the way he’s collected a lot of information, about all sorts of people who’ve availed of those services. Abortion’s the main thing, but there are others, from the simple provision of contraceptive devices to treating sexual diseases you might be reluctant to refer to your own doctor. Herr Keller didn’t come cheap, so a lot of the people he dealt with matter. But that’s not all. A lot of people owed him favours. Blackmail breeds blackmail and what you can’t get that way you can pay for. There’s a market for everything.’
‘So he was selling information to Special Branch too?’
‘Let’s just say there was some you-scratch-my-back in play.’
‘It’s all a bit beyond Jimmy Lynch, isn’t it, Captain de Paor?’
‘I’m sure it is. You need to get the tail and the dog in the right order of wagging however. Keller wasn’t working for Lynch, Lynch was working for Keller.’
‘And no one in Special Branch knows?’
It was Cavendish who shook his head and answered.
‘I’m sure Keller fed him enough information to keep it all sweet. So if anyone asked Lynch about Keller he could say he was his pet informant.’
The City of Shadows Page 17
