Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘We’re finished for today.’ She smiled warmly as she approached him. ‘But you will let me know if there’s any information you want.’

‘I was hoping to have a word with the monsignor.’

‘He gets very tired after these meetings. Inspiration takes its toll.’

‘I won’t keep him long.’

She smiled a motherly smile. He liked her. She made him feel as if he was at a cake sale to raise money for new kneelers for church pews. She moved down to the table where the priest was gathering his papers into a black leather briefcase. As she spoke to him he looked round and smiled at Stefan. Then she came back, still clutching her bundle of creased leaflets, and headed for the door. Stefan walked towards Fitzpatrick and stopped.

‘We haven’t seen you before, have we?’ said the priest.

The smile didn’t survive Stefan’s explanation of who he was.

‘And why exactly would you have questions to ask me, Sergeant?’

‘It’s a colleague of yours I wanted to talk to, Father Francis Byrne.’

Monsignor Fitzpatrick’s brow furrowed.

‘I gather he’s not in the country now,’ continued Stefan.

‘I understand that to be the case.’

‘I need to contact him.’

‘For what reason?’

‘It has to do with his teaching at UCD.’

‘I was Father Byrne’s immediate superior there. He has worked with me for a long time. I’m also a member of the university senate. I can’t imagine Father Byrne’s path crossing yours. But if there is anything you have a good reason to know about, I’ll do what I can to help you.’

‘I’d like to know where I can contact him. The university doesn’t have a forwarding address, other than yours. Am I right that he’s in Germany?’

There was no answer; the shutters were up.

‘As for any questions, they’re of a personal nature.’

‘And why would the Gardai have personal questions to ask of a priest who was in my pastoral care until very recently, Sergeant Gillespie?’

‘All I need is an address, Monsignor.’

‘Are you suggesting Father Byrne has done something wrong?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything.’

‘Then I think you need to make yourself plainer.’

‘You do have an address for him.’

‘I can contact him if I feel it’s necessary.’

‘Can I ask when he left Ireland?’

‘It was some time in the summer. August, I think.’

‘When are you expecting him back?’

‘I don’t know that I am expecting him back.’

‘Can I ask why he left?’

‘Why he left is the business of the Church.’

‘He isn’t working for you now?’ Stefan persisted.

‘No.’

‘He was living here when he left Ireland though?’

‘This is none of your business, but since you are determined to be intrusive, I will tell you that before Father Byrne left for Germany, he and I had not been on the best of terms for some time. He lived here and he worked for me. It was my influence that got him the post as a lecturer that he seemed — eventually — to find more important than his duties as a priest. As his obligations to me became a burden to him, it was inappropriate that he should remain here. I suggested he went back to the seminary at Maynooth. However, Father Byrne took the unusual course of taking a flat somewhere.’

Stefan had to hold back a smile at how much venom the man in black had squeezed into the word ‘flat’; it was the Fall of Man and Sodom and Gomorrah in a single, apocalyptic syllable.

‘Did his students ever come here, Monsignor?’

‘A lot of people come here. You’ve seen that yourself.’

‘I suppose I mean friends, rather than just students.’ He was treading on dangerous ground, but the resentment Fitzpatrick clearly felt towards Francis Byrne made it worth pushing. The monsignor had a high opinion of himself and his importance; it was something else Stefan could use.

‘I find myself in a very difficult position, Monsignor Fitzpatrick. I have an investigation to pursue, a very serious one, and a very sensitive one. A woman is missing. She was a student at UCD and Father Byrne was one of her lecturers. He had a friendship with this woman, a close friendship. I have good reason to believe he was one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. I’m sure you would want him to help us if he could.’

‘I don’t like the words close friendship in this context, Sergeant.’

‘They’re words that need go no further, Monsignor.’ Stefan left the sentence hanging in the air. He didn’t need to say anything about the possibility of scandal for Fitzpatrick to see that he had to give something.

‘Father Byrne was sometimes less careful in his relationships than he should have been.’ The priest spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I don’t suggest that there was ever anything unpriestly about his behaviour, but he did perhaps regard himself too much as part of the university rather than as a man apart, which is the path of the priest. There were things Francis and I shared that we share no longer. I understand your problem, Sergeant Gillespie, but it has nothing to do with me. I’m sure if there is anything Father Byrne can do to assist you in your search for this woman he will. If you write to him, he will, of course, reply. My sister will have his address.’

He picked up his briefcase. It was clear he would say no more. He stood for a moment by the table, suddenly looking slightly lost. Then he turned and walked out without another word. Stefan thought that behind the irritation and indignation tears were beginning to well in the priest’s eyes.

As Stefan came out of the meeting room, the woman was still there, standing in the doorway of the shop. The footsteps of the monsignor could be heard, climbing the stairs. The woman was looking up after him. She turned to Stefan, an expression of concern changing quickly to a smile.

‘My brother says you need Father Byrne’s address, in Danzig.’

‘He’s not in Germany then?’

‘Isn’t it Germany anyway? Or don’t they want it to be? I can’t remember. It’s something like that. But it’s very simple, you can address letters to him at the cathedral in Oliva. He’s working for the bishop there.’

The monsignor could have told him that easily enough. There was more going on between Robert Fitzpatrick and Francis Byrne than not seeing eye-to-eye. There was real hostility, at least on the monsignor’s part. Stefan thanked the woman and turned to go. She pushed a leaflet into his hand.

‘Your wife should read it too.’

He came out into Earlsfort Terrace. It was cold and almost dark, but he was pleased to breathe fresh air. As he walked back towards Stephen’s Green he screwed the leaflet into a tight ball and dropped it into the gutter.

At Pearse Street Garda station there was a note on Stefan’s desk. Wayland-Smith wanted to talk to him at the morgue. As he turned back to the door Inspector Donaldson was there, eyeing him, with the strained expression that meant he knew he wouldn’t relish the answers to the questions he had to ask.

‘What’s happening with this body at Kilmashogue?’

‘I’m just going to find out if Doctor Wayland-Smith’s got anything.’

‘Was he killed?’

‘I don’t suppose he buried himself.’

Donaldson pursed his lips impatiently.

‘Is it going to be an active investigation or not?’

‘If there’s anything to act on.’

A shrug was not what the inspector wanted either.

‘You know what I mean, Sergeant. How long was the body up there?’

‘He’s not sure. It could be two or three years, or it could go back to the twenties. We’ll find out. It doesn’t smell like some old IRA job to me.’