Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘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 Gearoid 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.’