Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

There was time to remember a lot as he cycled past the track up to the cemetery under Kilranelagh Hill where Maeve was buried, then through Balinroan and on past Tom’s school at Kilranelagh Cross; by the long, crumbling wall of the crumbling Humewood Estate and on to Rathdangan and Rathcoyle; up on to the Military Road where it rose more steeply now, towards Aghavannah, and then suddenly, as the road turned sharply, he was riding down the steep slope into the valley of the Avonbeg River, beside the ruins of the English army barracks at Drumgoff. For a moment the reasons that had brought him into the mountains didn’t matter as he looked down. He knew this place. It was in his blood. He needed it to be in his son’s blood as well.

Hannah was in Dublin with her father. He hadn’t seen her since the train took them into Dublin from Dun Laoghaire. The journey from Sweden to Ireland had taken four days; by train to Gothenberg, by boat to Hull, then train and boat again. They were four days the two of them would not have again. It was hard to accept that. But it didn’t quite drive out the sense of exhilaration he felt as he sped down the wooded hillside into Glenmalure. He was doing a job no one wanted him to do — except for Hannah Rosen. It wasn’t only about her though. It wasn’t duty or some great sense of right and wrong, or a responsibility to the law or the Gardai or some higher purpose he hadn’t found a word for. He wasn’t there to speak for the dead. They didn’t care. He was carrying no fine motives up into Glenmalure. He wanted someone to pay for something. But it was more than that. There was an unspoken hope in this journey into the mountains. There were no scruples in that hope. He wasn’t looking for the truth; he was looking for a weapon.

He stopped at the Glenmalure Inn for a glass of lemonade. They told him they knew Mrs Donahue well. She lived in the cottage by the ford below Ballinagoneer and they kept her letters for her. She’d a few chickens up there and she’d had new slates on the roof last month. It was Joe Crosbie from Greenan who done it so she’d have to have a bit put away with the prices he’d charge, not that it was anybody’s business but her own. She’d never said she was a widow, but there was a feller from Dublin bought the house two years ago and she had it from him. She didn’t have much to do with anyone, but then if you were up at the top of the glen there wasn’t anyone to have much to do with anyway. Once a week she came down to the crossroads and took the bus into Rathdrum. On the way back she’d have a Guinness or two and wait for a lift from Eddie McMurrough. She wasn’t a bad looker, taking all things into account. It wasn’t only out of the kindness of his heart Eddie took her on past the farm at Ballinaskea and all the way home.

The road into Glenmalure stopped below Ballinagoneer, not long after the ford over the Avonbeg. There were only the mountains beyond. It was a long, narrow valley, with the hills climbing up more and more steeply. Even in summer it could be dark. The fields that were strung out along the valley were small, hard-won, stony things; they didn’t stretch far before the valley walls rose up at angles only the sheep could walk. Glenmalure had always been a bleak place. Down the centuries it had been a place of refuge too, as rebellion after rebellion against the English failed. It was a place of refuge for Mrs Donahue now. Stefan knew from the letter he had found at Hugo Keller’s house in Langfuhr that she was waiting in Glenmalure. Now he would have to tell her that the man she was waiting for was dead.

He crossed the ford and cycled through the woods until the track was too rough to pedal any further. He pushed the bike for another quarter of a mile. On one side of the track, among the trees, there were broken walls, overgrown with moss. It was a long time since anyone had lived here, but as the trees thinned out and the sunlight broke through on to the road there was a small cottage. It was neat and whitewashed. There was washing on the line and half a dozen speckled hens were picking about for food in front of the house. As he leant the bicycle against the wall, a woman came out, smiling. He recognised the nurse, Sheila Hogan, immediately. She recognised him.

‘How’s it going, Sheila?’

‘You’ll want some tea.’ There was no smile now.

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

She walked back in without another word. He sat down on a bench by the door. The wood was warm from the sun. It would be better said outside.

When she came out with the tea he took her letter to Hugo Keller from his pocket and gave it to her. She sat down on the bench, holding it tightly.

‘Where did you get it?’ she asked.

‘I was in Danzig.’

‘You saw him.’

He nodded.

‘I haven’t heard from him in a while.’

She stared down at the letter. She knew what he was going to say.

‘I’m sorry, but he’s dead, Sheila.’

She looked around her, at the garden and the mountains.

‘What happened?’

‘You know what he did. His luck ran out. It was bound to one day.’

‘Someone killed him?’

‘Yes.’

She stared across at the hens.

‘He didn’t like what he was doing there.’

‘I’d say it was a bit late for him to start being choosey. How many years was he at it, blackmailing people and selling information? It was never a recipe for a quiet old age. He could get away with a lot here — ’

‘He didn’t want to go to Danzig. It was because of the priest — ’

‘It doesn’t much matter now, does it?’

‘All he wanted was to come back here. He wanted to stop. That’s why he bought this place. But they wouldn’t let go. They wouldn’t let him stop. He didn’t want to leave Ireland in the first place. If you hadn’t — ’

‘The man’s dead, let’s leave it there. I’m not here for the wake.’

‘Then what are you here for, Mr Gillespie?’

‘The notebook.’

‘Jesus, are you still on about that?’

‘We found the woman.’

‘Who?’

‘Susan Field. You don’t remember?’

‘I remember I wasn’t there when she came to Merrion Square.’

‘But he’d have told you she died.’

She said nothing for several seconds, then nodded.

‘Someone shot her. Did you know that, Sheila?’

‘No. Hugo didn’t know either,’ she said, clearly surprised.

‘No, I don’t think he did. But I’m not really bothered about what he knew now. What matters is who he knew. It was a Special Branch man shot her, Detective Sergeant Jimmy Lynch. You know who he is, don’t you?’

‘I should do. He put me in hospital.’

‘And is that why you’re up here as Mrs Donahue?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Wasn’t Jimmy working for Keller?’

‘He was working for himself.’

‘And when Hugo went, he wanted the book — for himself.’

She said nothing again. The habit of silence was an old one.

‘So what’s in this book, Sheila?’

‘Nothing that matters now.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was his insurance policy. That’s what he called it. If anything went wrong. He put everything down in it. What he knew, what he sold, what he kept for himself. It was what he kept for himself that mattered most. He said it was his ticket to stay in Ireland. There were so many people he knew about, important people. He’d had enough. He just wanted to come up here and forget it all. When he went back to Germany he didn’t know they’d force him to keep working for them. It was only to lie low, till he came home again.’

‘You make blackmail sound like the Vincent de Paul, Sheila. It would have been a little nest egg too, to dip into when the winters were hard.’