Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

It was very silent. Jimmy Lynch just stared at his old friend. But now Stefan knew. He knew why it had all meant nothing to Robert Fitzpatrick.

‘And was it Sister Brigid told you to kill Vincent Walsh?’

Moran nodded as if to say, why wouldn’t she? He drained his glass of whiskey and reached out to pour one more.

‘I hadn’t seen her for years you know. When I was in the industrial school in Clontarf the monsignor was the parish priest. She kept house for him, just the way she does now. My best friend was Enda Dunne then. We’d go and do the garden for them. I don’t say we did much really, probably made more mess than anything, but she’d give us a few coppers, and they’d a big orchard at the back. We could take what we wanted. And sometimes we’d stay over. She’d read to us, stories like. She was the only one ever read a story to me. It was a little room at the top of the house. The best bed I ever slept in. If I’m home there’s never a night I don’t read to my kids. You know what’s daft? They can read better than me. They pretend they can’t but they show me up.’ He laughed but as he spoke the words he said them with pride.

‘You’ve known Sister Brigid a long time then, Sean?’ said Stefan.

‘We lost touch during the fighting. I think she guessed I was in the IRA, and she didn’t approve. So, I don’t know, about five years ago I saw the monsignor saying Mass at the Pro-Cathedral one Sunday, and there she was. She knew me straight away. I was a just a guard then, uniforms. That was before you turned up and got me into Special Branch, Jimmy. We go back a long way too, don’t we? Sister Brigid said I should come and hear the monsignor at Earlsfort Terrace. I tell you, I never knew what was going on in the world. It frightened the life out of me. I wouldn’t understand it all of course. She says one day Robert, that’s the monsignor, one day he’ll be a saint. But if you could vote for saints, I tell you she’s the one I’d vote for.’

He stopped as if, having said what he had to say, it was over. He got up, smiling at Stefan like an old friend, even as he winced with pain. ‘One to remember you by, Sarge.’ He winked at Jimmy Lynch and then he left.

They said nothing for a long moment, listening to Sean Og Moran’s feet going down the stairs. The door slammed as he walked out to Dorset Street. Lynch poured the last of the whiskey from the bottle. He passed a glass to Stefan.

‘Jesus Christ.’

Stefan could only nod in agreement.

Detective Sergeant Gillespie did most of the talking. Jimmy Lynch said very little. That was partly because he knew very little and partly because he was terrified of what Stefan was going to say about him. He knew Hugo Keller was dead now, but he felt as if his ghost was going to manifest itself at any moment in the Garda Commissioner’s office and point the finger at him. He had nothing to worry about in the end. Stefan stuck to the matter in hand, the murders of Vincent Walsh and Susan Field and the murderer, Garda Sean Og Moran. There were things Stefan didn’t want to say in front of Detective Sergeant Lynch, and Lynch knew that, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be said eventually. He still didn’t know how much Keller had told Stefan. Meanwhile the Garda Commissioner, who had spent most of the time standing at the window of his office looking at the trees of the Phoenix Park, was well aware of the gaps in Sergeant Gillespie’s story. He wasn’t sure he wanted more than he was getting. He might be happy to leave it at that. A guard killing on the instructions of a nun who happened to be the sister of one of the country’s most prominent churchmen was more than enough to be going on with.

‘I want every file you’ve got on this, both of you. Whatever notes there are, whatever paperwork, either at Pearse Street or Dublin Castle, I want it here. I want no copies left for anyone else to find. You tell no one.’

Ned Broy dismissed Jimmy Lynch first, though the Special Branch man seemed reluctant to go. It wasn’t that he’d discovered a sudden liking for Stefan Gillespie but just now he didn’t want to be separated from him, at least not when that meant leaving him on his own with the Commissioner.

‘Get it done, Lynch!’

The door shut and a worried Detective Sergeant Lynch departed.

‘I’ll have to talk to the Minister of Justice. I’m not setting out to cover this up, but I know the first thing he’ll say, “Why the fuck did you have to tell me?” I’ll be frank, Sergeant, I don’t know what we’ll do. Whatever you’re not telling me is probably best left alone. I don’t need to know any more about Sergeant Lynch. The information from Mr Keller didn’t only go one way.’

‘I thought Jimmy was working for him.’

‘He was. So he knows who’s who. That makes him useful.’

‘I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him myself.’

‘I can throw him a long way, and he’ll find that out.’ Broy smiled. ‘But you can always do something with a man who’d sell his best friends for a few quid. If you know you can’t trust a man, at least you know something.’

By the time Inspector Donaldson heard that Detective Sergeant Gillespie was in the building, every trace of mat-erial relating to the deaths of Vincent Walsh and Susan Field that hadn’t been taken by Jimmy Lynch the previous year had been packed into cardboard boxes to be carried out of Pearse Street Garda station by Stefan Gillespie and Dessie MacMahon. There was a car from Garda HQ parked by the entrance. A uniformed guard took the boxes and packed them into the boot. As he slammed the boot shut and walked to the driver’s seat, Inspector Donaldson appeared, flustered and red-faced.

‘What are you doing here, Gillespie?’

‘Orders, sir.’

‘What’s he taken, MacMahon? He’s taken something!’

‘Files, sir.’ Dessie took out a Sweet Afton and put it between his lips. This seemed promising.

‘What files?’

‘Detective Sergeant Gillespie told me not to say.’

‘You’re still under suspension, Gillespie! You can’t walk into my station and — I’ll have you kicked so far the Commissioner — ’

The back door of the car swung open.

‘Jesus, Stefan, what are we waiting for now? Get in!’

The inspector stared. Then he snapped to attention and saluted.

‘Sir!’

Stefan got into the car and shut the door. As the car drove off Inspector Donaldson was still saluting. Dessie was lighting his cigarette.

‘Drop the sergeant at Annie O’Neill’s in Westland Row.’

The Commissioner’s driver nodded. Broy leant back into his seat.

‘That’s the lid on it as far as you’re concerned, Gillespie.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And no more fecking freelancing.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I was never a by guess and by God sort of detective. Neither are you. So the holes in your story don’t tell me what a clever feller you are, they tell me you’re keeping something to yourself. You’ll have your own reasons.’

Ned Broy’s face was impassive; his words were matter-of-fact. But Stefan had every cause to believe that despite the Commissioner’s disregard for guesswork, he was pretty good at it. He had guessed more than he said.

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

‘You wouldn’t. But whatever you intend to do with what you’ve got hold of now, just make sure none of it finds its way back to me. I won’t save you twice.’

The next morning Stefan Gillespie met Lieutenant John Cavendish upstairs in Bewley’s. Cavendish was in uniform. Where his stock-in-trade before had been that he didn’t really know what he was doing, now he was more businesslike. Stefan pushed the Jacob’s biscuit tin across the table. He had to do something with it. He had been tempted to throw Keller’s book into the fire. But it was more important than he wanted it to be. It had to go somewhere.