In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  Swallow signalled to the tall man to join them, drawing a fourth chair around the table.

  ‘Now, Mr Polson, I’d like to introduce you to an individual who is, shall we say, well-known to the police here in Dublin. This is Mr Charles Vanucchi. Charlie, this is the gentleman I spoke to you about.’

  Vanucchi placed his Cognac balloon on the table and stretched a hand across to greet Polson.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet ‘cha, Mr Polson. I’ve heard a lot about ya.’

  ‘Tell Mr Polson about yourself, Charlie,’ Swallow said, sipping again at his own whiskey.

  ‘Well, I suppose, the truth is, Mr Polson, I’m what ya might call a hardened criminal, a ruthless killer, in fact. Actually, I’m not all that ruthless at all, compared with them characters over there. I only kill for personal reasons, like if someone has insulted a friend, or if they get in the way of my business. Now, some o’ them fellas over there just kill because they like doin’ it.’

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his four companions, drinking at their table.

  ‘Them lads really are ruthless. They’d kill quick as look at ye. Me, like I say, I generally need a very good reason. And my good friend Detective Inspector Swallow here says he might give me that reason in respect of yerself.’

  He gulped at his Cognac.

  ‘My friend, Detective Inspector Swallow, has told me that you might want to cause him some harm, like, to get him out of the way. Now, I’ve given him an undertakin’ that if any mishap should befall him, I’m not going to be hangin’ around waitin’ for some court or some judge to say you done it. I’m goin’ to seek ye out and kill ye meself. Or mebbe send some o’ the lads over there to do it.’

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder again towards his companions.

  ‘One other thing, Mr Polson. You might think that you’d be safe by puttin’ a lot o’ miles between yourself and Dublin. But think about me name – Vanucchi. The Vanucchis come outta a stretch o’ land between Naples and a little town called Ercolana, just a bit to the south of it. There isn’t much in the line of career opportunity around there so we’ve spread all over the place. I’ve got brothers and first cousins and cousins to the fifth degree all over the bloomin’ world. So if one Vanucchi, say in Dublin, needs a job done in, say, New York, or Capetown, or London or Cairo, or anywhere, it’s not a problem. An’ we’re all more or less in the same line o’ business. Do ye get me drift?’

  Polson maintained his composure rather well, Swallow thought, in all the circumstances.

  ‘I don’t know anything about you or your family or what line of business you’re in,’ he told Vanucchi coldly. ‘And I don’t care. I’ve given an undertaking to these two gentlemen and I will honour it. You don’t need to try to scare me. You couldn’t anyway.’

  He faced back to Swallow.

  ‘I doubt if you play tennis, Mr Swallow. But if you did, you’d know there’s a score in the game known as “advantage”. It puts one player seemingly in the lead. But that lead can be as easily lost as it can be gained. You have the advantage now, Mr Swallow. But this isn’t the end of the game, not by a long way. You Irish have a saying that it’s a long road without any turning. Believe me, this road has many turns ahead. And you won’t like some of them.’

  Swallow grinned.

  ‘No, I don’t play tennis, Mr Polson. But I’ve a bit of an interest in an old Gaelic game called hurling. It’s coming back into popularity now around the country, not that you’d know anything about that. It’s played rough and fast and players can get hurt. They have a saying in hurling, “if you can’t get the ball, get the man.” I think it’s fair to say that in this game now, we’ve got the man.’

  Chapter 28

  Sunday, June 9th, 1889

  He slept fitfully in his underclothes on the first floor dormitory at Exchange Court and woke to bright daylight streaming through the un-curtained windows. He drew his watch from his jacket, at the end of the bunk. It was gone eight o’clock. The other sleeping spaces were empty. If there had been others there overnight, they were gone by now. He had no idea what time he had finished at the Burlington Bar or reached Exchange Court, but he had the clearest recollection of insisting to the others in the bar that, no, he was not going home to Grant’s. He was in no fit state to face Maria or to engage in the difficult conversations that he knew were now unavoidable.

  It had been a late night, or more accurately, an early morning in the Burlington Bar. Once Polson had departed, he and Dunlop had been joined by Mossop and Vizzard. Then Hogan, the photographic technician, emerged, declaring himself exceedingly thirsty, from his confinement in his concealed vantage point behind the bar. The G-men had to show appreciation in kind to Charlie Vanucchi and his toughs for their supportive appearance. And the criminals, in order to maintain their own dignity, felt they had to reciprocate. Dunlop ordered repeated rounds from the barman, hoping out loud that the newspaper would cover his not-inconsiderable expenditure. When it came to the official closing time of half-eleven, the manager, Billy Gough, designated the entire party as hotel residents, extending their entitlement to stay and drink all night if they wished. Then he joined the company himself.

  Swallow was bombarded with questions about the shooting of DI Fleury and the arrest of Tim Spencer. Fleury was RIC rather than DMP, but he was a policeman. And an Irish one. A brother-in-arms. Every G-man knew that his story could be their own, in any given set of circumstances. They wanted detail. Could he have saved himself? Did he leave a wife and children? They lauded Swallow for bringing the assassin down. It was Charlie Vanucchi who put the question that the G-men wanted to know but were reluctant to ask. Could Swallow not have shot Spencer first, since he was so close? He gave a vague answer that told the drinkers he did not want to discuss that aspect of the incident.

  He hauled himself to his feet and made his way to the washroom at the end of the dormitory. What he saw in the mirror was unflattering. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unruly and he needed a shave. The clean shirt that Mallon had procured for him thirty-six hours previously was rumpled and grimy on the floor. The washroom had a Vartry water connection so he ran a tap to splash his face and head. It was sufficiently icy to numb the pounding in his temples, at least temporarily. Someone had conveniently left a razor on one of the washstands and he began scraping away most of the dark stubble around his cheeks and chin.

  He knew it was Sunday. He realised he would be expected at the morning crime conference. He might even have to chair it. Because it was Sunday, the numbers present would be fewer than during the week and it probably would not last very long. But the G-men working on the Poddle murder case, as the newspapers had started to refer to it, as well as those still investigating the McCartan robbery, would report developments, if any, and they would need to be tasked for the day.

  He knew he had to report to John Mallon on the apparently successful outcome of the encounter with Reggie Polson the previous evening. The chief of detectives could not know any details, but it was important that he should be able inform Parnell as soon as possible that there was no imminent threat of O’Shea’s intended divorce petition being publicised.

  He tried to order his thoughts as best he could while working with the razor. He needed to talk to Mallon about how best to proceed after Timmy Spencer’s claims concerning the disappearance and murder of Sarah Bradley. First he would need Mallon to do a letter for Spencer, assuring him that his demands for immunity would be met. Then, assuming that his boss was willing to go along with that, he would have to take a formal statement from Spencer in Mountjoy. Once that had been completed, he knew, the standard investigative processes would have to be put in train. There would be a thorough search at Templeogue Hill. That would require a warrant. And manpower. The set of keys recovered from the Poddle would have to be tried in the various locks at the McCartan house. And McCartan himself would have to be questioned after caution. His reaction, Swallow knew, was likely to be explosive.

  Th
e pounding in his head re-started as he began to apprehend the complexities of the day ahead.

  Discretion would have to prevail at the conference, he knew. It would be sufficient for the attendance to be told of the circumstances that had led to Spencer’s arrest. They would have already learned the main details from the newspapers, at all events. But he would reveal nothing of Spencer’s allegation of murder against McCartan and the probability that his victim, Sarah Bradley, and the woman whose remains had been taken from the Poddle were one and the same. If Spencer’s information turned out to be wrong, or if Mallon decided against doing the deal he was asking for, the investigation would be stalled, probably permanently.

  To his surprise and relief, Duck Boyle was at the rostrum in the Parade Room, ready to chair the conference. Any appearance by Boyle on a Sunday was a rarity. Usually, it signalled that something to his own advantage was in the offing. Swallow did not much care. The presence of the rotund superintendent meant that he would be spared the responsibility of chairing the conference with the devils of last night’s drink pounding away in his head.

  The conference, as he had expected, was brief, with a limited attendance. Fewer than a dozen G-men and some uniformed constables were gathered at the top of the room.

  ‘Gintlmin, we’ll show our appreciation, in the customary way, of Inspector Swalla’s great work in Tipperary,’ Boyle called out, as Swallow took his seat.

  There was sustained clapping and cheering as Boyle reached across to shake his hand.

  ‘An’ in acknowledgin’ Inspector Swalla’s courage an’ his quick actions, we’ll also remember an’ respect our RIC colleague, Edward Fleury, who gev his life in th’ execution of his duty. So we’ll all stand for a minute’s silence.’

  In fairness to Boyle, Swallow reflected as he stood in the hushed Parade Room, he could mobilise a sense of propriety when the occasion demanded it.

  Pat Mossop looked a lot better than Swallow felt. He gave a coherent summary of a few snips of intelligence that had been gathered for the murder book over the previous twenty-four hours. A jeweller in Kingstown had reported that some gold half sovereigns had gone missing from their display case. One matched the date of one of the coins recovered from the river. A detective would visit him on Monday morning to follow up, checking any possible connections to known criminals. Information had been received about a woman who had gone missing from her home at Swords, a small village, north of the city. Because her husband was away, working in Scotland, her disappearance, around April, had not been reported. The RIC at Swords were making further inquiries.

  The main focus of interest was the arrest of Timmy Spencer, although the robbery at McCartan’s now seemed almost unimportant relative to the murder of a police inspector. Questions came to Swallow from the floor one after another. How did the RIC locate Spencer? Had he any political connections? Where did he acquire the firearm he had? Had he admitted to the robbery? Who were his accomplices? Where was the cash and jewellery taken in the raid?

  He tried to adhere to the truth as closely as possible but he knew he was being disingenuous. A constable visiting the monastery had recognised him by chance, he said. Spencer had not been involved in any political crime that could be identified. But he was known to keep company with some low-level members of the Fenian Brotherhood in certain public houses in Cork. And he was known to have boasted to others that he was a sworn Fenian. He would be questioned more closely on these matters later in the day. No, he had admitted nothing, which was true. Nor had he identified any accomplices. There was no knowledge yet of where the proceeds of the robbery might be hidden.

  ‘You’ll understand that the murder of District Inspector Fleury has to be given higher priority than our robbery investigation,’ he explained to the conference. ‘We’ve had to step back to allow the RIC to do their work first. They’ve been questioning him about what happened in Tipperary. I don’t honestly know if he’s made a statement yet. But I’m planning to question him this afternoon at Mountjoy and I hope I can learn the answers to some of this when I do.’

  Heads nodded and there was a murmur of comprehension across the group.

  ‘There’s nothin’ much else can be done here, so,’ Boyle announced. ‘It’s a grand, sunny mornin’ out there so we’ll all go about our business and resume our deliberatin’ here tomorra’ at the same time.’

  He beckoned to Swallow as the detectives and constables started to file out the door.

  ‘I’d add a word o’ sincere personal congratulation, Swalla’. Knowin’ you, I’d say you wanted to take this Spencer fella alive and at least that’s come to pass. It won’t be any comfort to the poor RIC man’s wife and family but it’ll give his colleagues satisfaction to see him at th’ end of a rope.’

  ‘He’ll get a fair trial,’ Swallow said tactfully. ‘And a chance to say his piece. That’s more than Fleury got.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Boyle leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘did ye make any progress in that matter of McCartan and his carry-on with the housekeeper?’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ Swallow told him. It was not an untruth. ‘I don’t think you were far wrong in your information, Super. If I get anything solid I’ll fill you in.’

  If McCartan was indeed linked to the death of the woman found in the Poddle, he reminded himself, he would be required to report back with any developments to Boyle anyway. As superintendent of the B-division, where the remains had been retrieved from the river, he was technically in charge of the case.

  When Swallow stepped out into the Lower Yard the morning air was filled with an irresistible aroma of frying bacon. He crossed to the police canteen and ordered black pudding and fried eggs. He took three thick slices of soda bread, slabbed with butter and washed the lot down with two full mugs of tea. The hot food and the sweet tea started to tackle the poisoning in his stomach and he started to feel half-normal again. The pounding in his head started to recede and he reckoned he was in a fit state to present himself to John Mallon.

  Mallon was dressed for Mass when Swallow got to his house. Every Sunday, with his wife and children, he walked from the Lower Yard to the Roman Catholic parish church of St Nicholas of Myra on Francis Street. Husband and wife dressed impeccably if conservatively for this weekly ritual, knowing that every eye was upon the powerful chief of detectives as he led his family to their customary place at the front of the congregation.

  ‘You don’t need to know the details of how it’s happened, Chief,’ Swallow told him as they sat in Mallon’s parlour. ‘But Reggie Polson won’t be doing any business concerning Mr Parnell with the newspapers in the foreseeable future. I can’t say the issue won’t arise at some point. But we wanted time and I’m fairly sure we’ve got it.’

  ‘I can hardly imagine how that might have come about,’ Mallon said cautiously. ‘But I assume it has something to do with the wretched condition you’re in yourself this morning. You look as if you’ve been run over by a steam train. Twice.’

  Swallow was a little taken aback. He had convinced himself that he had sufficiently recovered from the night before and attended to his appearance to pass himself off reasonably well.

  ‘That’s a fact, Chief,’ he admitted. ‘It was a challenging night. But it was in a good cause.’

  Mallon grinned.

  ‘Fair enough. Now, I’ve thought about Spencer and McCartan and what to do. I’ve decided that I’ll give Spencer his letter of comfort. I can’t say I like the idea but a lot of this job is about compromises and trade-offs, isn’t it? We can’t turn a blind eye to murder and even if it means that we make a new lot of enemies we’re going to have to go after McCartan. You’re fairly sure, aren’t you, that Spencer is telling us the truth on this?’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘I am, Chief.’

  ‘In that case we’ll need a warrant for the search at Templeogue Hill.’

  ‘I guessed that’s what you’d do, Chief. In conscience, I can’t say that it was Spencer’s shot that kill
ed Fleury. And if it’s a choice between clearing up a robbery or a murder, the murder has to come first. As soon as you can let me have the letter for Spencer, I’ll go back to Mountjoy and take his statement.’

  ‘You’ll have to put Doyle in the picture,’ Mallon said. ‘That means you’ll have to move quickly then on McCartan. Doyle won’t be able to keep the story to himself. And anyway, it’s his division so it’s his case at the end of the day.’

  ‘I understand, Chief.’

  ‘It’ll be best to question McCartan at his house, in the first instance. There’ll be enough of a stink doing that but it’ll be less so than if you take him to the station, either at Rathmines or here. Which of the magistrates do you think we should ask to do the warrant for a search? It needs to be someone who isn’t connected to politics or the law and who can be relied upon to stay quiet.’

  ‘I can get Dr Lafeyre to do that, Chief. He holds a magistrate’s powers ex-officio. Once I’m done at Mountjoy I can go to his house on Harcourt Street and swear in front of him.’

  ‘Good idea. And put maybe half a dozen men on standby to search the McCartan house.’

  He stood and reached to a side table.

  ‘Here’s your letter for Spencer. Now, I’m going to Mass with Mrs Mallon. Parnell is crossing from Holyhead tonight on the mail boat. I’ll arrange to talk to him as soon as he disembarks in the morning.’

  He turned for the door.

  ‘It’ll be a long day and probably a late night for you, Joe. You can tell me it’s none of my business if you like, but I take it that you won’t be going home to Thomas Street and Mrs Swallow?’

  Swallow realised he had not thought that far ahead. In fact he had hardly thought about Thomas Street and Maria at all since the shooting of Edward Fleury.

  ‘Probably not, Chief. I’ll take a bunk in the dormitory.’

  ‘You’re your own boss in such matters,’ Mallon said, not unkindly. ‘But it’s time you put first things first. And your home and your wife should come first. You shouldn’t be in that dormitory tonight.’