by Jacqui Rose
It was odd, but Stefan could feel his heart racing slightly. It was an unfamiliar feeling. He still had no idea why he was sitting in Ned Broy’s office, listening to this, but for a moment he had forgotten all that. The unfamiliar feeling was simply excitement. It was four years since he had worked as a detective, but the instincts that had made him good at his job were still there. In a few short sentences he had been pulled into something that made him feel as if a light had just been switched on inside his head.
‘Mrs Harris has a son. Owen. He’s twenty years old. I don’t think we know enough about him to know what kind of man he is, but we know his relationship with his mother was very difficult, for all sorts of reasons. Some of those reasons had to do with money. Mrs Harris has lived apart from her husband for a considerable time, over ten years in fact. Mr Harris is a doctor, with a practice in Pembroke Road. From what he’s told detectives I think you’d describe the relationship between mother and son as highly strung, which is a polite way of saying they were a bloody peculiar pair. The case is being run by Superintendent Gregory at Dublin Castle, but it’s a major investigation, that involves detectives from several stations, as well as Special Branch. The short version is that Owen Harris murdered his mother, drove her to Corbawn Lane in her car, and dumped the body in the sea.’
‘And where is he now?’ asked Stefan. It was the Commissioner’s tone of voice, rather than the words, that told him that wherever Owen Harris was, he certainly wasn’t in Superintendent’s Gregory’s custody.
‘New York.’
‘That was quick work.’
‘He left from Cobh two days after his mother disappeared.’
‘Is he in custody in New York?’
‘No, but we know where he is.’
Broy sat back down, looking at a piece of paper on his desk.
‘Mr Harris is at the Markwell Hotel, which is somewhere near Times Square, 220 West 49th Street to be exact. He’s not in custody, and it’s felt there is no need for his arrest or extradition. He has agreed to come back to Ireland voluntarily to be interviewed. And that’s why you’re here, Sergeant.’
This may have been the most interesting conversation Stefan had had since he went to Baltinglass as station sergeant, but it was as clear as mud. He looked at Broy blankly. None of it explained why he was there at all.
‘The business of bringing this man Harris back from New York is a delicate one, for a number of reasons. At the moment he’s in a hotel room, being looked after by his friends and colleagues. As he’s agreed to return the decision has been made not to involve the police in New York. Mr Brennan, the consul, has seen him, and there is a feeling that his mental state is … I think unpredictable is the word he used.’ Stefan wanted to look as if this clarified anything; it didn’t. As the man the Commissioner was describing had recently murdered his mother, ‘unpredictable’ seemed to raise more questions than it answered. None of this sat very easily on the lips of Ned Broy, who was more noted for his straightforwardness than prevarication. ‘Mr Harris is in New York with the Gate Theatre. They’re on a tour and they’re about to open on Broadway.’ The expression on Broy’s face indicated that this explained something. It still didn’t, but the presence of the past, and of conversations in the Commissioner’s office four years ago, was closer. ‘I’m not sure what he does. He’s some sort of stage manager and I think he plays small parts. The tour coincides with the opening of the World’s Fair in New York in a fortnight’s time. I don’t doubt you’ll have read something about that, and about the Irish pavilion at the Fair?’
‘I’ve read a bit,’ replied Stefan.
‘You won’t have read how much the fecking pavilion’s costing.’ Broy gave a wry smile. ‘There aren’t many state secrets more secret that that one.’
‘I see,’ said Stefan, though of course he didn’t.
‘It’s all about punching above our weight. I think that’s how Dev sees it. There’s a pavilion from almost every country on the face of the earth, but we’re not just there to show what great fellers we are on our Emerald Isle. We’re there to show the way, to all the small countries of the world, not just the ones we know, but the ones that are just a glint in somebody’s eyes right now. The president wouldn’t want you to think we’re spending all that money we don’t have to boost the holiday business. It’s a grander scheme altogether. We’re God’s living proof that the great empires are dead and in the future it’s the independent nations that are going to inherit the earth.’
‘What do they think about that in what’s left of Czechoslovakia?’
‘Well, they might not have got a country, but I think they’ve got a pavilion at the World’s Fair.’ The Commissioner shrugged. ‘The future may be a long way off. I’m telling you why what happens in New York is important. The Gate tour is all part of it. When the World’s Fair opens the government expects us to get a lot of attention, and a bit of Irish theatre on Broadway is meant to add to the kudos, while we show the world what we’ve done since we kicked out the British Empire. And what’s the matter with that? The last thing anybody wants is headlines about an Irish actor who stopped off to murder his mother before he joined the tour. We have to get this man Harris out of America and back here as fast as we can. And that’s why you’re here, Sergeant. You’re going to New York to get him.’
‘I assume there’s a reason for that, sir.’
‘Mr Harris is in a hotel room. There’s somebody from the consulate at the hotel, but the people who are keeping an eye on him are his friends, other actors, I don’t know. The point is that this is all about answering questions, not about a murder suspect. That’s how it has to stay. I think Mr Mac Líammóir is the one who has persuaded the man to come back. It’s his company after all. I don’t imagine he’d be any more enthusiastic about the wrong sort of headlines than anyone else. Everyone wants Harris out of there quietly. He said he’d got him to agree to come back and he didn’t want some bollocks of a Dublin detective putting the shite up a man and sending him over the edge. And in a police force staffed almost entirely by bollockses - his words not mine - you were the least like a bollocks he could think of.’
Stefan smiled. It was four years since he’d last spoken to the actor and director who was the Gate Theatre’s founder, but he didn’t need to be told those were his words. Four years ago the body of a young man had been found buried in the Dublin Mountains, close to the body of a woman who had recently disappeared. A Gate theatre ticket had helped identify the man, Vincent Walsh. The investigation had taken Stefan Gillespie a long way from Dublin, to Danzig and the heart of the European crisis that now threatened to spill into war. It had brought him face to face with what mattered most in his life, and when it was over, because of that, it had taken him home to West Wicklow and his young son. It had led him to the only woman he had loved since the death of his wife, Maeve, six years ago; when it had finished the thin thread of passion that held them together had broken. The investigation itself had concluded in the dark corridors where investigations nobody wanted to investigate were given an indecent burial. Micheál Mac Liammóir was only a memory from that time, but Stefan remembered him as a man who had looked for discretion and trust in him and had found it.
‘We’re dealing with this at a distance. The conversations are in telegrams and even they’re at second or third hand. The decision not to involve the police in New York is a political one in the end. I don’t know whether it’s right or not, but if we got into a situation where we had to try and extradite Harris, it could drag on for months. In the end the decision rests with Mr McCauley, the consul in New York, and the ambassador in Washington, and what Mr Mac Liammóir is telling them about this man. I don’t know whether the man’s just highly strung or barking man, but Mac Liammóir seems to think he’s harmless enough if he’s handled in the right way. I don’t know what his mother would say about that, but the conclusion is that a policeman who’s not too much like a policeman is what we want.’
‘Shoul
d I take that as a compliment, sir?’ said Stefan, smiling.
‘Well, Mr Mac Liammóir obviously thinks it is. I’m going along with this because we are relying a lot on the Gate. I probably don’t need to tell you that it’s not going down well everywhere. Superintendent Gregory is in charge of the investigation. You’d probably know him, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ll have met him, but I’ve never worked with him,’ replied Stefan. ‘I think he was in Special Branch when I was a detective at Pearse Street.’
‘There are detectives from several stations on this, but Special Branch is running it. There’s no reason to think it involves anyone other than the mother or the son, except that it’s already dragging in the government, the Department of External affairs and my fucking Uncle Tom Cobley. And while I wouldn’t say Dev’s a friend of the family, he’d know the father. Put it altogether and you’ll see kid gloves are the order of the day, Sergeant.’
Though Stefan nodded, he wasn’t sure that handing the thing over to Special Branch was the answer to that; kid gloves weren’t their speciality.
‘You fly the day after tomorrow.’
Stefan was surprised; he had assumed he would be going by boat.
‘You’ll know the Flying Boat’s service has started operating from Foynes. You’d hardly have missed it. I won’t tell you what it’ll cost, but somebody seems to think the wrong headlines will cost more. It will get you to New York in less than twenty-four hours. You’ll be there two days and then straight back. A boat’s going to take more than a fortnight. It’s too long. That’s it. Right now the kid gloves are yours, Stefan. I probably don’t need to tell you what Terry Gregory thinks about it. He may be right, but I’m doing it the way I’ve been asked to do it, softly-softly. My office will make all the arrangements, for you, but you’ll need to talk to him. There’s a detective here to talk you through it. He’ll take you to see the Superintendent.’ Ned Broy laughed. ‘Don’t expect much of a reception.’
Stefan just nodded. He had a good idea what he could expect.
New York, 1939: A city of hope. A city of opportunity. A city hiding dark secrets …
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CITY OF STRANGERS: 9780007460076
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2013
Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2013
Copyright © Luca Veste 2013
Copyright © Paul Finch 2013
Copyright © Mark Sennen 2013
Copyright © Laurence O’Bryan 2013
Copyright © Michael Russell 2013
Cover design: Paul Agar
Jacqui Rose, Luca Veste, Paul Finch, Mark Sennen, Laurence O’Bryan and Michael Russell assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
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