The City in Darkness

by Michael Russell

  ‘I have heard that too, Florence.’

  ‘I hope he’s in a better place.’

  ‘He could hardly be in a worse.’

  ‘Possibly not. So your business in Spain is done?’

  ‘Yes, it’s done.’

  It was done, but it wasn’t finished.

  PART THREE

  HIBERNIA QUIETA

  Turning to the internal situation, Mr de Valera said that the fact that at the moment Ireland was saved from the major consequences of the war should not blind the people to the fact that they were going to be seriously affected by it. No work that could be done by the Government here could shield the community from many of the evil consequences of the war.

  Irish Times

  23

  The Dove

  Stefan Gillespie returned to Ireland from Iberia the way he had come. He took the night train from Salamanca to Lisbon and the flying boat from Lisbon to Poole Harbour on the south coast of England. He telegrammed Kate O’Donnell to say he had time to spend a night in London on his way to Holyhead for the mail boat, and he met her outside the underground station at Hammersmith. She shared a rented house with two Irish women working in London, close to the river in Chancellors Street. They called in at the house briefly and then walked down to Hammersmith Bridge and along the Thames towards Chiswick. It was not long since they had seen each other in Dublin, the night before Stefan left for Spain, but it felt longer for them both. Stefan’s mind was full of everything that had happened, and even more of what would happen next. Kate had been in England for less than a fortnight, but she had found a place to live and had started a job. They were both preoccupied with things that were not about each other, and were not, in the usual way, about Ireland and home. There was an awkwardness, as if the separation had been one of months not weeks.

  As for what Stefan might or might not have learned about Maeve’s death, the question was whether he wanted to talk about it. Kate realized that much had happened, but whether it was to be the subject of conversation she had to leave to him. Instead, as they turned under the bridge into Lower Mall, she spoke about the job a friend of her sister’s had pushed her way. She was working for an advertising agency on artwork for Ministry of Information posters and propaganda. She already had a sense of being part of something that was more than just the job itself, a feeling that was everywhere in London now. She pointed out a ‘Walls Have Ears’ poster in the window of the Blue Anchor and laughed. It wasn’t her work, but similar posters soon would be; she had been working on ‘Walls Have Ears’ designs all week.

  It was busy along the river; a bright, clear Saturday with the warmth of spring in the air. People spilled out on to the pavement in front of the Blue Anchor and the Rutland Arms. Stefan was conscious how many men were in uniform; it was something Kate no longer noticed. A fortnight in, she already seemed to belong to this world of rationing and Air Raid Precautions, gas masks and blackout regulations.

  The Thames at Hammersmith felt as if it was at the very edge of London, though it wasn’t at all. The river was wide here and on the other bank acres of invisible reservoirs meant there was only a line of trees to see behind the towpath, and what felt like emptiness beyond. Kate and Stefan turned into the narrow alleyway that led to the next pub along the river, the Dove. It was as they went into the low, dark bar that her words startled him.

  ‘I met someone you’ll know. He’s popping in for a drink.’

  ‘Oh, who’s that?’

  ‘Alex Sinclair. I bumped into him last week, and he knows you.’

  They stood at the bar as Stefan ordered drinks. Kate wasn’t sure what the look on his face told her, except that she had said the wrong thing.

  ‘I’m sorry, isn’t he someone you’d want to see?’

  ‘It’s unexpected, that’s all.’

  There was a heavy silence as they walked to the back of the pub, out on to the terrace that looked along the Thames to Hammersmith Bridge.

  ‘It’s a nice spot.’

  ‘He’s only dropping in. I’m sure he won’t stay long.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I can see it does, Stefan.’

  ‘It’s unexpected, as I said. So how did you meet Alex?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Someone who knew someone who knew him. There was a party full of dribs and drabs of Irish exiles like me, and someone introduced us. Then the other day he was in the Blue Anchor with Helen. She’s one of the girls I share with.’ She smiled. ‘I was talking about you, as I occasionally, reluctantly do. I found out he knew you, well Maeve, when he was young. And he said he saw you at Christmas in Glendalough. That’s it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What does “I see” mean?’ She laughed. ‘He’s pleasant enough.’

  ‘I know he is. I will explain – I will tell you later.’

  She watched him more seriously; something really was wrong. At that moment Alex Sinclair appeared, pushing his way through the crowd, a pint in his hand, smiling broadly. He was in the grey-blue of the RAF.

  ‘Good choice, Kate. “Sweet Thames run softly” and all that.’

  ‘Well, I’m only along the road in Hammersmith.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Alex looked at Stefan. ‘So, back from the sunny south.’

  ‘It was more than sunny enough for me.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Lisbon, Salamanca, Madrid.’

  ‘A proper Cook’s Tour?’

  ‘Just carrying our ambassador’s bags.’

  ‘What about the famous Missing Postman? Last time we met we were both scouring the mountains for the poor bugger. Was he ever found?’

  ‘No, and I doubt he will be now,’ said Stefan.

  ‘And not even a clue as to what happened to him?’

  ‘All the clues lead to a fight in Whelan’s Bar in Laragh on Christmas Eve, but with the whole population of the Vale of Glendalough behaving like the three wise monkeys, the last attempt to get anyone into a courtroom ended up in a farce. The Garda commissioner won’t want that repeated.’

  ‘It’s all died a death then, if you’ll excuse the expression.’

  ‘The case stays open, but there isn’t a lot left to investigate.’

  Alex was not aware Stefan was choosing his words with care, and that in some way he was uncomfortable saying them, but Kate could see it.

  They spoke for an hour and the conversation soon moved away from Spain and the mountains of Wicklow to life in London and life at war, and some of the same things Stefan and Kate had already talked about. Under other circumstances Stefan might have felt excluded but he was happy to let Kate and Alex take over the conversation. What he carried in his head, and what it would mean when he returned to Ireland, was hard to handle, sitting across a table from the brother of a man he would soon be questioning about four murders. When Alex found that out, he would know Stefan had lied to him. He wasn’t lying, but saying nothing was much the same thing. Whatever Stefan felt, whatever had to be done, he knew what it would mean to Alex. As the pilot finished his drink he turned to Stefan again.

  ‘Spain doing all right now?’ he said, more serious for a moment.

  ‘All right’s probably about it.’

  ‘You saw the results of the bombing?’

  ‘In Madrid. It was only a few streets, but I saw enough.’

  ‘We haven’t had any yet,’ said Alex.

  ‘I gather not. All I’ve read about is fighting in Norway.’

  ‘It’s coming, Stefan, whatever they say.’

  Stefan felt an odd sense of anticipation in Alex’s voice.

  ‘People still keep telling me there’ll be peace,’ said Kate.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like that,’ replied Alex, ‘not when you’re up there.’ He glanced up at the sky and then just laughed. ‘Still, fingers crossed, eh!’

  He got up. He shook Stefan’s hand and pecked Kate on the cheek.

  ‘Have fun you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

  An
d he was gone, disappearing back into the noise of the pub.

  ‘There,’ said Kate, ‘that really wasn’t too bad, was it?’

  ‘It wasn’t the greatest thing, Kate.’

  ‘You really can be hard work, Stefan Gillespie!’

  ‘There is a reason. It’s not Alex’s fault he’s the last person I wanted to see. But I very much doubt he’ll be wanting to meet for a chat again.’

  Leaving the Dove, they carried on along the river towards Chiswick, and Stefan told Kate what he had found out in Spain about Stuart Sinclair. It was a relief to tell someone. The shocking seriousness of it seemed to push away the awkwardness between them. But what he knew was not only the answer he had been searching for, it was also a burden. He didn’t want it to be Stuart Sinclair. Kate could see that in his face as he recounted the story.

  They returned to the Dove and sat outside again, even though the evening was cool now. They watched the dusk falling over the Thames beyond Hammersmith Bridge and drank more than was entirely good for them.

  They went back to the house in Chancellors Street and made love. And Stefan slept well, conscious when he woke that it felt as if he hadn’t slept like that in a long time. Later that morning he left Kate at the entrance to the Underground, and began the last part of his journey home.

  When Stefan Gillespie disembarked the mail boat at Dún Laoghaire, he saw a car he knew immediately was waiting for him. By it stood Commandant de Paor. Stefan had not forgotten what else he carried back from Spain by way of information, even if it was now Stuart Sinclair and the murders in the Vale of Glendalough, above all Maeve’s murder, that were at the front of his mind. Geróid de Paor’s presence told him he had other things to do first.

  ‘If you’re waiting for me, that’s not a bad guess altogether, Geróid, or do you just come here every day to see if I’m on the next mail boat?’

  ‘We did hear you’d left Lisbon.’

  ‘I take it Superintendent Gregory didn’t?’

  ‘Colonel Archer thought it would be better for you to talk to us first.’

  ‘Terry won’t like that.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ de Paor smiled, ‘but every cloud has a silver lining.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you, then I can tell him. It doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘What you can tell him may not be everything you tell us.’

  ‘I see. He will know that.’

  ‘I imagine he will. I’m sorry. Every silver lining has its cloud.’

  Stefan got into the car. De Paor drove away towards Dublin.

  ‘So, there is something to tell us, Stefan?’

  ‘There’s enough.’

  ‘Frank Ryan is out of gaol. We know that.’

  ‘I left Burgos with him. He left Spain in a German plane. From the north coast, a place called Pendueles. Do you want this blow by blow?’

  ‘In a minute. What I want now is anything else. Anything that tells us why Ryan was released in the first place, where he was going, what the Abwehr is doing.’

  ‘The main thing is that Frank Ryan left Spain with a friend.’

  ‘I see. Someone we know?’

  ‘Oh, you know him. A friend from America, Seán Russell.’

  They drove for several minutes in silence. Then Stefan spoke.

  ‘Is that something Superintendent Gregory should know?’

  ‘No, I doubt Colonel Archer will think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Things have a way of finding their way out of Special Branch.’

  ‘Won’t the IRA know anyway, from the Germans?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. We’d rather they didn’t know from us. I think we’d prefer other interested parties not know either, mainly the British.’

  As they drove on into Dublin, Stefan outlined the events surrounding Frank Ryan’s release in more detail. Geróid de Paor took them in and simply listened. When they reached the city he dropped Stefan at Trinity.

  ‘Gregory shouldn’t know we’ve spoken. He may suspect, but that’s different. He can send your report to me. That way he won’t feel he has to mark his territory. You’re his first port of call. There’s nothing to leave out, only Russell. You got your train from Pendueles. And you didn’t go back.’

  Stefan nodded.

  ‘Oh, what about the other thing,’ asked de Paor, ‘Glendalough?’

  ‘I got some of what I needed. Perhaps I got most of it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a considerable result.’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I have the truth. What I don’t have is evidence.’

  Stefan crossed the road into Dame Street and walked to Dublin Castle and the Police Yard. As he walked into Special Branch there was a crowd of detectives round Superintendent Gregory, who seemed to be giving one of those speeches he occasionally indulged in, telling his men what grand fellers they all were. Most of the time he told nobody anything but the bare minimum needed to accomplish a task. As far as information went he was a receiver, but Stefan could see a mood almost of celebration now. Even in the time he had been away the Curragh Camp outside Kildare had been filling up with ever more IRA members and Republican hangers-on; the numbers were the measure of how well Special Branch was working. Stefan was greeted with good humour in an unusually good-humoured office.

  ‘The wanderer returns,’ called Terry Gregory. ‘Good holiday?’

  ‘Not so bad, sir.’

  Dessie MacMahon nodded at him.

  ‘Anyway, with Gillespie back,’ continued Gregory, ‘we can expect the Curragh to be bursting at the seams before long. Right so, Inspector?’

  ‘Isn’t it already, sir?’

  ‘Always room for more.’

  The superintendent turned back to his detectives.

  ‘There was a tip off yesterday about Cathal McCallister being in Kilmainham. He was seen in a pub. And a sighting of the Quartermaster brings me to the IRA General Staff and why we haven’t pulled more in. I know it’s a question that’s been asked. Well, the first thing is they’re moving about a lot, as you’d expect. But the other thing is that it’s not in our interests to lock them all up yet. Some of them are giving us the goods. That’s why we know so much about what the Boys are up to. No point arresting people we’ve spent a long time turning. So bear it in mind. If an IRA leader seems to slip away easy, there may be a reason.’

  As the other detectives returned to their desks, Dessie hovered, waiting for whatever news Stefan had brought from Spain. But Stefan was looking at Gregory, remembering the night before Christmas when he had seen the superintendent in the Police Yard with McCallister, the IRA Quartermaster. Now he had as good as announced he was an informer.

  ‘All right, Gillespie,’ said the superintendent sharply, ‘in my office.’

  Within minutes Stefan was telling Gregory the story he had told de Paor, ending it the first time he stood on the station platform at Pendueles. It was thorough enough to convince Terry Gregory, because it was more or less what he expected to hear. He assumed, like everyone else, that the IRA and its relationship with Germany was behind the Germans’ interest in Frank Ryan, which was true. It was disappointing not to know how that might affect the IRA at home, but Gregory had never anticipated that detail. He was content with the information he had and apologetic that Military Intelligence might want to pore over it all again. Stefan felt, for the first time, that he had the trick of not telling Gregory the truth, and doing it convincingly.

  ‘Write it up. Give the report to me. No one else sees it except for the commissioner. It was all sunshine and cold beers. I don’t know if this Ryan business will open up at all, but for now the government wants a lid on it. I’ll pass your report to G2. They can deal with the Department of External Affairs. If Archer wants to talk to you, there’s nothing you can’t say.’

  ‘That’s not all there is, sir,’ said Stefan. He took several closely written pages from his jacket pocket. ‘A conversation I had with a feller called James Collins. Twenty years ago he was Albert Neale, wante
d for the murder of Charlotte Moore. You might remember a letter Billy Byrne sent him from Glendalough, about blackmailing the man Collins says really killed her. The man who killed Marian Gort and Maeve too. He may also have killed Billy.’

  Superintendent Gregory read the account of the meeting in Alba de Tormes without a word. As he finished he pushed it away slowly.

  ‘Obviously you believe this man, Collins?’

  ‘Yes, he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘But you don’t know where he is. You can’t call him as a witness. In fact, you’ll never see him again. No great shakes for making a case, is it Inspector?’

  ‘This was the one time he was going to tell his story. That’s why I know it was the truth. It was a confession, a real confession, by a man who was looking for absolution.’

  ‘Absolution? You’re a Guard of many talents.’

  ‘I don’t think he took much away with him.’

  ‘You do know the blunt reality about this, don’t you, Gillespie?’

  ‘It’s not worth the paper it’s written on.’

  ‘Not unless you produce James-Collins-cum-Albert-Neale in court.’

  ‘Stuart Sinclair doesn’t know that, sir.’

  ‘If his people have money, his lawyers will know soon enough. Even if every word’s the gospel truth, he only has to keep his mouth shut. A feller who’s been running from a noose for twenty years tells you this in Spain, in the middle of fucking nowhere, and promptly disappears. The other two deaths, the Gort woman and your wife, remain accidents. And if there’s still no one up for killing Billy Byrne, you won’t find a detective on the case, from Halloran down, who doesn’t believe he died in Whelan’s Bar.’

  ‘But you’re not going to stop me questioning Sinclair?’

  ‘He’s not the full ten shillings, is that right?’

  ‘Whatever is wrong with him, he’s not daft. He knew enough to plant the evidence that would have seen Neale hanged. If he could do that—’

  ‘All right, I’ll talk to Ned Broy. He can tell whoever’s running the case now. They’ll have to know. As far as you can, keep it quiet. Bring him in on your own. If it’s going nowhere, drop it. Ned won’t want another fucking fiasco. You won’t have long. If the man is gaga, don’t kick it out of him. Sometimes it’s the only way, but it never looks good with halfwits.’