The City in Darkness Page 16

  My contact does remember a man called Jim Collins. He worked at the Irish College as a gardener and handyman. He was Irish, and he had been working there for some time, at least ten years. A fixture.

  So that’s it, not much I’m afraid. Let me know when you’re back among the living. You owe me a drink. And you should tell me what this is about! You never do know what these old ears might hear . . .

  ‘He’s right,’ said Dessie, ‘not much more than you’ve got.’

  ‘Jim Collins is the man Billy Byrne was writing to.’

  ‘But you knew that already.’

  ‘Collins knew the man, the man Byrne thought murdered Charlotte Moore, and Marian Gort, and Maeve. Collins was the one who told him it wasn’t Albert Neale who killed the girl, Dessie. That’s what he brought back from Spain with him. That’s where it started. And Billy Byrne was using Collins as a threat. Whatever else he had on this man it was Collins who could put the fear of God in him and make him pay up. Isn’t that what’s clear now?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about the letter Byrne wrote!’

  ‘There’s no maybe about the people Pat Halloran’s got in the dock. No maybe about Billy Byrne on the floor of Whelan’s, dead or not far off.’

  Stefan smiled, and shook his head.

  ‘That doesn’t change it. How Byrne died doesn’t change it.’

  ‘Jesus, I thought that was the whole point!’

  ‘The point is Spain, the point is James Collins.’

  ‘He wasn’t even in Ireland when Maeve and this other woman died.’

  ‘No, I’d say he hasn’t been in Ireland since 1919.’

  ‘Why 1919?’

  ‘I’ve had two months to think about him. That’s why what Geróid de Paor tells me does mean something. I’d say James Collins is the man they would have hanged for killing Charlotte Moore. I think he’s Albert Neale.’

  The drab grey courthouse in Wicklow Town was no less drab and grey than it always was, on a day that had the same qualities, but the crowd outside in the Market Square was much brighter. It wasn’t often that any focus, let alone the nation’s, was on the small harbour town. The last time a crowd had gathered in numbers outside the courthouse had been in 1799, to witness the executions of rebel leaders whose headless bodies were carried out from the harbour, in a rare flurry of activity, and dumped at sea. A statue of the rebel leader, another Billy Byrne, stood in front of the courthouse with a pike. A tricolour hung from the pike, though whether it was a gesture of support for the Missing Postman or the men and women accused of killing him and disposing of his body, no one knew. What mattered was the town was full, with reporters from the Irish Times, the Independent, the Cork Examiner, Radio Éireann, even the Irish correspondents of the Daily Express and Daily Mirror. The Missing Postman had found his way into the British press as light relief from a war in which, so far, little was happening.

  Stefan Gillespie and Dessie Byrne didn’t get a seat in the packed courtroom; they squeezed in at the back. Chief Inspector Halloran sat close to the front. He caught Stefan’s eye. With him was Inspector Grace, smug and enjoying the attention. Stefan thought Halloran looked uneasy. This was the climax of his investigation. Everything needed to go right and that made him edgy. Attention was only truly welcome if it came with applause.

  The court rose as Francis McCabe, the district judge, entered. The babel of chatter subsided. He looked less than pleased by the numbers there and announced that if any noise disturbed the business of the court he would clear it. Then all attention turned to the dock as the defendants were brought in, six men and two women. Stefan recognized some of them, but he had not been involved in the interrogations. The two Guards, Sergeant George Chisholm and Garda Aidan McCoy, were not in uniform. The charges were read and Thomas Finlay, leading the prosecution, stood up to address the court.

  ‘The issue before the court relates to the disappearance of a rural postman, William Byrne, who made deliveries in the villages of Laragh and Glendalough on Christmas Eve last, and has never been seen since. That his body has not been found has imparted an air of mystery, but the facts are simple. On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Mr Byrne entered the licensed premises of the defendant Mary Whelan, where a number of inhabitants had repaired, including two Guards, Chisholm and McCoy. Also there were the defendants Edward Fitzgerald, Martin Ellis, Charles Hignett, Seamus Tyrrell and Daisy Whelan, Mrs Whelan’s daughter. Byrne was under the influence of drink and argumentative. An altercation took place between him and Seamus Tyrrell. A half-crown was dropped on the floor and when Byrne bent to pick it up Tyrrell hit him. His head came into contact with the stove. Mrs Whelan stepped forward and said, “You have killed a man in my house.” There has been an extraordinary conspiracy of silence regarding William Byrne’s disappearance, but painstaking work by the Civic Guards has given us clear evidence of events. The primary witness was present and saw what happened. The police have established that a conversation took place among the defendants about getting rid of Byrne. Nobody thought to get a priest or doctor for the unfortunate man. Nobody thought of whispering a prayer in his ear. The thought in all minds was: “We will get rid of Byrne and hush this thing up.” Wherever he was taken is unknown. However, I will prove that the acts alleged against the accused persons bring home to them the crime of murder in the first degree. Shamefully I will prove that instrumental in his disappearance were the two Civic Guards. I have no doubt that they suggested taking the bicycle out to St Kevin’s Road, to make it appear that Byrne fell and wandered into the hills. The sergeant doubtless reassured the other defendants that in the absence of a body the law would find no case. Sadly, his knowledge is less than perfect. For the case is of murder.’

  The first witness called was Paul Dearing, the blacksmith, the cornerstone of Chief Inspector Halloran’s case. Whatever else he had put together this was the only account of what had happened in Whelan’s that didn’t end with William Byrne being waved off to continue his deliveries. There were other witnesses to the subsequent comings and goings that night, but they were nothing without Dearing’s description of the fight.

  The blacksmith looked nervous. It was unsurprising. He had broken ranks and he had not had an easy time of it. Halloran had put a Guard outside his house and he had finally taken him into protective custody. The defendants looked at him with cold contempt, but Stefan could not help noticing that George Chisholm had a quiet smile on his face.

  Dearing answered the usual questions about who he was, and then began to explain his movements on Christmas Eve. He talked about walking up to Whelan’s at closing time for a drink. He described going into the pub and seeing several of the defendants there. He wasn’t sure if all of them were there, but he was very sure now that Sergeant Chisholm wasn’t.

  The prosecutor stared at him and asked him to remember the statement he had given to the police. He then asked him to say, in his own words, what had happened next in Whelan’s, up to the time he left.

  ‘I had a bottle of stout and a small whiskey. I did have a few words with Billy, who was very merry with a good day’s drinking. Then I went. I passed Sergeant Chisholm and Garda McCoy coming out of the barracks.’

  Stefan looked across the court at Pat Halloran. The chief inspector was struggling to stay in his seat. Inspector Grace’s mouth was wide open.

  ‘The witness is attempting to go back on his statement!’

  The judge looked hard at Dearing, then at the prosecutor.

  ‘I have the statement here, your honour!’

  ‘Then you had better continue, Mr Finlay.’

  The prosecutor held up the statement.

  ‘Do you see the name Paul Dearing here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the blacksmith.

  ‘Is that your signature, Mr Dearing? And is that the statement you made to Chief Inspector Halloran on the 27th of December last, in Laragh?’

  ‘It is, but I may have told some lies at the time.’

  Stefa
n’s eyes travelled along the row of defendants in the dock. They looked no less tense but there was relief. His gaze fixed on Sergeant Chisholm, whose own eyes had barely moved from Dearing since he entered the witness box. Chisholm sat back. He looked round, satisfied by what he saw. He registered Stefan. He shrugged and gave a distinct wink.

  At the end of the hearing the prisoners were driven back to gaol. They would not stay there long. Chief Inspector Halloran was back where he started; a series of statements no one believed and no way to challenge them. And it was even worse now. Not only had the breach in the Vale of Glendalough’s wall of lies been repaired, the investigation had become a farce. As the court rose the crowd outside was noisier than ever. The pubs that circled the Market Square were heaving. Halloran left without a word.

  ‘Jesus,’ was Dessie MacMahon’s considered reflection.

  ‘Chisholm knew,’ said Stefan.

  ‘I’d say he did. Pat Halloran’s in for a bollocking now.’

  They stood on the courthouse steps looking down at the laughing, gesticulating, arguing crowd. Dessie lit a cigarette and sniffed slowly.

  ‘They’ll reopen the investigation, but the feckers are laughing.’

  Stefan didn’t reply. Halloran would be kicked off now. He would be blamed for everything that had gone wrong. Yet everything he had done would be done again; the searches would start again, with no hope anything would come of them; the same people would be interviewed again. But no one would look anywhere else. They would stick to the same course and it would lead them nowhere. No one would listen to what Stefan had to say.

  A uniformed Guard stood at the bottom of the courthouse steps.

  ‘Detective Inspector Gillespie?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A message for you, from Garda HQ.’

  The Guard had a faint smile on his face. He thought Stefan was one of Halloran’s men. There was already some satisfaction in the Garda Barracks in Wicklow, as there would be in stations across the county, at what was coming the way of Halloran and the gobshites from Bray CID.

  ‘The commissioner wants to see you.’

  The Guard handed him a piece of paper with a handwritten note.

  ‘They said now, sir, straightaway.’

  Dessie drew contentedly on his Sweet Afton and laughed.

  ‘Now you can walk Ned wants you to pay for that fucking car.’

  When Stefan entered the Garda commissioner’s office overlooking the Phoenix Park, Superintendent Gregory was there. News from the courthouse in Wicklow Town had preceded him. Broy was furious, and although it soon became clear that the saga of the Missing Postman wasn’t why Stefan was there, the air at Garda HQ was thick with recrimination.

  ‘I’d rather we hadn’t gone into court at all than a fiasco like this,’ said Broy, repeating what he had said several times. ‘Eight people charged with murder and accessory to it, and every one walking. What did Halloran do, beat that fucking statement out of your man Dearing? We’re a fucking joke! And all orchestrated by the Guards in Laragh. It’s a pity George Chisholm is on the wrong side of it. He’s run rings round Pat Halloran.’

  Stefan said nothing. The commissioner looked at him.

  ‘I know you have some different ideas about this.’

  ‘I think there’s more to investigate than Billy Byrne, sir.’

  ‘But you still think he died in the pub?’

  ‘If I’m honest, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘What do you think, Terry? You must have a view.’

  ‘Inspector Gillespie has a very personal concern about some of the things Byrne was doing, but it’s hard to get away from what we know happened on Christmas Eve. If nothing went on in Whelan’s, why would anybody be covering up anything? Pat Halloran’s right, Chisholm knows what happened. They all know what happened. I don’t see a way round it.’

  The telephone rang. Ned Broy picked it up.

  ‘Send them in.’

  He turned back to Stefan.

  ‘It isn’t why you’re here, Stefan.’

  There was a connection between Ned Broy and Stefan Gillespie that wasn’t only about the present. Stefan had encountered the commissioner in ways that Terry Gregory didn’t altogether like, because there were details he didn’t have, and details Ned Broy didn’t seem to think he needed. There was another connection too. Stefan’s father had been an officer in the Dublin Metropolitan Police before independence, along with Ned Broy. There was something about all that Gregory didn’t know either. It was unusual for the commissioner to call an officer of Stefan’s rank by his Christian name.

  ‘It’s something else altogether,’ continued Broy, ‘but what I’ll be asking may coincide with your own interests, to put it no more strongly.’

  The door opened and two army officers came in.

  ‘I think everyone knows everyone, except for you, Inspector,’ said Broy. ‘You know Geróid, but you won’t know his boss, Colonel Archer.’

  As they all sat down, the commissioner spoke first.

  ‘I’m lending you out, Inspector. The job’s simple on the face of it. Our ambassador to Spain, Mr Kerney, is in Dublin. He returns to Spain next week. He needs someone to accompany him, and that’s what you’ll be doing. I know you have an interest in Spain. It’s what drew Commandant de Paor to think of you. But be clear, it’s at the bottom of the list of reasons you’re going. That’s as close to a personal matter as makes no difference.’

  Stefan looked at de Paor, who smiled. Gregory pursed his lips; he was outside the conversation now. The fact that Stefan wasn’t did not amuse him.

  ‘It’s not an easy journey to Spain. Going through France is still possible but the cross-Channel traffic from England is restricted, except for the military, so are the trains on the other side. You could be stuck for days. Leo Kerney’s preferred route is the flying boat from England to Lisbon.’

  Stefan nodded, still taking it in.

  ‘One of the main reasons for the journey is that Mr Kerney will be travelling with money and credit notes, quite a lot. There may be problems getting funds through in the normal way before long. If the Germans go into France, who knows what’ll happen? Spain itself is safe enough. For now, it looks unlikely they’ll go into the war according to External Affairs.’

  The commissioner looked at Colonel Archer for confirmation.

  ‘That’s what we think too. But the Germans won’t sit still much longer. If it opens up, what that does for communications of any kind—’

  ‘So Inspector Gillespie carries the money belt?’ said Gregory.

  ‘More or less,’ replied Archer.

  ‘Why don’t we get down to the “more”? There is more I take it?’

  ‘There is, Terry. There’s Frank Ryan.’

  ‘That’s certainly more.’ The superintendent’s interest was keener.

  Archer looked at Stefan.

  ‘You know enough about Frank Ryan not to need a résumé?’

  ‘I know what I’ve read.’

  The colonel nodded at Geróid de Paor.

  ‘Ryan is in prison in Burgos,’ said de Paor. ‘He’s been there for eighteen months. A lot of noise about getting him released. Campaigns here and in England. Our government has put pressure on Franco, so did the British at one point. For some reason the Spanish won’t budge. There’s a feeling Franco has some personal grudge, but even getting him to commute the death sentence was hard work. Mr Kerney has visited Ryan in gaol. He got his conditions improved, but he doesn’t give good odds for him surviving. He’s a sick man. Kerney has also tried to negotiate with the Spanish through a number of intermediaries, including some influential lawyers. But every time he’s getting somewhere he meets a wall – Franco. The government wants to find a way to get Ryan out and back home.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, Geróid?’ Terry Gregory laughed.

  ‘Unless you know something we don’t, Terry.’

  ‘Talking about getting Frank Ryan home is the decent thing altogether, but he isn
’t exactly what Dev needs. We’ve got an IRA leadership heading rapidly up its own arse and Ryan may be the only man around who might just bring all the different factions together. Politically he’s more astute than most government ministers. After Spain, he has more experience of war, I mean real war, than the entire Army General Staff. He’s a leader too. If he’d been here when the IRA walked off with the contents of the Magazine Fort, we might all have had a lot more to worry about.’

  Gregory smiled, satisfied he was no longer at a disadvantage.

  ‘I’d grant you some of that, Terry.’ It was Colonel Archer who answered. ‘That doesn’t mean the government can leave him where he is to rot. There is a solution, or there may be. Mr Kerney has been approached by someone with a proposal to free Ryan. It would involve the Spanish releasing him, but secretly. They would say he’d escaped. They do want rid of him but they seem to need some kind of face saver. Ryan would be taken out of the country. And yes, whether it’s the right time for him to come back to Ireland is another question. It might be possible for him to stay in France. And America is also an option. That is still a viable journey.’

  ‘Where does Inspector Gillespie come in – to carry his bags?’

  ‘You’re a very suspicious man, Terry.’

  ‘That’s what he’s paid for,’ said Broy curtly.

  ‘Geróid,’ Colonel Archer looked at de Paor again.

  ‘When we say someone approached Mr Kerney,’ continued the commandant, ‘it was a Spanish lawyer that the Department of External Affairs uses, called de Chambourcin. He is close to the Spanish Intelligence services. Useful, but can’t be trusted, well, as much as Mr Kerney imagines. The next move came from two friends of Ryan, Elizabeth Mulcahy and her husband, Helmut Clissmann. You’ll know the names, Superintendent.’