A June of Ordinary Murders (15 page)

‘We're making slow enough progress,' Swallow said. ‘We'll need all the help we can get.'

Father Laurence drank from his whiskey glass.

‘Then there's this strange business of the woman being dressed in a man's clothes? You know, when I administered the last rites I thought it was a man. Then I saw in the evening newspapers that you've discovered it was a woman, disguised as a man. But I could see how the mistake might have been made in the first place.'

‘That's true, Father. It wasn't until the medical examiner got to work on the remains that he realised it. I saw them there in the trees and I took the adult for a man. And whoever killed them went to a lot of trouble to make sure they won't be easily identified.'

Charlie Vanucchi appeared out of the back room, an open bottle of porter in hand.

‘We were just saying here, Charlie, isn't that a dreadful business above in the park by the Chapelizod Gate?' Father Laurence said. ‘It's terrible to think of a woman and child ending like that.'

If Vanucchi heard what the priest had said he gave no indication of it. Swallow realised that he was quite intoxicated.

‘I'd jus' like to say thank you, Father, for comin' over here … to say … to say the prayers over Ces. She wasn't one for much religion but she had a great regard for the Francis … Franciscan fathers.'

‘Did you not hear what the reverend father said there, Charlie?' Swallow probed. ‘He said it was a terrible deed done in the park to that poor woman and child.' He paused. ‘Is there any word about it around the city?'

Vanucchi's eyes narrowed. He rallied what remained of his coherence to reply.

‘None of my lads … knows anythin' about that. There isn't one man that that could have anythin' to do … with the killin' of an innocent woman and child.'

He raised the bottle to his lips. ‘If you're lookin' for criminals, Mr Swalla', you know very well there's no shortage of them around here. But not for that kind of business.'

He called to his daughter. ‘We'll have another drink … here, Kate. Drinks for Father Laurence and for … our friend … Sergeant Swallow.'

Sunday June 19th, 1887

ELEVEN

Swallow hated the uselessness of Sundays when he was trying to pursue an investigation. Offices and businesses were closed. People could not be found where they were supposed to be. Police divisions worked on half strength. No official mail was delivered. The investigation of crime was brought to a shuddering halt.

Maria usually walked to the 9 o'clock Sunday Mass at the parish church of St Nicholas of Myra in Francis Street. The Grants were a Church of Ireland family, but Maria had embraced her late husband's Roman Catholic faith when they married. And she was a dutiful Catholic.

Even if Swallow wanted to, it would have been unseemly and foolish for him to accompany her to Mass. The last thing either of them needed was an anonymous note to the Commissioner citing him for the scandal of living on licensed premises with a widowed woman and then having the gall to walk her to church.

His head ached from the whiskey of the night before, and for a while he thought about sleeping in to allow the effects of the alcohol to wear off. But the sounds of Carrie, the housekeeper, bustling around in the kitchen penetrated from downstairs. Finally the banging of pots and the rattle of crockery defeated the urge to sleep and he decided to face the day.

Swallow preferred the Carmelite friary on Whitefriar Street because it was unlikely that he would encounter any of the immediate denizens of Thomas Street there. There was a Mass at 10 o'clock, he knew. He felt he needed the quiet and a little time for reflection.

He decided to avoid walking through Francis Street where there was a probability that he would encounter stragglers from Ces Downes's wake. He took a somewhat longer route via Nicholas Street, flanking St Patrick's Cathedral and passing through Bull Alley and Golden Lane.

One of Sunday's mercies was that none of the big newspapers published. There was no
Freeman's Journal
or
Irish Times.
But there was a
Mercury.
He bought a copy at a newsboy's stand by the Cathedral.

The developments in the Chapelizod Gate murders were relegated down the news page, yielding place to a report on the shooting of two rioters by police in County Limerick.

The
Mercury
did not make anything of the mistaken gender of the adult victim at Chapelizod Gate. It reported that the police were investigating the deaths of a woman and child. It mentioned Swallow's name and stated that Dr Lafeyre had visited the scene, but that was all.

He felt relieved that the murders seemed to be out of the limelight, even a little. But the strengthening morning sun and the tolling of the St Patrick's bells hammered into his whiskey hangover.

The church at Whitefriars Street was crowded and noisy with squalling children, denying him his anticipated hour of quiet. The sermon delivered by a mumbling Carmelite was a deadening account of the life of a martyred Pope of the Sixth Century.

After his unsuccessful attempt to find spiritual solace, he took the route down Wexford Street and Aungier Street to the Castle.

Pat Mossop was at work in the otherwise deserted Crime Sergeants' office. Swallow knew from the experience of previous investigations that the wiry, energised Belfast detective stayed with the job when there was work to be done whether it was a Sunday or any other day.

The Book Man had spread his files across two desks. Swallow knew that Mossop was not surprised to see him either, even on a Sunday morning.

‘The last of the house-to-house checks should have been done this morning, Boss,' Mossop volunteered. ‘They have a few small streets around the back of Chapelizod village and a couple of farm cottages that they had left to cover, but there's nothing of significance in so far, I'm afraid.' He gestured to a sheaf of reports on the desk in front of him.

‘Is Stephen Doolan out with the teams himself?' Swallow asked.

‘No, Boss, he's on a rest day. He's got interested in some new crowd that want to build up traditional Irish games. They're the “Gaelic Athletic something-or-other.” So he's gone off with them to train some young fellows out in County Wicklow. Mind you, I think they don't want policemen at all, so Stephen hasn't told them he's a DMP man.'

Swallow was momentarily angry for Doolan's sake. He knew that the recently-formed Gaelic Athletic Association had declared that policemen and military were not to be admitted to membership. It was a cruel exclusion for individuals like Stephen Doolan who considered himself as good an Irishman as any. He could speak the Irish language from his childhood in West Cork. He was accomplished in Irish dancing. He was a powerful athlete. The greater loss, Swallow reckoned, was the GAA's. What sort of national movement would start by emphasising differences among Irishmen, he wondered? He put the issue from his mind.

‘Nothing in from England? From the cross-channel packets or the railway?'

Mossop shook his head. ‘Not a thing, Boss. But you know yourself they won't have any clerical staff on a Sunday, so the earliest we might get something would be tomorrow, I'd say.'

Swallow glumly accepted Mossop's verdict, but he resented it. God could hardly have intended that the Sabbath would shut down a double murder investigation. He told Mossop to put away the murder book and to go home to Mrs Mossop and the children.

His sense of depression deepened as he made his way back to Maria Walsh's.

Carrie, the housekeeper, had prepared a Sunday dinner of roast beef with boiled potatoes and fresh vegetables, to be served by Tess, the housemaid. After the main course there was a blancmange. There was a bottle of claret. Swallow drew the cork and poured a small glass of wine for each of them.

A first-floor room over the public house had served for many years as the Grant family dining room. Swallow liked it for its spacious quiet. Muslin curtains filtered the strong sun. The dark mahogany dining furniture was cool to the touch after the heat of the morning.

But the conversation was difficult. They left the wine untouched after the first glass. When the meal was finished, and Tess had departed to spend the afternoon with her own family, Maria started to probe him. It was clear that his spirits were down.

‘You're in very poor form, Joe. Is it the murders?'

He saw little point in prevaricating. Maria knew him too well to accept a plea that he was just tired. Swallow had learned that when she asked a serious question she was not content with anything less than a serious answer.

‘Yes, it's the murders. I just can't get the boy in particular out of my head. The mind doesn't want to imagine what happened to the child, what he saw and felt in those last few moments. And we're not getting to the bottom of the case nearly quickly enough. I don't even know who they are.'

‘But it's only been what, two days?'

‘Yes. But it's a long time for a killer who could do that kind of thing to be out there at large.'

‘Do you think other people might be in danger; other women … other children?' she asked.

‘I don't know, maybe. Anybody who would commit that sort of crime must be a risk to others as well. If someone can commit an act so brutal once – or twice – they can do it again.'

Maria had seen him deal with the burden of an investigation that did not appear to be going anywhere before, but she sensed that there was more to it this time and that it was not just the ghastly circumstances of these particular deaths.

She took his hand across the table.

‘I can see that it's affecting you,' she said. ‘Are you under a lot of pressure? Does Mr Mallon think this case should be moving more quickly for you?'

He shrugged. ‘Ah, Mallon isn't the worst. But he's under pressure too, between the Land League and Parnell and now this bloody royal visit coming up next week. He expects me to keep the books clear on things like this. And I have to be honest. I know my own success rate hasn't been the best in recent times.'

She had heard him talk in similar terms a few months previously about the Elizabeth Logan case.

‘I don't think they can expect that you'll solve every single crime you have to investigate,' she said. ‘Some things just can't be known and never will be known. I'm sure that's the case in every walk of life, not just in police work.'

He was silent for a moment. ‘Sometimes I think that maybe I'm not as sharp as I was. And maybe the criminals are getting smarter. Whoever murdered the woman and child knew how important it was to remove anything that could help to identify them. If we can't establish who they are then the chances become very slim of ever finding out who killed them.'

‘You don't have to stay with it, you know,' she said. ‘You've got more than 20 years' service so you could take your pension. And if you were out of the job we could run this place together without having to worry about rules and police regulations.'

‘I know what you're saying,' he responded. ‘But it's your business, your home. It's been your life. It's one thing for me to help out a bit now and again like I do, but I'm not sure how it would be if we were thrown together, working all the long day and night in the bar below.'

‘I wouldn't want you to come in as some sort of hired help, Joe.' There was a sharper edge to her words. ‘You know that. And if you didn't like it here, I'd be willing to put family loyalty aside, sell the place and set up somewhere else. We could make a completely new start with a new house and a new business. We could move out of the city, to some place by the sea maybe, Howth or Kingstown or Blackrock. We could even go down to your family place in Newcroft.'

Swallow knew that Maria was making a generous and attractive offer. She was attached to the business that had been in her family for four generations. She was offering, if necessary, to sell it on so they could make their lives together. It was as good an offer as he was likely to get, he knew. And it was not the first time that Maria had put it forward.

He wondered if it really was what she would want in the years ahead. The gap in their ages was not unbridgeable, but it was a factor if there was to be a family. He would not be a young father. But she was still of an age at which she would very likely bear children.

Oddly, although she had never mentioned marriage, they had talked about children. Sometimes, when she seemed to be immersed in a book she would look up and read a passage aloud to him. More often than not it was about the interactions between family members, brothers and sisters, parents and children.

She had told him once how she would like to have a little boy and a little girl. She even had names in her head, she told him, one night after the bar had emptied and they sat together in the upstairs parlour.

‘And what about you?' she had asked. ‘Would you like to have children, a new generation coming up behind you?'

He had searched around for the right words with which to answer. The truth was that he had not really thought about it. He had a happy childhood in Kildare, but he sometimes doubted if he could provide an equally happy upbringing for any children of his own. On the other hand, some of the most contented colleagues he knew in G Division were good family men.

Maybe Maria was right. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to put police life behind him and to take the opportunity of happiness, a settled life, reasonable security and the company of a strong woman he knew he loved.

But was this the right time and were these the right conditions in which to do it? Why would he step away from the job to which he had devoted the best years of his life? Why would he stop doing what he was still reasonably good at, in spite of the long hours, the unpredictability and the arcane disciplinary code? Why would he make room in G Division for some time-server who thought he could be a detective sergeant because he was a Free Mason or knew somebody who was?