A June of Ordinary Murders (30 page)

O'Donnell raised his head again.

‘I didn't even know he had the bloody gun with him. He wasn't going to use it. If that was the plan, Fitzpatrick and maybe Smith Berry wouldn't be alive now.'

‘I promise you that a court will take a different view,' Swallow said. ‘You were acting in common design. That's called a conspiracy. It can sometimes be a bit difficult to prove, but Mr Balfour's Crimes Act makes it a lot easier where a policeman gives evidence of association between accused persons. You could be facing 15 to 20 years in Maryborough convict prison.'

O'Donnell was silent. The only sound in the cell was the hissing of the gas mantle.

‘And I suppose there'll be a policeman who's willing to give that evidence,' he said bitterly, after an interval.

‘I suppose so,' Swallow answered.

‘Christ,' O'Donnell said angrily, ‘how did this country produce creatures like you? Have you any principles? Have you any sense of patriotism?'

Swallow raised his voice.

‘You've got nothing to teach me about principles, O'Donnell. I've put a lot of your type through my hands. You think any crime is justified if you label it as patriotism. And you'll all sell each other out when you have to. As to patriotism, my grandfather was out with a pike against General Lake and General Cornwallis, fighting for Irishmen's rights in 1798. I wonder where your own antecedents were?'

For a moment it looked as if O'Donnell wanted to continue the argument. Then he waved a hand dismissively.

‘Forget the history for a while. What would I have to do to get out of this?'

‘I'm not sure there's actually anything
you
can do, Mr O'Donnell.' Swallow paused for effect. ‘It might be a question of what a friendly G-man might be able to do.'

He handed the whiskey bottle to O'Donnell again. ‘Here, have another shot.'

O'Donnell took two more mouthfuls. He wiped his lips and handed the now half-empty bottle back to Swallow.

‘And in return for … doing whatever it is … what would this friendly G-man want of me?'

‘Oh, that's something we'd need to think about, Mr O'Donnell. I don't imagine you're sufficiently important to make yourself a valuable informant. You haven't much to trade, I'd say.'

‘I can get some money. Not a lot. But I could get it.'

Swallow laughed. ‘Ah, police pay isn't that bad, Mr O'Donnell, that I'd need your money. At least it's not bad when you're a sergeant in G Division. My 30 pieces of silver that you mentioned the other night at the Academy is actually more like 40 – a week that is. It doesn't put me in the Thomas Fitzpatrick class but it's enough for me to get by.'

‘Fitzpatrick?' O'Donnell grimaced. ‘Now if the damned police were doing the job they're supposed to be, he's the fellow who should be here in this bloody cell instead of me.'

Swallow decided to be deliberately provocative.

‘Alderman Fitzpatrick is a citizen in good standing. He gives good employment to a lot of people in this city. And isn't he a believer in Irish freedom, a patriot like yourself, Mr O'Donnell?'

O'Donnell shivered but managed a mirthless grin.

‘It shows how much you don't know, Mr Swallow, doesn't it? He's a fraud and a charlatan. We've had people gathering stuff on him for years. I'm not given to violence, but if Horan had shot him it would have been a public service.'

‘Be careful, Mr O'Donnell. You're in danger of walking yourself even deeper into trouble.'

Another convulsion, but a lesser one this time, ran down O'Donnell's body. Fresh beads of perspiration appeared on his face and trickled down his neck to the already-sodden shirt. When the tremor passed he focused his gaze on Swallow again.

‘It would be a pity to leave the rest of that Tipperary Colleen in the bottle, Sergeant. I'm sure you wouldn't want to be found on duty carrying hard liquor, and cheap liquor at that.'

Swallow handed the bottle to him. ‘Finish it off, Mr O'Donnell. You're right. It isn't to my taste.'

O'Donnell put the bottle to his mouth and emptied what was left of the Tipperary Colleen. He threw the bottle onto the bunk beside him. Swallow retrieved it and put it in his pocket. A prisoner could do a great deal of damage to himself or somebody else with a broken bottle. Swallow had seen more than one suicide in the cells effected that way.

‘I'm not afraid to say it, Swallow, even if you find it disturbing to your view of things,' O'Donnell said, newly coherent with the alcohol running in his system. ‘Fitzpatrick is going to be put up as the welcoming face of Dublin when this idiot of a prince comes to town next week. We haven't any shame left.'

‘What do you mean when you say you've had people ‘gathering stuff' on Fitzpatrick?'

O'Donnell sensed something more than casual interest in the question.

‘Ah, so you're curious?' He gave a weak laugh, his face becoming suddenly animated. ‘You're looking for information about the man whose interests you and your colleagues are supposed to be protecting.'

Swallow considered for a moment telling him about the dead Sarah Hannin who had worked at Fitzpatrick's house, but decided against it. It would probably only play into O'Donnell's sense of self-justification.

‘That's the right word. I'm curious. You and I have more important matters to consider, Mr O'Donnell. As I said, my sister has to look after herself. At the same time, I want her to be able to continue with her career. Our family has invested a lot in her education. So it might be that we can come to an understanding that might be mutually beneficial.'

‘So … what are you saying to me?'

‘I'm saying that whether you can avoid a long jail sentence depends on my report. I can tie you in directly with Horan and the gun, or I can say that you were just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In that case, I'd expect that you'll go free.'

‘And in return for that, what do you expect?'

‘I need two things. There has to be no mention of Harriet's name in any account of what happened at the Academy. She isn't to be mentioned in any conversations about this Hibernian Brothers outfit you're involved in. You don't know her. You haven't ever talked to her. And you're never to go near her again. As far as you're concerned, she doesn't exist. Is that clear?'

‘And what's the other thing?'

‘You and I will keep closely in touch once you're released. You'll tell me what's going on in your organisation, who has joined, who has left, what you're planning to do, what money you have, what weapons and so on. You'll have a code name and nobody but you and I will ever know that we're in contact.'

He paused. ‘And, of course, if the information you give me is accurate and useful, you'll be decently paid for it.'

O'Donnell ran his fingers through his thin hair and smiled. Swallow saw a flicker of interest in his eye at the mention of money. He knew that O'Donnell would dissemble for a moment. And so he did, just for a moment.

‘You're asking a lot, Mr Swallow. You want me to give up a beautiful, intelligent young woman who has strong feelings for me, and you want me to become a police spy?'

‘Take it or leave it, O'Donnell. You won't have much opportunity for romance doing 20 years in Maryborough Prison.'

O'Donnell kneaded his eyelids with his fingers.

‘I think you don't leave me any damned choice, Mr Swallow. What do I do?'

‘When I come back to take a statement from you, your evidence will be that you went along to the Royal Hibernian Academy on your own because you're interested in Stella Purcell's paintings. You don't know this fellow Horan other than to see him around the city. You don't ever mention the name of Harriet Swallow. Your story is that you were just arrested in the melee. I'll confirm that from what I saw this is accurate. Unless my superiors take a different view, you may not even go to trial.'

O'Donnell's eyes flickered. ‘You'd write that … that sort of report?'

‘On the conditions I've just set out. And if you break any of them, or even bend them, or if you breathe a word of it to anyone, myself and a few G-men will take you out to the Wicklow Mountains where I'll put a bullet through your skull and drop you in a bog-hole. And I'll enjoy doing it.'

O'Donnell grimaced. ‘I believe you would, Mr Swallow. And I believe you when you say you'd enjoy it. So what do we do about Horan then?'

‘What about him?'

‘What happens to him?'

‘It's open and shut. He had the gun. He fired it. He won't see daylight for a while.'

‘Jesus. I'm telling you he didn't intend to use it.'

‘He'll still be put away for a long stretch. That is unless I decide to make it easy for him too.'

‘Can you do that?'

‘I can testify that the gun went off accidentally. Maybe it did. We can probably get his charge down to unlawful possession. I can't promise anything, but with luck he'd get a year, maybe six months. But I'd have to be certain that you can deliver silence from him about my sister as well.'

Swallow moved to the door. ‘Think about it, Mr O'Donnell. It's the best offer you're going to get. It's not very pleasant here, but Maryborough Convict Prison is bloody freezing in the winter. And the rocks in the breaking-yard there are damned big ones, I'm told.'

Wednesday June 22nd, 1887

TWENTY-FOUR

Swallow slept soundly in the big double bedroom over Grant's public house after the city had fallen quiet. He had resumed patrolling the area from Sackville Street to St Stephen's Green with his posse of G-men until midnight.

By then the fireworks had long finished. The gas-lit illuminations on the buildings had been darkened. The drunks in the streets were good-humoured and happy. They sang
God Save the Queen, Hail Glorious St Patrick
and a variety of suggestive parodies from the music halls.

One tipsy reveller recognised a G-man and offered him a celebratory swig from a bottle of something that smelled strong and peaty on the warm air. Swallow discreetly turned away and pretended to be interested in the viewing platform at the top of the Nelson Pillar.

He rose early and made his way to Exchange Court. With the security demands of the Jubilee celebrations out of the way he could get on with securing a warrant to search the Fitzpatrick house and to question the members of the household.

Any expectation of abatement in the uncommon heat that had baked the city for ten days was dashed when the sun rose again in a clear, blue sky. It was to be another day of prolonged sunshine with the city dry and airless. The layers of dirt that had gathered in the streets, in the yards and courts, were being slowly baked to solidity. In the Phoenix Park, butts of water were put out for the deer. In St Stephen's Green, the parched grass was showing shades of brown and yellow. The keepers made efforts at irrigation with buckets and watering cans.

Pat Mossop and Mick Feore, Swallow's two Book Men, had made an early start. Mossop had cleared a wall space in the Crime Sergeants' office and was hanging sheets of drawing paper with inquiry results set out in blue and red ink. Mick Feore stood beside him, drinking tea from a tin mug.

The two Book Men were in their shirtsleeves. Mossop held a sheet of flimsy paper in one hand and a bottle of adhesive gum in the other. He dabbed the back of the flimsy with gum and banged it onto the wall with a satisfied grunt.

He saw Swallow come through the door just before 9 o'clock. It would be a busy morning with two separate crime case conferences.

‘There's a bit of good news on the Chapelizod Gate, Boss,' Mossop said, making a fair attempt at cheerfulness. He reached across the desk to hand Swallow a report pad.

‘We got something in from England this morning. A transport policeman at Chester Railway Station says that he had a complaint last Wednesday morning – that's a week ago today – about a man who had entered the ladies' waiting room with a young boy.

‘When he questioned the man he apologised and said he'd made a mistake. He said that he and his son were going to catch the Holyhead train in order to connect with the mail packet to Ireland.'

Swallow scanned the ruled pad.

The man kept his head down during his conversation with the railway policeman. The man and boy were neatly dressed and well presented. The man's accent was definitely English; probably Liverpudlian. The officer demanded his name and address and his destination in Ireland. He warned him that a further incident would result in a prosecution. The policeman also noted that the man had somewhat prominent eyes.

He had given the name of Edward Jones, Gordon Street, Wavertree, Liverpool. The Railway Police office had checked with Liverpool City Police. Gordon Street was real enough, but nobody there knew of an Edward Jones.

The man's forward destination in Dublin was given as St Brigid's, Abbey Street. Almost certainly false again, Swallow reckoned.

Swallow knew St Mary's Abbey, close by the intersection of Capel Street and Abbey Street. It was a court or yard, built around the remains of an ancient abbey, originally Benedictine and later Cistercian, now given over to warehouses and with a Jewish synagogue nearby. But St Brigid's, Abbey Street was a fiction, at least to the best of his knowledge.

‘It's a help,' he said unenthusiastically. He handed the message pad back to Mossop.

Mossop looked tired. He had been on duty for 14 hours during the previous day's Jubilee celebrations. His normally well-waxed moustache drooped down the sides of his mouth making him look rather forlorn. His spare frame seemed to droop in its loosely fitting suit.

Swallow queried Mick Feore, who had returned to his own desk.

‘Have we any developments on the Hannin case?'