The City of Strangers (42 page)

‘I just put down what Harris said. I don’t know if what’s there proves he did it or not. But some of the time he was talking about what happened. I thought there might be something he wouldn’t say again –’

‘Well, he’s said it again all right. Again and again. Word for word. That’s what’s odd about it. It really is word for word. Did he memorise it?’

‘I think that’s the kind of mind he’s got. It’s a performance.’

Stefan Gillespie watched Terry Gregory for a moment. The half smile had long gone; the eyebrows had not been raised in some time. He hadn’t just been called in because he’d irritated the Special Branch man. However clear it all seemed, Gregory didn’t know what to make of Owen Harris. While pretending Stefan’s opinion didn’t matter, he was asking for it now.

‘You don’t believe the suicide stuff? He found her dead –’

‘I don’t know, sir. Nobody would believe it. But it’s as if he does.’

‘Maybe that’s just good acting.’

‘I don’t know if there’s anything Harris is good at, but the one thing Micheál Mac Liammóir said he can’t do is act. I did feel that he believed it.’

‘Which means he’s mad.’

‘Or telling the truth.’

‘Suicide with a wood axe?’ Superintendent Gregory shook his head.

‘He never mentions the axe.’

‘No. He says a razor. Not that there was a razor.’

‘So why didn’t he take the axe and dump that in the sea as well?’

‘He’d hardly have been thinking very clearly –’

‘He was thinking clearly enough to try and clean the blood off. He didn’t do that, but I heard he managed to get rid of any fingerprints on it. Why bother? Why not dump it with the body? But he didn’t. He got his mother into the back of the car, then all he could think of doing with the axe he’d killed her with was to stick it under a pile of turf. If there was a cat in hell’s chance of anyone believing the suicide story, the axe is solid evidence that contradicts it.’

‘There’s one thing worse than no analysis, Sergeant, and that’s too much. If he’d been behaving rationally he wouldn’t have killed her at all.’

‘All he wanted was money, and she had a box in her wardrobe with hundreds of pounds in it. That has to be where he got his fare for the boat from Cobh. But he only took what he needed. If he killed her for the money why not take it all? It didn’t matter then. He knew where it came from. He knew it was money she’d stolen from the Hospitals’ Sweepstake –’

‘There’s no evidence about where that money came from.’

‘And there won’t be, will there?’

‘It’s not an issue in this crime, Sergeant.’

There was silence for a moment. It was a silence that told Stefan Gillespie he had crossed a line the superintendent didn’t want crossed. Terry Gregory closed the file on his desk and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out. He turned back to Stefan.

‘So is that it, Sergeant?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve got some doubts about the story a madman’s telling us, because there are bits that don’t make sense.’

‘When he was talking to me on the plane, it was the nearest I got to hearing a voice that wasn’t, well, someone else’s. It seemed worth saying.’

‘I thought there might be more, Sergeant.’

The half smile was back on the superintendent’s face, but Stefan could see that somewhere, behind that, there was a slight sense of disappointment.

‘I need to put together a case out of what’s in front of me. If I find any evidence that makes sense of the shite you’ve given me, I’m always happy to change my mind. And on the subject of shite, why were you in New York so long? Why have you been talking to Commandant de Paor?’

It was an abrupt change of tack, spoken as if it followed on from the question of the guilt or innocence of Owen Harris, but Stefan felt that this was probably the real reason he was at Dublin Castle, the real reason Terry Gregory had been talking to him as if his opinion mattered.

‘Ned Broy didn’t seem to think it was worth telling me why my prisoner had to sit in an NYPD cell for another week, after he’d spent a fucking fortune to get you to New York and back on the flying boat. Why?’

‘He must have told you about the death of Captain Cavendish?’

‘Wasn’t that an accident?’

‘It had to be investigated.’

‘I heard he’d been celebrating Paddy’s day too enthusiastically.’

‘The consul general wanted someone to liaise with the NYPD.’

‘Do you know, I’ve never liaised. I’m not sure I can even spell it.’

‘I happened to be there, sir,’ said Stefan.

‘So was it an accident?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I heard the Detective Division in New York was sure.’

‘There were still some details –’

‘Is that why you’re going down to Cork with the head of G2?’

‘I’m doing what the Commissioner’s asked me to do, Superintendent.’

‘So fuck off, Mr Gregory, is that it?’

‘You’d better ask the Commissioner.’

‘And he’ll tell me to fuck off?’

‘That’ll be up to him, sir.’

Superintendent Gregory laughed.

‘You won’t make yourself very popular in Cork.’

Stefan said nothing. He didn’t think any more replies were needed.

‘Cavendish was a G2 man, wasn’t he?’

‘He was working at the World’s Fair.’

‘There you go again with the bollocks, Sergeant.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘You know the IRA chief of staff was in New York?’

‘I read something about that, yes.’

‘I thought you met him at a Clan na Gael party on St Patrick’s Day.’

‘I forgot. We didn’t have much of a conversation.’

Superintendent Gregory took the last cigarette from his packet of Woodbine and lit it. He asked no more questions, but he looked at Stefan Gillespie for a long moment without speaking, the half smile on his face.

As he left Superintendent Gregory’s office a man was waiting in the corridor. He was probably sixty, tall and heavy-set, with a dark beard, neatly trimmed. His hair was dark as well, a little too dark to be quite its own colour. He wore a black jacket and pin-striped trousers, and an already old-fashioned wing collar. He carried a hat and a pair of gloves in one hand. He looked overdressed for the Castle Yard, or maybe he just looked overdressed. He eyed Stefan curiously, as if he knew him, and as Stefan walked towards him he stepped forward and held out his hand, smiling.

‘I gather you are Sergeant Gillespie.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You brought my son back from New York.’

‘Doctor Harris.’

‘I was concerned about him there of course. I know he had friends, but not really reliable people. He was very vulnerable in a city like that.’

Stefan realised Doctor Harris was still shaking his hand.

‘You brought him home safely. And for that I thank you.’

And finally the doctor let go of his hand.

Stefan was at a loss for a reply. The usual kind of thing, ‘Well, he’s safe home!’ or ‘He’s in safe hands now!’ didn’t apply, however safe those hands might be. He said nothing, but simply returned the doctor’s smile.

‘We’re rather going round in circles at the moment. Owen will keep decorating the basic facts with all sorts of gibberish. I want him to keep to the facts as far as possible. He’s trying the superintendent’s patience –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. You’ll understand how difficult this is. Obviously you were very good to him. He speaks very highly of you. But a lot of the time he doesn’t seem to understand how serious the situation is.’

‘I think he does when he chooses to, Doctor Harris.’

The smile that was still on the doctor’s face faded. What was left was somehow a more honest expression. He nodded. He understood his son.

‘You seem to know rather more about my son than most people here.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, Sergeant. Do you get any sense of how it’s going?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not working on the case.’

‘You can’t say, of course you can’t. The superintendent is very good. I think he’s being as helpful as he can. He wants to find the truth, whatever that is. I have only one concern. I can’t undo what has been done. I’m not interested in truth. I’m not interested in justice. I don’t really know what that is in a case like this. I simply want to save my son’s life, and everything I know about him suggests that the less he says, the more likely he is to live.’

He looked at Stefan, questioningly, as if he wanted his opinion now. At that moment the door from Terry Gregory’s office opened and the superintendent looked out. He was expecting Owen Harris’s father.

‘You’re here, Doctor. Come in, will you?’

Cecil Harris reached out his hand and shook Stefan’s again.

‘Will you be giving evidence?’

‘I’m not sure. I may have to –’

The superintendent had walked back into his office.

‘Good,’ said the doctor. ‘Owen will like that. I think you’ll do well.’

He walked away, into the superintendent’s office, smiling again. The door closed. As Stefan Gillespie walked out into Castle Yard, up towards Dame Street, he couldn’t help feeling he had just been interviewed for a part.

He met Dessie MacMahon in Neary’s in Chatham Street. It was well off the beat of Special Branch and the Castle detectives. Dessie was still at the Castle, still attached to the case, still working for Superintendent Gregory.

‘The super’s been asking a lot of questions about you.’

‘I know. He told me.’

‘He had you followed when you went to G2.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me. I’ll take it as a compliment.’

‘I don’t think it’s got anything to do with Harris. He wanted to know what you were up to in New York. That G2 man who died there –’

‘Well, I don’t think he’ll follow me down to Baltinglass.’

‘What did you make of the old man, the doctor?’

‘Doctor Harris?’

‘I saw he was in.’ Dessie took out his packet of Sweet Afton.

‘He’s set on keeping his son’s neck out of a noose. That’s about it. There’s not much else he can do, as a father, whatever sort of son he’s got.’

‘Do you remember the two lads we saw, in Herbert Lane?’ said Dessie. ‘When I took you there, before you went to see Terry Gregory?’

For a moment Stefan couldn’t remember.

‘Collecting sticks for the fire.’

‘I remember.’

‘I was talking to them the next day. They were in a tenement in Dominick Street. There was a route they did every couple of days, to get firewood. They always went along the back of Herbert Place. They knew your man Harris, Owen I mean. He always put something out for them.’

‘The Lost Boys,’ said Stefan, smiling.

‘You know who they are?’

‘Slightly and Tootles. Harris mentioned them, to Mr Mac Liammóir.’

‘Well if they weren’t lost then, they are now.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘They’ve left Dominick Street, nine of them. The whole family’s emigrated. A week ago now. No one in the tenement’s exactly sure where they went. It begins with A though, America or Australia. They came up on the Sweepstake. One minute I was talking to them, the next they were gone. The only thing is, when I asked around a bit more, they never did win anything on the Sweepstake. But the oul feller did come into a good bit of money.’

‘What made you want to find all that out?’

‘They were in Herbert Lane that afternoon, when Mrs Harris disappeared. Five o’clock, maybe a bit later. They saw a car pulling out at the bottom of the lane. They knew it. It was the old man’s. Doctor Harris’s. Now I do know Terry Gregory’s spoken to the doctor. He’s got the details of where the doctor was that day. But Herbert Place isn’t on the list.’

‘Has the superintendent spoken to them?’

‘I suppose he would have got round to it eventually.’

‘So how sure were they?’

‘I went back to Dominick Street with them. The little one gave me this, from his collection. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about cars.’

Detective Sergeant MacMahon took out his wallet. He opened it and put a Gallaghers’ cigarette card down on the table. It was a drawing of a big, square saloon, light green and dark green, a Sunbeam Dawn.

‘Doctor Harris’s was blue. Unfortunately he doesn’t have it any more. He sold it to a dealer three days after his wife disappeared. The dealer took it to England.’

‘What does Superintendent Gregory think about all that?’

‘Well, he did think about it.’

‘And?’

‘And you brought Owen Harris back, so he stopped thinking about it.’

Dessie MacMahon stood in one of the two rooms at the back of the tenement in Dominick Street where the Lost Boys had lived. It was empty. It was like thousands of other rooms across the centre of Dublin that filled the rotting hulks of houses in the carefully choreographed streets that had been the homes of the wealthy and the well-heeled, and not much more than a hundred years earlier. They had been graceful, elegant avenues that ought to have been one of the city’s greatest treasures; an entire Georgian city of a size and scale and beauty unlike anywhere else. Instead they were its dark and constant shame.

This room was like all the others, except that now it didn’t have eight, nine, ten people living in it. The plaster had fallen from the walls. The stuccoed ceiling had long since crumbled to reveal the bare lathes looking through to the floor above. The panelling had gone from the walls for firewood. The broken window panes, patched with torn paper, sat in rotting frames. When you breathed you breathed in the damp, clammy, mould-stale air. Dessie knew the smell of the place well enough; the smell of smoking fires from blocked chimneys; tobacco and something like boiling cabbage; refuse from the yard below, and somewhere, always, urine and puke. There were the same noises he knew too. A crying baby, a man and a woman arguing loudly, violently, a drunken voice singing, a woman shouting for her children, and laughter; there was always that too.

There might have been a few pieces of furniture here a week ago, but whatever had been left behind had already been burned or sold by the other nine families who packed the other rooms of the house. Dessie gazed down at the yard below, where three raggedy children were chasing each other through the rubbish and rubble. He turned as footsteps echoed across the bare, stained, creaking wooden floor. Stefan Gillespie had walked up from the floor below.