sometimes. Not everyone can take it.’
Hannah was looking at him harder as he spoke. She could see that he wasn’t trying to explain anything away. He was talking about himself.
‘I’ve thought about it, of course I have,’ she said more calmly. ‘I still think I know her though. I don’t believe she ever had suicide in her head.’
‘All right,’ he replied. ‘When will you go to Lennox Street?’
‘I’m going straight there.’ She was pleased to have something to do.
They got up and walked through Bewley’s to the street.
‘Do you live in Dublin?’ Hannah asked unexpectedly.
‘I’ve just got a couple of rooms. It’s not much, but it’s better than the Garda barracks. That’s where you’re meant to be if you’re single — ’
‘Your son’s in Wicklow though.’
They came out into Grafton Street and stopped.
‘He lives with my parents. My wife died.’ He said it simply enough, because it was a simple fact about his life. He was used to saying it.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry — I hadn’t — ’ She looked away.
‘It was two years ago.’
‘It must be hard for him, you being away.’
‘It’s hard for both of us. But you do the best you can.’
They were very ordinary words, but she felt their weight.
‘Phone me at Pearse Street when you can.’
‘Yes, I’ll phone you later.’
He smiled and walked quickly away. She watched him go, until he finally disappeared into the crowds further down Grafton Street, then she turned to walk up to Stephen’s Green to get the tram to Lennox Street.
Stefan Gillespie walked through the empty rooms at twenty-five Merrion Square. There was nothing to see that hadn’t been seen. It was a mess, what with the searching downstairs and hurried packing upstairs, and more policemen than you’d wish on anybody. But of course there was nobody to care one way or another now. He could sense that Hugo Keller wouldn’t miss what he had left behind. There was valuable equipment in the clinic and the basement; that was money. But upstairs only a few rooms had been inhabited. Stefan had no sense that this was a home. There were no pictures, no photographs; the furniture was no more than functional. He was standing in the room that had been Keller’s bedroom now, looking out at the gardens in the middle of Merrion Square. On the unmade bed were clothes that had been pulled from the wardrobe and chest of drawers and never packed. Dessie took out a packet of Sweet Afton and slowly extracted a cigarette.
‘Liam Dwyer was still on duty when your man came back from the Shelbourne. Jimmy Lynch was with him. About half an hour later a car came across the square from the German consulate. Keller brought a suitcase out and Jimmy did the honours with another one. Then the car took Keller off. I’d say they must have driven straight to Dun Laoghaire for the mail boat.’
‘Who was driving?’
‘From what Liam says, probably your man Adolf Mahr.’
It didn’t make much sense, but it wasn’t a surprise.
‘If I was director of the National Museum, I’d have classier pals,’ continued Dessie.
‘But if you want a job done you’re maybe better doing it yourself.’
‘You mean getting him out, Sarge?’
‘He knew he’d be going, I’d say the moment we walked in here.’
Dessie waited for a moment. ‘You’d think after us and Special Branch the place deserved a rest.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Garda MacMahon lit the cigarette and held it between his fingers, not smoking it, just smiling. Stefan knew the expression well enough. It always gave Dessie a little bit of pleasure to know more than his sergeant did.
‘I was in O’Donaghue’s for a pint on Sunday, on my way home like.’ He drew on the cigarette. ‘And I thought I’d walk back through the square afterwards. Jesus, I swear to God there was two more of them at it in here.’
‘At what?’
‘They were searching the place. They weren’t the best. They had the sense not to turn the lights on, but they were flashing a torch all over the place. They broke in at the back. There’s a window into the cellar smashed.’
‘It couldn’t have been Lynch. He’s got the key.’
‘No, they weren’t Special Branch.’
‘So who were they?’
‘I walked down Fitzwilliam Lane and waited for them to come over the back wall. From the laughter you’d think they were at it for a lark. They went into Baggot Street, and along Fitzwilliam Street, and into a house in Fitzwilliam Place. I’ve got the number here — ’ Dessie fished in his pockets.
‘One of them was a tall, fair-haired feller?’
Dessie’s lips tightened round the cigarette. He drew the smoke deeper into his lungs. The pleasure of being one up on his sergeant was short-lived.
‘He was watching us at the Shelbourne. I don’t know the other one.’
‘Who are they?’ Dessie waited for an explanation. It didn’t come.
‘I couldn’t tell you what they’re doing or why they’re doing it. Let’s say they’re freelancers. What did you find out about Keller’s nurse?’
‘She’s a couple of rooms off Dorset Street, but when I was in O’Donaghue’s for that pint the little dark feller, Max he calls himself, reckoned Sheila Hogan spent much more time here. She’d be in the pub with Keller a lot, always at it they were, arguing, the two of them. Then back here to make up. That’s only Max’s opinion and the man’s a hoor for the gossip.’
Stefan walked to a table that stood at one side of the bed. Papers were piled up on it. There were tumblers and empty beer bottles, and an ashtray heaped with cigarette ends. There was a small mirror, and next to it a brush and a comb and a powder compact. It was a makeshift dressing table. He opened the drawer and took out a pair of crumpled silk stockings.
‘She wouldn’t buy those on what he paid her, not as a nurse anyway.’
‘Beat me to it again, Sarge. Will we talk to her, then?’
‘Where is she now? Dorset Street?’ Stefan asked.
Dessie smiled, stubbing his cigarette out, finally ahead of the game.
‘She’s in the Mater Hospital. It seems she fell down the stairs.’
Sheila Hogan’s face was swollen and bruised; her arm was in plaster. She was propped up on pillows in a ward full of women who were a lot older than her; most of them without the strength or the desire to do anything other than lie flat. Mixed with the smell of hospital antiseptic was the smell of old age. As Stefan Gillespie approached the bed the first thing he saw in the nurse’s eyes was fear. It wasn’t just any fear; it was the fear that he was going to hit her, there and then, lying in the hospital bed. She already knew he was a guard before she recognised him from the raid at Merrion Square. He could see it was that way round. Nobody was born with the instinct to spot a policeman and know what he was. You needed a reason to learn that.
She said nothing as he introduced himself again.
‘I need to ask you some questions.’
‘How many more answers do you want?’
‘I didn’t have a chance to get any before.’
‘Didn’t your friends tell you what I said?’
‘You mean Sergeant Lynch. You’ve been talking to him then?’
She didn’t reply, but he knew who’d put her in hospital.
‘That’d be before you fell down the stairs, would it? Just before.’
There was something else in her eyes now; defiance, contempt.
‘Did he find what he was looking for?’
‘You’d be better asking him.’
‘You know Hugo Keller’s gone? Germany probably.’
