story of Maeve’s death well. He had told it too many times not to. Sometimes, even now, it felt as if it was a story, someone else’s story. He was barely aware that for most of the evening he spoke and she didn’t; she was more relaxed when she was listening. Several times she did begin to tell him something about Palestine and her failings as an orange grower, but then she laughed and stopped abruptly, as if she had thought better of it. She seemed to need to keep Ireland and Palestine apart. Neither of them wanted to talk about the future either, even about the next day. But it didn’t matter; what mattered was that they were together tonight. That was all they had now. When they left the pub, she put her arm through his. And he didn’t ask her if she was going home.
The next day Stefan Gillespie sat in the upstairs drawing room of a flat-fronted Georgian house at thirty-two Fitzwilliam Place. He hadn’t forgotten the conversation with Lieutenant Cavendish on the train to Baltinglass. He hadn’t forgotten that Dessie MacMahon watched Cavendish and another man searching Hugo Keller’s house two days after the abortionist left Ireland, or that Dessie had followed them to Fitzwilliam Place. Now that he had hit a dead end with Frances Byrne it was time to see what he could get out of the Military Intelligence operation no one else knew about, not even Dessie. The interest G2 had in Hugo Keller made sense from what Cavendish had told him, but Detective Sergeant Jimmy Lynch was something else, and it was Jimmy Lynch he kept bumping into in one way or another in this investigation. Lynch didn’t only connect to Keller, now he connected to Vincent Walsh.
A fire blazed in the grate and there was a Christmas tree in the window, hung with what were unmistakably the home-made decorations of young children. When Lieutenant Cavendish brought in a tray of tea, Stefan heard children’s voices and the pit-a-pat of feet running up to the next floor. Neither Cavendish nor the older man was in uniform. They had seemed only slightly surprised to find him on the doorstep. Cavendish did ask how he had found them but Stefan didn’t reply. It felt like a good idea to suggest it was something cleverer than Dessie MacMahon following them from Merrion Square. He had assumed he would find a military office; instead he was in Captain Gearoid de Paor’s home. It reminded him of what he had already worked out about the G2 operation; whatever it was, it wasn’t officially sanctioned. That was his leverage. The lieutenant sprawled on a horsehair sofa that hadn’t seen much horsehair in a long time. Stefan shifted uncomfortably in an armchair with a broken spring. The older man, de Paor, sat by the fire with a cigarette that he didn’t seem to smoke; he was tall and dark, with a neatly trimmed moustache. He had been writing Christmas cards as Stefan walked into the room. He listened to what the detective told him as if he couldn’t quite understand what it had to do with him, but the amiable smile didn’t fool Stefan. He watched the man’s eyes; they were less amiable. If there was anything useful to be found, it would be extracted and filed.
‘Intriguing stuff, but I’m not sure what we can offer you, Sergeant.’
‘You can tell me more about Hugo Keller, sir.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I wouldn’t mind starting with where he is.’
‘We can’t do any better than you there. Germany’s as far as we’ve got. He’s of no real interest to us now he’s out of the country anyway.’
‘If Susan Field didn’t come out of his clinic alive, that’s murder.’
‘I suppose it would be.’
‘You don’t seem very bothered, Captain.’
‘If he’s responsible for the woman’s death then he should pay the price. Whether he is or not, I haven’t got the faintest idea. That’s your show. Two bodies makes it all rather more complicated of course. Not much of a connection between the man and the woman from what you’re saying. But when all’s said and done, it’s got nothing to do with Military Intelligence.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s got something to do with Special Branch.’
The two officers looked at him. Cavendish stopped sprawling.
‘Detective Sergeant Lynch went to considerable trouble to get hold of some letters that belonged to Vincent Walsh,’ continued Stefan. ‘Jimmy was happy to perjure himself and put a friend of Walsh’s in Mountjoy in the process. That was more than a year after Walsh disappeared. Now he’s turning Dublin upside down for Keller’s memoirs, or whatever it is he keeps in his little book. I assume that’s why you two were searching Merrion Square. Jimmy’s not so dumb he wouldn’t have found it if it was there by the way. I keep bumping into Jimmy, that’s the thing. I don’t know why.’
‘I can’t help you there,’ smiled de Paor.
‘No one’s helping me very much anywhere. As far as my inspector’s concerned, exactly the opposite. So I have to help myself.’
‘That’s admirable, Sergeant. I still don’t see — ’
‘I’d like to find Hugo Keller.’
‘Easier said than done now, I imagine.’
‘So what’s in it, Captain? The book.’ Stefan wasn’t going to let go.
De Paor lit another cigarette that he wouldn’t smoke. He looked across at Lieutenant Cavendish, who shrugged. The captain said nothing.
‘Look, Keller’s door is where my investigation into Susan Field’s death stops,’ continued Stefan. ‘It’s a dead end. But it’s a very busy one. It’s got Special Branch pulling Keller out of a Garda cell and dumping a woman they don’t know at a Magdalene Laundry. It’s got the director of the National Museum driving Dublin’s favourite abortionist to Dun Laoghaire after a Nazi shindig at the Shelbourne. It’s got detectives beating up all sorts of people, including other detectives. And it’s got Military Intelligence breaking into crime scenes and following Special Branch men all round Dublin, not to mention me. Now whatever Jimmy Lynch is up to, you don’t really expect me to believe you’ve got orders to spy on Special Branch, do you? I think you’re doing it off your own bat. Or have I got it all wrong?’
The captain threw his cigarette into the fire and stood up.
‘Do you think there’s going to be a war, Sergeant?’
‘Are we expecting the English back?’
‘In Europe, I mean.’
‘Not according to Herr Hitler. Isn’t that the last thing he wants?’
‘Your family’s German, Mr Gillespie.’
Stefan was surprised. It was clear they had checked up on him.
‘It’s always useful to know who people are, Sergeant.’
‘I see. Well, my grandmother was German.’
‘You follow these things?’
‘Up to a point, Captain.’
‘So is it the last thing Herr Hitler wants?’
‘I’d say that depends who he’s talking to,’ smiled Stefan.
Cavendish laughed. ‘Spot on!’
‘And what do you think about the Nazis?’ continued the captain. Stefan was conscious he was the one who was being asked questions now. ‘Do you have an opinion?’
‘My mother still gets Christmas cards from her cousins. For the last two years they’ve come with swastikas on them. She doesn’t put them up. I’m not looking for Hugo Keller because he’s a Nazi. That’s his business.’
‘Everywhere there are Germans, there’s a Nazi Party,’ said de Paor, now turning to look out towards the street. ‘We’ve got our own here, as you know, run by Herr Doktor Adolf Mahr, when he’s not doing a thoroughly admirable job on the archaeology front, as director of the National Museum. You were at their Weinachsfest bash, of course, at the Shelbourne.’
‘I didn’t get an invitation though.’
‘Maybe next year.’
‘I’m not sure I couldn’t find something better to do.’
‘Everyone likes the flags and the uniforms, don’t they, Mr Gillespie? We’ve a bit of a soft spot for all that ourselves, trench coats and Sam Browne belts. But there’s a little bit more to it as far as the Nazi Party is concerned. Every German who’s living in Ireland, working, studying, is expected to belong to the Party. Choice is not an option. There’s the Hitler Youth too, just like the Boy Scouts they say, lots of hiking and cooking sausages on an open fire. But you don’t join the Party for the craic. I’m not so sure the craic would be that good. There are jobs to be done. You have to earn your keep.’
