‘And what was Keller, the Party abortionist?’ asked Stefan.
‘When you take away the cultural evenings and the women’s baking circle, it’s all about information. The first thing is information about Germans in Ireland. If they’re not in the Party, why aren’t they in the Party? If they’re against the Party, who are they, who do they spend their time with, who are their friends, what family have they got back in the fatherland? Then there’s all the stuff about us. Who’s who? Who thinks Adolf Hitler is the cat’s pyjamas? Who thinks he’s a loudmouthed gobshite? Who thinks the new Germany’s heaven on earth? Who thinks it’s the road to hell? Who wants the government closer to Germany? Who wants to keep quiet ties across the channel? Where are the socialists and communists? If the time came, who’d plant the bombs below while they dropped them from the sky?’
‘You mean O’Duffy and his Blueshirts? They’re finished surely?’
‘Kaput as our friends would have it. No, the Blueshirts are old hat. They never counted for much anyway, did they? It’s the IRA that’s cosying up to the Nazis now. De Valera may have forgotten that England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity, but they certainly haven’t. Dev may have dumped the IRA but some of the friends he left behind have got their eyes on the war no one thinks will happen. Mahr’s probably got a longer list of those fellers than we have. Not that you’d want to be heard saying it in polite society.’
‘So you’re spying on the spies,’ said Stefan.
‘I’m sure Herr Mahr would be shocked, genuinely shocked, to hear you use the word spy. I’ve had dinner with him several times. He’s a man with a great love for Ireland. And a real admiration for Dev too. They all think there’s something coming down the road though, any Nazi you speak to, and by the time the brandy bottle’s been round the table a few times you get a whiff of it. And somewhere what’s coming means England getting its just deserts. Mahr is doing what he’s meant to do, collecting information and sending it home. And I’m sure he feels he has got the interests of both Germany and his newly adopted home at heart.’
‘And Keller was a part of all this?’
‘Keller’s a different kettle of fish, Sergeant. I doubt he’s any more of a Nazi than he needs to be. Information is a business for him. He’s earned a good living here providing certain services the state prohibits. Along the way he’s collected a lot of information, about all sorts of people who’ve availed of those services. Abortion’s the main thing, but there are others, from the simple provision of contraceptive devices to treating sexual diseases you might be reluctant to refer to your own doctor. Herr Keller didn’t come cheap, so a lot of the people he dealt with matter. But that’s not all. A lot of people owed him favours. Blackmail breeds blackmail and what you can’t get that way you can pay for. There’s a market for everything.’
‘So he was selling information to Special Branch too?’
‘Let’s just say there was some you-scratch-my-back in play.’
‘It’s all a bit beyond Jimmy Lynch, isn’t it, Captain de Paor?’
‘I’m sure it is. You need to get the tail and the dog in the right order of wagging however. Keller wasn’t working for Lynch, Lynch was working for Keller.’
‘And no one in Special Branch knows?’
It was Cavendish who shook his head and answered.
‘I’m sure Keller fed him enough information to keep it all sweet. So if anyone asked Lynch about Keller he could say he was his pet informant.’
Stefan took this in. It raised a lot more questions about Jimmy Lynch.
‘So how far would he have gone to protect Hugo Keller?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’s buried someone in the mountains,’ continued the lieutenant. ‘He pulled the trigger in the execution of two RIC men in Cork in 1920. During the Civil War, he shot a Free State soldier outside Portlaoise. Those are the ones for publication. Part of Detective Sergeant Lynch’s proud war record. But there are others. There was a lad outside Mullingar, who was supposed to have told the police about an IRA ambush; that was mistaken identity. And a seventy-year-old farmer in Kildare who had a row with him in a pub. I don’t think he says much about those two now. They just disappeared. The bodies were never found.’
Stefan shrugged. ‘So if something did go wrong in Keller’s clinic?’
Cavendish finished the thought in his head about Susan Field.
‘Well, he wouldn’t do better than DS Lynch to get rid of a body.’
As he walked down the steps to Fitzwilliam Place Stefan was no nearer finding Hugo Keller. And if he did find him, somewhere in Germany, no one was going to send him back to Ireland to answer any questions; certainly not the German police. But if Keller wasn’t in Ireland someone was, someone who had been working for Hugo Keller as a paid informant, and someone who also knew about the letters Vincent Walsh was carrying the night he died. There didn’t seem to be any connection between Keller and Vincent Walsh, but there was a connection between Jimmy Lynch and Keller, and between Jimmy Lynch and Walsh. If the investigation into Susan Field’s death stopped at the door to Hugo Keller’s clinic, the next door along led straight into Garda Special Branch at Dublin Castle. However, it wasn’t much more promising than the first. If no one would let him speak to a priest, what were the chances of investigating a detective in Special Branch for corruption and maybe murder? The Branch was a law unto itself within the Gardai. It was full of ex-IRA men now, whose methods reflected that, and whose strongest loyalties were to each other. You took your life in your hands taking on men like that. There was plenty of room out there in the Dublin Mountains.
12. Weaver’s Square
The tricycle left the window of Clery’s the day before Christmas Eve. It found its way to Baltinglass on the train, via Kingsbridge and Naas, and Declan Lawlor’s horse and cart brought it up the hill to Kilranelagh. On the morning of Christmas Eve, Stefan and David and Tom cut a pine tree in the woods below the farm. That afternoon the chosen goose was eaten enthusiastically by Stefan, David and Helena and, less enthusiastically than he had expected, by Tom, who had chosen it after all. At least he made sure the bird did not go unmourned. After dinner, keeping Christmas as they always had, to the German calendar, there were the presents, and the tricycle from the newspaper cutting by Tom Gillespie’s bed was finally a real thing. He was still riding it round the farmyard in the dark when David and Helena left for the midnight Eucharist in the Church of Ireland church by the abbey, and it was dragged into the kitchen with him when he finally came inside.
Father and son sat by the range with the fire door open, and Stefan started to read the book David and Helena had given Tom,
The presbytery that housed the curate and the parish priest stood where the ground started to rise up behind Baltinglass towards Baltinglass Hill. It was built slightly higher than the church it served and looked down on Weaver’s Square and the eastern end of the town. It was a squat, inelegant building, put together in a way that seemed to say nobody had cared very much what it looked like. There were lace curtains at all the windows, though it was not overlooked. Stefan stood in the bare front room. There was a dining table and a desk. A print of the Sacred Heart sat above a fireplace where there was no fire burning. It was a long time since one had been lit from the look of the dust on the kindling and newspaper ties in the grate. There were half a dozen cards on the mantelpiece but there were no other Christmas decorations. A grandfather clock ticked loudly. It felt like it was the only sound in the house. On the table were newspapers,
