‘Well, he doesn’t like the fact that Charlie McGuinness takes a drink, but once the Angelus bell rings and he goes to Mass and Charlie’s off to the pub, we’ve a nice quiet station so. All in all he likes that bit well enough.’
‘What’s happened about the bodies at Kilmashogue?’
‘I told you, we’ve a nice quiet station now.’
‘I was in Danzig,’ said Stefan quietly.
Dessie nodded as if that was about as interesting as a trip to Clontarf.
‘I saw the priest there, Francis Byrne. I saw Hugo Keller too.’
‘Still in touch with your woman, then?’ reflected Dessie, unsurprised.
‘Yes.’
‘And I thought you were milking cows.’
‘You can only milk so many. They’re both dead, Byrne and Keller.’
Detective Garda MacMahon finally raised an eyebrow.
‘Danzig’s not a place you’d go on holiday from what the papers say.’
‘It isn’t,’ replied Stefan. ‘But nothing new this end? You haven’t heard Jimmy Lynch has got to the bottom of it so?’
‘If he has he’s kept it to himself,’ said Dessie.
‘He wouldn’t have to look far. I think he killed Vincent Walsh and Susan Field. And if he didn’t kill them he made dammed sure they were dead.’
‘Jesus!’ Dessie looked round. No one was listening. ‘What the feck for?’
‘At the moment I’d say it was for Monsignor Robert Fitzpatrick.’ He took Keller’s small notebook from his pocket. He opened it and handed one of Fitzpatrick’s letters to Vincent Walsh across the table.
Dessie’s eyes widened as he read.
‘I need you to watch my back,’ said Stefan simply.
‘They won’t let you do anything with this.’
‘That depends what I can put together before anyone notices me. I’ve got a bit of time. Fitzpatrick won’t go running to the Commissioner, not with what I know about him, but he’s quite likely to go running to Jimmy Lynch. And Jimmy might take matters into his own hands. I need to know where he is.’
‘You want me to follow a Special Branch sergeant?’
‘No, I couldn’t ask you to do that,’ said Stefan, laughing.
‘No, you couldn’t.’ Dessie took out an unopened pack of Sweet Afton. ‘That could get me into some real shite!’
When Sister Brigid opened the door of the house in Earlsfort Terrace she knew she recognised Stefan Gillespie. She wasn’t quite sure where she’d seen him, but so many people came to her brother’s meetings nowadays. They were so full that she couldn’t expect to remember half the people.
‘Hello, Sister, I was hoping to talk to the monsignor.’
‘He’s not here just now, can I help at all?’
‘Are you expecting him back? It is important.’
‘He won’t be long,’ she smiled. ‘Well, you can wait if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come in and have a cup of tea.’
He followed her into the hall and down the stairs to the basement, into a kitchen that was dark and old- fashioned but scrupulously neat. There was the smell of baking and a kettle was already steaming on the black range.
‘I get so little time to bake now. There’s so much work. But this afternoon I thought, blow it! I haven’t baked a scone in a month and Robert loves scones. Well, I tell him he loves them but I’m the one who does really. You need someone to make cakes for though. There’s no pleasure just making them for yourself. If you wait till they cool you can have one as well.’ She poured hot water into the teapot as she talked and while it was standing she opened the oven door and took out a tray of fruit scones. She put them out on a rack, one by one, in tidy rows. When she had finished she looked pleased with the results. She went to the teapot and poured a cup out. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar, it’s on the table. I didn’t ask your name?’
‘It’s Gillespie. Detective Sergeant Gillespie.’
‘Oh, yes. I do remember you, Sergeant.’ Then she frowned. ‘It was before Christmas, wasn’t it? Robert was really very upset. He didn’t tell me what you were discussing with him, but I know he didn’t like it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you in. I don’t know if the monsignor would want — ’
‘I need to see him. It isn’t something that can wait.’
‘When you were here before, it was about Francis, Father Byrne, I do remember that. You wanted to know where he was. But he’s dead now. We heard last week.’
‘I know.’
‘He drowned.’ She shook her head. ‘We hoped he would come back.’
There was something about the way she spoke that suggested more intensity than just a train across Europe and a Holyhead boat.
‘Come back?’
‘He lost his way.’ She smiled sadly and crossed herself. ‘But where he is now, he will never lose his way again. When we ask forgiveness, we are forgiven.’ She turned her head. Stefan could see that she was close to tears.
‘I’m sorry, Sister.’
‘Francis meant a lot to both of us. He lived in this house for many years. He was very special to my brother. He always felt that Francis would be beside him in his work and that one day, when the time came, it would be Francis who carried it on. When he turned away from everything Robert had taught him — ’ She started to re- arrange the scones on the rack. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Mr Gillespie. I don’t know what you can have to say.’
Stefan looked round as the door opened behind him. The monsignor was there. And there was no question that he remembered exactly who Stefan was.
‘What are you doing here?’
Stefan stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on the priest.
‘I need to talk to you, Monsignor.’
Robert Fitzpatrick’s face showed a mixture of anger and indignation, but Stefan saw uncertainty too, somewhere behind all that.
‘I don’t believe we have anything to talk about, Sergeant.’
‘Perhaps we could go upstairs. There are still questions — ’
The monsignor was more agitated now. He walked forward.
‘He’s dead! Don’t you know Father Byrne is dead?’
Brigid stepped forward and took her brother’s hand. He was immediately calmer.
‘I did tell him. I’m sorry, Robert. I didn’t know who he was.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Brigid. I think you can get out, Sergeant.’
But Stefan had no intention of getting out. His eyes hadn’t left Robert Fitzpatrick’s since he turned to see him in the kitchen. He had all the cards he needed.
‘I do know he’s dead, Monsignor. I saw him in Danzig. I was with Bishop O’Rourke, at the undertakers, after they pulled his body out of the river.’
The priest and the nun stared at him. Fitzpatrick frowned as if he couldn’t relate these ideas: the garda sergeant, Danzig, Francis Byrne. Brigid closed her eyes and bowed her head. As she looked up her lips were moving silently; her fingers were clasping the beads on the rosary at her waist.
They stood in Fitzpatrick’s study. It was a room at the back of the house, behind the office and the bookshop. It looked out on a small, high-walled garden. There was a flowering cherry, full of white and pink blossom. The priest stood with his back to the window. He didn’t ask Stefan to sit down.
‘As I understand it you were suspended from the Gardai earlier this year. I don’t know whether you’ve been re-instated, but if you have, the best thing you can do is walk out of this house now, or I’ll make damned sure you’re kicked out completely. Don’t think I haven’t got the ability to do it either.’ The threat was cautious and
