‘That depends on what’s in the envelope, doesn’t it? It looks as though there’s more than just a letter.’
‘So?’
‘Are you a betting man, Mr Sullivan?’
‘What’s it to you if I am?’
‘I don’t mind an occasional wager myself. What would you say to a little bet that I can tell you what’s inside that envelope without looking?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I suspect you know that if I open it I’ll find some photographs inside.’
‘I told you – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Let’s see if I’m right, then.’
Jago covered his hand with a clean handkerchief and removed the envelope from behind the clock. It was clear that the wax seal was broken and the flap had been opened. He rejoined George and Martin Sullivan at the table, then gently shook the envelope over it. Half a dozen photographs and some negatives spilt out. He scrutinised the photos and recognised the face of a woman.
‘Bit saucy, aren’t they?’ said Martin with a smirk.
‘Shut up, you fool,’ said his father, glaring at him.
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Jago. ‘Now, tell me, what do you know about these photos?’
‘Nothing,’ said George. ‘Never seen them before.’
‘It’s too late for that too. Right, you’re under arrest, both of you. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you say may be given in evidence. Now, sit still where you are and don’t try any funny business. I’d like to take a look at something else that caught my eye over there before we take you down to the station.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Sullivan senior, his voice as surly as his face.
Jago stepped back across the room to the fireplace, next to which was a cupboard. The door was open, revealing a pile of newspapers neatly stacked on a shelf. He reached in and took the copy lying on top of the pile, then held it up.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘This looks interesting.’
The masthead of the paper bore the words An Phoblacht, and underneath in English The Republic. It was dated July 1937.
‘A bit behind in your reading, are you, George?’
‘It’s a keepsake,’ Sullivan muttered. ‘I kept it for historical interest, if you must know – that’s the last one published before it was shut down.’
‘Shut down by whom?’
‘By the Irish government.’
Jago opened the paper and studied the inside pages briefly.
‘There’s an article here about the Republican Army Council,’ he said, as lightly as if he’d just found a report on a football match. ‘Seems to be all in favour of it. That’ll be the Irish Republican Army, I suppose. Friends of yours?’
‘I’m interested in politics, that’s all,’ said George.
‘And Irish politics in particular?’
‘Any politics. There’s nothing illegal about being interested in politics.’
‘No, but as you may be aware, there are some aspects of involvement with the IRA that are.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Jago put the newspaper down on the table and took another look into the cupboard.
‘I suppose this is of interest to students of politics too.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up for Cradock to see. ‘It’s a proclamation,’ he said. ‘Let’s see.’ He read from the sheet: ‘“We call upon England to withdraw her armed forces, her civilian officials, and institutions and representatives of all kinds from every part of Ireland … and we call upon the people of all Ireland at home and in exile to assist us in the effort we are about to make in God’s name to compel that evacuation and to enthrone the republic of Ireland.”’
Jago placed the sheet on the table, next to the newspaper, and turned to Martin.
‘I’ve heard it suggested that you might share some of these views. Is that correct?’
Martin said nothing but looked at his father, his eyes pleading for help.
‘Leave the boy alone,’ said George. ‘It’s nothing to do with him.’
‘Does your interest in Ireland extend to doing a little fundraising for the IRA? Perhaps emptying the safe at the Regal cinema and donating the proceeds to them?’
‘You’re talking nonsense. I’m not a criminal. Look, as far as I’m concerned the Irish Republican Army has a good cause. So what? I’m entitled to my belief, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can shoot me if you like, but it won’t make any difference – I believe they’re right.’
Once the two suspects were safely locked in the cells, the detectives returned to the CID office.
‘Those photos, sir,’ said Cradock. ‘I couldn’t see them from where I was standing. What did Sullivan mean when he said they were a bit saucy?’
Jago handed him the envelope.
‘Have a look for yourself,’ he said. ‘And take care of them. We’ll need to show them to Mr Conway so he can confirm they’re his and that they were in the safe.’
‘Which will prove that the Sullivans were the safe-breakers, right?’
‘Not necessarily proof in itself, but certainly strong evidence. Get them checked for fingerprints. If we find George Sullivan’s on any of those photos he’ll have a hard time maintaining he’s never seen them.’
‘Yes, sir, will do.’
Cradock let some of the photos slide out of the envelope onto the desk and examined them.
‘I see, sir. They’re a bit, er—’
‘Glamorous? Yes. If those Sullivans’d had more sense they’d have thrown the whole lot away. They might’ve been in the clear then. But you can see why I suspect they may’ve taken a liking to them and decided to keep them. He makes the women look like Hollywood stars, doesn’t he? Very languid. I’m surprised they didn’t catch their death of cold.’
‘Oh, and look – that one there.’
‘Yes. You know who that is, don’t you?’
‘I do. It’s Cynthia Carlton. What a lark.’
‘Now, now, Peter. The poor woman may be quite embarrassed when she finds out what we’ve got, so we’ll have to treat her very carefully. Make sure nobody else sees those – I don’t want to hear you’ve been passing them round the station.’
‘I should think Conway might be
