A June of Ordinary Murders (14 page)

He nodded a terse acknowledgment in return and stepped through the open front door into the hallway of the house.

Vinny Cussen stood at the foot of the stairs with half a dozen of his gang around him. Swallow recognised Tommy ‘Tiger' McKnight, one of Cussen's principal strong men in the group. There were guffaws and curses. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of drink. Cussen stepped out of the group, attempting a welcome that he hoped would be suitably sombre. He thrust his hand out to grasp Swallow's.

‘Yer welcome, Mister Swallow, Ces would've been pleased to see you here … yer welcome.' He beckoned with a nod to a young girl standing across the hallway. Swallow guessed from her features and her colouring that she was probably Cussen's daughter. ‘You'll have a little somethin' wet before you go above to see her.'

On cue, the girl disappeared into the room that was apparently being used as a dispensing area for the mourners' refreshments. She reappeared a moment later with a half-full beaker of whiskey and a jug of water.

‘Ye'd generally take a little water in that, Mister Swalla, 'if I recall your preference,' Cussen said amiably. ‘It brings out the flavours of the malt, don't it?'

Swallow raised the glass and drank. It was smooth, mellow whiskey: Tullamore, his preferred choice.

‘Here's to your health, Vinny.' He sipped again. ‘I thought I should stop by. Ces Downes gave us plenty of hard work down the years. But I won't hold that against her in eternity. May the Lord have mercy on her soul.'

Cussen laughed nervously. ‘Ah, I know, I know. But all the lads would be glad to know that ye wanted to see her at th' end. They have the prayers still goin' in the room. Will you make a visit above?' He pointed to the landing.

He nodded. ‘I'll do that now, Vinny.'

‘See Sergeant Swalla' to the upstairs, Tommy,' Cussen told McKnight.

Swallow declined the offer of an escort. If he were to encounter a helpful source of information somewhere around the house he did not want Cussen's strong man in earshot.

‘That's all right, thanks, Vinny. I think I'll be able to find my own way up.'

He climbed the stairs, glass in hand. At the turn of the banister he met Charlie Vanucchi. Vanucchi's lurching downward progress indicated that he too had an amount of drink on board. The sallow, Neapolitan features were blotched where the alcohol was showing through.

He succeeded in focusing on the face coming up the stairs against him. ‘Ah, Misther Swallow … you … you're comin' to say goodbye to Ces.' He formed a smile.

As with Vinny Cussen, Swallow chose his words carefully. He was required to be formal and polite, but he could not bring himself to offer sympathy or to express regret.

‘I am, Charlie. May the Lord have mercy on her.'

Vanucchi nodded to the drink in Swallow's hand. ‘I'm glad ye were offered the hospitality of the house, Sergeant. That's what she would have wanted.'

‘You needn't worry, Charlie, Vinny Cussen below saw me right on that,' Swallow said, raising his whiskey glass.

Vanucchi's face darkened in anger.

‘That drink you're havin' is from me, not Vinny Cussen, Sergeant Swalla' – and yer very welcome to it. But it's me … it's Charlie Vanucchi … that's bought and paid for the hospitality here this night … and last night … and tomorra'. That's … wha' Ces would've expected of me.'

He raised his voice. ‘I was workin' with Ces Downes for many a long year before that bastard Cussen was ever seen around Francis Street.'

Silence fell along the stairway as Vanucchi's shouted words dropped into the hallway below. At the end of stairs, Vinny Cussen swung around. He glared up at his rival and at Swallow. Then he put his right foot on the bottom step. Tiger McKnight stood behind him, a vicious look in his eyes. Swallow thought they would charge up at Vanucchi.

‘Fuck you, Vanucchi!' Cussen shouted. ‘Fuck you. I've put me hand in me own pocket for proper whiskey for the likes o' Sergeant Swalla'. I wouldn't insult the man by offerin' him the bootleg piss you're after puttin' in here.'

He moved a step higher on the stairs and pointed a finger at Vanucchi.

‘I hear you talkin' about how ye worked with Ces Downes all these years gone by. You've done sweet fuck all, Vanucchi, since ye were a kid robbin' apples off old women in the South City Market. Any work that was done here was done be meself and these lads here. Yer all talk and no bottle.'

He extended an arm to his companions, in the style of a classical orator, inviting them to give voice to their support. There was a chorus of muttered agreement from the four or five men gathered around him in the hallway.

Charlie Vanucchi was not going to back down from the challenge. He moved another step down the stairs.

Swallow cut in front of him.

‘Go back upstairs, Charlie, like a good man. There's no need to dishonour Ces's memory, with her up there still being waked in her own house. Do you hear me?'

In spite of the alcohol dimming his brain, Vanucchi registered the hard edge in Swallow's voice. He hesitated for a moment and then slowly turned back up the stairs without a word.

‘There's the brave fuckin' man now, hidin' behind the bobby,' Cussen called from the hallway below. ‘What did I tell ye, lads, all fuckin' talk?'

Swallow swung around to face Cussen. ‘You cool down too, Vinny,' he said angrily. ‘Charlie's walking away here for the right reasons. You should do the same now yourself. There's a dead woman upstairs and she's entitled to a bit of respect from the two of you.'

Cussen scowled and turned back to his men. The buzz of talk picked up again across the hallway and along the stairs. Swallow continued his climb to the third floor.

At the top of the stairs, he was surprised to discover that conditions on the third floor of Ces Downes's house contrasted dramatically with those on the lower floors.

The broken boards and tattered furniture gave way to well-carpeted rooms. Most of the plasterwork on the downstairs ceilings had long broken away, but on the upper floor it seemed to retain much of its original detail. Doors, wainscoting and window frames were well preserved and neatly painted. Half a dozen paintings of hunting scenes hung in gold-leaf frames on the walls of the corridor.

He looked around for any sight of the two dogs that supposedly roamed the top floor. There was no sign of them. Swallow could hear the cadences of the prayers for the dead drifting from the front room across the corridor.

He stepped into the room. Half a dozen women sat around the big brass bed, most of them with rosary beads twined in their fingers, making the responses to the prayers. The blinds were down and four wax candles were burning in tall brass holders, one at each corner of the bed. The dead crime boss, laid out in a white satin habit, looked smaller than she had in life and utterly harmless, Swallow thought.

A youth silently pointed him to an empty chair against the wall. He felt awkward with the whiskey in his hand, but there was no shelf or table upon which he could safely place it. He reckoned it was better to sit and hold on to the glass.

A white-haired priest, a purple stole around his neck, knelt near the top of the bed. Candlelight flickered off his face and across the pages of the book he held out before him. Intoning the ‘Glory be to the Father,' he brought the prayers to an end. He closed the book, blessed himself and rose stiffly to his feet.

As the priest started slowly across the room, Swallow realised that under the ceremonial vestments he wore the brown habit of the Franciscans. It took him a moment to recognise Father Laurence, the friar who had attended the previous morning to administer the late rites to the murdered woman and child inside the Chapelizod Gate.

The friar nodded in recognition. Swallow nodded back and then rose from his chair, stepping after him to the corridor outside. Father Laurence extended his hand in greeting.

‘I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Sergeant,' he said. It was a soft accent from the South; Cork, or more likely Kerry, Swallow guessed. ‘But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find you here. I know that Ces Downes was no stranger to the police.'

Swallow laughed quietly. ‘That might be one way of putting it, Father. But if you'll allow me to turn that comment around, I didn't realise either that she was known to the church. I always thought she kept away from religion.'

The friar smiled. ‘Well, that's partly true. She wanted nothing to do with the priests of the parish. She avoided the local clergy here in Francis Street. I remember she used to rail on about well-fed bishops and monsignors, but she always seemed to be comfortable with us. I think she felt that humble mendicants weren't a challenge or a threat to her. She had friends among our community, you know. In fact, my understanding is that she bequeathed this house to us – to the Franciscans…'

His voice trailed off. Swallow realised that Father Laurence was eyeing the whiskey glass in his right hand. He took the cue.

‘Would you like to have a drink, Father? We could go below to the room. They have a decent whiskey at least.'

The friar's eyes lit up. ‘Well, that's a very good idea, Sergeant. But you'll have to … ah … order for me though. I can't really be seen going into the room myself … a holy priest, looking for whiskey, can I?'

Swallow laughed. ‘I'll do what I can to protect your reputation, Father.'

He led the way down past the mourners on the landings and along the stairs. There was no sign of Vinny Cussen or Charlie Vanucchi, but Swallow saw the girl that Cussen had earlier told to fetch his own drink. He caught her eye, raised his glass and pointed to the priest. Someone in the hallway called to her, ‘Kate', but she ignored the call. She nodded and turned into the room, emerging almost immediately with a tumbler of whiskey that matched the one she had procured for Swallow.

‘We might find a bit of quiet at the back of the house,' Father Laurence said, moving down the passageway.

They found a bench seat outside what would once have been the kitchens.

The friar raised his glass and touched it lightly against Swallow's.

‘Good health, Sergeant. As I was saying, Ces Downes was a regular visitor to the friary. She was a complex woman, you know. I think people like the police only saw one side of her, but she suffered terrible injustices in her own life too. So she knew the pain that people can feel when they believe the whole world is against them … and sometimes maybe they feel that God is against them too. I can't say any more, but I can say that.'

He took a mouthful of the whiskey and smacked his lips appreciatively.

‘Ah, God bless that man Dan Williams below in Tullamore. “Tullamore Dew,” they're starting to call this now. He'll surely find salvation on account of his good works on Earth if nothing else.'

Swallow found himself wondering at the friar's apparently developed knowledge of the distilling industry.

The friar put his hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, Sergeant. I've probably offended you. That's a stupid thing to have said.'

Swallow laughed. ‘Not at all, Father. I'm of the same flock as yourself, you know.'

‘I took the name ‘Swallow' to be Protestant,' Father Laurence said in a tone of relief. ‘Where's it from?'

‘My people have been around South Kildare for as far back as we can trace it,' Swallow said. ‘Somebody said it's probably French, from the word ‘
soie,
' which means silk in French. Maybe my ancestors were silk merchants.'

‘It's a funny world,' the friar laughed. ‘Here's the progeny of a French silk merchant, a policeman and an officer of the Crown, drinking whiskey along with a mendicant friar and a house full of criminals.'

‘It's more complicated than that, Father,' Swallow grinned. ‘My grandfather on my mother's side carried a pike with the United Irishmen in 1798. So there's the grandson of a rebel sitting beside you too.'

‘Did that ever cause you … any … difficulty, you know, being a policeman with a rebel family background? It's a bit of a contradiction,' the friar asked tentatively.

Swallow tried not to let his irritation show.

‘Never gave it a moment's thought, Father,' he lied. ‘If the United men had won they'd have set up their own police force too. And it mightn't be as civilised as the DMP.'

‘So, where do you worship, Sergeant? I always like to know where people go to talk to God.'

‘When I do it at all, I like to do my praying over with the Carmelites in Whitefriar Street. But my conversations with God are usually one way. I'm not sure he has a lot to say to me.'

The friar smiled. ‘It's usually a matter of listening. God can make himself heard without speaking … if you know what I mean. Whitefriar Street is a good place to hear him, I'd say. They're good men, too, the Carmelites. I wouldn't hear a word against them. And they have the bones of St Valentine over there. I'm afraid the poor Franciscans can't compete with that.'

The priest's expression grew serious. ‘That's a terrible, terrible business you had to deal with in the park yesterday. I've seen shocking sights in my time, but I don't know if I've ever had to attend at a more dreadful thing. The whole city is shocked by it. It's hard to imagine how anybody could do such a thing to a woman and an innocent child.'

‘It is, Father,' Swallow said quietly. ‘I'm sorry that we had to keep you waiting. We have to keep the scene clear until the experts have done their work.'

The friar waved his hand dismissively. ‘Ah, not at all … I understand that, of course. You have to do your particular duty. Tell me, have you any idea of what happened or why? Or if you think you know who did it? Do you know who they were, the poor creatures?'