A June of Ordinary Murders (23 page)

The two G-men began to step backwards towards the door. Collins waved the weapon to clear away four or five members of the gang who had moved to block the exit just moments before. The men moved away sullenly, their hands high.

As Shanahan and Collins reached the door it swung inwards from the street, propelled by the shoulders of two constables with drawn batons. Two more followed, and then two more. Within a few moments more than a dozen uniformed policemen had deployed across the room.

A burly sergeant who had come through the door with surprising velocity surveyed the shambles of the saloon. He took in the sprawled bodies on the floor, perhaps twenty men and women with their hands in the air, the two G-men with revolvers in hand and the air thick with gunsmoke and plaster dust.

He looked at Shanahan and Collins, shaking his head slowly.

‘Ye can be damned thankful ye were spotted comin' in here by a beat man. He recognised ye and knew ye'd be in trouble on yer own. We've been countin' the numbers of these gougers here during the day. Ye must be mad, just the two o' yez comin' in here on yer own. Sure there's an army of them. What do ye want to do now?

‘We're … taking the prisoner … we came for,' Collins gasped, ‘Charlie Vanucchi. He's to be charged.'

The sergeant gestured to a constable beside him. ‘Get Vanucchi, I see him there at the back.'

A distinct gurgling sound, like milk being poured from a pail, could be heard across the saloon. A faintly amber liquid was falling in a steady trickle from one of the two gaping holes blown in the ceiling by Shanahan's warning shots. It splashed noisily onto a tabletop where three of the Vanucchi gang's womenfolk were sitting, half-empty glasses of port wine in front of them.

The trickle eddied and twisted as it fell from the shattered ceiling and momentarily splashed on the face of one of the women. She gave a little shriek and her hands flew upward to wipe it away. Suddenly, she was licking her fingers, then she was holding her two hands out, palms cupped to catch the fluid that gurgled from the shattered cases of liquor in the storeroom above. She squealed delightedly.

‘Jaysus girls, we're blessed. It's whiskey!'

EIGHTEEN

Sometimes the laws of chance worked in a policeman's favour. It was not a frequent occurrence. Like a comet blazing through the solar system, it was a rare but verifiable phenomenon. Swallow had experienced it himself. A casual encounter or a scrap of unexpected information on occasion had saved him hours, even days, of shovel-work, knocking on doors and making inquiries in shops and public houses.

It had to be pure luck that the gaunt young girl in the circle of onlookers by the canal bank had recognised the dead woman's face in the moment that the constable's cape had been taken away.

‘It's Sarah…' She repeated the name as if not believing what she was looking at. ‘Jesus … it's Sarah.'

For a moment she appeared to go faint. Two women onlookers moved to support her. Swallow called to a constable to bring her to the side-car and make her comfortable on its bench seat. He reckoned she might be 17 or 18 years of age.

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Swallow from G Division,' he said quietly. ‘Will you tell me your name?'

The girl was trembling in spite of the day's warmth.

‘It's Hetty … Hetty Connors, Sir.'

‘Do you know that poor woman?'

She looked at him quizzically for a moment. ‘She's Sarah, Sir. I know her from where I used to work.'

‘What's her other name?'

She hesitated. ‘I don't know, Sir. We just called her Sarah. She is … was … the housemaid.'

‘Were you a friend of hers?'

‘I used to work with her before I got a position at the hospital – Sir Patrick Dunn's, that is. Sometimes when I have me time off I like to come up here for a walk and she did the same. I'd meet her, sittin' be the water, like. We'd always talk for a bit.'

‘When did you see her last? Have you any idea why this might have happened?'

‘I suppose a few days ago. I took an evenin' walk, like I do, when the weather is fine. She was just there on the little wall by the canal. That's the last I saw of her.'

Who was your employer, Hetty, before you went to the hospital?'

‘It was Mr Fitzpatrick, Sir, down at Merrion Square, number 106.'

‘And that's where she … Sarah … works, is it?'

‘It is, Sir.'

More than twenty years of police work had also taught Swallow not to underestimate the possibility – or the power – of coincidence. ‘Do you mean Alderman Fitzpatrick? Thomas Fitzpatrick?'

‘Yes, Sir. He's very important.'

That might be understating it, he thought. It was not information that he welcomed. A violent death – even of a servant – linked to the household of a man in the public eye, a senior member of the City Corporation and protégé of the administration would be publicised and then scrutinised at the highest levels.

At that moment Swallow was relieved to see the bulky figure of Detective Mick Feore climbing down from a DMP car that had drawn in across the street. Feore would probably never make quite as good a Book Man as Pat Mossop, but just at this moment Swallow would settle for anyone who could write fast, accurately and legibly, keeping track of scraps of information and logging their sources.

Feore was a farmer's son from Galway. He had once been a member of a religious order of teaching brothers. At an early stage of working together, Swallow noticed that he picked up the techniques of crime investigation more quickly than many of the others who came into G Division, and reasoned that it was because of his educational training. His classroom experience stood him in good stead when he abandoned the religious life and opted for a policing job. His English was accurate and precise. His writing hand was clear and steady.

Swallow beckoned to the big detective.

‘I'm sorry to pull you in at short notice but I need a Book Man here. They've taken a woman over there from the canal and she's gone to the morgue. I think she's had her skull beaten in although we can't be 100 percent certain until Dr Lafeyre has finished his examination.'

He ran Feore through what he had learned from the bargemen, then he recounted the details that Hetty Connors had given him. Feore's pencil flew over the pages of his notebook, filling them with Swallow's rapid-fire narrative. He gave out a little whistle when Swallow told him where the dead woman worked. Feore understood the implications. Any investigation that would bring G Division into contact with the influential and well-connected was always problematic.

The uniformed sergeant had formed two lines of constables to start searching the canal banks. Ultimately they would cover all of the ground stretching back to the Grand Canal Dock.

Swallow stepped onto the moored barge and walked to the stern from where the stopman had spotted the dead woman in the water. There was a clear line of sight from the deck across the channel, but the body would not have been visible to anyone on the canal bank. That was consistent with the bargemen's version of the find.

He told a constable to remain on duty until the photographic technician completed his job. The bargemen's details and statements were to be taken and they could continue on their way when the police work was finished.

There was little more that he could do at the scene. There were no witnesses of significance. A woman who might have been a cook had emerged from a nearby house and taken the distressed Hetty Connors to her kitchen to comfort her with some tea. The body of the dead girl was on its way to Harry Lafeyre's morgue.

‘Somebody's going to have to go down to Merrion Square and tell Alderman Fitzpatrick what's happened,' Feore ventured.

‘Well, that'll be you and me, Mick.' Swallow responded without enthusiasm. ‘I suppose we'd best make a start.'

It would be perhaps a 15-minute walk.

His sense of foreboding was rising. Anything touching on the Fitzpatrick household would have the entire chain of authority rattling and shaking, from the Security Secretary's office down. He silently cursed his luck. Sometimes months could pass by without landing a murder inquiry, and when they did occur they were often straightforward, although inevitably demanding of time and effort. There were family feuds, lovers' quarrels, acts of violence fuelled by alcohol. Now it looked as if he had not one but three murders to deal with in almost as many days. And so far they were proving to be anything but straightforward.

The doubts that had worried him on Sunday afternoon when he talked to Maria were asserting themselves even more strongly. He already had two unsolved, brutal murders on his hands. How was he to cope with another one that was already throwing up problems?

He crossed the Portobello Bridge with Feore, glancing down at the black, churning water in the lock below. They followed the towpath to Huband Bridge, then they turned into Upper Mount Street and past St Stephen's – the ‘Pepper Canister' – Church. An ancient dog sat in the shade beside the steps, panting in the heat. Swallow saw that someone had mercifully put out an enamel bowl of water for the animal.

At Merrion Square the gardens were patterned with yellow and green. The sunlight reflected off glossy beech and chestnut and sparkled on scrubbed granite steps and brass door-knockers.

G Division's line of work rarely led its members to Merrion Square or anywhere within the city's exquisite Georgian quarter. This was an enclave of the wealthy and the privileged. Many of the four-storey houses were the property of titled landowners from around the country who kept them for use during the Dublin ‘season.' Then there were the homes of the judges, the successful lawyers, the senior Castle officials, the prominent surgeons as well as the families that had grown wealthy on industry and trade.

Police business was almost invariably centred on the less salubrious districts. It was generally transacted in streets where the names of the inhabitants did not figure on the Lord Lieutenant's invitations lists. Privilege in such places might be defined as a communal water pump and an outdoor toilet.

Swallow could see children's nurses minding their charges in the gardens of the great Georgian square. The faint sound of a dining gong, deep in one of the tall mansions, chimed through an open window. Someone was about to sit to lunch. Swallow surmised that it was likely to be a good one.

He realised he had not eaten since early morning. The sun and heat had suppressed his appetite. He could be easily persuaded to a glass of stout or a cool bottle of ale, he reflected, but it was not an immediate prospect.

Things went wrong almost from the moment Swallow and Feore arrived at Number 106 Merrion Square. They climbed the high granite steps to the main door. Feore tugged on the stiff bell-pull. He had pulled three times before the door was opened by a frail-looking butler in morning dress.

He squinted at the detectives. ‘Yes? Wha' is your business please?'

Swallow was good on accents. After one sentence he could place this one somewhere in the Scottish lowlands, perhaps Aberdeen or Dundee. The man's shoes were in need of polishing, and two loose buttons dangled on his vest. He was not young, perhaps 60 years of age, and had shaved none-too-well. It was not what Swallow had expected in the house of an influential Alderman.

It was also in contrast to what Swallow could see of the contents of the well-proportioned hallway. Silver candle-holders glistened from a polished side-table. Two matching sets of what looked like fine Dutch interiors adorned the walls. A magnificent, crystal glass chandelier hung from the plasterwork rose in the centre of the ceiling.

He showed his warrant card. ‘I'm making inquiries about a member of your staff who may be missing from this household. I need to speak to someone in authority please.'

The butler drew the door half closed behind him as if to deny the detectives any sight of the interior.

‘If it's a matter concernin' the staff, Constable,' he nodded towards the railings underneath, ‘ye'll have to go below.'

He moved back into the hall and made to shut the door.

Swallow's anger at being ordered to the tradesmen's entrance was instinctive. He shot his left foot forward, blocking the door. He stepped across the threshold, pushing against the man and momentarily knocking him off balance. He heard Feore draw a deep breath as he stepped in behind him.

‘I'm not a constable,' Swallow said in the cold voice that he could summon to mask anger. ‘I'm Detective Sergeant Swallow of the G Division. I'm investigating a violent death, probably a case of murder. Now, get me your master or whoever is in charge of the house.'

The older man recovered his balance. ‘How dare you force your way in here, I told ye to go downstairs!'

He raised his arm as if he would attempt to sweep the two policemen back over the threshold. Swallow flexed himself, but he knew that he had stepped over the law in pushing his way past the door.

‘Easy,' he said. ‘You could go to jail for assaulting a policeman.'

A man's voice came from the hallway.

‘What's going on here, McDonald?'

Thomas Fitzpatrick emerged from a room to the right. He held a sheaf of papers in one hand and a pair of spectacles in the other. He fixed the two detectives with a glare. Then, almost immediately, he recognised Swallow.

‘You're the G-man from last night at Academy,' he announced. ‘You have a couple of the troublemakers locked up in the Castle, I believe. That was good work.'

He seemed to relax. ‘I think this is probably in order, McDonald,' he told the butler, gesturing to him to step aside. He turned back to Swallow. ‘I'm afraid I didn't catch your name last evening but I'm sure I owe you my thanks. What is it that I can do for you?'

Swallow showed his warrant card.

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Swallow, Mr Fitzpatrick. This is Detective Officer Feore. And you're correct in what you say. I was at the Royal Hibernian Academy last evening. We have two men in custody, but I'm afraid this call is about other business. We're investigating the death of a young woman whose body was found in the Grand Canal this morning. I have reason to believe she may have been a servant in this house.'