A June of Ordinary Murders (51 page)

‘My son is known as Simon Sweeney.'

FORTY-THREE

Just before midnight, Swallow and Mossop, with a party of uniformed constables, knocked on the door of the four-storey house on Lower Ormond Quay where Simon Sweeney of the
Evening Telegraph
had his rooms.

There was no traffic on the street, and they could hear the flow of the river lapping against the granite of the Liffey embankment. A quarter Moon hung over the square-towered spire of Christ Church Cathedral. It was a midsummer night in which there would be no real darkness. Away to the west, where the river flowed in from the flat countryside, there were still traces of red in the sky.

A constable covered the door that led to the servants' quarters below street level. Swallow posted two others, with Mick Feore as armed backup, behind the house, where the coaching entrance gave out onto Strand Street.

An hour earlier the G-men had left the Fitzpatrick house at Merrion Square, exiting through the mews. A DMP closed carriage stood by the gate with doused lamps and the horse's harnesses muffled.

They placed Thomas Fitzpatrick in the carriage, handcuffed between Pat Mossop and a uniformed officer. Swallow took position up front with the driver. Detectives Eddie Shanahan and Mick Feore flanked the vehicle on foot until they reached the end of the mews laneway.

At the end of the lane another closed carriage waited under a pool of gas light. Two men stood on the pavement on either side. As the carriages drew level, Swallow ostentatiously turned back his jacket, drew his Webley Bulldog and laid it across his knees. Shanahan and Feore already had their guns drawn.

Major Kelly stood in front of his men under the street light. He too had drawn back his coat to reveal his weapon in its holster. Swallow saw that the man beside Kelly was holding a shotgun, barrels pointing downward, half concealed by his side.

Kelly tipped his hat. ‘Good evening, Sergeant Swallow. I trust that you've had a successful day.'

‘Yes, Major Kelly. I've had a very good day, thank you. I'm on my way to Exchange Court with a prisoner and a signed statement taken under a warrant issued by a Justice of the Peace.'

Kelly appeared to consider this information for a moment. Then he raised his hands, palms upward, suggesting a sense of helplessness.

‘A signed statement, secured under a warrant issued by a Justice of the Peace? Then it would appear that I can be of little assistance to you.'

‘I believe so, Major Kelly. Matters have moved on.' Swallow saw the man with the shotgun shift the weapon uneasily. One of his colleagues moved closer beside Kelly, his right hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

Kelly stepped forward onto the roadway.

‘As you can see, my fellows have come prepared for any difficulties that might arise. And I can see that your men are similarly equipped. So, rather than cause an incident that could be very nasty, it seems that I shall have to accept that matters, as you say, have moved on.'

He gave the cold smile that Swallow had seen on the night they had talked in the carriage.

‘In that case, Sergeant Swallow, I can do no more than give you my assurances that I won't forget you. And your failure to take good advice will be remembered.'

Swallow did not reply.

‘Go ahead,' he ordered the driver.

*   *   *

It took four or five hard bangs before a woman's voice called out from inside the front door of Simon Sweeney's lodgings at Ormond Quay.

‘What do ye want?'

Mossop put his mouth to the letterbox.

‘It's the police, G-Division detectives. Would you open the door please, Ma'am?'

A beam of candlelight showed at the crack between the door and the jamb. Then the elderly woman drew it open, reassured by the sight of uniforms.

‘In the name o' God almighty, what do ye want at this hour o' the night?'

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Swallow, Ma'am. Can you tell us where we'll find Mr Sweeney who lives here?'

The woman pointed up the stairs in the darkness. ‘His rooms are up on the second landing there. It's the big oak door facin' down the staircase. But I don't know if he's in. He can often be late, you know, what with his workin' at the newspaper.'

Mossop struck a match to a police lantern. They climbed the stairs following the thin, yellow light. Taking up positions on either side of the door, they drew their revolvers. The constables waited on the stairway. Swallow knocked sharply on the pedimented door.

‘Yes? What is it?' The reply from inside was immediate.

‘It's Detective Sergeant Swallow here. Can I have a word please, Mr Sweeney?'

A shuffling sound was faintly audible through the door.

‘It isn't convenient just now. Can't it wait until the morning?'

‘Not really, I'm afraid.'

‘What's it about?'

‘We've made some progress in the investigation and I need to talk about the material you carried in the
Evening Telegraph.
'

The ruse wasn't entirely untrue, Swallow reflected.

There was more shuffling. A flicker of light passed over their feet from the crack underneath the door. A bolt was drawn and Simon Sweeney, fully dressed, opened the door with one hand, a lighted candle in a holder in the other.

Swallow stepped forward, pushing the barrel of his revolver hard into Sweeney's chest. Mossop put his weight to the door to swing it fully open. It connected hard with Sweeney's shoulder, sending him staggering back into the room. The candle in its holder flew from his hand.

The two G-men stepped into the room, followed by the constables.

‘Raise your hands over your head and don't move,' Swallow barked. Mossop deposited his lantern on a table and covered Sweeney with his own revolver.

‘What in the name of God is going on?' Sweeney shouted angrily. ‘Are you out of your mind, Swallow?'

‘Where's the gun, Mr Sweeney? We know you have a revolver. Tell me where it is please.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about, Swallow. What do you think you're at?'

‘I think you know very well what I'm at,' Swallow snapped.

‘Simon Sweeney, also known as John Michael Downes or John Michael Fitzpatrick, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder,' Swallow said. ‘I have reason to believe that on or around June 16th or 17th last you murdered Louise Thomas and Richard Thomas, at a place within the Dublin Metropolitan Police District, contrary to common law.'

Even in the weak light of Mossop's lantern Swallow could see shock on Sweeney's face.

‘You're wrong. You're completely wrong, Swallow,' he said. ‘I never…'

‘You're not obliged to say anything, Mr Sweeney, unless you wish to do so,' Swallow added. ‘But if you do say anything, it will be taken down and it may be used in evidence.'

‘Now,' he gestured with his revolver towards an armchair, ‘please sit … you can bring your hands down but keep them on your knees where I can see them. I'm asking you again, where is the gun?'

‘What bloody gun? I don't know what you are talking about, Swallow.'

‘Do you have gas light here Mr Sweeney?' Mossop asked patiently.

Sweeney nodded, pointing to the wall behind the detective. Mossop opened the jet and put a match to the mantle. After a few seconds the glow strengthened and the room brightened.

Swallow nodded to the constables. ‘Start your search. Mr Sweeney will be having a conversation with Detective Mossop and myself.'

He turned back to Sweeney.

‘Mr Sweeney, I know that you're the natural son of Alderman Thomas Fitzpatrick and Cecilia Downes. I have to tell you that Detective Mossop and I have spent some hours earlier today with Alderman Fitzpatrick. Based on the information that he furnished to us, as well as other evidence that has emerged, I know that you are responsible for the deaths of Louise Thomas, your sister, and of her son, Richard, who was your nephew.'

Sweeney stared silently into the half-light of the room.

‘Have you heard what I said and do you understand it?'

‘It doesn't matter what Alderman Fitzpatrick told you,' Sweeney said. ‘To hell with that man and whatever he says. It's just hearsay and that isn't evidence.'

‘It would be best if you told us the truth at this stage, Mr Sweeney,' Mossop said.

‘Tell you the truth about what?'

‘I believe you know very well what we mean. We want to hear why you took the lives of your sister and her son.'

‘I've told you, I don't know anything about that. You came to me for help, remember, Swallow? You wanted me to help you to get Dr Lafeyre's reconstruction of the woman's face into the newspaper.'

‘Yes, of course, Mr Sweeney, and that was very helpful. But you've known a great deal more about this case that you have pretended from the beginning.'

‘That's nonsense,' Sweeney retorted. ‘I facilitated you, Swallow, for all the good it seems to have done. This is fine thanks for my cooperation and the newspaper's assistance.'

‘It isn't really nonsense,' Swallow said. ‘You gave yourself away on the first morning when you came out to the crime scene with your colleagues.'

He saw a look of anxiety flash in Sweeney's eyes.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You were the only one of the reporters who knew that the victims had been shot. You asked me ‘who would shoot a man and child?' You were clever enough to pretend you thought it was a man and a boy, even though you knew that the adult was a woman, your sister. But at that point nobody had said anything to indicate how they had died.'

‘It was a guess, for God's sake. It was a slip of the tongue along with a good guess.'

‘It could have been. That's why I wasn't sure all week what I was dealing with. But as it turns out, it wasn't a guess. You knew what none of the other pressmen knew. And you let it out.'

One of the constables re-entered the room, carrying a wooden box.

‘You'll want to see this, Sir,' he told Swallow, setting the box down on the table. He opened the hinged lid. ‘It was under a loose floorboard in the gentleman's bedroom.'

Swallow withdrew a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and a cardboard carton of ammunition. He placed them on the table. Then he lifted the carton and held it before the light to read the label.

‘Jupiter .38, low-charge cartridges. They're very suitable for short-range or target firing, are they not?'

‘The gun is mine, of course,' Sweeney snorted. ‘If that's what you were looking for you should have said so. It's perfectly legal. I was issued with it in the Officer Training Corps at Trinity. I was on the shooting team there. Every cadet has to buy one. You should know that.'

‘So what's the necessity to conceal it under the floorboards?' Mossop asked.

‘It's for safety, of course. I'd have thought the last thing a policeman would want to hear is that a gun was left lying around where someone could find it. I didn't want the chambermaid or the landlady to find it. For all I know any of them could be involved with the Fenians or the Land Leaguers.'

‘It's useful for the purposes of my investigation that you've confirmed that the gun is yours, Mr Sweeney,' Swallow said. ‘But not every cadet would have these low-charge cartridges. These would be issued to members of the OTC shooting team. Low-charge is used for target practice and in shooting ranges. That narrows the field a bit.'

He replaced the carton and the revolver in the box. Sweeney shook his head as if in disbelief.

‘That's all a bit thin, Sergeant. For God's sake, give over on this nonsense and let me go to my bed.'

‘Your sister and her child were shot with low-charge ammunition, Mr Sweeney.' Swallow picked one of the cartridges from the cardboard box.

‘Just like these Jupiter .38s. A man would use those if he was engaged in target practice or if he was in competition on a shooting team. Let's say the college shooting team at Trinity?'

Sweeney waved his hand. ‘Yes, I was on the college shooting team. So were ten others. And you could buy those cartridges in any one of a dozen gun shops around the city.'

Swallow replaced the cartridge. ‘That's true. But it's not all, Mr Sweeney.'

He dug his hand into his jacket pocket and produced two twisted lead slugs. He placed them side by side on the tabletop.

‘It's unlikely that you know much about the science of ballistics, as it's generally called, Mr Sweeney. It's the matching of bullets to the guns they've been fired from. Professor Alexander Lacassagne is the authority in the area. He's a French scientist. He discovered how to match the scratches and grooves on an expended bullet to the barrel-markings of a particular gun. With the short-barrelled revolver, firing a low-velocity bullet, it's absolutely accurate.'

He gestured to the tabletop.

‘I can promise you, Mr Sweeney, that it will be no challenge – no challenge at all – to prove to a criminal court that the .38 bullets that we recovered from the bodies of Louise Thomas and her son were fired from your revolver.'

‘Now,' he prodded with his finger at the two twisted slugs, ‘it would make it all a lot easier for everyone, yourself included, if you would start at the beginning and tell us what happened last week at Chapelizod Gate.'

Sweeney clasped and unclasped his hands. Swallow and Mossop waited. The only sound breaking the silence of the warm night was the hissing gas jet on the wall.

‘It wasn't meant to happen. I only wanted to frighten her,' he said finally.

‘I wanted her to leave Fitzpatrick … my father … alone. She was intent on bleeding him for all she could get … and then destroying him as well. He was going to hand money over to her and hope that she'd go to America. But I know that wouldn't have been the end of it. I knew that even if he paid her off she'd still try to destroy him.'