A June of Ordinary Murders (9 page)

Swallow knew from the daily newspapers that the picture painted by Mallon was accurate. The unarmed Dublin police operated much like police forces in any British city, with only the men of G Division carrying guns. In contrast, the Royal Irish Constabulary, covering the rural areas, was heavily armed. Even his home county of Kildare had seen burnings, attacks on police stations and evictions.

Mallon rose and walked to the window. He looked out into the Lower Yard, already filling with sunshine.

‘There's nothing political about this case from what you've told me. Is that right, Swallow?'

In Mallon's view of the world, Swallow knew, anything that was ‘special,' touching on politics, subversion or state business had absolute priority. In the lexicon of G Division, everything else was classified as ‘ordinary.'

Mallon saw the threat of subversion everywhere. There were rumours of another Fenian rising. Any threat of political destabilisation was taken seriously. Anything else, even a gruesome double murder, was a lesser priority.

Just a few months previously,
The Times
of London had published letters alleged to have been written by Parnell intimating that he was complicit in the murders of Cavendish and Burke. Parnell had sued the newspaper for defamation and demanded an independent commission of inquiry into the allegations.

The Tory government at Westminster and the Irish administration at Dublin Castle were obliged to appear as disinterested parties in the clash between the Irish leader and the newspaper, but in reality they were striving with all their resources to discredit Parnell and to find evidence to vindicate
The Times
in its supposed revelations.

Teams of secret police agents had been formed in Scotland Yard and at Dublin Castle to assemble evidence against Parnell by fair means or foul. Their task was to provide proof that Parnellism and violent Fenianism were at root a single movement.

The men who made up the new squads were not part of the regular police establishment or structure. In Dublin, they reported directly to the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security in the Upper Yard of the Castle. They were shadowy figures, for the most part English and Scottish. They were billeted in out-of-the-way hotels under assumed identities. Even within the Castle walls they did not socialise or move about openly. Their food and drink was brought in to them at their offices. They came and went usually under cover of darkness.

These were days of uncertainty and disquiet for the regular police officials at the Castle, especially for senior men like John Mallon, whose job it was to ensure the security of the administration.

Swallow preferred to keep his distance from the political end of G Division's work, but that was not always possible, as with the Cavendish and Burke murders. For a G-man, political work could sometimes provide a swift upward route in the promotion stakes. Conversely, a simple error in judgment in dealing with security issues could also destroy an officer's career.

‘Yes, Sir,' Swallow was emphatic. ‘These murders are ordinary. There's nothing that's political so far in the case.' He hoped he was right.

Mallon nodded. ‘Good. We don't need even a hint of political trouble. We have the Queen's grandson, Prince Albert Victor, coming here in little more than a week to mark the Jubilee. The government wants a warm Irish welcome for him – a full civic reception, spontaneous outpourings of loyalty, young women throwing bouquets of flowers – that kind of thing.'

‘I'd have thought the Queen might want to come herself, Chief,' Swallow said tentatively. ‘She hasn't been here for what … 25 years or so?'

‘26 years, to be precise,' Mallon replied. ‘More or less since her husband died. It may be that London thinks we couldn't guarantee her safety. Officially what I'm told is that she remains displeased with the Dublin Corporation because it wouldn't issue a formal statement of congratulations when the Prince was born 23 years ago. You'd think these things would be left in the past.'

For a brief moment Swallow thought he saw Mallon smile. If he did, it was gone instantaneously.

‘Anyway, he's coming whether we like it or not. We can't afford to have anything disruptive going on.'

‘I know that, Chief.'

Swallow was indifferent to the prospect of a royal visit. It held no interest for him one way or another. But it was safer to express himself with more certainty to Mallon.

‘You can be sure the whole force will be on top form, Chief. And there's hardly any of the politicals or subversives now that we don't have tabs on in G Division. Isn't that the case?'

The question was rhetorical. He did not expect an answer from Mallon, but he thought the Chief Superintendent would want him to sound confident.

Mallon's nod was ambiguous.

‘We'll leave it be, Swallow. I'll have to deal with this business of the newspapers and I'll try to keep you out of trouble. I imagine the Commissioner will want some explanation about the newspaper details. I'll try to reassure him. Mind you, he won't have forgotten that you still have the Elizabeth Logan murder on your books.'

Swallow fought down a surge of frustration. It was grossly unjust, he told himself, that a successful record over many years appeared to count for so little. But to argue with Mallon would only make things worse. He knew that the Chief Superintendent was probably his best ally at this time.

‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.'

He seethed silently.

‘Now,' Mallon resumed his seat and reached for his copy of Swallow's crime file, ‘tell me about the investigation plan.'

Swallow took the detective Chief Superintendent through the events of the previous day. He started with the call out and his visit to the scene inside the Chapelizod Gate. He described the wounds to the dead man and boy, the mutilation of the faces, their clothing and the position of the bodies. Then he detailed the search procedures that had taken place under Doolan's direction.

Mallon sat silently throughout, turning the pages of the crime report in parallel with Swallow's narrative. When they had reached the end of the last page he closed the file and nodded at Swallow.

‘You've done everything that could have been done at this stage. Now, you've been known as a good detective because apart from an organisational mind you've got instinct. So what does your instinct tell you about this business?'

Swallow was familiar with Mallon's technique. Every case was first analysed clinically, each particle of evidence tested and examined separately. Then the investigator was invited to let his imagination loose on the problem. It put Swallow in mind of an African tribe he had once heard about whose custom was to discuss every issue twice before coming to any important decision – once sober and once drunk.

‘I think this is going to be a difficult case, Sir. It could be a very slow one. There was nothing casual or spontaneous about what happened here. The killings were planned, and I'd guess that the mutilation of the faces was deliberately done to prevent identification. Unless we get a good break we're a long way off cracking it. We don't even know who the victims are.'

Mallon grimaced. ‘I don't disagree with any of that. But I want you to go a bit further. Speculate for me. Give me a possible motive. Tell me what sort of man the victim was. How did the poor child come to be involved? What might we be dealing with here? We don't get many jobs as bad as this one, thank God. What's the feeling in your gut?'

Swallow sensed danger. If he responded as Mallon asked, he would leave himself open to an accusation of jumping to conclusions, of working to a set of preconceptions. He opted for caution.

‘I can't do that just yet, Chief. Maybe when I have Dr Lafeyre's report later this morning I'd feel a bit more confident about putting out a theory. I don't want to be back in here to you with two different stories.'

Mallon grimaced again, this time with a hint of knowing. ‘You're probably right, Sergeant. It's too soon. When does the medical examiner plan to give you his reports? And who have you got on the case with you?'

‘Harry said he'd have his reports early this morning. I'm going to see him after this. And I've got Mossop as the Book Man. Swift and Feore led the uniformed inquiry teams at the scene.'

‘They're good men,' Mallon nodded. ‘Hang on to them if you can. We'll be stretched over the next few days with the Jubilee. And we've a big surveillance task with the politicals coming up to the prince's visit. On top of all that we have Ces Downes's death … with unpredictable consequences.'

‘Yes, Sir. I know that Ces Downes died last night. It'll be interesting to see who comes out on top now, Charlie Vanucchi or Vinny Cussen.'

Mallon gathered his files and stood from behind the desk.

‘God knows what they'll do to each other in order to get control of her business,' he said. ‘Not to mention what Vanucchi and Cussen will do to get hold of whatever money she put away.'

‘Do you think she had much of that, Sir?'

‘Hard to say,' Mallon mused. ‘We know she did a lot of business through McGloin, the solicitor. He's not too particular about where his clients get their funds from. And he doesn't entertain people who have no money.'

Every G-man knew Horace ‘Fish' McGloin, so called because of his slippery nature. He operated his law practice from a dingy one-room office over a public house on Essex Street, by the river. It was the first port of call for many a crook seeking advice on what to do with the profits of crime.

The strengthening sun had started to form a golden rectangle on the carpet under the high-paned window.

‘I'm due at the Commissioner's office,' Mallon said.' I'll do what I can on the newspaper problem. With any luck – from your viewpoint – he'll be more exercised over what's going to happen with the Jubilee and the royal visit. Come, I'll walk down to the Yard with you.'

They went down the narrow stairway leading from Mallon's office to the Lower Yard. As they reached the ground floor, Mallon turned to look Swallow directly in the eye.

‘What's this I've been hearing about your off-duty activities?'

Swallow's heart sank. He lived in constant anxiety that someone, some day, would lodge a complaint about his unorthodox domestic arrangements with Maria Walsh. They violated at least three canons of the DMP code of discipline: being domiciled with a woman who was not his lawful wife; lodging in premises licensed for the sale of intoxicating liquor and participating or assisting in the operation of a commercial enterprise without permission.

If a disciplinary inquiry found that he was in violation of even one of the three he could face a censure that might range from a loss of pay to dismissal.

‘I don't know … what have you been hearing, Chief?' he replied in what he hoped was an even tone.

‘I hear you've become a painter. That you're showing a talent with watercolours.'

Swallow felt a surge of relief. ‘That's not quite true, Sir. I'm an amateur, but I find it helps to relax me when I'm not on the job.'

‘That's good, Swallow. Everyone needs to focus on a hobby or something outside of their job, even if it's only growing flowers in a window-box.'

They walked across the sunlit Lower Yard to the steps of the DMP Commissioner's office.

‘I hope you get a good result on this quickly, Swallow,' Mallon said. ‘I'm thinking of your own good. You know, a policeman's luck can run out too. I wouldn't want to lose you from G Division, but if this doesn't come right for you there could be worse things than going to Dalkey or Blackrock in uniform. You're an educated man – more or less. You could move up the ranks with a bit of study. You'd have regular hours and a hell of a lot less strain out there in the suburbs.'

He moved up the steps. ‘Good luck, Sergeant. Keep me informed.'

Swallow believed Mallon when he said he was thinking of his best interests. Mallon saw Swallow as one of his own. He wanted him looked after. The chief of G Division would not want to see a hardworking officer disadvantaged just because his luck had turned.

Even so, there was something in what Mallon was saying about the attraction of a job in coastal Dalkey or leafy Kingstown and maybe a lift up to inspector or even to superintendent. Swallow could never understand why Dalkey in particular, a pretty and peaceful fishing village at the extremity of the F Division, should be viewed as a punishment station by the authorities.

Mallon was right. There were worse places than Dalkey. But there was an issue of pride here too, of self-respect. If he went that route, Swallow thought to himself, it would be because he wanted to and in his own time, not because some reporter alleged that he couldn't crack a dirty case.

His momentary alarm at the possibility of being challenged on his domestic arrangements had now receded. He checked his pocket-watch. If there was to be any decency in the day, perhaps Harry Lafeyre's post-mortem reports would provide him at least with a starting point for the investigation of the murders at the Chapelizod Gate.

SEVEN

Immediately he had parted with Mallon in the Lower Castle Yard, Swallow sensed that there was a problem.

Harry Lafeyre's carriage should have been standing in the stable yard behind the DMP building. It wasn't there. That meant that Lafeyre would not be in his office as arranged to brief Swallow on his postmortem examination.

Swallow was a few minutes late. Lafeyre was usually punctual, and he had been left in no doubt that the investigation of the double murder by the Chapelizod Gate was a priority. If he was not at his office as arranged either something must have gone wrong with the postmortem schedule, or some medical emergency had taken priority.

Doctor and detective had worked together on perhaps a score of difficult homicides. Not all were murders, for murder was not a very frequent occurrence in Dublin. Some were suicides, others deaths by misadventure. Most of them started as a mystery, a blank sheet upon which they worked hand-in-hand, methodically and patiently, filling in the empty spaces, gradually converting the unknown into the known, building comprehension where once there had been mystery.