nonetheless. She was brighter again now, chatting quietly about nothing in particular.
‘I’m going to see my aunt. She’s always complaining Ma and Pa never call in. They do, all the time, and she always comes home with them after shul, but she likes to tell us about our airs and graces now that we live across the canal. We moved from Lennox Street when I was sixteen, but she’s not a great one for new topics of conversation. When I get there she’ll complain about me coming too, because I didn’t tell her I was!’
He smiled, enjoying her voice. They walked on in silence.
‘Do you know who Adolf Mahr is?’
She looked surprised. It was a strange question. ‘Yes.’
‘As director of the National Museum or as Nazi Party leader?’
‘I don’t suppose the Nazi role’s common knowledge everywhere, but some of us have better reasons to know about these things than others. Irish Jews don’t find it reassuring that all the Germans the government employs have got their own little Nazi Party here. I don’t remember seeing a swastika in Dublin before I left. Yesterday there was one outside the Shelbourne.’
‘He was here just now. His car was outside the bakery. There were two girls buying bread. His daughters, presumably. It seemed a bit odd –’
Hannah laughed.
‘Some things are so awful even the most devoted Nazi has to put aside his deepest prejudices. Irish bread. Even the master race can’t stomach it.’
‘Bread?’
‘He comes every Sunday. It’s the nearest he can find to a Vienna loaf in Dublin. But he can’t go inside the shop because it’s Jewish. So he sends his daughters. Everyone knows. Susan told me in one of her letters. It’s a standing joke. Mostly people laugh about it. I don’t know how funny it is –’
He felt an uncomfortable sense of connection, not with Hannah, but with Adolf Mahr. It was what his grandmother used to say. ‘They can’t make bread. They don’t know how. For God’s sake, once a week let’s have good bread!’ They walked on without speaking. Her mood had changed.
‘Was that just an idle question?’
‘What?’
‘About Adolf Mahr.’
He was right; she didn’t miss much.
‘The German community had a Christmas party last night, at the Shelbourne. It’s why the Nazi flag was flying. He was there with Keller.’
‘That’s nice for Doctor Keller. He’s got a lot of friends.’
‘It does seem like it.’
‘Is that why you were beaten up?’
He shrugged. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but he couldn’t deny it.
‘I suppose it proves you’re not one of his friends too.’ She stopped. ‘I’m going this way. Have a good day with your son. It’s going to rain though!’ As she turned, smiling, she touched his arm again. He watched her walk away, sensing that she hadn’t wanted to go. Or maybe that was what he wanted to believe, because he didn’t want her to go. It was a long time since he had felt like this, and he wasn’t at all sure how good his judgement was.
When Stefan Gillespie turned away from the ticket window at Kingsbridge Station, he saw the tall, fair-haired man again, sitting on a bench, reading the Irish Independent; the man who had stopped so abruptly for a cigarette in Clanbrassil Street; the man he was now convinced was following him. And as the man turned a page and leant back – just as he had turned a page and leant back into a leather armchair, in the entrance to the Shelbourne Hotel the night before, Stefan remembered that was where he had first seen him. There were still fifteen minutes to go before the train left for Baltinglass. He walked across the station concourse, back towards the street. He stood close to the entrance, looking at a rack of newspapers and magazines. Outside, a taxi drew up. A man and a woman got out. As the man paid the driver, Stefan walked briskly out of the station. He opened the taxi door and got in.
‘Straight across the river, over the bridge. As quick as you can.’
The driver pulled away with a sour glance in the mirror.
‘And where am I going then?’
Stefan looked through the back window. The fair-haired man had just emerged from the station, looking up and down, his eyes fixed on the departing taxi. There could be no doubt at all; the man was following him.
‘If you’re in a hurry, you’ll want to tell me where you’re going, sir.’
‘Just turn round at the other end and drop me back at the station.’
‘What the fuck is this? There’s a bloody minimum fare –’
Inside Kingsbridge, the fair-haired man was at the ticket office window, talking to the clerk who had sold Stefan his ticket. He was unaware that the man he had been watching was now watching him. He walked to a platform where a train was disgorging passengers. He looked for a moment, then moved to a hoarding and ran his finger down the printed timetable. Stefan was right behind him now. The man turned. As he did, Stefan grabbed his shoulders and slammed him up against the hoarding, very hard.
‘Baltinglass, that’s where I’m going. Why do you want to know?’
The response wasn’t what he expected. The fair-haired man grinned.
‘You’re back.’
‘And you’re not very good at this.’
‘I didn’t think I was doing badly. It’s a shame about your nose.’
‘It’s Jimmy and Seán I owe that to, but any friend of theirs –’
‘Friend would be overstating it. You’re going to miss your train.’
Stefan took his hands from the man’s shoulders. He looked over to the platform, where a few passengers were now boarding. Smiling amiably, the man brushed the shoulders and lapels of his coat. He held out his hand.
‘John Cavendish.’
‘You’re not Special Branch.’ Stefan ignored the proffered hand.
‘Oh, I’d say you’re a better detective than that, Sergeant.’
The Tullow train pulled out of Kingsbridge. It wasn’t a corridor carriage and they had the compartment to themselves. No one would hear; that mattered to Cavendish. He had made Stefan wait on the platform till the last minute.
‘I’m a bit like you, Sergeant.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not supposed to be doing this.’
‘What is it I’m not supposed to be doing?’
‘I don’t know what Sergeant Lynch would make of you meeting Miss Rosen today. I assume you’ve been warned off Keller.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Well, you didn’t have that when you left the Shelbourne last night.’
‘Are you going to tell me who you are?’
‘I’m actually Lieutenant John Cavendish.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a leather card case. He pulled out a neatly printed card.
Stefan looked down at it. He shook his head, stifling his laughter.
‘I’m sorry, am I missing a joke?’ frowned the lieutenant.
‘You’re with G2?’
‘More or less.’
‘And you give out cards saying Military Intelligence?’
‘Well, someone had them printed up,’ he grinned amiably.
‘And more or less means –’
‘Not leaving undone