in charge, but it’s a big operation, involving detectives from several stations, as well as Special Branch. The short version is that we believe Owen Harris murdered his mother and dumped her in the sea.’
‘And where is he now?’ asked Stefan. The Commissioner’s tone of voice told him that wherever he was he certainly wasn’t in Garda custody.
‘New York.’
‘That was quick work.’
‘He left from Cobh two days after his mother disappeared.’
‘So is he in custody? In New York?’
‘No, but we know where he is.’
The Commissioner sat back down again, his lips pursed. It was more to do with irritation than anything else. Stefan could already sense this case was about more than a suspected murderer. Broy opened a file on his desk.
‘Mr Harris is at the Markwell Hotel, which is somewhere near Times Square – 220 West 49th Street to be exact. It’s felt there’s no need for his arrest or extradition.’
Stefan was aware this was a slightly odd way of putting it, as if it wasn’t entirely the Commissioner’s decision.
‘He’s agreed to come back to Ireland voluntarily to be interviewed, as soon as possible, as soon as practical. That’s why you’re here, Sergeant.’
This may have been the most interesting conversation Stefan Gillespie had had in a police station since he went to Baltinglass as station sergeant, but so far its purpose was as clear as mud. He looked at Broy blankly.
‘The business of bringing this man Harris back from New York is a delicate one. It’s all going to cause a stir when it comes out here, and the powers that be would rather it didn’t do the same thing in New York. Since he’s agreed to return, as I say, simply so that we can talk to him, the decision has been made not to involve the police in New York. Mr McCauley, the consul, has seen him, and there is a feeling that his mental state is – well, I think unpredictable is the word he used.’
Stefan nodded, as if this clarified things.
‘Mr Harris is in New York with the Gate Theatre. He’s some sort of stage manager. They’re on a tour and they’re about to open on Broadway.’
The expression on Broy’s face indicated that this explained something else; it didn’t but the presence of the past, and of conversations in the Commissioner’s office four years ago, was closer.
‘This Gate tour coincides with the opening of the World’s Fair in New York. You’ll have read about that, I’d say, and the Irish Pavilion? It’s de Valera’s pride and joy.’
‘A bit,’ replied Stefan.
‘You won’t have read how much the fecking pavilion’s costing.’ Broy gave a wry smile. ‘There aren’t many state secrets more secret than that one.’
‘I see,’ said Stefan, though he still didn’t.
‘It’s all about punching above our weight, that’s the thing. That’s how our leader sees it anyway. There’s a pavilion from almost every country on the face of the earth, but we’re not there to show what great fellers we are on our Emerald Isle. We’re there to show the way, to the small countries of the world. Dev wouldn’t want you to think we’re spending all that money we don’t have just to boost the holiday trade. It’s a grander scheme altogether. Aren’t we God’s living proof that the great empires are dead and it’s the independent nations that will inherit the earth?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put too much money on it at the moment,’ said Stefan. ‘What do they think about that in what’s left of Czechoslovakia?’ The presence of what the newspapers had been full of for weeks, Germany’s dismemberment of at least one of those small nations, was hard to ignore.
‘Well, they might not have got a country, but I think they’ve got a pavilion at the World’s Fair,’ shrugged the Commissioner. ‘The future may be a long way off so. But I’m telling you why what happens in New York is important, to Dev anyway. And while we show the world what we’ve done since we kicked out the British Empire, a bit of theatre on Broadway will add to the kudos. The Gate tour is all part of it, but the whole thing’s a performance. Nobody wants headlines about an Irish actor who stopped to murder his mother before he set off for New York. We need your man Harris out of America and back here as fast as we can manage it, before he turns into the spectre at the feast. You’re going to New York to fetch him.’
It was an unexpected proposition.
‘I assume there’s a reason it’s me, sir.’ Stefan couldn’t think of one.
‘Mr Harris is in a hotel room. The consulate’s keeping an eye on him, but the people looking after him are his friends, other actors. No police, no heavy hands. I think it’s all a lot riskier than the politicians do, but that’s the decision. Mr Mac Liammóir is the one who has persuaded Harris to come back. It’s his company after all. I don’t imagine he’d be any more enthusiastic about the wrong sort of headlines than anyone here. Everyone wants the man out of there quietly. And in Mr Mac Liammóir’s words he doesn’t want some bollocks of a Dublin detective putting the shite up him. In a police force staffed mostly by bollockses – you were the least like a bollocks he could think of.’
Sergeant Gillespie smiled. It was four years since he’d last spoken to Mac Liammóir, the actor and director who was the Gate Theatre’s founder, but he didn’t need to be told those were his words.
Four years ago the body of a young man had been found buried in the Dublin Mountains, close to the body of a woman who had recently disappeared. It had been a Gate theatre ticket that had helped identify the man, but the investigation had taken Stefan Gillespie a long way from Dublin, to Danzig and the heart of the European crisis that was now threatening to spill into war. It had brought him face to face with what mattered most in his life. It had led him to the only woman he had come close to loving since the death of his wife, Maeve, six years ago. When it finished the thread of passion that had held Stefan Gillespie and Hannah Rosen briefly together had broken. It had been inevitable.
The investigation itself had concluded in the dark corridors where unwanted investigations were given an indecent burial. Micheál Mac Liammóir was a memory from that time, but Stefan remembered him as a man who had looked for discretion and trust from him, and had found it. Clearly those same qualities still mattered.
‘So everyone’s pretending he’s not a murder suspect, sir?’
‘We’re dealing with this at a distance.’ The Commissioner ignored the question. ‘The conversations are in telegrams and even they’re at second or third hand. The decision not to involve the New York police is a political one. Extradition could drag on for months if Harris digs his heels in. We’d a feller embezzled six hundred pounds as a tax collector in Kerry. It took nearly a year to get him extradited from Boston. Even that made The New York Times. If your man takes it into his head not to cooperate and we have to drag him through the courts, well, axe-murderers make great headlines. Not the ones Dev wants. Mac Liammóir thinks Harris is harmless if he’s handled the right way. His mother might have had a few things to say about that, but at the end of it all, a policeman who’s not too much like a policeman is what we want.’
‘Should I take that as a compliment, sir?’ said Stefan, smiling.
‘Mr Mac Liammóir obviously thinks it is. I’m going along with this because we are relying on the Gate. I don’t need to tell you it isn’t going down well everywhere. Superintendent Gregory is in charge of the investigation. You know him?’
Stefan knew who Gregory was. ‘I’ve probably met him. I think he was at the Castle, in Special Branch, when I was a detective at Pearse Street.’
‘Special Branch is running it. There’s no reason to think it involves anyone other than the mother or the son, except that it’s already dragging in the government, the Department of External Affairs and my fucking Uncle Tom Cobley. And while