The City of Strangers. Michael Russell

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СКАЧАТЬ They were only words, but the Commissioner was looking at him quizzically now, remembering what had happened before.

      ‘Your father’s well? And your lad?’

      The Commissioner had a good memory at least.

      ‘We’re all grand.’

      ‘And you’re happy down the country?’

      ‘Happy enough, sir.’ Stefan was aware that the polite remarks, whatever was about to follow, meant nothing to Broy, but it was the first time anyone had asked him such a direct question about his job, and by extension his life. The answer he gave was the answer any Irishman would give to such a question; an answer that could mean anything from despair to exultation, and everything in between. He was aware that he was avoiding a direct answer, not for the Garda Commissioner’s sake, but for his own.

      ‘A woman is missing.’

      Broy suddenly stood up and moved slowly towards the window that looked out on to the Phoenix Park. The trees were still bare. Spring wasn’t far away now, but it still felt like winter.

      ‘There is every reason to believe she’s dead, and that she was killed.’ He turned back from the window. ‘The fact that she’s missing is the only thing that’s been in the newspapers so far. We can keep it like that for a little longer. And it’s helpful that we do, for various reasons. She is a Mrs Leticia Harris, with a house in Herbert Place.’

      ‘I think I did read something about it, sir.’

      ‘The evidence from the house, along with Mrs Harris’s car,’ continued the Commissioner, ‘indicates that she was the object of a very brutal attack in her home. Her car, however, was found in the grounds of a house close to Shankill, by the sea in Corbawn Lane. It’s clear she had been in the car, or her body had. At the moment we believe she was killed at the house in Herbert Place, or at least that she was dead by the time she reached Corbawn Lane, where the body was probably taken from the car and thrown into the sea. What the tides have done with her is anybody’s guess at this point.’

      It was odd, but Stefan could feel his heart racing slightly. It was an unfamiliar feeling. It was excitement. It was four years since he had worked as a detective, but the instincts that had made him good at his job were still there. He felt as if a light had just been switched on inside his head.

      ‘Mrs Harris has a son. Owen. He’s twenty-one years old. I don’t think we know enough about him to understand what kind of man he is, but we know his relationship with his mother was very difficult, in all sorts of ways. Some of those ways had to do with money. Mrs Harris has lived apart from her husband for a considerable time, over ten years in fact. He’s a doctor, of some note, with a practice in Pembroke Road. From what Doctor Harris has told detectives, I think you’d describe the relationship between mother and son as highly strung, which is a polite way of saying they were a bloody peculiar pair. Superintendent Gregory at Dublin Castle is 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 49^th 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 СКАЧАТЬ