THIRTY-NINE

  Our business with Verhoest was concluded with anticlimactic ease. He arrived on time, looking dowdy and unremarkable in his grubby hat and raincoat, inspected van Briel’s proffered wads of high-domination Belgian franc notes with a degree of satisfaction that fell far short of enthusiasm, then retired to the vault with one of the bank clerks to fetch the negatives.

  ‘Do you think he has a whole boxload of secrets down there, Stephen?’ van Briel mused as we waited.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘He’s an old Congo hand. You can always tell them. There’s a deadness in the eyes.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘How does it feel to know what this is all about?’

  ‘You reckon I do?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s a change in you since yesterday. Then you were more like me. Now … you’re more like him.’

  The him was Verhoest, returned from the vault, the envelope containing the negatives in his hand. I checked them. Van Briel double-checked them. They matched the prints. There could be no mistake. Van Briel handed over the money and we left Verhoest to pay it into his account. ‘Give my regards to your uncle if you see him’ was his parting remark, which, it seemed to me, was about as effusive an expression of gratitude as he was capable of.

  ‘Any similarity to him is temporary, Bart,’ I proclaimed as we stepped out into the street. ‘Once this is over I’ll revert to type.’

  ‘We’d better get it over fast, then.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  We walked the short distance to Oudermans’ offices. Oudermans himself was waiting to greet me, his politeness stretched thin by professional disapproval. This solution to his clients’ problems wasn’t the kind to be found in a textbook of ideal case management. But if it worked … it worked. With the negatives stowed in the safe, I phoned the number Tate had given me.

  The man who answered wasn’t Tate, though he sounded English. His manner was brisk. ‘Do you have the proof, Mr Swan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There can’t be any room for doubt.’

  ‘And there isn’t any.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. You’re in Antwerp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Tate will meet you in the Centraal station buffet at four o’clock.’

  Oudermans seemed almost relieved that I wouldn’t be able to attend their meeting with Lady Linley and her lawyers. ‘Call Govaert,’ he instructed van Briel. ‘Persuade him to postpone the meeting.’

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. If Mr Swan can reach an accommodation with Mr Tate this afternoon, I imagine the meeting will never take place.’

  I made another call before leaving Oudermans’. After some delay, Eldritch came to the phone of the Metropole Hotel restaurant. He sounded subdued, almost mellow.

  ‘I’ve secured the negatives,’ I reported. ‘And I’m to meet Tate at four.’

  ‘You’re doing well.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘So good.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Meet me in the Angel – Den Engel – in the Grand Place – Grote Markt, I suppose I should say – at six o’clock. Then you can tell me the worst.’

  I thought at the time that Eldritch had been giving rein to his natural pessimism with his last remark. As I sat in the smoky, bustling, cavernous buffet at Centraal station an hour later, though, it occurred to me that the best I could achieve was also the worst for Eldritch, at least in one respect that he might justifiably regard as crucial. Nimbala’s pay-off would keep him in comfort for a good few years, but my surrender of the proof that Desmond Quilligan had forged the Picassos meant Sir Miles Linley would live on in unthreatened comfort himself. There was compensation. But there was no justice.

  Tate materialized silently out of the prevailing fug as the hands on the clock above the counter registered four o’clock exactly.

  ‘What have you got for me, Mr Swan?’ he asked, gliding into the chair on the other side of my table.

  ‘These.’ I slid the wallet of photographs across to him.

  He examined them carefully – and expressionlessly. Then he replaced them in the wallet. ‘Very nice. Very … definitive.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Can I keep them?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll need the negatives, of course.’

  I laid Oudermans’ card in front of him. ‘They’re in safe, legal custody.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  Tate took a drag on his cigarette, studying me dispassionately as he did so. Then he said, ‘Here’s what I’ll do for you, Mr Swan. First thing tomorrow morning, a man will walk into Ostend police station and report that he witnessed Ardal Quilligan’s murder. His description of the killer – male, middle-aged, built like a brick shit-house – will conclusively rule out you and Miss Banner. I can’t be answerable for the speed and efficiency of the Prosecutor’s Office, but I’m confident the police will have released Miss Banner before the day’s out and informed you both that you’re free to go.’ He smiled tightly. ‘How does that sound?’

  ‘Acceptable.’

  ‘I thought it might. Meanwhile, we’ll confirm the present location of the negatives’ – he picked up the card – ‘and arrange a suitable time for their collection.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘How did you persuade your uncle to hand them over?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. They were with someone else.’

  ‘I see.’ Tate ruminated on that for a moment. ‘There are just the six pictures, are there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Holding on to an extra few would be foolish, you know. In the extreme.’

  ‘This is all there is. Sir Miles Linley can sleep soundly in his bed.’

  ‘In that case, so can we all.’ Tate pocketed the photographs and the card, then stood up and headed for the exit.

  Den Engel, as I realized when I arrived, was the bar I’d killed time in the day before. It probably hadn’t changed much since 1840, let alone 1940. Eldritch was sitting at a table towards the rear, smoking one of his Sobranies and sipping a local beer. He looked tired and thoughtful, which was no surprise, since he had plenty to be tired by and thoughtful about.

  I told him the particulars of my deal with Tate, to which he reacted with a nod of acceptance and a murmured, ‘That should do it.’ Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, this is for you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket.

  It was a cheque from Nimbala for £5,000: my share of the reward. My instinctive reaction was to hand it back, but Eldritch grabbed my wrist and forced me to hear him out.

  ‘Never refuse money unless there are strings attached, Stephen. That’s a piece of wisdom that comes with age. Rachel isn’t going to be best pleased when she finds out what you’ve bought her freedom with, even though you had no alternative. She’ll need … perspective. You should take her away somewhere where she can get it. A long way away. Five thousand pounds’ worth of away.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea.’ And so it was. In that moment, after all we’d been through, it was richly tempting.

  ‘Make it more than an idea.’

  ‘She may turn me down.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ He let go of my wrist. And I didn’t let go of the cheque.

  ‘What will you do, Eldritch?’

  ‘I plan to go away myself.’

  ‘With anyone I know? Marie-Louise, perhaps?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He glanced past me, deflecting the question. ‘It would have been satisfying to make Linley suffer for what he did to me. But I decided a long time ago that if I ever got out of prison I wasn’t going to waste however many years I had left striving for vengeance. We played our hand and we lost. I wouldn’t say we were defeated, though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘J-J said I could stay at his apartment for a couple of nights. So, I don’t have to go back to Zonnestralen. If I did, I’d have to meet Rachel’s mother. Frankly, I can’t face all the explanations and apologies I owe her. Could you … go and see her on my behalf ?’

  I could hardly refuse his request after trading away his chance of revenge. I nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is this goodbye, Eldritch?’

  ‘If everything goes according to plan, yes.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We’ve both got what we originally wanted, Stephen. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like enough.’

  ‘Then you should adjust your expectations.’

  ‘Why didn’t you speak up in your own defence at your trial?’

  ‘Ah, that last unanswered question, eh?’ Eldritch chuckled drily. ‘I didn’t think you’d leave it hanging.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Finish your beer and step outside with me. I need some air.’

  Darkness had descended on the Grote Markt, its cobbles gleaming damply in the lamplight. Eldritch lit another cigarette and wandered across the square towards the Brabo Fountain, gazing up at its statue of a youth clutching an outsized severed hand, poised as if to throw it.

  ‘Do you know the Brabo legend?’ he asked.

  ‘Inexplicably, I haven’t found the time to follow the tourist trail round Antwerp,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, it goes like this. Shipping on the Scheldt in ancient days was at the mercy of the giant Antigonius, who used to tear off the right hands of captains who tried to dodge paying his toll and throw them into the river. Along comes a brave young Roman soldier, Silvius Brabo, supposedly a nephew of Julius Caesar. He challenges Antigonius to combat, outfights him, cuts off his hand and throws it into the river. Biter duly bit. Or maimer maimed. The name of the city is a corruption of hand werpen – to throw a hand.’

  ‘Are you telling me this for a reason?’

  ‘It’s a legend, Stephen. A myth. That’s the point. In real life, you can’t outfight a giant. There’s only one way to get the better of him.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Hire a bigger giant.’

  ‘What if there isn’t one available?’

  ‘Pay the toll.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You have to know when to resist and when to give in. Also how to resist. And how to give in.’

  ‘Is that supposed to explain what happened at your trial?’

  He nodded. ‘Amongst other things. Then. Now. And in the future.’

  1940

  FORTY

  It is a drizzly, clammy Wednesday morning in Dublin. The greyness of the day is somehow intensified by the atmosphere prevailing in the Taoiseach’s office in Government Buildings. Éamon de Valéra sits at his desk, tight-lipped and frowning, the folds of flesh on his rawboned face suggesting that this is a far from uncommon expression. His eyes gleam behind round, steel-framed glasses and are apparently fixed on the two men sitting at the table in the centre of the room. This cannot literally be true, however, since he is partially sighted to the point of blindness. But the literal truth has never been regarded by Éamon de Valéra as any kind of obstacle. He sees what he needs to see.

  In this case, he sees, accurately enough, Frank Aiken, the Minister for Defence, and Gerald Boland, the Minister for Justice. They are contrasting figures – Aiken big, bluff and burly, militaristically moustached, dominant of bearing; Boland bland of face, slighter of build, melancholically undemonstrative. All three are veterans of the Easter Rising and, notionally at least, the staunchest of old comrades. But the collusions and compromises of the past twenty-four years have left their mark. Aiken, a former IRA Chief of Staff, believes Germany will win the war and advises de Valéra accordingly. Boland believes and advises the opposite. And de Valéra himself, who serves as Minister for External Affairs as well as Taoiseach, takes his own counsel.

  ‘The fellow’s English,’ declares Aiken, referring to the man who has been in custody for the past four days on suspicion of attempting to assassinate the Taoiseach. ‘Doesn’t that just speak for itself ?’

  ‘There are Irishmen on both sides of this conflict and Englishmen too,’ observes Boland. ‘The Germans are quite devious enough to have calculated the benefit of recruiting a British citizen to carry out their plot.’

  ‘You’re falling over yourself to excuse Churchill, Gerry. Why not simply face the truth? He’d have had us all up against a wall in 1921 if he’d had his way. Now he’s in charge what else should we have expected? It’s all but a declaration of war.’

  ‘There’s no evidence the British government sent Swan here or told him what to do. He denies being the gunman anyway. It’s possible the real culprit got away. He could have been German for all we know. Heider’s still on the run, remember.’

  ‘If Swan could be working for the Germans, as you suggest, then Heider could be working for the Brits. We can debate ifs and maybes from now till doomsday and it’ll get us nowhere. Swan was at school with a member of staff at the British Legation, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that tell you all you need to know?’

  ‘It seems to tell you all you need to know, Frank. That’s clear. A little too clear for my liking.’

  ‘If he’d got away with it, you’d have said he was Heider. That was the plan they cooked up in London and you’re still falling for it. We’re just lucky it miscarried.’

  ‘I’m perhaps luckier than either of you,’ de Valéra cuts in. ‘But we’ve all—’

  A knock at the door silenced him. It was scarcely more than a tap, though quite sufficient to be heard by a man whose ears were these days doing much of the work of his eyes. The door opened and a clerk stepped into the room. ‘Inspector Moynihan,’ he announced.

  ‘Come in, Inspector,’ said de Valéra, rising stiffly from his chair. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

  Moynihan, a clean-cut, good-looking man, dressed rather more elegantly than the average Garda Síochána Special Branch officer, nodded to Aiken and Boland, who responded in kind, on his way to shake the Taoiseach’s hand. The clerk withdrew, closing the door gently behind him.

  ‘Mr Aiken and Mr Boland I’m sure you know,’ said de Valéra, resuming his seat. ‘Do we have a chair for the Inspector, Frank?’

  A chair was swung into position by Aiken. There were further handshakes and a general settling. Moynihan cleared his throat.

  ‘As you’ll be aware, Inspector,’ de Valéra resumed, ‘the events of last Saturday morning are still unknown to the general public, as they are indeed to most members of my Cabinet. They must remain so, until or unless I decide otherwise. We speak here freely but in absolute confidence. You appreciate the extraordinary delicacy of the situation, I trust.’

  ‘I do, sir, yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, could you précis the results of the suspect’s interrogation for us, please?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Moynihan consulted his notebook. ‘Eldritch Swan was born in Kenya in 1908. Educated Ardingly and Oxford. Sent down by his college for seducing the Master’s daughter. Subsequent career patchy at best, shady at worst. Recently employed in an obscure, possibly illicit, capacity by a Jewish diamond merchant in Antwerp, more recently still by an art dealer in London. Alleged reason for presence in Dublin: to persuade Desmond Quilligan, an internee at the Curragh, to quit the IRA and resume his artistic career. Alleged reason for renting the flat at thirty-one Merrion Street: to oblige his old schoolfriend Miles Linley, an official at the British Legation, who wanted to use it for liaisons with a married woman who also works at the legation. Realized this was a fairy tale when contacted by the former tenant, Lorcan Henchy. Then told by Linley the true purpose of renting the flat was to use it for surveillance of this building. Agreed to bribe Henchy to leave the country. Henchy’s subsequent murder, and his own narrow escape from death, alerted him to the falsehood of Linley’s explanation. Proceeded to the flat last Saturday morning, discovered a would-be assassin on the premises and prevented him getting off a clean shot before being knocked unconscious and then arrested.’

  ‘What does Linley say about this?’ asked Boland.

  ‘He denies Swan’s claims in every particular, sir.’

  ‘But Henchy was murdered right enough,’ said Aiken.

  ‘Yes, sir, he was. At Seapoint railway station, the evening before … last Saturday’s events. The killer died at the scene, of injuries suffered when he fell under the train. We’ve been unable to identify him. Swan matches the description we have of a man said to have run off with the killer’s gun. The gun itself is still missing. However, a Gladstone bag containing four hundred and fifty pounds was found outside the door of the flat at thirty-one Merrion Street. And Swan was carrying fifty pounds in an envelope in his pocket when he was arrested.’

  ‘Any evidence there was another man in the flat when the rifle was fired?’ asked Boland.

  ‘Nothing conclusive, sir. The rifle had evidently been wiped, since there were no fingerprints. There was a skylight found open in the attic, accessible from the flat, which would have permitted escape across the roofs of neighbouring properties. But we have no reports of any such … escape.’

  ‘So,’ said Aiken, ‘Swan could have invented this other man in order to exonerate himself.’

  ‘Certainly he could, sir.’

  ‘Just as he could have invented Linley’s role in the affair in order to implicate the British Government,’ said Boland.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘You’ve interrogated him exhaustively, Inspector?’ asked de Valéra.

  ‘Yes, sir, we have.’

  ‘Exhaustively and … energetically?’

  ‘We haven’t used kid gloves, if that’s what you mean, sir. We’ve employed … all necessary techniques.’

  ‘Which would normally be expected to yield reliable results?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I have a simple question for you. Do you believe he’s told you the truth?’

  Moynihan hesitated and licked his lips. Then he said, ‘Yes, sir. I do.’

 

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