The City Under Siege (Stefan Gillespie), page 6
‘The Assistant Commissioner recognises … a diplomatic element to this. That’s why he called. No one wants waves, wherever they come from. You can’t tell where anything leads just now. Mac Liammóir has influential friends here. And if we want to avoid embarrassment this end, the British don’t want to see him turned into a cause célèbre in Ireland. Mac Liammóir is strident about his nationalism. If it looks like he’s being persecuted, nobody needs him dressed in the Green and turning himself into a martyr. The man is not beyond that.’
Stefan laughed. ‘No, he probably isn’t.’
The High Commissioner ignored the laughter. He wasn’t amused.
‘I don’t want to involve a solicitor. That’s not our business. Mac Liammóir may have done that himself. That’s up to him. I’d rather the High Commission isn’t directly involved at this point. The Assistant Commissioner is happy for you to go into West End Central. He will provide any bona fides.’
‘Go in to do what exactly?’
‘Help with inquiries, with anything they may want to know.’
‘Why would they want to know anything from me, sir?’
‘All they have to do is tell you what’s happened, why the man is there, whether he is actually being charged with anything. They will be instructed to let you talk to him. I want to know what I tell Dublin. I want to know if this will stop where it is, or whether there is worse to come. As far as Scotland Yard is concerned, it’s a request from me, and the request is being accommodated as a courtesy to the Irish government. You won’t need to explain yourself at all.’
‘I should think there’s every chance they’ll tell me to fuck off.’
The High Commissioner drained his tea and stood up.
‘I think they’ll do what Scotland Yard tells them. And if there’s nothing to this, except keeping insalubrious company, I’d say the police will do us a favour and forget about it. If so, I want Mr Mac Liammóir out of London and on a boat to Dublin as soon as possible.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘You might offer up a couple of prayers to St Anthony for that happy outcome. I certainly will. He was my mother’s favourite saint. I’m sure she’s still got some credit with him.’
The sergeant on the front desk at West End Central gave Stefan Gillespie a smile that was almost a sneer. It was clear he was expected, but not welcome.
‘Garda Síochána, eh, Inspector? We don’t get many of those.’
‘I think someone should have phoned, Sergeant.’
‘From Scotland Yard, that’s right. To the superintendent. If we’d known Mr Mac Liammóir was putting on a show, we would have sold tickets.’
The sarcasm was wasted on Stefan. He didn’t reply.
‘You’d better come through then, Inspector.’
The sergeant lifted the desk flap.
‘Who do I need to talk to? Is it CID?’
‘The super can’t be arsed to see you. He said get on with whatever you’re here for. As for CID, I think they’ll leave you with the feller from the Yard. They’ve already sent a chief inspector. He beat you to it. In with them now, for what it’s worth. My bet is they’ll let you two at it … and go for a fucking drink.’
Stefan followed the sergeant along the bright corridors. West End Central was a new police station. One day it would have the stale smell of sweat and smoke that all police stations had. Now it smelt of polish and new paint. The sergeant knocked on a door and went in. Inside were three detectives, standing at a desk, looking at photographs, statements and diagrams.
‘It’s the Irishman,’ said the sergeant. He turned and walked away.
Stefan Gillespie stepped into the room. The three men looked at him. Only one of them smiled and walked forward, hand outstretched. He was tall, slightly gaunt, with pale hair and skin that was darker than it should have been, as if he had been a long time in the sun. He was older than Stefan; not by much.
‘Frank Nugent.’ He shook Stefan’s hand and turned towards the other two, a man in his fifties, heavy and sour-faced, and a man in his twenties. ‘Inspector Hardy and DS Dillon. They’ve been working on the scene of crime. And they’ve tied the murder into several other similar killings. The body was only discovered last night, but that’s what’s come out already. It’s good work.’
Stefan registered the word murder. The English detective was talking to him as if he knew something. He had known about a death, but not a murder.
The older man walked across the room and shook Stefan’s hand now. He did not do it with any good grace. The atmosphere in the room was uncomfortable.
‘It’s Inspector Gillespie, is that right?’
‘It is. It’s Stefan.’
‘I don’t know exactly what you’re here for.’
‘I’m not sure I do myself,’ said Stefan, trying to keep the conversation as light as he could. He sensed that whatever the atmosphere was, it had been there before he walked into the room. ‘You have an Irish citizen … I don’t know if he’s in custody or whether he’s a witness to something … I think it’s just that I was here, and the High Commission wanted to offer … some assistance.’
Inspector Hardy laughed. ‘To us or to him?’
‘Maybe both,’ said Stefan more quietly.
‘The man you want to talk to is Chief Inspector Nugent here,’ continued the DI. ‘He seems to be taking over. Who knows why he’s here either?’ He looked at the man who had introduced himself to Stefan a moment before. ‘Murder. Why would they hand that to Special Branch, but what the fuck, eh?’
‘No one’s handing anything to anyone, Dick,’ said Nugent.
‘You’re not here for your health, sir.’ Inspector Hardy made a point of the formality of Nugent’s higher rank. ‘I don’t suppose you are either, Mr Gillespie.’ He made the same point, in a different way, ignoring Stefan’s rank. ‘When you sort out what you’re doing, give us a shout. The office is yours.’
Detective Inspector Hardy nodded at his DS. He walked out and the younger man followed him. For a time Stefan stood looking at Nugent, who had a faint smile on his lips. The Irish detective had no idea what was going on. But he knew that if the chief inspector was from Special Branch, the West End Central CID man was probably right. He was there to take over, whatever the reasons for that.
‘Not much of a welcome, Inspector.’
‘I wasn’t expecting much of a welcome. It’s Stefan.’
‘I think you’re slightly more welcome than I am.’
‘I’m here to find out what’s happened to Mr Mac Liammóir.’
‘I know.’
‘Has he been arrested?’
‘No. Helping with inquiries. I think Inspector Hardy had him down as a killer in the early hours of this morning, but it’s clear enough that his own description of events is probably true. He discovered the body. And that’s all. I say that’s all, but if you look at what he found … he won’t forget it in a hurry.’
Nugent turned to the table. He pointed at a row of photographs.
The wide shots showed a room, cluttered and small, lit by the harsh light from a flash. The close shots showed a bed and the body of a young, dark man; the full body, stretched out on the bed, then closer views of the head, the swollen neck, the legs, the stomach, the groin. The photographs were black and white, but the blood-stained clothing showed sharply all round the stomach and thighs. There was a great deal of blood. The man had been stabbed repeatedly.
‘This is the crime. This is what Mr Mac Liammóir saw when he walked into the flat where it happened. The dead man is a young Indian, Vikram Narayan. Mr Mac Liammóir found a policeman and reported it. However, inquiries by CID established that he and Mr Narayan had met earlier that evening, at a club in Little Denmark Street – Billie’s – where they had some kind of argument. The long and the short, as Mr Mac Liammóir happily told Inspector Hardy, was that the dead man tried to blackmail him in some way, threatening to reveal his homosexuality, which Mr Mac Liammóir has no problem revealing himself. The idea was that he followed Narayan back to his flat … and killed him.’
As the English detective spoke, Stefan stared at the photographs.
‘That’s extremely unlikely, however, Stefan. Even a cursory forensic examination shows that Mr Mac Liammóir did exactly what he said. He walked into the room, saw the body and walked straight out again. Still, you can’t altogether blame Dick Hardy. This is a very distinctive murder. The knife wounds round the groin and the genitals, I mean, all administered, with great violence, immediately after death. There have been three similar murders over the last year. Two in London and one in Berkshire, in Reading. All the men were young, and they were almost certainly queer. Dick Hardy had seen reports of the other deaths. He thought he’d not only stumbled on a fourth murder, he’d caught the killer red-handed. He was right about the murder.’
Chief Inspector Nugent picked up a large manila envelope. He took out several photographs. He was too busy with his story to register the intensity with which Stefan Gillespie was gazing down at the pictures on the table.
‘These are a couple of photographs from two of the other murders. I think one on Hampstead Heath, another along the Thames, near Richmond. I’ve only seen these today. The basics are the same. A man is killed, a blow to the head, strangled or suffocated. Then he’s attacked with a knife, same way each time.’
Stefan looked up, frowning. He took the photographs Frank Nugent was holding out. He was not at all surprised by what he saw.
‘This needn’t concern you, Stefan. Mr Mac Liammóir has given a detailed statement. It seems to clear him of any involvement. The forensics tend the same way. So does the fact that there is a pattern of murders. Assuming he was not in England when the others took place. He says he wasn’t, but you can verify that in Dublin. Hopefully, these are just loose ends. I think even Inspector Hardy recognises Mr Mac Liammóir’s a lost cause. He’s no use as a witness – he saw no one. So, I guess that’s you finished.’
Stefan laid the new photographs on the table, next to the others.
‘I don’t know that I am, Frank.’
‘What do you mean?’
For the first time Frank Nugent realised something else was going on.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ said Stefan.
‘Seen what?’
Stefan glanced back at the photographs. He was familiar with what he was looking at. He had known straight away. He had not forgotten that image.
‘The same thing. In Ireland, nineteen thirty-nine. A young man, strangled, then stabbed, over and over again, in exactly the same way … in exactly the same places.’
Stefan Gillespie stood in a small, square room. There was no natural light, simply a bright bulb overhead. Even in a new police station this room had been made as bare and uncomfortable as possible. The only furniture was a table with a chair on either side. Micheál Mac Liammóir sat at the table. He wore a grey overall. He looked tired. There was a cup of tea in front of him, but it was untouched. There were cigarette ends in an ashtray. The actor stared at Stefan without recognition. It was a while since the two men had seen each other, but hardly more than a year. They were only acquaintances, yet Mac Liammóir knew him well enough to recognise him. Now there was only bewilderment in his eyes; behind that something more fragile, a dull and uncertain fear.
‘Mr Mac Liammóir.’
The actor kept staring, looking through him.
‘You’ll remember me, so.’ Stefan smiled.
‘I’m sorry, whoever you are. I can’t think of anything else I can say.’
Stefan pulled out the free chair and sat down.
‘I’m not here to ask you anything. My name’s Stefan Gillespie, you’ve seen me in Dublin. At the Gate. And in New York, when you were on tour. I’m an Irish policeman. I’m a Guard. The High Commissioner sent me here. Mr Dulanty.’
‘Dulanty?’ Mac Liammóir still looked confused.
‘You can leave soon. They’re pretty well finished with you.’
Micheál Mac Liammóir shook his head.
‘They think I killed a man … a man I knew … Jesus, the way he …’
A wave of shock seemed to roll over Mac Liammóir. He was shaking, but slowly. There were tears in his eyes. Then he was still again.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Since last night.’
‘I found him, that’s all. I wanted to help him. Then he was there … just there. I can’t believe how … like a piece of meat … blood … I ran … I ran and there was a policeman … Then I was here … they kept saying I did it … and they were talking about other men … other dead … I told them what happened. They wouldn’t let me sleep. They—’ Mac Liammóir stopped, staring harder at Stefan. He was looking at him now, not through him. And there was a smile, almost a smile. ‘Stefan. Jesus Christ! What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Among other things, getting you out of this place. And hopefully home. The High Commissioner wants you on the mail boat, sir, out of harm’s way.’
The life that had drained out of the actor was returning.
‘I only came for a fucking funeral. A fucking funeral!’
Mac Liammóir stood up. He stumbled and leant against the table.
Stefan moved round to help him.
‘I’m grand. I’m just exhausted. They did put me in a cell, but I couldn’t get any sleep. The beds are terrible here. I shall say something before I go. There certainly won’t be a tip.’ He breathed deeply; the joke faded. ‘There was someone crying. The next cell. It seemed like hours. Just crying. It didn’t stop.’
‘They have your possessions at the front desk. I think they want you to reread your statement and sign it. But that’s all of it. Where are you staying?’
‘A hotel, in the Strand, the Regent Palace.’
‘I can arrange for a taxi.’
Mac Liammóir looked at the overall he was wearing.
‘What about my clothes?’
‘They were being examined by forensics … I don’t know … it’s just …’
The actor shook his head. He understood what the examination was about; the blood that the police were looking for on his clothes. He stepped forward and stumbled again slightly, his limbs stiff from sitting for so long. Stefan put his arm round him. The tears that had been there briefly before returned. Mac Liammóir’s head was buried in Stefan’s shoulder. He was sobbing. But it was only for a moment. He moved back, smiling, for the first time, the wry, almost insolent smile that Stefan recognised so well.
‘I think I’d rather not have them back. But I can’t walk through a hotel lobby like this, can I? I have a suit in my room, a shirt, a tie, and whatever else. I don’t suppose you could be a real saviour and go and fetch them for me? And bring them back? I’m sure your consular services could stretch to it, Stefan. If they can provide me with some washing facilities here, that would be helpful. I’d like to exit this den of the whoreson English with rather more dignity than I entered!’
They walked to the door. As Stefan opened it, Mac Liammóir stopped.
‘He was frightened. It feels like that, looking back. Desperate, anyway. But I couldn’t do anything. When he threatened me … I’ve no idea what it was about. Afterwards, I felt guilty. I thought some money might help … but I don’t think it was about money. How … why did someone do that to him?’
6
Charing Cross Hospital
Little more than an hour later, Stefan Gillespie left Micheál Mac Liammóir at the entrance to the Regent Palace Hotel in Piccadilly, now in a grey suit that had been brought from his hotel room. There had been not much conversation. Stefan had been surprised to find Chief Inspector Nugent waiting for him outside West End Central Police Station in a car, first to take him to the Regent Palace to collect Mac Liammóir’s clothes, then to make a second journey to the hotel to drop the actor off. The first leg had been surprisingly silent. Nugent made only a few remarks about traffic and the blackout and fuel shortages. At the Regent Palace he went upstairs with Stefan to Mac Liammóir’s room. He walked around the room as Stefan took clothes from a suitcase. He looked at a book by the bed and glanced into the suitcase. He bent down and picked up a pair of tan brogues that were on the floor, inside the door to the corridor, with a printed note on them to say they had been cleaned. Stefan recognised that despite everything, the English detective had the Irishman at the edge of his mind. He was getting a better sense of who the man was.
‘He’ll need shoes. The ones he had on are evidence. The soles are the only place they found blood. I don’t know if he’ll get them back. He’ll miss them. From Lobb’s, handmade. I don’t suppose even great actors have many of those.’
‘I don’t suppose they do.’ Stefan noted attention to detail.
They walked to the lift and down to the street. As the car pulled away, Stefan took out a cigarette. He was surprised the English detective had said hardly anything about the similarity between Vikram Narayan’s death and the death of the young man by a lake in Ireland. It had been less than two years ago.
‘Any observations about Mr Mac Liammóir? You were looking.’
‘I didn’t expect to see much in a hotel room, Stefan.’
‘No.’
‘Though it’s not every Irish nationalist who gets his shoes in St James’s.’
Stefan Gillespie laughed. ‘Is that useful?’
‘You never know, do you, in our line?’
Stefan heard the edge in Nugent’s voice.
‘Our line?’
‘I checked on you with the Yard.’
‘They have a list of Gardaí, do they? That doesn’t sound very likely.’
‘They have a list of Garda Special Branch.’
Stefan Gillespie lit the cigarette. It wasn’t his business how they did things at Scotland Yard, but if Nugent had observations to make, so did he.
‘I don’t think it’s odd the Irish High Commissioner asked the only Guard in London to see what the Metropolitan Police were doing to Ireland’s favourite actor. I’d say CID at West End Central were more puzzled why the Yard sent a senior Special Branch officer to take over an investigation into a dead queer. Even if there’s been a few of them. You get to be jack of all trades in Dublin Castle, but that’s not how it works here. Not that it’s any of my business.’
