Even as Barnaby shook his head he experienced a distant tremor of acknowledgement far too faint to be called recognition. In any case a wander from the point was the last thing he wished to encourage. Outside it was by now pitch black. The rate things were going it looked as if they were going to be there all night.
‘Conninx was an artist specialising in portraits. Extremely successful commercially he was poorly regarded by the critics though two of his paintings are in Dublin’s National Gallery. A sort of Irish Annigoni. Having had Liam’s remarkable looks glowingly described by a friend, Conninx made an appointment to visit the boy. The painter was not interested in what that same friend was cute enough to call “spreading the cheeky bits”. Though homosexual, Conninx was by then in his seventies and hoarded what energy he had with careful scrupulosity to spend at his work.
‘He knew straight away that he wanted Liam to model for him - in his autobiography, Painted Clay, he describes his first sight of the boy better than I ever could - the problem was Conor. He asked a large fee for each sitting, which wasn’t a problem, but also insisted on not only delivering Liam and taking him home but staying in the studio thoughout. Purely to protect his protégé, or so the explanation went, from “that evil old pederast”.
‘In truth Conor could not afford to let Liam wander far and certainly not in the company of anyone as wealthy, intelligent and successful as Hilton Conninx. For it was only by constantly invoking their common memories of a cruel and poverty-stricken past, which he implied had equally cursed them both, that Conor maintained his hold on the boy. Both of them were in the gutter and one of them had better not be looking at the stars.’
Here Jennings broke off for a minute or two, resting his forehead in his hands as if the telling of the story was too much for him. When he started to speak again it was more quickly, giving the impression he couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over and done with.
‘But in the end greed overcame Conor’s struggle to maintain the status quo. As Liam’s manager, or pimp, he had demanded a hundred guineas for each sitting. Conninx had indicated that at least twelve would be necessary. But, in the middle of the second session, Conninx suddenly put down his brush and said he couldn’t possibly continue with a third person present. He would pay for both sittings, of course, but that must be an end to it. Liam discovered much later that this was all bluff. And that if Conor had called it, or even doubled the rate, Conninx would have given in. But twelve hundred guineas was a hell of a lot of money in the late fifties, particularly when you didn’t have to lift a finger to put it in your pocket.’
Barnaby quelled a strong feeling of distaste at this latest exchange of a boy, already sold God knew how many times, as if he were a piece of meat. The chief inspector could not shake off the feeling that somewhere in this last heartless transaction a child was still present making mock of the words ‘age of consent’.
‘It was the beginning of the end for Conor. Within a few visits Hilton Conninx had discovered Liam’s appalling history and started to persuade the boy to break free. It wasn’t easy. Liam had been in Conor’s thrall for so long he found it almost impossible to imagine surviving without him. He had no other home and next to no money. But Conninx persisted. The painter had plenty of clout and not only financial. Conor, who had been living on immoral earnings ever since he arrived in Dublin, was in no position to call any shots. One evening Liam did not return from his sitting. Conninx’s chauffeur arrived to ask for his belongings. These, such as they were, were handed over and that was that.
‘Liam remained with Conninx for fifteen years and was treated in a manner that he had never known in his life before. That is, with kindness and respect. I am,’ Jennings began to speak more quickly sensing (mistakenly) exasperation gathering in the breast of the man facing him, ‘compressing as much as possible. Hilton tried to teach Liam about art and music without, it must be admitted, much success and also encouraged him to read. Many portraits of the boy were produced during their first four or five years together, when Conninx still had his sight. It was his conceit never to paint a sitter in contemporary clothes and Liam was portrayed as a Victorian cleric, a French zouave, a pasha, a Persian lutenist - that’s one of the two in the National.
‘He became Conninx’s companion, amanuensis and friend. Though their relationship was never a sexual one there seems to be little doubt that Conninx cared deeply for the boy. Liam’s reaction was more constrained. He was thankful, as I suspect deprived children remain all their lives, for the smallest affection shown, but he was not able to respond in kind. Perhaps his loving apparatus, if one can so describe it, had been irreparably damaged. Perhaps Conninx’s attempts at healing never really reached the spot. Certain sufferings are untouchable, don’t you agree?’
Barnaby had never thought about it. Now, doing so, he decided that Jennings was probably right. This conclusion depressed him beyond measure. Troy spoke into the deepening gloom.
‘Did you say this Mr Connings lost his sight, sir?’
‘Yes, some years before he died. Liam did everything for him after that and when Conninx became ill - at over ninety - he cared for him at home until he died.’
This didn’t sound to Barnaby like a man incapable of love, but he had no wish to dam up the nicely running stream by saying so.
‘When the will was read Liam was the sole beneficiary. He inherited the house, plenty of money and quite a lot of paintings. As is the way of things after an artist’s death, the critics discovered just how versatile and under-rated Conninx had been and within weeks the value of his canvases went shooting up. Then something rather awful happened. The word on Liam’s good fortune was round, of course. Dublin’s not that big a place and in any case the bequest was published in the Irish Times. The day after this was done Conor turned up. Half of everything, or he threatened to tell the police that Liam had not only connived in his father’s murder and helped to bury the body but had actually fired the shot that had killed him.’
‘And had he?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘He swore not. His story is that he hid in the barn next to Conor’s house while Conor went inside, supposedly just for some money and a change of clothes. But he was gone nearly three hours. When he returned it was to say that Hanlon wouldn’t be bothering them again. He’d be drawn no further. No doubt Liam was so relieved to have escaped he didn’t much care how dearly this freedom had been bought.’
‘But surely,’ said Barnaby, ‘having been under-age when all this happened he would have had nothing to fear from the police.’
‘Nothing serious,’ agreed Max. ‘He knew that and Conor must have known it too. But actuality, rationality if you like, had little to do with how Liam reacted to this new situation. It was the reintroduction of the past, you see. The terror of it. What frightens us as children frightens us all our lives.’
‘So how did he handle this new turn of events?’
‘Well, things were different this time round. Liam was older, pretty rich and with a widish circle of acquaintances, one or two of them quite influential. But Conor had also prospered, though not in ways that would perhaps bear close scrutiny. And his acquaintances were very unpleasant indeed. As to how Liam handled it ... he did what he had done all those years before. Stalling Conor for as long as it took to put his own affairs in order, he ran away, this time making a thoroughly professional job of it. He went to England, chose a new name and completely re-invented himself.’
‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d heard him tell the story.’ Here Jennings broke off and drank a little water. Momentarily he looked preoccupied, as if distracted by a quite different train of thought. He put the glass down and brushed at his forehead as if brushing away some irritating insect.