by James Green
Last Rights
James Green
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
Octavo House
West Bute Street
Cardiff
CF10 5LJ
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © James Green 2018
The right of James Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN 9781682996423
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd,
Elcograf S.p.A
For Pat, my wife without whom Jimmy would not have found a voice.
Chapter One
Professor McBride was expecting her visitor and didn’t look up from the papers on her desk when he knocked.
‘Come in.’
Jimmy Costello came in.
Middle-aged, with short, grizzled hair, he had a crumpled look despite the obvious quality of his clothes. The Professor turned a page and carried on reading. Jimmy waited. She was his boss, the woman who told him what to do, when to do it, and who he should do it to. So he waited and looked at her working.
Always the same, never any change. The same tight, curly hair, the same dark skirt, the same crisp white blouse. No. He was wrong. She had changed. Her left sleeve was empty and pinned up. Having your left arm shot off, that had to be classed as a change…
Yes, he admitted to himself, losing your arm was a change. But that wasn’t what he’d meant. Apart from the arm, she was the same now as when he’d first known her, neat as a nun straight from the laundry. White shirt, black skirt and a brain like a bacon slicer.
The Professor turned another page so Jimmy looked out of the window. He liked the view from this top-floor office. On a clear day you could see the hills of Frascati, and today wasn’t only clear but filled with morning sunlight. One day he’d keep the promise he’d made to himself when he’d first looked out of the window. He’d go to Frascati for lunch and drink their local white wine. Mind you, he’d been promising himself that for over two years, ever since he settled in Rome, but somehow he’d never got round to it. You put things off, that was the trouble, one way and another you just put things off. Still, one day he’d catch a local bus and go and sit in the shade and drink the fresh white wine and…
He checked his watch. Time was passing.
‘I’m supposed to catch a plane in a couple of hours and you know what it’s like trying to get to Ciampino in a hurry. The traffic’s murder. It’s probably too late already.’
She looked up, waited a moment, then closed the file and gave him a wintry smile.
‘No, that’s changed.’
Jimmy felt a small twinge of nerves. Her smiling at him wasn’t good. She’d never been one of life’s great smilers.
‘What do you mean, changed?’
‘I don’t want you to go to Brussels.’
‘Good. Flying low-cost out of Ciampino wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.’ He tried to sound pleased.
She gave him the smile again and Jimmy felt another twinge.
‘I’m sending you somewhere else. Something’s come up.’
‘Things do, don’t they?’
Professor McBride looked at him in that way she had, tolerant disapproval.
‘Brussels will have to get along without you.’
‘If you say so. But you realise that without me being there, you might be risking the end of the European Union as we know it. Still, you can’t have everything, can you?’
The smile went.
‘Spare me your humour, Mr. Costello, and try to remember that I do not arrange these trips for your entertainment.’
Jimmy shrugged. He was used to her manner now, just like he was used to working for someone whose day job was being a college professor but who sidelined as some sort of fixer for the Catholic Church. She was the one who got handed the dustpan and brush when the carpet needing lifting so something nasty could be swept quietly out of sight, and Jimmy was the one she used to make sure the right things went under the right carpets.
It wasn’t an everyday line of work, but then Jimmy didn’t have everyday credentials. A working life spent as a CID sergeant in London had given him the right kind of background, although he’d never been sure whether being a bent copper with a track record for inflicting violence had helped or hindered his selection. He hoped what had really clinched it for him was his skill as a detective, but he still wasn’t sure. On the jobs he’d done for Professor McBride so far he’d needed both his detecting skills and his familiarity with violence, so maybe it didn’t matter. In fact it was all a bit academic, like her. Jimmy smiled to himself at his private joke.
The Professor had gone to considerable trouble to recruit James Cornelius Costello. She had arranged for him to come to Rome thinking he was going to train for the priesthood. It hadn’t been hard for her because he had indeed wanted to become a priest, and had submitted an application through the usual channels in the UK. He’d wanted to do something for his wife, even though she was dead. As a widower he wasn’t debarred, and becoming a priest seemed to offer the best way to make some sort of amends. Some sort of contrition. It wasn’t, of course. He was and would remain what he had made himself. There was never any easy shortcut to redemption.
He’d come to Rome, to Duns College, full of hope and good intentions, but had been used by Professor McBride to get what she wanted. Of course that meant Jimmy hadn’t got what he wanted, to be a priest. But there you are, he thought, in this life not many people get what they want.
Despite the way he’d been recruited, he’d done a good job for her, but he’d left loose ends: dangerous loose ends, the fatal sort. To be fair, she’d helped him with all that. Found him what should have been a safe place so he could have another go at thinking about the priesthood. It hadn’t been her fault it blew up, it hadn’t really been anybody’s fault. It just blew up. And after two goes at thinking about the priesthood he knew it would never be for him, so he’d accepted the offer she’d made to go and work for her and, insofar as he could be, he was grateful. He gave her his loyalty because she’d pretty much given him back his life. In her tangled way she had provided him with some sort of purpose, some reason to go on.
‘If I’m not going to Brussels I hope it’s a good substitute. Brussels sounded like it might have been worth a visit.’
‘Vancouver.’
‘Is that a good substitute?’
‘It’s Vancouver.’
‘If you say so.’
Professor McBride took an envelope out of the file she had been reading and pushed it across the table to him.
‘Your contact details.’
Jimmy picked up the envelope but didn’t open it.
‘And what do I do when I get to Vancouver?’
‘You will be told.’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because you wouldn’t believe me. You never do.’
‘No, that’s true.’
‘But that doesn’t matter because you never do what I tell you anyway.’
‘Also true.’
‘And be careful. I don’t want a repeat of Paris. No dead police.’
‘No, I don’t want that either.’
‘And no entanglements, not of any sort,
sexual or otherwise. Remember what happened in Santander.’
Jimmy showed his surprise. ‘I didn’t think you knew about that.’
‘Of course I knew. Where were you when it happened, by the way?’
‘At Mass. It was Sunday. Who told you about her and me?’
‘No one told me. A young policewoman shot in bed while naked and asleep. That sort of thing gets noticed and put in reports. It didn’t need much detective work to see that you were the real target. I wouldn’t have mentioned it except whatever was going on between you and her mustn’t happen again.’
‘It’s not likely to. I still don’t know why it happened there. I can’t understand what she saw in me. I was old enough to be her…’
But the words petered out as the memories returned. Suarez was there again, beautiful and in control; she was looking at him across the table where they’d gone for dinner. She’d seen something in him, something he didn’t understand but which had made her love him. He didn’t know then what it was and he still didn’t know. The next morning she was dead and now he would never know.
Professor McBride was fully aware that what she’d said would cause him pain, that was why she’d said it,. It was necessary. She waited and let him think about it. And, while she waited, she thought about it herself. An older man, not at all conventionally attractive: what had the young woman seen in him? But she didn’t really need to ask herself because she already knew the answer. Under that exterior there was something that would be attractive to a certain type of woman, a compassionate woman, if that woman could get close. And the inspector in Santander had obviously got close, very close. Unfortunately it had killed her…
Well, it was all finished and done now. But she wanted to make her point absolutely clear. There was to be no trouble this time.
‘And I don’t want to have to send any more false Vatican diplomatic passports to keep you out of jail.’
Jimmy came back to the present and nodded; she was right. What could he say?
‘Look. Are you sure I’m good for this any more? Maybe I’m past it. Look at the unholy cock-up I made of the last job. I made mistakes, bad mistakes. People got hurt. Killed.’
He had a point and he could tell she’d thought about it.
‘Yes, you made mistakes, and people, as you say, got killed.’
‘And Copenhagen wasn’t much better.’
‘I disagree. One way or another Copenhagen had to happen, it was all part of the unfinished business left over from Rome. At some point it needed finishing.’
‘And Lübeck?’
She shrugged her one good shoulder.
‘They as good as killed themselves. Call it suicide if you like. And as for Bronski, no one could possibly lay that at your door.’
‘That’s true.’
‘But Santander was indeed a mistake.’ Jimmy looked down at his hands; she could see she’d done enough, he understood. ‘See that you learn from it and don’t get involved with anybody. Just get the information you need and get the job done.’
‘Why not get someone fresh? Someone younger. Someone fit.’
‘Physical fitness is of small consequence. It’s not your body that interests me.’ Thank God for that, he thought. ‘All that concerns me is that you are still capable of being the detective you were. Paris was, as you say, an unholy mess, but Santander, leaving to one side the unfortunate Inspector Suarez, was a different story. You did well in Santander.’
‘Maybe so, but my point is, can I still do it? There must be other detectives, good ones, who don’t get people killed.’
‘There are. But apart from your ability as a detective you have one indispensable asset that makes me choose to persevere with you.’
‘My chirpy North London charm?’
‘Your silence.’
Jimmy knew what she meant. God knew he had his faults, plenty of them, but he didn’t have a slack mouth. What God also knew, however, was the real reason he could be trusted to remain silent about his work was because he didn’t have a friend in the world and didn’t want to make any. That was why she could rely on his silence. Not because he had any great gift for discretion but because, apart from her, he was utterly alone in the world now. No ties and no loyalties.
He slipped the envelope into the pocket of his jacket.
‘When do I go?’
‘You’re on your way. You were packed and ready to go to Brussels, now you’re packed and ready to go to Vancouver. Your ticket is waiting at the airport, at the check-in.’
Now it was Jimmy’s turn to smile. Rome to Vancouver, thank God it wouldn’t be budget.
‘Fiumicino?’
‘Ciampino.’
‘Oh, no, why? Nothing goes from there direct to Canada, does it?’
‘You go to London Luton and from there to Heathrow. From Heathrow you’re on an Air Canada flight with a connection at Chicago. I managed to get a special price doing it that way.’
‘Hell’s teeth, do you realise what that journey will be like? I’ll have to get a train from Luton and then get across London to Paddington for the Heathrow Express. I’ll be dead before I make the boarding gate.’
‘Well, it’s too late to change now. I’ve booked your tickets.’
‘Look, rather than do it that way I’ll pay the difference for a direct flight.’
‘And claim it on expenses when you get back? I don’t think so.’ Before he could get his protest out she carried on, ‘You only have yourself to blame, your last claim came as a severe shock to our accounts department. I had to do a lot of hard-talking to get it passed. It’s your own fault if I’m having to economise this time. Your plane leaves in two hours so you’d better get a move on. I’ve seen to it that someone is waiting downstairs to give you a lift. As you say, the traffic to Ciampino is always a nuisance if you’re in a hurry.’
‘A nuisance? You’d put it as strongly as that?’
‘And you’ll have to get a move on, your Air Canada flight leaves at ten p.m.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Just use your initiative and do the job.’ Jimmy turned to go. ‘And take care. I’ve invested too much time and effort in you to have to go looking for a replacement.’
‘I’m fond of you as well, Professor.’
She didn’t respond and Jimmy left the office.
Professor McBride looked at the door for a moment. Yes, she could see what might have attracted young Inspector Suarez. Underneath, and well hidden, was the terrible loneliness of a badly damaged man who would never make excuses for himself, never ask for help and never give up. She turned and looked out of the window at the distant blue hills, then picked up the phone on her desk. She would make a call. Whatever he might say about himself, she didn’t want to lose Mr Costello. He was too valuable an asset, and he would be very difficult indeed to replace.
Chapter Two
Jimmy was in a foul mood as the plane descended into Chicago. The journey from Rome and through London to Heathrow hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. It had been worse. First off, it was Professor Scolari who was waiting at the reception desk where Jimmy had left his holdall. Scolari didn’t like him and, to be fair, he had good reason.
‘Professor McBride asked me to give you a lift.’
Jimmy tried to smile and sound grateful.
‘Thanks, the traffic will be hell as usual, but if we’re going to get to Ciampino in time for the flight we should…’
But Scolari had other plans. Unlike Jimmy his smile cost him no effort, but it wasn’t a nice sort of smile.
‘I will drop you at the nearest Metro, Mr Costello. Numidio Quadrato. I’m afraid I do not have time to act as an airport taxi.’
And that’s how it had begun. The bastard knew the Metro line from Numidio Quadrato didn’t get him anywhere near Ciampino. That was bad enough, but at Anagnina, the last stop on that line, he’d made the mistake of getting on the airport shuttle because it was there and about to leave. What he should have done was loo
k round for a taxi. The shuttle stop-started through the suburbs and then hiccupped along with all the other traffic on the congested main highway for what seemed hours.
Finally he’d got to the airport and after running to the check-in desks he’d made it time. But it had been a damn close thing and that, together with Scolari’s departing words outside the Metro station - ‘So glad to have been of help, Mr Costello’ - had set his nerves on edge for the rest of the journey.
Needless to say, when he arrived at Luton station from the airport there were delays and when he got on a train it was overcrowded, dirty and slow. By the time he arrived at Heathrow the place seemed to him to be a barely functioning shambles, and although the processing onto his flight had been routine and unexceptional the flight itself was over two hours late.
Once on the Air Canada plane he’d settled down. His seat was in the middle of the wide-bodied monster and he was hemmed in. All he could do was to sit and brood, so he brooded. His wasn’t the sort of mind you could shift into neutral and park, so it niggled at him, building up grievances against Professor McBride, in particular the ‘special price’ deal that had prevented him from upgrading.
There was a wait of just under two hours for his transfer when he arrived at Chicago’s O’Hare, more than long enough to get a proper meal but, even though he felt hungry, he decided against it. He knew your body went all over the place when you spent too long in the air and moved across too many time zones and he had developed his own idea of how to deal with it. Eat as little as you could on the flight, then get stuck in to whatever was the appropriate meal on arrival and carry on from there. The way he looked at it, giving your stomach breakfast when it was expecting dinner or vice-versa would be the quickest way of getting your body in line with the local routine. But he had never tested it out on a really long journey.
Instead of eating he spent the time browsing the bookstores for something to occupy his mind during the next leg of the journey. He chose a book pretty much at random, Night Runners of Bengal, by somebody he had never heard of called John Masters. He chose it because he liked the title and didn’t much care if it was travel or fiction. He also chose it because it was, by comparison to many of the other door-stop paperbacks, slim and would slip into his jacket pocket. He also bought a copy of the New Yorker. Then he found himself a seat where he had a good view of a departure board, started to skim through his magazine and waited. He felt better by the time he boarded and it helped his mood considerably when he was able to get an aisle seat.