by James Green
‘Yes, I can see how it must seem a little excessive, but I will explain everything when I get there.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘How would Wednesday of next week be? I could make it at eleven.’ Jimmy nearly laughed out loud. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to go into the following week, I’m afraid.’
This time Jimmy did laugh, but it was a laugh of anger, not because anything was funny.
‘Yeah, next Wednesday at eleven will be fine.’
‘Oh good, I’m so glad. I’m afraid my diary is very full just at the moment.’
‘When you get to Rome you can give me a call and I’ll tell you how to get to my apartment.’
And he rang off.
His anger passed as soon as he put the phone away. It was really only staged anger, enough to make it sound real in his voice. Actually he was rather pleased with it. He had never been able to act, to tell a really convincing lie, but he’d worked at it and now he felt he had a workmanlike grip on bending the truth backwards if he had to. He took a sip of his coffee. It was still warm enough to drink. He waited. Either she would ring back or she wouldn’t. If she didn’t ring straight back she wouldn’t ring at all. If that happened he would take a couple of days to see the sights then head back to Rome.
He waited for fifteen minutes. Nobody rang so he left the restaurant and went out of the hotel to have another look around.
Chapter Five
By eleven thirty Jimmy was sitting outside a bar drinking a beer. The bar was by the harbour and overlooked the bay, a wide expanse of blue which ended in distant hills. At the foot of the hills was some sort of dark line. Jimmy had never seen anything like it and thought it magnificent. He chose the bar simply so he could sit outside looking at it.
A waiter passed his table.
‘What are those big hills over there?’
The waiter stopped and looked.
‘Vancouver Island.’
‘And that dark line.’
‘What line?’
‘That dark line at the bottom where they come down to the sea.’
The waiter laughed.
‘That line is Nanaimo.’
‘What’s that, some sort of Indian thing?’
‘No, sir, Nanaimo is a city.’
‘A city?’
‘That’s right. Not Vancouver but still a city, skyscrapers and all.’
Jimmy looked again at the ‘big hills’ across the bay.
‘Thanks.’
The waiter moved on. Mountains, and they must be bloody massive if the buildings at the bottom looked no more than a line against them. This country was big in a way he’d never seen big before. He forgot his beer for a moment and just sat looking.
The bar was part of a waterfront which bustled with visitors and locals. Across the road at the harbour, people were pottering about on some of the boats, doing whatever people who owned boats did to them. On the decks of a couple of the bigger ones, the motor yachts, people were sitting at tables on the deck. It looked a lazy life and an expensive one. Vancouver obviously wasn’t short of a bob or two.
Jimmy went back to his beer, another thing that had impressed him. It was a good pint, almost a London pint. Finding real beer, beer like you could get in England, had been a nice surprise and finding that it tasted almost as good as a London pint had been an even bigger surprise. Vancouver hadn’t disappointed him so far. He couldn’t fault what he’d seen and the day had kept warm and sunny. He was enjoying himself. He decided that after he’d finished his pint he would go and look for somewhere to get lunch. They would do fish round here and he liked fish. Then his phone rang. He took it out. He didn’t recognise the number. It was a woman but not the woman from the morning.
‘Mr Costello?’
‘Who wants to know?’
When the voice spoke again he recognised the heavy Irish accent.
‘God, Jimmy, you don’t change do you? You’re still about as polite as a dog that’s had its dinner stolen.’
‘Philomena!’
‘How did you guess? What gave me away? Not my bit of a brogue surely?’
‘God, Philomena. Where did you spring from?’
‘Oh, I’m not in Canada. I’m still in Paddington, at Barts.’
‘Then what…’
‘Never mind any “then what”. What have you been up to?’
‘Up to?’
‘Why did you upset Sr Lucy? God man, she has enough on her plate without you coming the hard case on her.’
‘You know her?’
‘We’ve met.’
Jimmy suddenly understood the mysterious SSZ after Sr Gray’s name: Sisters of Saint Zita. She was from the same order as Philomena.
‘Look, I got a big hurry up call from…’ he didn’t want to use Professor McBride’s name, not even with Philomena. ‘From someone and got rushed out here at very short notice. I assumed it was important and urgent, but your mate Lucy was out when I got here and then phones and offers me a slot in her diary in the middle of next week.’
‘So you came the heavy. Jimmy, have you not changed at all? After your little bit of trouble here I thought you turned over a new leaf. As I remember it you went of to Rome to train as a priest. What happened to that?’
‘It’s a long story. I’ll write a book about it one day and send you a signed copy.’
‘Don’t bother, the scrapes you got us through here in Paddington was story enough for me. I like it how it is now, nice and quiet.’
‘Barts going well?’
‘Never mind Barts. I went to a lot of trouble to find you and now that you’re where I want you to be, get on and help Lucy. Never mind any more acting the clown and showing everyone what a tough guy you are.’
It wasn’t a request, it was an order.
How come he finished up being bossed about by women? But she was right, he really had been a tough guy once. There had been a time in his life when he’d not have thought twice about putting someone in hospital if it was needed. So how come he rolled over like a pet poodle for Philomena and McBride? Not that the reason mattered. He did, and that was that.
‘OK, what should I do?’
‘Ring her now and set up a meeting.’
‘OK.’
‘And apologise. She’s got enough on without…’
‘Me acting the clown. I know, you already told me. Do I get told what this is about?’
‘Did no one tell you?’
‘No, no one told me.’
Another pause got added to the day’s tally.
‘In that case I’ll leave it to Sister Lucy.’ The voice at the other end became concerned. ‘And take care, Jimmy.’
‘I always do.’ But there was something about the way she’d spoken. ‘Is there something wrong, something I should know?’
‘No. I’m not sure. Nothing I can tell you now over the phone. Where are you staying?’
‘A place called the Rosedale on Robson.’
‘I’ll think about it and maybe drop you a line.’ Her voice cheered up. ‘Now, remember what I said, be careful, we nearly lost you here. We don’t want to be losing you somewhere else.’
‘We all go sometime, Sister.’
The voice went back to businesslike.
‘We do, but your time isn’t just yet, so get on with it and give Sister Lucy all the help she needs. Goodbye, Jimmy, and God bless.’
She rang off and Jimmy felt strangely sad as he put the phone away. He hadn’t given any thought to Philomena and Barts for a long time but hearing her voice, suddenly like that, brought it all back and he realised he missed her. She was about the only person in the world he might describe as a friend. Then he knew why he had to do whatever she told him. She loved him and he loved her. You get to feel like that about a person sometimes, especially of you’ve saved her life and she’s saved yours.
He finished what was left in his glass and reluctantly took out his mobile. Sr Gray apologised, Jimmy apologised. Sr Gray said she understood
the trouble he had gone to. Jimmy said that was OK, it wasn’t so much trouble. Sr Gray said she would like to meet. Jimmy said, great, but Sr Gray said she really was busy and it couldn’t be before Monday morning, would around eleven be alright?
That was three days away but Jimmy tried to sound like that was fine, so he said that would be fine. Sr Gray apologised again. Jimmy said think nothing of it, he’d take in the sights. Sr Gray said it was a lovely city, she hoped he’d enjoy it. Jimmy said he hoped so too. Sr Gray began to apologise again so Jimmy said, goodbye, see you on Monday, and finished the call.
Three fucking days to sit on his arse. But then he remembered Philomena’s words, so he let it go. He looked out across the harbour. Maybe Vancouver was a city worth three days, a city worth getting to know. What he’d seen already he liked. Anyway, he’d give it a good shot. After all, what else was there?
Chapter Six
Sr Lucy Gray was sitting with Jimmy in his suite. She seemed nervous.
‘I’m afraid we got off to a bad start.’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘It happens sometimes. Let’s both forget it. Do you want a drink, tea or coffee?’
Sr Gray looked at him.
‘Have you any Scotch?’
That took Jimmy by surprise. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and she didn’t look like someone who hit the bottle early.
‘No, sorry.’
She thought about it.
‘I saw a store next to the hotel when I arrived. Why don’t I get us a bottle and we can have a drink while we talk.’
Jimmy didn’t know what to say. She was pretty much what he expected from a nun except she wasn’t that old, late thirties or early forties. She was smartly dressed in an office kind of style, neat hair, no make-up. The only thing that gave her away was a neat little silver cross pinned on the lapel of her jacket. A Catholic might have spotted it for what it was, but to everyone else she was just another businesswoman. Jimmy was waiting for her and when she had arrived in the lobby she’d seemed reserved and a little tentative, almost shy. Yet now here she was suggesting that they should split a bottle of whisky together. It didn’t add up. Or maybe things were different in Canada. But if they were that different, Jimmy wasn’t about to adapt.
‘I’ll stick to coffee.’
‘Oh.’
Then Jimmy remembered his orders from Philomena. He was here to help, not pass any judgement. He made the effort.
‘But listen, you go ahead if you want to.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’
She got up.
‘I’ll be right back.’
She picked up her handbag, gave him a weak smile, and left.
Jimmy was a man who had always liked to be in control. All through his police career in London he had made sure he was in control, if not of events, then of himself. But that Jimmy, what they would now call the control freak Jimmy, had been blown away by his wife’s death from cancer. All the crooked money he had made had been for Bernadette, her first and then their two children. But the children had left home as soon as they had grown up. Only after Bernie’s death did it become clear to him that he had driven them away, not only from himself but from their mother too. But Bernie had stayed, only she and God knew why. Love, duty, habit? Then, suddenly and out of nowhere, she had cancer, then she was dead, and he was alone. He’d left London and the money had lain there, looked after by a sharp but frightened investment banker for whom Jimmy had once done a ‘favour’.
Jimmy was rich. But the money felt like his own cancer, sitting somewhere growing quietly, making him richer, eating away at any sense of self-worth he tried to find. Try to be the good-guy, go on, try to be someone Bernie could have been proud of. Just try. You made me and you know how you made me, and I’m still here and still growing. Remember? I’m what you wanted, what you worked for. Now I’m rewarding you for all your crookedness and violence.
These days he tried to forget the man he’d been, put it away from him. He tried to be a clever and thorough plodder doing as he was told. He let Professor McBride do the deep thinking. She saw the whole picture. He was just a foot soldier. The last time he’d tried to play the Big Brain and work things out for himself had been in Paris when McBride was out of commission. And what had happened? He’d made the most God-almighty fuck-up and killed an innocent man in cold blood, a copper at that. No, no more in-control Jimmy. Now all he wanted was to be told what to do, where to do it, and who he should do it to. Somebody else could take the credit or the blame. If there was any money, somebody else could have it.
Now here he was in a hotel suite in Vancouver trying to help a nun who’d slipped out at eleven in the morning because she needed a bottle of Scotch. McBride had told him to come, so he’d come. Philomena had told him to help, to make no trouble, so he was trying to help and making no trouble. And Sr Gray was out buying booze. What next, wait until she was smashed and pour her into a taxi? He felt totally out of his depth. He’d travelled thousands of miles to help her and she, out of pure habit, had told him to hang about for a week until she could fit him in, so he’d popped his cork and told her to get stuffed. Then Philomena, out of the blue and all the way from London, had smacked his wrist and told him to be a good boy. And he was trying. But now it looked as if he might be dealing with a raging dipsomaniac who considered the day wasted if she wasn’t immersed in the sauce by lunchtime.
An awful thought struck him. Was she the problem he’d been sent to deal with? No, it couldn’t be that. He’d do as he was told, but no one in their right mind would send him to the other side of the world to play nursemaid to a dipso.
He felt trapped. Any minute the doorbell would ring and she would be back. He couldn’t have felt more alarmed if an assassin was coming. He could deal with a killer, he’d done it before. But a drink-crazed nun? He thought of phoning McBride. But what could she do? Anyway, she probably knew that the nun was an alcoholic and guessed he wouldn’t have come if she’d told him and she was probably right.
But then he thought of Philomena, and calmed down a bit. Philomena wouldn’t have sent him to fix an alcoholic friend. She’d have got proper professional help. He calmed down and felt better. If Philomena wanted him there it was because it was something he could deal with, something that needed the Jimmy she knew from London, the Jimmy people tried to kill but ended up getting killed themselves. The old Jimmy, the tough-guy. But if she knew anything and was willing to tell him then she would have told him yesterday and she didn’t.
Here he was, six thousand-odd miles from home, in a hotel in a strange city with a woman he was supposed to help. He didn’t know why she needed his help, all he knew was that she was out buying Scotch at eleven in the morning. So he waited. What else was there to do?
Chapter Seven
After a while there was a gentle knock. She was back. Jimmy opened the door and she came in, walked to the table and put a brown paper bag on it. While she took off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair Jimmy went and got her a glass. He put on it the table beside the paper bag then sat down. She took a half-size bottle of Scotch out of the bag, opened it, and poured a stiff measure into the glass. She looked at him.
‘None for you?’
Jimmy shook his head.
She sat down, took a long drink, then pulled a face and began to cough, in between coughs gasping for breath. Jimmy looked at her as she tried to get her breath back, there were tears on her cheeks now. If you’re an alcoholic, he thought, you’re not very good at it.
Sr Gray held her throat for a second while her breath got back to normal.
‘I think I should have put some water in it.’
Jimmy got up and held out his hand.
‘Here, let me.’
She gave him the glass. He took it to the tap in the kitchen area, put in plenty of water and brought it back. She thanked him and took a cautious sip. This time it seemed to go down OK.
‘Thank you, that’s better.’ He got the weak smile ag
ain. ‘I’m not used to it.’
Jimmy’s surprise showed in his voice. ‘Then why did you get it?’
‘I needed something to steady my nerves. I feel rather nervous and not a little stupid. I have to tell you, Mr Costello, that I was not looking forward to this meeting. In fact I was… am, a little afraid.’
‘What of?’
‘Well, you partly.’
‘Me? You don’t know me.’
‘Yes, but I know something about you.’
‘From Philomena?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. What did she tell you?’
‘That you saved her life and solved two murders. That you killed a gangster, one who was trying to kill you and her. That you were someone who understood violence and could be violent if necessary. She didn’t try to make you sound like a frightening person but, well, from what she said…’
‘I see.’
Sr Gray tried to rally. ‘But most importantly she told me that you were an excellent detective.’
She took a sip of her drink and put the glass down on the table.
‘Shall I freshen that up?’
‘No, that was plenty. I told you, I only wanted to…’ She looked at Jimmy’s face then smiled. ‘What did you think?’
‘That you were a raging alcoholic who couldn’t get to midday without hitting the bottle.’
She laughed.
‘Oh dear, yes, I suppose it must have seemed a bit odd, coming here to your suite this morning then rushing out and buying a bottle of Scotch. I can see how you might have drawn that conclusion but I assure you it was just nerves. If I drink at all, which is not often, I drink wine, or maybe a beer to be sociable.’
Jimmy decided it was time to get down to situations. He didn’t want to be rude but if this thing was to get going someone had to start.
‘Fine, you like wine and the occasional social beer, you’re not an alcoholic, when you’re nervous and a bit frightened you buy whiskey but you’re not used to it, and Philomena told you a few things about me. Now do you think we could get to the part about why I’m here?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She made a visible effort. ‘Someone has been killed. I think there’s been a murder.’ Getting that out seemed to help. ‘In fact I know there’s been a murder, no, not know in the sense that I’m certain, that I have information I could lay before the police. I have no evidence, at least nothing I can show anyone. When I say that I’m certain I mean… well, actually I don’t know what I mean. Mr Costello, I need your help. Sr Philomena said you would help me.’ The question was in her eyes as much as her words. ‘Will you?’