Last Rights

by James Green

  ‘Tidy things up?’

  ‘To do whatever is necessary. I can’t allow important stolen art works to turn up in the possession of the Catholic Church. The media would have a field day.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t want the Church to look bad in the media, would we?’

  ‘If there’s anything to it, sort it out. If not, come back. Just get on with it.’

  And the phone went dead.

  ‘Get on with it.’ Now there were two of them at it. Well at least now he had some sort of idea what it was he was supposed to be getting on with. Suicide or murder and an outside chance of stolen art, stolen serious art, the sort of art that puts the wind up people who know about art. He put away his phone and looked at his watch. Ten fifteen, time to go down and wait for the Gray woman to arrive.

  Jimmy sat in the hotel’s main entrance. He wasn’t looking forward to the day. Going undercover among a bunch of queers wasn’t his idea of…

  He stopped. If he thought like that it would never work. But that was exactly how he thought about it, they were a bunch of queers. Changing the name to gay didn’t change anything. They were still a…

  No, this was definitely not going to work. But what alternative did he have? Come on, Jimmy, you’re supposed to be the great detective, think of something.

  About five minutes later Sr Gray walked in and came over to him.

  ‘Ready?’

  He got up.

  ‘No.’

  She gave him a surprised look.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go up to my suite. We need to talk and this time I’m the one who could do with a Scotch.’

  He turned and headed for the lift. She followed him.

  Chapter Ten

  Jimmy had a whisky on the table beside him. Sr Gray was sitting looking at him, waiting.

  ‘It’s not going to work.’

  ‘Yes it will, all you have to do…’

  ‘I can’t work with a bunch of queers.’

  He could see her freeze.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t see, so I’ll try to tell you. You probably won’t understand but I’ll try anyway.’

  Her words when she spoke had icicles on them.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Philomena.’

  ‘OK, explain to me for Sr Philomena’s sake why you can’t work with me and, using your own words, a bunch of queers.’

  Jimmy ignored the tone.

  ‘I can’t because that’s how I would be thinking. When I was a copper I never worked undercover so I have no training or experience and if, in my head, that’s what I’m thinking, how long would the charade last? Feeling like I do is not something I can help, it’s the way it is, the way I am. And even if I could pass for someone learning to work with people like that, it still wouldn’t work because how I feel, how I was thinking, would get in the way of what I needed to do. My judgement wouldn’t be just clouded, it would be crippled. I’d balls it up and get nowhere. I was a detective for over twenty years, I know how these things work. I’m not guessing about this, I know.’

  He took a drink and waited.

  ‘Is Sr Philomena a lesbian?’

  Whatever he was expecting it wasn’t that and he resented the question. Somehow he felt it was a personal insult.

  ‘No, she bloody isn’t.’

  ‘And exactly how do you know she isn’t? Did you ask her or did she tell you? Or did you do some detective work and find it out for yourself?’

  Jimmy didn’t answer. There was no answer, but he could see she was going to wait for one. She was going to sit and look at him until she got an answer of some sort out of him so he did the best he could, but he wasn’t happy about it.

  ‘It never came up.’

  ‘I see. According to Sr Philomena you solved two murders and killed some gangsters who were trying to kill you both.’

  ‘I only killed one, or, if you want the accurate truth of the thing, I had him killed.’

  ‘One, then. I should imagine while all that was going on you and Sr Philomena became quite close.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we did.’

  ‘But her sexuality never came up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But mine and that of the people I work with matters from day one?’

  ‘It matters, so why not from day one?’

  ‘Do you assume that I’m gay because I work with gay people?’

  Jimmy shrugged. She was a nun, in his book nuns didn’t have sexuality. They were just nuns. But he was beginning to suspect that his book might be an old one, a child’s one, one that he’d been given as a boy in Kilburn but somehow kept on using all his life.

  ‘And because of that assumption, which is based only on your own prejudice, it’s the first thing that comes up. And you haven’t even met any of the people I work with, let alone killed anyone yet.’

  She was different today, that much was sure. Jimmy was the one who needed the whiskey. He took another drink.

  ‘I told you, I can’t help the way I feel.’

  She paused.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Costello, did you ever arrest a paedophile?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘And if they had said that they couldn’t help the way they felt, would you have accepted that as a defence or a justification?’

  Shit. He’d walked right into that.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m supposed to accept it in your case?’

  Put like that he could see what she meant. Suddenly she seemed to thaw.

  ‘Look, Mr Costello, I’m quite used to people who share your opinion and often express it in stronger terms or even violence. But I thought I was getting a trained detective who could put personal considerations to one side. If you could explain why you think working alongside gay people would somehow impair your…’

  ‘I once put a q…’ he managed to catch himself, ‘a homosexual in hospital. I kicked the shit out of him and nearly killed the bastard. Not long after that somebody did kill him.’

  She sat silent for a second.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No you don’t. Denny Morris was scum, a villain who no one in the law could touch. I found he was putting kids on the street, boys of no more than eleven. When I tried to nail him I was warned off.’

  ‘By his gang?’

  ‘By a detective inspector speaking on behalf of a senior officer. Denny was plugged in all the way to the top. Anyway, I found out that he was using the kids himself before he put them on the street. He was a… for God’s sake, he was a fucking bastard. There’s no way I can call him gay. Denny Morris wasn’t gay. He was an animal. He kept it very quiet, being homosexual, but a young bloke he’d used, used and hurt and I don’t mean emotionally, told me, in return for getting him off a drugs charge. But I vowed I’d get the bastard one day and, like I say, one day I did.’

  ‘Mr Costello, paedophiles are not exclusively homosexual, and I would guess most gangsters and pimps are straight, not gay. Having a sexuality which has been traditionally condemned by society doesn’t turn someone into a monster like your Denny Morris character. I’m sure you must have known some gay men and women who were not animals, not fucking bastards, who could, in a dim light, pass for normal people and who didn’t produce in you the urge to put them in hospital.’

  Jimmy thought back. Offhand he couldn’t think of anybody he’d known well who was gay, but some of them could have been.

  ‘When I was young it was illegal, a crime. That sort of sets your mind in a way of thinking. Back then nobody let on if they were that way inclined.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago. Things have changed, thank God.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I haven’t changed with them. I suppose it’s my fault but it never came up so I never thought about it and I guess I’m still stuck where I started. I remember the first time I came a
cross one. I was a young copper and I saw this bloke hanging round some public toilets that were on my beat. He was an older, smartly dressed sort, looked liked an accountant or something. I told him to move on. “Go on, bugger off,” I said. I remember he gave me a funny sort of smile and said, “But, my dear boy, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” and went on his way. I remember thinking he seemed a harmless sort of cove. But I soon learned you can seem a harmless cove and still be a criminal.’

  Jimmy took another small drink then pushed the glass away. It was all out in the open now so he didn’t need it any more. It hadn’t helped much and he still didn’t like whiskey.

  ‘So, where does that leave us, Mr. Costello?’

  ‘Look, even if I could do what you suggest, it wouldn’t work. I have to ask questions, to interview people. I get what I need by talking to people and getting them to talk to me. I need those people to trust me, to tell me things they might not want to talk about. Look at us two, how well did we get on?’ He could see she took his point. ‘OK, it wouldn’t be as bad as that but it wouldn’t be good enough either, not if I’m pretending to like them and work with them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But I have a suggestion.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If I was representing the parents of the student that died, then I could ask questions, make some sort of proper investigation. People would be willing to help if I was trying to find out why he died, if I was doing it for the parents. How I might feel about anybody, well, it needn’t come up. If the people who knew him liked him then we’d all be doing it for him, for his parents.’

  ‘It’s a great pity you didn’t think of this straight away. If you had then there would have been no need to go through…’

  ‘Yes there would, because I would still have had to make you understand how I think about it all. My boss is the devious one, not me. We’ll need to work together on this which means we’ve got to trust each other. I trust you because Philomena thinks you’re OK. You didn’t know anything about me except what she told you and that made you reach for a bottle of whiskey. Well, whatever she told you is over, it’s all true, but it’s all in the past. Now I work for a college professor, I try to sort things out and she tells me which things to sort. But I thought we should get how I feel out in the open. I didn’t want you to make any mistakes about the sort of person I am.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, each with their own thoughts. It was Sr Gray got things going again.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. So, what do we do now?’

  ‘You do nothing unless you have contact details for the parents.’

  ‘No, I told you, he never spoke of them. He did tell me that he came from Seattle though.’

  ‘Fine, that gives me a place to start. You get on with your work and I’ll find out how to get in touch with them. If it works out I’ll let you know.’ They both stood up and went to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Once she was gone Jimmy went across to the window and looked out. The sky was getting dark with clouds, the good weather was gone and it threatened rain. It definitely looked like rain.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Is that Mr Brinkmeyer?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Costello, James Costello.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Costello?’

  ‘I’m trying to contact Marvin Brinkmeyer’s parents. He was a student at Vancouver University.’

  The other end went silent for a second.

  ‘In connection with what?’

  ‘It’s concerning his death.’

  ‘Where are you phoning from?’

  ‘Vancouver, the Rosedale on Robson hotel.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘It’s in the book, there aren’t that many Brinkmeyers in Seattle. This is only my second try.’

  Another pause.

  ‘You will have to speak to my wife. Wait please.’

  Jimmy waited until a woman came on the phone.

  ‘My husband tells me you wish to speak to us about a student’s death. That you think we might be his parents.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re wrong. We have no son. Goodbye.’

  And the phone went dead.

  Jimmy held it for a moment then put it down. They were the parents alright. It wasn’t just the, “We have no son,” it was the way she said it, like she was spitting it into the phone. Whatever had been the cause, the family bust-up must have been pretty spectacular. But it gave him a good line of enquiry: the money. Marvin had money, enough to dress well, run a car and travel, Gray said. So, if Mummy and Daddy didn’t give it to him, who did?

  OK, now he had a lead to follow. But he had also lost the best way of following it. He couldn’t very well represent the parents if, as far as they were concerned, they had no son, dead or alive. Representing the parents had been his best chance to get into this thing. Well, Mummy had blown that out of the water. Now what? The Gray woman would have to be told. He picked up the phone again.

  ‘Bad news, Seattle won’t play ball.’ He listened. ‘Because as far as they’re concerned they have no son, and I doubt it’s because he topped himself. I think whatever it was it happened well before that, maybe even before he came to Vancouver… No, I’m not sure, but the mother was quite clear about not having a son and that’s not how mothers usually take losing one, even if the cause is suicide… No, I have nothing else to suggest.’ He knew what she would say next and she did. ‘No, we can’t go back to that. I told you why it wouldn’t work and it still won’t work.’

  He waited while she tried to think of something else. After a moment she came up with something. Not much, but something.

  ‘OK, I’ll try, but don’t expect too much. You get as many of them as you can and when they’re set up I’ll talk to them. Sure, the chaplaincy’s alright. I’ll be interviewing them because they knew Marvin Brinkmeyer, not pretending I’m one of them. There’s a big difference, believe me.’

  He put the phone down. There was nothing for him to do now except wait until Gray could set up meetings with any chaplaincy users who had known Marvin and would talk to him. He looked at his watch. It was ten past twelve, not time to eat yet. He wouldn’t want lunch for a while. He decided to go down to the waterfront bar where they had the good beer. He went to the window and looked out. The rain was still coming down heavily. He would need an umbrella and maybe he should buy himself a mac.

  Down in reception they lent him an umbrella and told him the nearest place to buy a raincoat. It was about five minutes away. He decided he’d go and get his beer first and pick up the raincoat on the way back. The city had changed for him, it still looked good even in the rain, but the feel was different. He’d seen places before where the surface was all smiles and friendliness, but underneath, under the surface, that was a different story. Maybe Vancouver was like that. Maybe when you got to know her well enough she was just another whore, only with classier make-up.

  He sat in the bar looking out over the bay. The big white ferry which ran across the bay to North Vancouver had just pulled out from the nearby terminal and was heading towards a grey curtain of heavy rain that sat under a leaden sky and had already made the distant mountains across the bay invisible. Here though, the rain was not much more than a heavy drizzle and there were still plenty of people about though now under umbrellas or in raincoats. Jimmy sat at a table outside the bar, under an awning, and watched the world go by. The beer was still good and he had nothing special he wanted to do so he let his mind drift.

  If McBride knew about Marvin Brinkmeyer’s suicide it meant he must have been connected to something important, important to the Catholic Church, something they wanted hushed up and sorted out. And if McBride had been called in it meant that someone high up at the Vancouver end had contacted Rome. Who? Well, certainly not some Dominican friar that Brinkmeyer dropped a casual question to about stolen art. That set his mind off in a
nother direction. Was there any stolen art? Or was that another of McBride’s little red herrings to put him where she wanted him to be?

  He looked out across the bay. The ferry was almost invisible now, the heavy rain must be getting closer. He took a drink of his beer. He was getting nowhere and he would continue to get nowhere until he had something more in the way of hard information. So far all he had was Brinkmeyer’s suicide, and that had to be suicide because no one lets you put a loaded shotgun in their mouth so they can blow their head off. Do they? No, they don’t, it had to suicide. So why did the kid top himself?

  What if Brinkmeyer was involved in something that had gone pear-shaped and didn’t want to face the consequences, prison perhaps, or answer to the sort of friends who would do nasty things before they killed you in their own nasty way. That was possible, he’d known people get into situations where blowing your brains out was the best option available. So what could he have been involved in? Jimmy gazed at the rapidly disappearing ferry while he went through the usual list of things that lead to a sticky end for those who don’t know how such things work. But it was all too vague: money, drugs, sex, blackmail, what? Of course it might not be anything criminal. If Brinkmeyer went to the chaplaincy it meant he was queer so he might have killed himself because he’d been thrown over by a boyfriend, despite what the Gray woman thought. Or could it be just sex, sex with a child, the kind of molestation that got you serving a long prison sentence if the other cons didn’t shorten it for you. What about money? Gray said money wasn’t a problem for him, that he had wealthy parents who were generous. And he remembered the mother’s voice: ‘We have no son’. If Marvin was getting money and plenty of it then it certainly wasn’t coming from Seattle, so where was it coming from?

  Jimmy decided he’d get himself another beer, he felt he deserved one. He had a question that gave him something to do. It wasn’t much but it was progress. Where did Brinkmeyer’s money come from? Who was being generous to him and why?

  His phone rang. It was Gray.

  ‘OK, three of them? Beginning at twelve thirty tomorrow. Listen, why don’t I start with you before I see them? We haven’t gone over everything you know about Brinkmeyer yet. Sure, now is fine. How do I get there? OK, I’ll see you in as long as it takes to rustle up a taxi and get there.’