Last Rights

by James Green

  Jimmy waited but she didn’t go on.

  ‘Fine, you’re not ashamed of how you are. Why did you keep on going to the chaplaincy?’

  ‘I’m not a gregarious person. I have never made friends easily. In fact I have never made friends. I was always a good student and I became satisfied with my studies. I got a good degree and after that there was nothing else I wanted to do so I just kept on studying. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever do, study. I liked Marvin, he was easy to talk to and he liked to talk, we were almost friends. I went to the chaplaincy because he went. They were nice people there, what you were, well, the way you felt about things didn’t come up one way or another. They accepted each other as people.’

  ‘So what did people do at this chaplaincy?’

  ‘We met. Sometimes we’d talk, there were socials, drinks, music. We organised visits, outings, went to the movies. Sr Gray would set up a Mass with a priest every month for those who wanted to go.’

  ‘Are you a Catholic?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go to the Masses. I have no interest in religion.’

  ‘Did Marvin?’

  ‘Yes. He was interested.’

  ‘Were you interested in art?’

  ‘No, I know nothing about art, well, only what everyone knows. I’d recognise the Mona Lisa if you showed it to me.’

  ‘So what did you talk about?’

  ‘Talk about?’

  ‘Yes. He was interested in art and religion, you weren’t interested in either. So what did you talk about?’

  She had to think about it.

  ‘Well, I suppose we just talked. We first met when we shared a table for coffee. The place was busy and he asked if he could sit down. I suppose he thought he ought to say something out of politeness so he asked me if I was interested in art.’

  ‘Funny thing to ask a stranger.’

  ‘Oh, he asked that because I’d been to the library and had some books. They were on the medieval period and were open at pages with paintings. He thought they were art books.’

  ‘And they weren’t?’

  ‘Well, there was art in them but I was interested in the illuminated texts. That’s what I study, medieval manuscripts. I’m doing research on textual…’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you are. Would you say Marvin was at all suicidal before he killed himself?’

  ‘How would that show itself?’

  Good question, how do you spot someone who’s about to top themselves?

  ‘Did his behaviour seem odd or erratic, was he depressed or in some way over-emotional?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not when I was with him.’

  ‘Were you with him often?’

  ‘No, not often. We met at the chaplaincy, we went for coffee sometimes. We were both very busy with our studies.’

  ‘Were you surprised when he killed himself ?’

  ‘Oh yes, very surprised.’

  ‘And you had no idea why he might have done it?’

  ‘None. May I ask a question, Mr Costello?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why are you looking into Marvin’s death?’

  ‘Sr Gray didn’t think it was suicide.’

  ‘But why you? Shouldn’t she have gone to the police?’

  ‘She did. They said it was suicide.’

  ‘But how can you…?’

  He could see she was trying to find a polite way of asking how come he was sticking his nose in.

  ‘I was a policeman in London. I have a friend who was in the same order as Sr Gray. She asked me to help.’

  She seemed relieved, she smiled. It did nothing for her

  ‘And what do you think? Do you think Marvin killed himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Now that Sr Gray is…’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Yes, what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll go home.’

  ‘I see.’

  Jimmy stood up. He’d done his duty, he’d stayed and talked to her. If nothing else he could tell McBride he’d interviewed one of Marvin’s friends.

  ‘Thanks, Miss…’

  The name had slipped his memory.

  ‘Lawrence, Laura Lawrence.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Lawrence. You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Will you want to talk to me again?’

  ‘No, I think you’ve told me all you can. Goodbye.’

  Jimmy left the café and headed back the way they had come, keeping an eye out for a taxi. If he hurried he could get a beer at his bar before taking lunch and be in comfortable time to get out to the airport for his flight to Seattle. He fancied a beer especially after that waste of time. Still, once he’d talked to old man Brinkmeyer he’d have done enough to say he’d tried and that was the point of the thing. Tomorrow he’d sort out McBride’s diocesan connection then set off for New York, touch base with the art dealer, then fly back to Rome on the first available flight and he could cobble something together in the way of a report on the journey home.

  He saw a taxi, waved it down and gave the name of the bar to the driver. There weren’t going to be many more visits to the bar so he didn’t want to miss a pint when the opportunity arose. As he looked out of the taxi window his years of police work clicked in again and his mind automatically went over the meeting. He let it, it was something to do. She was a funny woman. Did she seem like a lesbian? But, when you came right down to it, did he have any idea of what a lesbian would seem like? Anyway, what was more important was that she knew nothing, so he didn’t have to do anything. Nothing to follow up so end of story and time for a pint.

  He took out his mobile, thought about switching it on, decided not to and put it away. Why bother? It was almost over. He’d phone from New York to say that he now knew Gray’s death had been murder, that she’d been strangled. There was no hurry, like McBride said, she had served her purpose, how she died didn’t matter. He looked at his watch again. Thank God the other two he was supposed to talk to hadn’t turned up. If he’d had to talk to all three he’d never have got away in time. As it was there was plenty of time for a pint, perhaps even time for two. He smiled to himself, yes, a couple of pints, then something to eat and then off to the airport.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brinkmeyer’s driver met Jimmy as he came out of Arrivals into the main concourse at Seattle airport. He was a young man in a smart, dark suit and was holding a card with Mr Costello on it. Jimmy walked up to him.

  ‘I’m Costello.’

  ‘This way, Mr Costello.’

  They walked to the exit doors. Outside, in the drop-off and pick-up area, a large black car was waiting. The driver opened the back door and Jimmy got in. Mr Brinkmeyer, it was hard to think of him as Pa Brinkmeyer now Jimmy was actually face to face with him, matched his car, which was a Bentley. Both were clearly top of the range. Even in shirt, slacks and slip-on shoes he looked like someone who knew the best when he saw it, and when he saw it bought it, though nothing was showy.

  The car pulled silently away and joined the airport traffic.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Costello.’ Jimmy didn’t respond. Brinkmeyer didn’t care. ‘Why are you looking into the death of my son?’

  ‘I was asked to.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Initially by a friend in London, Sr Philomena McCarthy. She asked me to come across to Vancouver because Sr Gray, who knew your son through her chaplaincy work there, thought he hadn’t committed suicide but was murdered.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Jimmy had come down to do pretty much with Brinkmeyer as he’d done with Laura Lawrence, go through the motions so as to be able to say something to McBride. But now, sitting beside the man, he changed his mind. Brinkmeyer was the kind who could tell a phoney from the real thing so Jimmy decided he might as well be the real thing.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Whatever happened is over as far as I’m concerned. I’ll go back to Vancouver and as soon as I can I’ll fly out and go home.’

&
nbsp; Brinkmeyer sat quietly for a moment.

  ‘You didn’t need to fly here to tell me that. You could have told me over the phone.’

  ‘When you phoned I didn’t know it was over.’

  Brinkmeyer’s tone had been friendly at first, then neutral. Now it had a hard edge to it.

  ‘So you came all this way to tell me nothing.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want to put it. Personally I don’t give a shit, Mr Brinkmeyer. I didn’t phone because your wife might have answered, and I assume your wife doesn’t know we’re meeting and you’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘I see.’

  The tone was back to mild.

  ‘No you don’t, but like I said, I don’t give a shit one way or the other. He was your son, not mine. If anything needs to be done, you get it done. And like I said, I’ll fly out of Vancouver as soon as I can, go back to Rome and forget the whole thing.’

  ‘What’s changed since we talked?’

  ‘Sr Gray is dead, murdered. She died sometime last night or early this morning. I don’t like the connection. If, and it’s a very big if, but if she was killed because of something to do with your son, I don’t want to get involved. I didn’t mind asking a few questions about a suicide to keep everybody happy but I’m not putting my neck out, not for you, not for anybody.’

  They drove on in silence while Brinkmeyer digested what Jimmy had just told him. It didn’t take too long, he was a man who was used to making decisions.

  ‘I won’t pretend to understand what’s going on, Mr Costello, what it is you are doing, why you are doing it or who you are doing it for. But I would like to know why my son died. You strike me as a man who has some experience in matters like this. Am I right?’ Jimmy could see he knew he was right so he didn’t bother to lie. He nodded. ‘You are or were some sort of policeman, a detective?’ Jimmy nodded again. ‘Go back to Vancouver and find out why my son died. I’ll pay you whatever you ask. I’m a very wealthy man, you may ask for a lot.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I meant it, whatever you think you should get, double it.’

  ‘I don’t need your money. I’m not wealthy like you are but I’m fixed OK. Sorry, Mr Brinkmeyer, I’m out of it. Hire somebody else and give them a lot of money.’

  Jimmy was sure Brinkmeyer was a man who usually got what he wanted, but he was also sure it was his money that got it for him. If money wouldn’t work Jimmy’s guess was that he would be pretty well fucked.

  He was right.

  When Brinkmeyer spoke he wasn’t making any demands or even any offers. He wanted help and he knew he had to ask for it in the right way, humbly and, to give him credit, he made a decent fist of it.

  ‘Why did you come to see me if you’re not taking this any further?’

  ‘I told someone I would. Now I have, so I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘You have no questions for me?’

  ‘No. Even if I stayed and did what you asked you couldn’t help find out what happened. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘I knew my son.’ Jimmy shrugged. No parent knows their children, the ones who thought they did least of all. ‘I didn’t understand his choice of sexuality, if it was a choice, but I accepted it. My wife couldn’t. She tried to make him see people who said they could help, who told her it was an illness, that he could be cured.’ Jimmy said nothing but Brinkmeyer persevered. ‘He saw a couple. They did no good, of course, and then he refused to see any more. I’m afraid my wife’s attitude and her misguided efforts at help made Marvin go in exactly the opposite direction, he became somewhat promiscuous and made sure my wife knew about it. His mode of dress, behaviour and the friends he brought to the house made life intolerable for my wife. It was an awful time for all of us, I assure you, Mr Costello, a time of true pain and suffering.’ Jimmy wasn’t interested, if the man wanted to talk he could talk, he wasn’t in any big hurry and he’d never been driven around in a Bentley by a chauffeur before. ‘Eventually my wife ordered him from the house, disowned him, cut him out of her life.’

  Suddenly, and without meaning to, Jimmy surfaced. He’d let his mind wander and a side of him had been listening. He spoke almost before he realised he was saying anything.

  ‘Didn’t you get any say? Or is all the money on Mrs Brinkmeyer’s side?’

  The angry edge came back.

  ‘No, Mr Costello, I’m the one with the money.’ Brinkmeyer paused while he got his anger well under control, he knew he still had no leverage in this. ‘I made a choice. I didn’t think I could hold them together and I also thought Marvin needed to make his own way so I sided with my wife. Marvin left and, without involving my wife, I did what I could for him. I loved my son and I loved my wife. In so far as it was possible I wanted to keep both so I did what I could.’

  Jimmy looked out of the window. He was sorry he’d said anything. It was none of his business and he was getting tired of Brinkmeyer and tired of being driven around. When you came down to it a car, even a Bentley, is very much like most other cars.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like to lose a son…’

  That was it.

  ‘As it happens, I do, and a wife, but that doesn’t change anything. People all over the world die for no good reason. Your son’s death is not my problem and I’m not about to make it mine.’

  ‘You… you lost your son?’

  But Jimmy had had enough. He didn’t know Brinkmeyer and he certainly didn’t want Brinkmeyer to know anything about him so he changed the subject to the only one Brinkmeyer was interested in.

  ‘Look, just suppose I was to take it further, is there anything you could tell me that might help?’

  Brinkmeyer didn’t pause. Jimmy could see he’d already thought about it a lot.

  ‘I saw Marvin when I could, which was not often. He seemed happy. I never got any sense that he was emotionally disturbed or in any kind of trouble. If it had been money trouble of any kind he would have contacted me. But the last time I was able to pass through Vancouver was six weeks before he died. Something might have happened in that time. Why did Sr Gray think it was murder?’

  Jimmy shrugged. He’d had enough, he’d guessed Brinkmeyer knew nothing and now he had it in his own words to pass on to McBride.

  ‘God knows. Maybe she liked him and didn’t want to think he’d kill himself.’

  ‘Could she possibly have been right?’

  ‘He put a shotgun in his mouth and blew half his head off. Does that sound like murder to you?’

  ‘No, Mr Costello, it doesn’t sound like murder to me.’

  ‘Me neither. Can we head back to the airport? I’m done here.’

  Brinkmeyer pressed a button.

  ‘Back to the airport, Vincent.’

  They sat in silence as the car turned and headed back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jimmy was tired by the time he got back to the Rosedale but overall he was satisfied with the day. He could call McBride and tell her he had nothing to work with, unless the diocesan contact had anything, which he doubted, or the New York art dealer knew something. But the New York dealer didn’t worry him because the way he intended to ask the questions the dealer would turn out to know what the others knew - nothing. As he went through the hotel lobby the girl at Reception called to him so he went across.

  ‘You have a message, Mr Costello. Professor McBride phoned and asked you to call her.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jimmy went to the elevator. On the way up he took out his mobile and switched it on. There were two missed calls, both from McBride.

  What the hell, he had gone to the chaplaincy like she asked him to, he had even seen the lesbian. He’d gone down to Seattle and listened to old man Brinkmeyer moan about how tough it all was. He could make his report, that he knew nothing, and make it sound convincing. Tomorrow he would make an appointment with the Crosby character, listen to what he had to say when they met, and then go to New York and see Thurlow Somerset. Then it would be ov
er. There was nothing McBride could do. Why not talk to her?

  He called her number.

  ‘Hello, Mr Costello.’

  ‘I’ve seen the father, he doesn’t know anything. He…’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  Her voice was like the policeman who had phoned him about Gray. Jimmy knew it wasn’t bad news, it was the worst sort of news.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Sr Philomena is dead.’

  She waited a second. She’d guessed he would take it badly. She was right. The elevator stopped, it was Jimmy’s floor.

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  He walked to his suite, let himself in and went to the kitchen area. He got a glass and picked up the half-size bottle of whisky and filled the glass to the brim. His hands weren’t steady and some of the whisky tipped over the edge and ran onto his fingers. He took a long pull which half-emptied the glass, waited a moment, then finished it. He refilled the glass and took another drink. He didn’t like whisky and he wasn’t used to it. Suddenly he dropped the glass into the sink where it broke. He bent over and vomited on the glass fragments. He stayed bent over until the retching stopped. Then he picked up a tea towel and wiped his mouth. The taste of whisky and vomit filled his mouth and he felt slightly dizzy. He went to a chair, sat down, pulled out his phone and called McBride.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Hit-and-run. She was knocked down three days ago. Since then she’d been in intensive care. Yesterday she died.’

  ‘How come you know?’

  ‘I was told.’ Yes, thought Jimmy, you always get told. But only when it’s too fucking late. ‘There was a letter. It was in her office desk. It wasn’t finished but she addressed the envelope. It was for you at the Robson on Rosedale. I asked for a copy to be faxed to me.’

  ‘By whoever told you. Pity they weren’t so fucking thorough in looking out for Philomena.’

  ‘I was not having Sr Philomena watched. I had no reason to suppose she was in any danger.’

  ‘But she still died.’

  ‘Yes, she died. I’m sorry.’