by James Green
‘Insistent about what? I must say, Mr Crosby, I’m finding it hard to follow what it was Marvin Brinkmeyer wanted from you.’
‘Yes, I found it difficult myself. The best I can do is to say that he seemed to believe that if the diocese found that he had uncovered this stolen art, the matter might be covered up somehow.’ How right he was, thought Jimmy. That was exactly what McBride wanted. ‘I told him I couldn’t help. I assured him that the diocese possessed no stolen art, valuable or otherwise.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he could accept that the diocese may have come into possession of the pictures in good faith but that did not change the fact that they were stolen. He urged me to arrange a meeting with someone in authority. Really, Mr Costello, I almost believed he was telling the truth. He seemed very genuine and quite sure of what he was saying. He was most convincing.’
‘You believed him?’
‘No. Mr. Costello. The diocese has no stolen paintings. He obviously thought what he was saying was true but as it happens we have no paintings at all of any real value - not commercial value, that is.’
‘How can you be so sure he was wrong?’
‘Because I handle the insurance, Mr Costello. I have an inventory of all diocesan artefacts that require insurance and that includes paintings. I am responsible, among other things, for seeing that the inventory is kept up to date and regularly re-valued, and insurance premiums adjusted accordingly. This diocese is not like some European ones. We have inherited no Old Masters, we are not the custodians of any great works of art. The art we have is religious art, predominantly from the nineteenth century onwards. Art of that sort has no significant commercial value unless painted by an established and collected artist. To the modern eye and viewed solely in terms of artistic value, most of the paintings the diocese possesses would, I suppose, be classed as bad art. They are devotional works, of interest and value only to the faithful. Our most valuable painting is probably worth no more than several thousand dollars on the open market. Worth insuring, certainly, but by today’s standards not of any great value.’
Crosby sounded very sure of what he was saying and none of it was helpful.
‘He said paintings, more than one, several?’
‘Yes, paintings, and I got the impression it was several.’
‘He gave you no idea of where they were?’
‘No.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That I would look into the matter but that I was almost one hundred per cent sure there was no basis to his claim.’
‘And he accepted that?’
‘No. He said he would give me a week to change my mind and to set up a meeting with someone of sufficient authority to deal with the matter.’
‘Just as a matter of interest, who would that have been?’
Crosby had to think about that.
‘The bishop, I suppose, or possibly the vicar general. I really don’t know.’
‘And what happened a week later?’
‘Nothing. I never saw the young man again. I suppose he gave up when he realised he would get nowhere. I have no idea what he was up to.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’
‘No.’
‘He committed suicide.’
Crosby paled visibly.
‘Oh my God.’
‘When did your meeting with him take place?’
Jimmy’s news had obviously shaken him. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with why he came to see me, was it?’
‘I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. When did your meeting take place?’
‘He seemed such a nice young man, other than the business about the paintings. He didn’t give any impression of someone suicidal.’
‘What impression do suicides usually give, in your experience?’
‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. What I meant was, he didn’t seem to me…’
‘When did your meeting take place?’
‘Yes, of course, sorry, your news gave me a shock. One hears about these things but when it is someone…’
‘Your meeting, Mr Crosby.’
‘Yes, the meeting.’
He opened a desk diary and went back through the pages.
‘July the fifteenth at eleven o’clock.’
The suicide had happened on the following Friday. If there was stolen art, and according to McBride there could be, Laura Lawrence was involved in it. She could have found out about the meeting with Crosby and, bingo, Marvin conveniently agrees to blow his head off. Jimmy wondered how she managed to get him to do it.
‘Could it be like Brinkmeyer said, is there any way someone could hide stolen art somewhere in the diocese without you or anyone else knowing?’
‘How, Mr Costello?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘And perhaps more importantly, why? Why steal it if you’re going to give it to the Church?’
It was a bloody good question. Jimmy wished he’d thought of it. He was supposed to be the detective.
‘Yes. A good question, Mr Crosby. Did Brinkmeyer tell you anything about the paintings - size, subject matter, anything about where they had been stolen from?’
‘Yes. He said the paintings had been stolen during the war.’
‘He definitely said stolen in the war?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Which war?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know, I didn’t ask. I just assumed the Second World War.’
As it happened, Jimmy assumed that as well. But if that was the case then why had the stuff surfaced only now?
‘Things like that, valuable stuff that disappeared during the war, would eventually re-surface and get back into the legitimate market, wouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps, I couldn’t say. I know very little about the art world.’
‘But it is possible?’
‘I suppose so, but the war was a long time ago. If someone had hidden them, surely they would have retrieved them and sold them some years ago. Anyone who might have been involved would be a very great age by now, probably dead.’
Yes, thought Jimmy. I’d got that far myself.
‘Say somebody gave them to the diocese, no, say somebody loaned them. That way they could be looked after until they were retrieved. Would that be possible?’
‘No, because as far as I know the diocese has no art on loan, valuable or otherwise. Mr Costello, I deeply regret that the young man took his own life, but I don’t see how his story could make any sense, how I might have been any help.’
No, thought Jimmy, he couldn’t make any sense of it either.
According to Brinkmeyer’s story there were several valuable stolen paintings sitting somewhere in the diocese. But if he’d found that out, why had no one else noticed, especially if it was art valuable enough to steal in the first place and now to kill for? Another piece of information suddenly clicked into place. If the Lawrence woman had indeed killed for it, that meant she’d found some way of getting her hands on it. But where was it?
The interview had gone about as far as it could but Jimmy had one last question to ask.
‘Who did you tell about this meeting?’
‘Well, I don’t honestly don’t think I told anyone, it all seemed so bizarre. No, wait a minute… I phoned the insurance company we use. I told someone there.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘One has to be careful, Mr Costello. I told the insurance company what had happened and asked if I should do anything.’
‘And what did they advise?’
‘They said do nothing unless he came back. If he did, then go to the police and let them deal with it.’
Jimmy stood up, he wasn’t going to get any more here.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Crosby. I can’t say you’ve been helpful but I appreciate your time.’
‘There is nothing to it, is there, Mr Costello? There can’t be.’
‘No, there’s nothing to it. Brinkmeyer must have killed himse
lf for some other reason, or maybe for no reason at all. He couldn’t have been completely rational if he came here accusing the diocese of hoarding wartime loot, could he? I suspect he did it while the balance of his mind was disturbed. The police think so too. Sad, but unfortunately not all that uncommon.’
‘A tragedy though, a young life wasted like that.’
‘Yes, a tragic waste. Thanks once again. I don’t think it’s likely but if you do think of anything that might help I’m at the Rosedale on Robson. I’ll see myself out.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had begun to rain again so once Jimmy was outside the diocesan offices he went into the first bar he came to and ordered a beer. When it came it was cold, almost tasteless lager. So, Vancouver wasn’t perfect after all.
He took it to a table and went over the interview. Laura Lawrence was in on whatever it was before Marvin Brinkmeyer went to the diocese, and she killed him or got him to kill himself after he’d visited Crosby. The boy was making waves about the stolen art so he got stopped. Did he tell Lawrence he was trying to get the diocese involved, or was it possible that someone in the insurance company had told her? It was possible, but highly unlikely. Brinkmeyer trying to blow the whistle to the diocese gave Lawrence a motive. Fine. But he still had no lead at all on the art itself. He was looking for stolen pictures which were valuable enough for three people to have been killed. Where was it? Brinkmeyer said in the diocese and Crosby said no way.
Jimmy tried his drink again but it was no better. When you came right down to it, what had he actually got? A killing which looked more like a suicide than most suicides do, a strangled nun, and another nun knocked down and killed six thousand miles away. And all connected to some mysterious stolen paintings.
But was it connected?
Maybe it was no more than wishful thinking on his part. He wanted it all to be connected because he needed it that way to pin Philomena’s murder on…
No, not only because he wanted it. McBride also said so, and McBride had told him to get out because she thought he might get killed. She believed in the connection.
He took out his mobile and dialled.
‘Yes, Mr Costello?’
She did live in that damned office.
‘How did you know about it? How did you get told about the paintings?’
‘It started with a letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘A letter was sent to the diocese by the art dealer friend of Marvin Brinkmeyer. He said that the diocese was in possession of paintings looted during the war. They didn’t know the paintings were in their possession but nonetheless, that was the case. The paintings had been covered with new canvas, and new pictures painted to hide the originals. He was prepared to say where these paintings were on one condition. That he be given first refusal of the canvases that had been used to cover the originals. If the diocese refused his terms he would go to the media.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you just tell me this at the beginning?’
‘Because Marvin Brinkmeyer committed suicide and the art dealer has disappeared. He went missing the week after Brinkmeyer’s death.’
‘Dead?’
‘Up until Sr Gray’s murder I couldn’t be sure. But I think it’s safe, since three others involved are dead, to assume that Thurlow Somerset is also dead. As for not telling you, I don’t see that anything has changed. If you had gone to New York you would have found out that he was missing and had been since shortly after Brinkmeyer’s suicide. Once you had that information you would have known everything I know.’
She always had an answer. Not exactly the right answer, but she always had one.
‘So we have nothing. No one knows where these paintings are and all the people who could help are dead.’
‘Marvin Brinkmeyer’s suicide was our only way into this. You will have to work it out for yourself, if you still insist on going on with the matter. I strongly advise you to come back to Rome. If you do I will see that the police are informed and then it will become their business to find the paintings, if they can and if they want to.’
‘And if the media get hold of it, which, if the police get involved, they will?’
‘The Church has weathered worse and will again. It is not worth getting you killed.’
‘I know. It would be such a nuisance to have to replace me.’
She said nothing so he hung up.
A tricky bastard, McBride, he thought. But clever, you couldn’t deny that. Well, as usual she had got what she wanted. Jimmy looked out of the bar’s window. Umbrellas were coming down, so Jimmy pushed away his lager and left the bar. Time to get going again. He wanted to think and walking helped, so as the rain had stopped, he began to walk.
Through the wood, through the wood, but never touch a bit of the wood. What is it? A penny in a man’s pocket.
It had been a silly riddle his dad had told him as a child and somehow the words had stuck. In the diocese, in the diocese but not in any part of the diocese. Where is it? Whose pocket were those paintings in?
Marvin Brinkmeyer could see it and Thurlow Somerset could see it, but it wasn’t anywhere other people would see it. The paintings had been covered over with other paintings and Somerset wanted first refusal of the ones doing the covering. But surely no one covers valuable stolen art with other bits of important art. Or do they?
But the diocese had no important art.
Christ, it was like a bloody blank jigsaw puzzle. How could you know which bit went where? Where were there several pictures on display that got a student and an art dealer interested enough to give them a very close look, such a close look that they found they were covering some really valuable art?
It was a riddle alright, but not the simple little one his dad had liked. He’d been a bus driver and said that driving a bus in central London was like a riddle. It was a riddle how any of them ever got where they were going.
In his mind he was a child again and they were all sitting round the table in the kitchen, the meal was over and they were talking. Mum was at the sink doing the washing up and his dad made the joke about London buses being a riddle. Mum had said, ‘That’s not a riddle it’s a mystery. We’re not meant to understand Central London traffic, it’s like the blessed Trinity, a divine mystery.’
And they all laughed.
Mum was the clever one. Even as a young child he sensed it from the way she talked. She should have had an education, been a teacher or something. As it was she was a housewife married to a bus driver. She’d always seemed happy, but now Jimmy wondered. Was it like Bernie, all an act for the sake of the husband and kids? Never let them see you crying?
He brushed the scene from his mind. The past was the past: you couldn’t change it and you couldn’t forget it, but you could leave it alone. If you did that, maybe it might leave you alone. So he thought of something else.
As far as he could see, the only way he could make any progress was for Liu to come on board. But he put that down as fifty-fifty at best, especially if Brownlow had come the heavy about the whole thing. It would probably depend on what, if anything, they got when they took a second look at the suicide. If they took a second look. The clouds looked threatening and Jimmy could see that the rain would soon start again. He’d have to buy that bloody mac, or an umbrella. He looked among the traffic for a taxi, get one before the rain comes and everyone wants one. He spotted one and flagged it down. He’d get back to the Rosedale and maybe take a kip. There was nothing he could do at the moment so that’s what he’d do. Nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Liu took three days to get in touch. Jimmy didn’t mind, he knew it would take time so he became a tourist. He went on the ferry to North Vancouver. The hotel told him Victoria Island was worth a visit so he went, but he didn’t like it. It reminded him too much of England, but an England that was cleaner and with better manners. He took in the quaintness of Gas Town and explored the bars and the restaurants. He drank good beer and watch
ed the world go by. The weather had turned kind: no rain, sunny and warm. He didn’t let himself think about killings or stolen art. If Liu came through there would be plenty of that to come.
Liu phoned in the early evening of the third day of waiting and gave him the name and address of the place in Chinatown where they’d met.
‘Take a taxi and be there at eleven thirty tonight.’
Jimmy found Liu sitting at the same table. This time Liu didn’t ask him if he wanted to eat and Liu’s cousin brought no drinks. It wasn’t far off midnight but the place, like everywhere else in Chinatown, was lit up and busy and looked like staying busy. The place didn’t seem to have heard about going to bed.
‘You finished for the day?’
Liu shook his head.
‘No.’
‘You work late hours.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I suppose so. It’s a long time ago.’
Liu got down to business.
‘Brownlow doesn’t want you anywhere near his case.’
‘You dragged me all the way over here at this time of night to tell me that?’
‘No, I dragged you over here to tell you what we got about the suicide.’
Did that mean he was on board?
‘OK, what have you got?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘It wasn’t investigated, not properly. Someone puts a shotgun in their mouth and their thumbprint is on the trigger. What’s to investigate?’
‘But you don’t like it?’
‘I don’t like sloppy police work.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It happened in the university grounds, late afternoon. He sat on a bench in a secluded place, put the gun in his mouth and shot himself. A couple of students heard the shot, went to see what it was and found him.’
‘How long between them hearing the shot and getting to the body?’
‘Not long. They weren’t far away.’
‘I thought you said it was a secluded spot?’
‘That’s why they weren’t far away. They wanted privacy too.’
‘I see. Did they see anybody?’