by James Green
The steward came past. The plane wasn’t busy and Jimmy had an aisle seat.
‘Can I have a beer?’
‘Certainly. We have…’
‘Anything. You choose. Whatever comes to hand.’
The steward went away.
Jimmy knew it would be some canned or bottled stuff but it would give him something to do with his hands while he thought. His conversation with Felton Crosby came back to him. People steal paintings to sell them and make money, don’t they? And he was right. Why hang on to something that was wartime loot? Why hide it and keep it? Or was the thief looking for a collector, someone who was rich enough to buy stuff like that just to own it even though he could never let anyone know he owned it? No. A collector, even a crooked one, wouldn’t let the pictures go to any church. He’d keep the stuff to gloat over. So why hadn’t the paintings been turned into cash years ago? Jimmy realised that was the question that had been niggling at him from the very beginning.
But the question took him nowhere, so he let his brain go into autopilot and waited for his beer. When it came it was a cold can which, when he opened it and poured it, gave him more froth than beer in his plastic glass. God, how he hated flying. He took a drink through the froth, cold and almost tasteless. He should have asked for tea.
What sort of place had the Stations of the Cross on display where the public couldn’t get at them but an art history student and an art dealer could see them? It had to be a church. What about some sort of private church, or maybe a chapel? If there was a convent or a monastery or something like that there would be a chapel where the public wouldn’t go, but they might let an art student look at their pictures. He was pleased with himself. He was looking for a convent or something like that. But if a convent or monastery had the pictures, how was the Lawrence woman going to get her hands on them? It wouldn’t be too hard to rob an ordinary church, but a convent? How did you rob a convent? And if you could, why hadn’t it already been done? Why hang about and kill four people while you’re hanging about? It all came back to that question. Why were the pictures still there?
Jimmy sat back in his seat. He was tired, tired of thinking, tired of trying to work things out, tired of running around for McBride. What was the point of it all? He had money, he could go anywhere, except that there was nowhere he wanted to go. What use was all the money he’d made without Bernie? He’d only ever been on the take so she could have all the things he thought she wanted. And Bernie had died before she even knew the money was there. There were his daughter and grandchildren, but she’d gone to the other side of the world as soon as she had got married, got as far away from him as she could as soon as she could. She didn’t want him back in her life. He couldn’t blame her. All he could do for her was stay away. Michael had gone off to be a missionary priest straight from university. That was his way of getting me out of his life, Jimmy acknowledged.
Jimmy thought about Bernie. She had stuck with him even though it meant almost losing her kids. He never realised what staying with him must have cost her, not until she died. Now Bernie and Michael were dead and he lived in Rome pissing about doing McBride’s dirty work so the Catholic Church didn’t get egg on its face. What the hell was he doing pretending that his life had any meaning just because he kept going through the motions? It was just killing time. A half-smile formed on his lips; at least that sort of killing didn’t leave any dead bodies. Then the smile disappeared. It might leave one body. Why kill time, why not just kill yourself and have done with the whole fucking mess? And again the question came, what the hell was he doing with his life?
Slowly his mind closed down. He was very tired, more than just tired, weary and worn-out; weary of it all and worn out by it. The noise of the engines faded and after a few minutes Jimmy slept, and the fizzy beer in the plastic glass in front of him slowly warmed and went flat as the plane headed on for Vancouver.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘It’s good of you to see me again, Mr Crosby.’
‘Not at all. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more. The police came and asked me all about it, about what we had discussed. I could tell them nothing more than I told you. I’ve thought about it but really, I don’t think that the diocese has any -’
‘No, I don’t think so either. But I have to check everything, I have to make sure. Are there any convents or monasteries in or near Vancouver?’
‘Yes, there are two convents and one priory.’
‘Are they enclosed, not open to the public?’
‘The convents are enclosed, yes, but the priory church acts as a parish church.’
‘Would the diocese insure any pictures in the convents?’
‘No, that would be their own affair, not a matter for the diocese.’
Jimmy stood up.
‘In that case I can eliminate them. Thank you for all your help. I think I can say this is the last you’ll see of me, that everything has come to a satisfactory conclusion.’
Felton Crosby stood up and came round the desk. He looked relieved as he held out his hand. Jimmy shook it.
‘You seem to have been put to a lot of trouble on such an unlikely premise.’
‘That Marvin Brinkmeyer might not have killed himself?’
‘Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean the suicide. That, of course, was very sad. I meant that the diocese might have stolen art in its possession.’
‘Well, best to run these things to ground. You know what the media can be like where the Catholic Church is concerned. They never let the facts get in the way of a good story. Now, if anyone starts anything about the Church here having stolen art, we know exactly where we stand don’t we?’
‘Yes. I suppose we do.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Crosby.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Costello, and thank you.’
Jimmy left and Felton Crosby went back to his desk vaguely puzzled as to what exactly he had thanked Jimmy for.
Jimmy headed back to his hotel. One of those convents had the pictures, he was sure of it. All he had to do was find which one and get a look at their Stations of the Cross. If they were modern, then under them would be the real pictures. Somerset and Brinkmeyer had both got it wrong because neither was a Catholic. They’d both assumed that the diocese was in charge of all Catholic Churches and that included the convents. They hadn’t realised that the diocese had nothing to do with the paintings. All they’d managed to do was let Lawrence know they’d found the paintings and knew their value and that got them both killed, and by their blundering around they’d got Gray and Philomena killed as well.
Jimmy didn’t care about Brinkmeyer, Gray or Somerset. You didn’t care about the victims, it served no purpose; they were just victims, evidence, a part of the puzzle you needed to understand. But he cared about Philomena, she wasn’t just a victim to him. Lawrence wasn’t going to get away with that particular murder. He’d nail the bitch for that one. But it would have to be by establishing some link between the pictures and the Lawrence woman, some link that would tie her to the pictures and the killings, a link strong enough to get her into court, an unbreakable link. The trouble was, she was good, very good. She had a plan that was worth killing four people to protect. She must be sure that it was foolproof, something that looked legitimate or, better still, actually was legitimate.
Jimmy stopped and looked around. He had no idea where he was. He was just wandering. He saw a taxi and waved it down, gave the driver the name of the hotel and settled back as it pulled away.
Unless he got some kind of break the best he might be able to do was to stop her getting her hands on the pictures. But that didn’t give him what he wanted, to pin the murders on her and make sure she spent the rest of her life banged up.
His mind hovered over the question: what would he do if he couldn’t get her into court to answer for Philomena? He thought about it. Leave it in God’s hands, Jimmy, that’s what Philomena would have said, and of course she’d have been right.
But he knew
he wouldn’t leave it to God. God’s justice took eternity and he didn’t have eternity. Bernie had believed in God and she’d died of cancer. Philomena had believed in God and Lawrence had run her down and left her to die. God hadn’t protected and God wouldn’t punish. That only left one option. He’d have to do the job himself. Philomena wouldn’t approve, he knew, but he hoped at least she’d understand.
Laura Lawrence had some way of getting those pictures and getting away free and clear. But he didn’t want her free and clear. He had to assume that time was not on his side, that Lawrence’s plan was already at work. He had to get her before she got the paintings. He wanted her to pay and one way or another, court or no court, he was going to see that she did.
Chapter Thirty
The convent was in an old part of the city, a Victorian fortress of a place whose whole aspect said, ‘Keep Out. Nuns Only.’ Jimmy pressed the button at the side of the dark wooden door in the arched doorway. He couldn’t hear anything but somewhere inside, he hoped, a bell was ringing. After a few minutes the door was opened by an old nun in a full black habit who looked at him suspiciously.
‘I’ve come to see the Mother Superior, Sr Teresa.’
He could see he hadn’t convinced her. She still looked suspicious.
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Yes, I have an appointment. I phoned yesterday.’
She seemed grudgingly to accept the idea that he might not be trying sneak in and make off with the altar linen, that he might indeed be a genuine visitor.
‘What name?’
‘Costello, James Costello, I phoned yesterday and -’
‘Wait here.’
The door closed so Jimmy waited. After a few minutes the door opened again.
‘Come in.’ But the way she said it gave him the impression that she washed her hands totally of whatever happened once he was allowed inside.
The floor of the small hall was hard and cold, covered with red tiles, the walls were a sort of institutional cream and damp had caused the plaster under the paint to blister and peel low down in one corner. The old nun led the way into a corridor, again institutional cream and again with hard red tiles. The windows were small, arched affairs with stained glass that let in only a limited amount of daylight, so the few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling were all switched on even though it was ten thirty in the morning and outside the sun was shining. The whole effect was deeply depressing or profoundly religious depending on your point of view. The old nun went to a door opposite one of the windows and stopped.
‘Go in there and wait.’
Jimmy did as he was told and as soon as he got inside the door was closed behind him. At least there was no sound of a key turning in the lock. He looked around the room. There was a small, latticed arched window and the walls were the same grim cream but at least there was a faded carpet on the floor. In one wall there was a forlorn, dusty fireplace that hadn’t seen a fire in a very long time. Under the window there was a bulbous black antique radiator. Jimmy went across and felt it. It was cold. Three upright, uncomfortable-looking chairs were at a small rectangular wooden table. Why three, wondered Jimmy? Maybe they represented the Trinity. In the middle of the table was a cheap glass vase with a small amount of greyish water in the bottom of it but no flowers. On the wall opposite the window was the inevitable holy picture. This one was the Sacred Heart, a garish picture Jimmy had known ever since his childhood. Above the fireplace was a large framed photograph of a severe-looking nun dressed in black who looked out accusingly from under elaborate headgear. If you hadn’t actually sinned yet, her look seemed to say, you soon would. The room had an air of hopelessness about it but, apart from the fireplace, it was clean. He waited and after ten minutes a nun in, Jimmy guessed, her mid-fifties finally came in and closed the door behind her.
‘How do you do, Mr Costello. I’m Sister Teresa.’ He obviously wasn’t going to get an apology for the wait. The nun pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. ‘Please sit down.’
Jimmy joined her at the table. She put a desk diary in front of her and took a pen out from somewhere in the recesses of her black habit. ‘Now, when will you come and remove the crates?’
‘What crates? I came about the pictures. The Stations of the Cross.’
‘Yes. The Stations of the Cross, that’s right. The men finished crating them yesterday and I was told you would call to arrange removal.’
Bloody hell, the paintings were on the move. Another day or two and he would have missed them.
Jimmy didn’t know what to say, but she held her pen poised over the open diary waiting for him to say something.
‘I’m sorry, our wires have got crossed somewhere. I’m not here to arrange moving anything. I just want to ask a few questions about your Stations of the Cross and, if possible, have a look at them.’
The nun looked at him for a second as if she had caught him telling a deliberate lie.
‘I see. When you phoned yesterday you said you wished to see me about the Stations of the Cross and I assumed, wrongly as it seems, that you were the man who was arranging their transport. Obviously you are not.’ She gave him a wintry smile of apology. ‘The mistake was mine.’ Jimmy was grateful she didn’t fall to her knees and beat her breast. She put away her pen and snapped the diary shut. ‘What is it you want about the Stations?’
‘Do they belong to the convent?’
She didn’t answer straight away. It seemed to Jimmy the question didn’t need much thinking about, but that didn’t stop her thinking.
‘What is your interest in them, Mr Costello?’
Now it was Jimmy’s turn to think. Keep McBride out of it and risk getting kicked out, or give this nun her name and see if it would open any doors. He tried a middle course.
‘Some little time ago a young art history student at Vancouver University came to look at your Stations. His name was Marvin Brinkmeyer.’
‘Yes, I remember him.’
‘Later he either sent, or came here with, an art dealer from New York, Thurlow Somerset.’
‘Yes, I remember him as well, although I didn’t know he was from New York.’
‘I’m afraid one is dead and the other has disappeared.’ That got a raising of one eyebrow but nothing more. He tried to remember how he would do this if he was still a copper. ‘Marvin Brinkmeyer committed suicide and Thurlow Somerset disappeared not long after Brinkmeyer died. I have reason to believe Somerset’s disappearance is connected to Brinkmeyer’s death.’
She thought about it again.
‘Regrettably people commit suicide and people disappear, but my question is still, what is your interest in the Stations of the Cross?’
Jimmy could see this wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Marvin Brinkmeyer went to the diocese after he had seen your Stations. He went there to tell them they were in possession of stolen paintings.’ Another raising of the eyebrow. Things were warming up. ‘Thurlow Somerset, also after seeing your Stations, wrote to the diocese and…’ How should he put it? It was tricky. ‘Asked to be given first option in arranging for the relocation of the paintings. Of course, the diocese told them both that it had no stolen paintings.’
‘Why did they go to the diocese? What has the diocese got to do with our Stations?’
‘Neither Brinkmeyer and Somerset were Catholics so they both made the mistake of thinking that any paintings in a Catholic institution must belong to the diocese. They were wrong but that doesn’t change the fact that both asserted that the Stations were stolen artworks.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Of course nonsense, but just the sort of nonsense the media would love to latch onto, especially given that Marvin Brinkmeyer killed himself and Thurlow Somerset disappeared.’ Jimmy could see she was weakening. She couldn’t ignore the connection, but Jimmy had to be careful. It wasn’t a good story, but it might just scrape past if he didn’t try to push it too far. He didn’t want to get her thinking that maybe her pictures were a
nything other than what they seemed. He used what came to hand. ‘They were both part of the gay community here in Vancouver.’ The inflection in his voice made it sound as if being gay pretty much explained why Brinkmeyer killed himself and why Somerset had disappeared. ‘I suspect that Brinkmeyer’s death and Somerset’s disappearance will turn out to have more to do with that than with any ridiculous stolen art story.’
‘But what did they hope to gain by approaching the diocese with such a story?’
Yes, thought, Jimmy, that’s just the question I hoped you wouldn’t ask. If he wasn’t careful he’d get out of his depth and the whole thing would descend into farce.
‘I think they were lovers, a young art student and an older art dealer. I’m afraid that sort of liaison goes on all the time among gay people. An older man preys on a younger. The Church’s position on homosexuality is well known and the gay community’s response to it is equally well known. They may have been hoping to strike at the Church in some way through this story of stolen art in the possession of the diocese. The media would run it whether it was true or not if Brinkmeyer and Somerset both backed it up. I think it was entirely malicious. But there must have been a falling-out. Somerset probably grew tired of Brinkmeyer and threw him over. Brinkmeyer killed himself and Somerset decided he needed a holiday well away from any fuss that might arise from the death and the little scheme they had been plotting.’
He waited. He knew very little about the gay community but he hoped the nun knew less. She was an enclosed nun, but even an enclosed nun who spent her life inside one building among other nuns must have some knowledge of the outside world. It all turned on whether she wanted to believe his story.
‘It all sounds thoroughly sordid.’
Jimmy quickly followed up his advantage.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. I have been asked to look into the matter and make sure that if anyone in the media brings the matter up the diocese can say the whole business has been thoroughly looked into by an independent third party from outside the diocese. Any question of stolen art in Church possession can be quickly and thoroughly refuted. I simply needed to see the pictures to satisfy myself they are what they seem, the Stations of the Cross.’