by James Green
She didn’t know how to say it.
‘You want him out of it with the least amount of grief to you or him.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, try and stall the pictures and I’ll have a word with him. If he tells me where the Lawrence woman is I’ll deal with her.’
‘I would rather there was no violence.’
‘OK, I won’t tell you about it.’
She looked at him with eyes that were now filled with sadness.
‘Do you have children, Mr Costello?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, I suppose not. Each family is unhappy in its own way. Finish it then, finish it in any way you can.’
‘And your son?’
‘He is my responsibility.’ She reached across to a drawer in the table by her chair and pulled it open. From it she took a bulky brown envelope wrapped round with strips of sticky tape. She lifted it with both hands onto the table. That was as far as her frail strength could get it. She pushed the drawer shut. ‘Take it, Mr Costello.’
‘What is it?’
She looked at the envelope then back at Jimmy. There were tears in her eyes.
‘It’s my life story. If anything happens to me I would like you to read it.’
‘And do what?’
‘Whatever you think proper.’
‘I don’t want it. Your life is nothing to do with me one way or another. All I want is the Lawrence woman.’
The first tear left her eye and ran down her cheek but she smiled. A gentle smile, a real smile.
‘It is my price, Mr Costello. Take it and read it or I will let the pictures go.’
Jimmy didn’t hesitate for long. He reached out and took the envelope. But he didn’t say he’d read it, that was her idea not his.
‘When will you call the convent?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Then I will call my lawyer.’
‘And when do I get to have my chat with your son about the woman?’
‘I will phone you before ten tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be waiting for the call.’
She said nothing, just lowered her head so that she was looking down at her hands folded in her lap. She seemed to have shrunk since they had met earlier in the day. She was tired - no, not tired, withering away, drying out before his eyes, finished. The Lawrence woman would be able to add one more to the body count before long.
Jimmy stood up. She didn’t look at him so he left, closing the door quietly behind him. He went downstairs and out of the front door. He met no one on the way out. The house seemed empty, deserted, as if someone had recently passed away there. Maybe in a way somebody had.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jimmy stood at the window of his suite and looked out on the now-familiar scene. There was rain sweeping across the bay and North Vancouver was hidden from view. He looked at his watch again. It was half-past ten and no call had come. Had she changed her mind? Had the son changed it for her? Or was she just late getting in touch? If she was up to something, he needed to know what it was. He went down to the Reception desk and asked for a local directory. He took it to the bar and laid it out on a table. There she was, Mrs. A Sikora, at the right address. Jimmy sat back and took out his phone. It was Mary who answered.
‘Hello, this is Mr Costello, I called yesterday, twice. I came to talk to Mrs Sikora about some paintings. I was expecting her to get in touch this morning but…’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Sikora passed away peacefully in her sleep during the night.’
Jimmy could hear the tears in her voice.
‘I see, I’m very sorry. Please pass on my condolences to her son.’
‘I will.’
‘Was he with her when she died?’
‘No, I told you. She died in her sleep. I found her when I went to her room at about seven thirty this morning.’
If the shock of the sudden death had made her willing to talk, Jimmy decided now was a good time to get what he could.
‘Did Mrs Sikora have any other visitors after I left?’
‘No, no one.’
‘Could anyone have got in without your knowing?’
There was a pause. Her brain was clicking back in.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You say she died in her sleep. Was there any sign of a struggle?’
No answer.
‘Have the police been informed?’
That brought her back.
‘The police?’
‘A sudden, unexpected death? Surely the police are usually informed?’
‘Young Mr Sikora is seeing to everything. I’m sure he will do whatever is necessary.’
The interview was over. She was back in the land of the living and Jimmy knew he’d get no more information.
‘Thank you and once again, my condolences.’
The phone went down without any reply.
So, the old lady had conveniently died. Now there was no way of stopping the pictures moving. Jimmy thought about the son. Would he go ahead now that his mother was dead? Mary’s words came back to him: ‘Young Mr Sikora’. Funny how domestics give people these titles and they stick. How old would sonny boy have to get before he stopped being ‘Young Mr Sikora’? Jimmy went back to the death. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The old lady died at just the right time, after she found out what was happening but before she could do anything. It had to be murder. But how the hell had the Lawrence woman got at her? Unless it was the son, but that didn’t sound likely. An elderly, single man still living with his mother, he might steal her paintings if he got put up to it, but kill his own mother? Jimmy changed the direction of his thoughts.
Forget the old lady, forget the son and even forget Laura Lawrence for the moment. What mattered was those bloody pictures. If they left the convent then he was well and truly fucked. Mrs Sikora’s words came back to him: “Then they mustn’t leave the convent”. Too true, old lady, too absolutely, fucking true.
Jimmy picked up his phone again, found the number he wanted and dialled.
‘Sr Teresa please, it’s Mr Costello.’ There was a pause then her voice came on.
‘Yes, Mr Costello, what can I do for you?’
‘Mrs Sikora is dead. She died last night, passed away peacefully in her sleep. Mary, the housekeeper, found her this morning.’
‘I see.’
‘Are her pictures, the Stations, still with you?’
‘Yes, they are being collected this afternoon at two.’
‘I wouldn’t go ahead with that.’
‘Why not?’
‘If Mrs Sikora is dead then the pictures now belong to her next of kin or whoever she left them to in her will.’
‘But her son has power of attorney, if he wants…’
‘Power of attorney ceases on death. You shouldn’t release those pictures from the convent until you know who owns them and you won’t know that until Mrs Sikora’s will is read or, if there is no will, until probate is completed.’ There was a silence while she thought about it. He needed her to hang on to the pictures. ‘At the very least I think you would be well advised to take legal guidance. Of course you must do whatever you think is right. I just thought I would mention it. Is there someone from whom you could get suitable advice?’
Another pause.
‘Yes, there is someone.’
Her voice was hesitant. She didn’t like it. Too much was happening too quickly. Jimmy knew he needed to ring off before she started thinking and asking any questions.
‘Good. In that case I’ll let you get on with it.’
Another pause, then.
‘Thank you, Mr Costello.’
‘Not at all, goodbye, Sister.’
And the phone was down before she could reply. Thank God she hadn’t asked him how he knew about Mrs Sikora’s death. Jimmy put his phone into his pocket then took the directory back to reception. He went back up to his suite, made himself a cup of tea and went to the window. The rain must be easing off, the vague outline o
f the mountains across the bay was just becoming visible. What to do now? If he had persuaded the Mother Superior to stop the removal of the pictures, that had bought him time. But if the Mother Superior did hold on to them and decided they couldn’t be moved until the will was read or probate sorted then he’d got himself too much time. If the pictures got stuck in the convent for weeks, maybe months, he had no way of knowing how or when Laura Lawrence would surface or even if she would surface. And he couldn’t very well hang around Vancouver until the business of who the Stations belonged to got sorted.
Shit. He’d got himself out of one hole and dropped himself in another.
He finished his tea and put the cup in the sink. What now? Bring in Brownlow and Liu? What could they do except go and look at the Stations and confirm the stolen art under them, and once Lawrence knew the police were involved she would disappear for good. No, that way was no good to him. Lawrence wouldn’t get her paintings but nor would she receive punishment for Philomena. Jimmy wasn’t ready to let it go at that.
If not the police that only left the son.
Time to meet ‘Young Mr Sikora’ and age him a little.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The taxi pulled up at the Sikora house just as a man in his mid-to-late twenties, wearing a dark overcoat, was getting into a black panel van. Jimmy paid off the taxi and it pulled away behind the van.
Jimmy went to the door and rang the bell. Mary answered.
‘Mr Costello.’
She didn’t look glad to see him.
‘Is Mrs Sikora’s son at home?’
‘Mr Lawrence? No, you’ve just missed him. He’s gone with his mother’s body to the funeral parlour to make arrangements.’
Jimmy looked round but the van was out of sight. Mr Lawrence? The man in the dark coat? A man in his twenties?
‘How old is Mr Sikora?’
‘Twenty-eight. Why do you ask?’
Jimmy ignored the question.
‘May I come in for a moment?’ Mary looked doubtful but she didn’t close the door. ‘I really do think we need to talk. I was helping Mrs Sikora with a problem that has arisen over a set of Stations of the Cross which she loaned to the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Prayer some years ago. Now that Mrs Sikora has sadly passed away I will have to deal with someone else.’
‘Mr Lawrence?’
‘Yes, Mr Lawrence Sikora. Of course he is very busy now and it would be intolerable to intrude on his present grief, but if I could get some background from you… Nothing personal, you understand, just information I will need to write up my report. Mr Sikora will of course get a copy.’
‘Who is it that you represent exactly?’
‘I’m quite happy for you to know that, but do you think we might talk inside?’
Mary paused only for a moment then stood to one side.
She took him into the living room off the hall. It was a big, airy room with large bay windows. Everything looked solid, expensive and tasteful. Mr Lawrence obviously stood to inherit a packet, not to mention some valuable modern Stations and some dodgy old masters.
‘Who is it you represent, Mr Costello?’
‘The Roman Catholic Diocese of Vancouver. I have been retained by Mr Felton Crosby to do an inventory of all art works that may have significant value and as yet have not been insured.’
It was a good lie given the short notice.
‘But you said Mrs Sikora had loaned them to the convent? Wouldn’t the Sisters…?’
‘No, even though they are in the convent chapel, the responsibility for insurance still rests with the diocese. It has only recently come to Mr Crosby’s attention that the Stations are not in fact insured. That is why I was brought in and why I came to see Mrs Sikora. I have to make a full report on condition and likely value and make a recommendation to Mr Crosby. Needless to say I didn’t want to do that without informing and getting the agreement of the legal owner, Mrs Sikora. Now I must inform and get the agreement of Mr Lawrence…’ Jimmy paused for effect. This was the crunch. ‘Once I am sure he is the legal heir to Mrs Sikora’s property.’
He let Mary digest his story. She’d need a few minutes, after all, it was quite a lot to swallow.
‘I see. So you want me to…?’
‘To fill in a little preliminary background. Nothing too personal and nothing at all private. Just enough for me to take to Mr Crosby and get permission to carry on with my report and deal with Mr Lawrence now that his mother, sadly…’
Jimmy left it hanging. It was a good line to finish on.
‘Well, if I can help.’
Jimmy tried to sound diffident.
‘I’m not sure how to put this…’ Pause for effect, ‘Oh well, I might as well be direct. If Mrs Sikora was nearly ninety, then how is it that she has a son so young?’
‘Young Mr Sikora was adopted.’
‘I see. Do you have any idea of when Mr Lawrence was adopted?’
‘About eighteen years ago I think, but I don’t know for sure.’
‘And you came to the house when?’
‘Nearly ten years ago.’
‘You live here?’
‘Yes, it was a residential position, cook, housekeeper and after a few years, companion.’
‘Companion?’
‘I became her companion. There was no money involved, no payment. I was glad to be a friend. Mrs Sikora was, I think, a lonely person.’
‘She had her son, her adoptive son? Wasn’t he a companion?’
‘He lived with her here in the house, but they were not what I would call close. She needed a woman, someone to talk with, to share…’ She seemed to be worried that she had said more than she should. ‘As far as I am aware she had no other family. There was just myself and young Mr Sikora. I was paid, I was a servant, but I think I was also a friend.’
Jimmy sensed that he had got all he was going to get.
‘I’m sure you were indeed a good friend and a good companion.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You have been very helpful. I think from what you have told me, that I can continue with my work. I will make my report to Mr Crosby and say that from now on Mr Lawrence Sikora will be the one I will deal with here. Can I leave a message for him?’
‘Of course.’
‘As soon as he comes back can you give him the note I gave you for Mrs Sikora? He will be the one I will have to talk to about the pictures now.’
‘Well, I don’t think he would want to talk about pictures at this time. I’m sure he will have too much…’
‘If you would just find the note and give it to him. Tell him it was the note I gave to his mother and we talked, talked fully about the pictures.’
‘That you talked about the pictures?’
‘Yes. Tell him his mother and I talked fully about the pictures. I’m sure he will understand.’ She was freezing up again but Jimmy didn’t mind. He’d got where he wanted to go. She’d given him all he needed. ‘Please tell him that, use those words if you can. It will make things clear to him.’
‘If that is what you wish.’
Jimmy tried to smile.
‘Yes, it is what I wish. If he wishes to see me, when he is ready of course, I am staying at the Rosedale on Robson.’
‘But I thought you worked for the Vancouver Diocese?’
‘I am a consultant. I live in Toronto.’
‘I see.’
‘Obviously I don’t want to hurry Mr Sikora but my time here is limited. Tell him I understand that things have become very difficult for him but that when he is available I think we should meet.’
‘I will.’ She went to the door and opened it. ‘There is a lot to do.’
‘Of course. So much to do.’
Mary led him out of the living room to the front door.
‘Goodbye, Mr Costello.’
It sounded final.
Jimmy walked down the path to the front gate. He wanted to get back to the hotel and get things sorted. There wasn’t much to
do but he wanted to make sure it was done right. If there was going to be blood on the carpet he wanted to make sure it was the right blood and the right carpet and that everything else was in place to deal with it once it was spilt.
Mr Lawrence, Young Mr Sikora, Laura Lawrence.
It had all been there if he’d done his job properly from the beginning, but he hadn’t even got a sniff of it until now. It had been a good plan alright, a bloody good plan. But now it was all out where he could see it, all he had to do was push the right button and it all fell into his lap. The bastard would pay. God hadn’t protected and God wouldn’t punish. But someone had to punish, and he was that someone.
When he had got back to the hotel, he had told Reception that he wasn’t feeling too well, that he wanted to rest. If anyone asked for him could they say he was out but had said he would be back shortly after five? Of course they could.
He needed time to get ready, to put everything in a neat row so that when the first block fell all the others tumbled neatly after it. Back in his suite Jimmy sat nursing a cup of tea. On the table beside the saucer was the empty brown envelope and scattered across the table were the pages it had contained. Each page, on both sides, was covered with small, neat handwriting, Mrs Sikora’s life story. He was reading it because now it was the only way she could talk to him and he needed to know what she had to say.
Chapter Thirty-Six
My name since 1945 has been Anna Sikora but I was born Miriam Feldstein. My family lived in Baranowicze in Eastern Poland. We were Jews. Baranowicze had almost thirty thousand inhabitants, Jews, Poles, Belarusians and Russians, and it was the most important and prosperous town in the Nowogródzkie Province. I remember my childhood as a happy one. We lived in a small, terraced house in a poor district not far from the barracks of the Nowogródska Cavalry Brigade. My father was a boot-maker with a small but secure living making boots for the junior officers at the barracks. My mother worked as a cleaner in some of the big houses of the wealthy Jews, of whom there were many. I had two older brothers, Simon and Elias. They helped my father with his boot-making and I helped my mother with her cleaning work.