by James Green
I decided I would go as far west as I could and chose Vancouver. Selling the business made me a wealthy woman and I was able to settle comfortably in a new home in a new city. But I had to find a new place for my pictures, somewhere Catholic but where no-one would see them who might realise what they were. I found the convent and offered them the pictures with the same story and again with the offer of a fat donation and again they were accepted.
And there they stayed and I began the project I had worked all those years for. I took up oil painting, I paid well for lessons and was not only taught how to paint, at which I was very bad, but also how to mount and frame a canvas and how to do some basic restoration. While I was learning my new trade I quietly researched where the pictures had come from before they were looted. It wasn’t easy, it was before the internet made such research fast and simple. I had made friends in the art world of Vancouver, friends who had reference books and weren’t surprised if I asked about certain pictures. I was a wealthy, retired middle-aged woman who had taken up a hobby and let it become a passion. I managed to find out a great deal over the years, why not? I gave my whole time to it. Three of the paintings were from art galleries in European cities. I took the Stations over those three from the convent saying I wanted them checked for cleaning. I removed the originals, re-framed the Stations and returned them to the convent. The original paintings I sent back to the galleries anonymously. I tried to trace more owners, but in ten years I found only one more. The nephew of a man who had died in the camps. He lived with his family in Nebraska. I sent him his picture with a brief note. The rest stayed in the convent. It became clear to me that the work of restoration of the paintings to their rightful owners could and probably would take many years and I was not getting any younger. Although I was well over sixty years old I applied to adopt a child. Adoption it seemed was no different from anything else. In Genoa, in London, in Alberta, all it took to get round any problems was enough money and I had plenty. I adopted a boy. I saw to it that he had everything, a good home, a good education, all a child needed. When he was twenty-one I told him about the pictures and that it would be his job to find the owners I had been unable to trace. He was wonderful. In five years he had returned three more pictures. When I die, I promised myself, the work I did would go on through my son. The last right of victims is restitution and it will be made, for Sarah’s sake.
There was one more page. On it was hand-written:
The Last Will and Testament of Anna Sikora, born Miriam Feldstein. I leave the Francis Bacon pictures of the Stations of the Cross to the convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Prayer, Vancouver. Under ten of these paintings are some stolen works which I now turn over to the Canadian authorities with the wish that, if possible, their rightful owners be found and their property returned. If that proves impossible then that they be dealt with in whichever way the authorities think fit.
Everything else I own, the whole balance of my estate, I leave to Mary Jackson who has been my friend and companion for the last ten years.
Under the writing there was the printed name of Anna Sikora followed by her signature, then the printed name of Miriam Feldstein followed by the signature. It was dated yesterday. Below the signatures and the date was written, witnessed by, followed by a blank space. Jimmy put the sheet of paper on the table and put the other pages back in the envelope. He went and got a pen, came back and signed the will in the space for the witness’s signature, then he put the final page back with the others and took the envelope into the bedroom and put it in his holdall. He went back into the living room and sat down beside his cold tea.
She must have written the will after he had left her yesterday and she’d realised her son had sold the three paintings he’d said he’d returned and pocketed the money. She knew what her son would do, that she was next on his list. It isn’t too hard to kill a ninety-year-old and make it look natural. A pillow over the face and it looks like a peaceful death. And who would look into it? She was a determined woman though, she’d made sure that her will was in the hands of someone who would see that it got where it needed to go. The son, even if he got away with her murder, would get nothing from the estate. The phone rang. Jimmy looked at his watch, half-past five.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Reception, Mr Costello, there’s someone to see you. I thought I’d phone and ask before I said you were in.’
‘I’m in.’
‘Thank you.’
Jimmy went back to his chair and waited. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Laura Lawrence, Mr Costello. I think you wanted to see me.’
So this was it. Jimmy got up, crossed the room and opened the door.
Laura Lawrence was standing there looking just the same, except Jimmy knew the truth now. Dark hair and glasses, holding a handbag. Jimmy guessed it held a knife, a gun would be too noisy and silencers weren’t easy to come by, and he didn’t think Lawrence would try to do it by strangling him. It would be a knife alright.
‘Come in, Mr Sikora, I’ve been waiting for you.’
Jimmy turned and took a couple of steps. He heard the door close and then felt the knife go into his back about halfway down his ribs. He jerked forward and the knife came out. He turned, he was hurt but he was upright. He made a fist and lifted his hand. Lawrence Sikora stepped forward and Jimmy hit him hard, but on the nose, it would slow him down but it wouldn’t stop him. Lawrence stepped forward and the knife went in again, just under the heart, and Jimmy fell to the floor. He was probably dead before he hit it.
Sikora threw the knife into the open handbag and put his hand to his bleeding nose. The bridge of his glasses had broken and the pieces lay at his feet. He stooped down and put the handbag on the floor and pulled out a tissue which he held to his nose. He checked the body. The wounds had started bleeding heavily, there was blood on the carpet but none of it was his. He had got the hand to his nose in time. He put the pieces of his glasses into the handbag, closed it and stood up. He looked around. He had touched nothing and left no traces. If anyone asked, he had a nose-bleed. He gave the body one last look then went to the door. When he opened it Inspector Brownlow and Constable Liu were facing him. He stood looking at them. Liu looked past him into the room then pushed past and went to the body, stooped down, examined it then stood up.
‘He’s dead.’
Inspector Brownlow reached under his jacket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, as he did so, Lawrence saw the gun on his belt.
‘Lawrence Sikora, I arrest you for the murder of James Costello. You are not obliged to say anything…’
Sikora was handcuffed as his rights were read and the blood from his nose ran down to his chin and dripped onto the carpet. He said nothing and was led away. Liu made a phone call. He would wait with the body until the crime scene unit arrived. There was nothing else to do. Jimmy had made sure everything was ready. The right blood was on the carpet now and Sikora would stand trial for at least one murder. It wasn’t what Liu had wanted but it had been what Jimmy wanted, Sikora facing a murder charge that he couldn’t beat. That was what counted.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Professor McBride had taken a suite at the Rosedale on Robson when she’d arrived from Rome the previous day and immediately asked for a meeting with either of the officers who had made the arrest. She’d made the right calls before she’d left Rome and Liu had been the one who turned up. They sat in the bar of the hotel, Liu had a beer and she had a glass of red wine. It was mid-afternoon and the place wasn’t very busy. Liu had obviously been told to co-operate, that she was someone with the right kind of friends. The sort the police are more than happy to co-operate with.
‘He phoned Brownlow, told him that he had located Laura Lawrence and had arranged to meet her. He said we should wait in the lobby of the hotel from five onwards. When she arrived we were to follow her to his room and wait outside the door until he called us in and we’d get all the
evidence we needed to nail Lawrence for murder. Brownlow didn’t like it but Jimmy told him that it had to be his way or not at all. If Brownlow didn’t agree he’d scrub the meeting and make it another time and another place and if Brownlow tried to pick her up in the lobby Jimmy would make sure any evidence he gave would become confused, so confused it might be useless. Brownlow wasn’t happy but what could he do? Jimmy had all the cards, he’d found this Lawrence woman and he’d set up the meeting. We desperately needed to talk to her, our investigation into Sr Lucy Gray’s killing was going nowhere, so Brownlow agreed. We were in the bar by five, sitting where we had a good view of the lobby and reception. At half past a woman matching Laura Lawrence’s description came in and went to the desk. Of course, as it turns out, she was actually Lawrence Sikora in disguise. The desk clerk made a call and she went to the elevators. We went to the desk and the clerk said she’d asked for Mr Costello so we went up, went to his room and waited for Jimmy to call us in. He didn’t call us in but he kept his side of the deal. We got the evidence he wanted us to have.’
‘Was there much evidence of a struggle?’
‘No, not much. Jimmy took a stab wound to the back which wouldn’t have been immediately fatal, got in at least one punch, then took the blade to his heart and that was that.’
‘What will happen to Lawrence Sikora?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Not sure? You both walked into the room where he had just murdered someone. How can you not be sure?’
‘Because he’s very clever. He admits killing Costello but claims that he did it because Costello was blackmailing his mother and he believed that the stress caused by the blackmail brought on her death. His solicitor claims the state of his mind was disturbed by her death and by the cause of her death.’
‘Would it be a defence?’
‘No, probably not, but it might get the charge reduced. It’s hard to tell, it all depends on what evidence he can bring forward and what evidence we can put against it.’
‘Does he have any evidence?’
‘A note in Jimmy’s handwriting to his mother. The evidence of Mary the housekeeper that Mrs Sikora met with Jimmy and after he left she seemed agitated. That Mrs Sikora and her son spoke later that day and there was some sort of argument, and that when the son left Mrs Sikora was very distressed. The next morning Jimmy came back and when he found Mrs Sikora was dead told Mary that he’d now have to deal with the son and she should give him the note. That’s all we’ve been given so far.’
‘All circumstantial but, put together like that, it’s quite a lot.’
‘Like I say, unless we can put something up against it, he might have enough to get the charge changed to manslaughter and maybe plead guilty but with diminished responsibility. With a good lawyer he might not serve much time at all. We’re working on it.’
‘I see. What does Mr Sikora say about the pictures?’
‘Claims he never knew anything about them until she told him about the blackmail.’
‘And about going to the hotel?’
‘He says that after he’d accompanied his mother’s body to the funeral parlour and arranged for his mother’s funeral he decided to go and confront Costello. He admits to putting a knife in the handbag but says he had no intention of using it. It was for self-protection. If Costello was confronted he thought he might turn violent. He said he told Costello he knew about the blackmail and that he blamed him for his mother’s death and that he was going to go to the police. Costello hit him and he defended himself. They struggled and Costello got stabbed.’
‘But the disguise? The business of dressing up like a woman? If he was disguised that means premeditation surely?’
‘He says it wasn’t a disguise. He says he often dresses as a woman, that anyone at the gay Outreach Programme will confirm that. He says he does it in times of stress or confusion, it’s a method of release.’
‘And the lies about being a postgraduate student?’
‘He didn’t want anyone at the chaplaincy to know who he really was. His mother knew nothing about his cross-dressing, she wouldn’t have understood, and he couldn’t explain so he made up the postgraduate story to make sure that she would never know.’
‘A bit elaborate, surely?’
‘He says he was afraid that if anyone found out she was wealthy they might try to blackmail him.’
‘Blackmail again?’
‘Oh, yes. The way he tells it he’s an inadequate mummy’s boy who is ashamed of his dressing-up and always afraid of being found out. He wants to come across as a sad, confused man who has no employment and lives at home with his mother, not the dangerous, multiple killer type. We talked to a couple of people from the Outreach Programme and as far as I can see his story will hold up. Like I say, he’s clever, he’s built himself a story that may work and he’s going to stick to it. He may still be tried for murder but it’s not certain. The charge may have to be reduced to be sure of getting a conviction and even if he’s found guilty I don’t know how long he’ll get. If he gets a good lawyer who can make a good case for diminished responsibility he may only get a few years.’
‘What about the mother? What was the cause of death?’
‘Her heart gave out. It could have been brought on by suffocation but it could have been natural causes.’
They sat for a moment, neither seemed to want the drinks on the table in front of them.
‘What will happen to the pictures?’
‘The old ones or the new ones?’
‘Both.’
‘I don’t know. No one seems to know. The new ones will go to Sikora unless she left them to someone else, which I doubt. The old ones, the valuable ones, well, who do they really belong to? No one knows how she came to have them or why she hid them under the new stuff. We’ll trace them as best we can but how do you find the rightful owners after all this time? It’s possible he may get those as well. From a straightforward killing it’s turning into a mess.’
‘What about the other killings?’
‘What about them? Costello was the only one who said they were linked. Brinkmeyer committed suicide. That hasn’t changed. The art dealer is missing, we have no body. A nun in London got hit by a car. Mrs Sikora died of old age. Only the nun who ran the outreach was actually murdered and we have no evidence of who was responsible. Costello knew we couldn’t make a case even for an arrest never mind get a conviction.’
‘So he set himself up in a way that Sikora couldn’t get out of?’
‘Yes, except Sikora is cleverer than Costello thought and he might very well not go down for murder. Hell, with a really good lawyer he might even get off.’
‘What about Mr Costello’s effects?’
‘What about them?’
‘When can you release them?’
‘They’re not evidence and the suite’s been cleared as a crime scene. We’ve no interest in it any more. I suppose whatever happens to his things would be between you and the hotel once we get a signature to say who got them.’
‘When can the body be released?’
‘In a couple of days. Does he have any relatives?’
‘He may have, somewhere.’ It wasn’t a lie exactly, it was a manipulation of the truth. He had a daughter and grandchildren in Australia, but next of kin at this point would be an unnecessary complication and she wanted to get back to Rome ‘Will his belongings be released with the body?’
‘They’re not needed, you can have them whenever you want unless the hotel wants to hold them against the unpaid bill. A signature is all we’ll want to say it’s no longer anything to do with us.’
‘Yes, there’s always paperwork. No, I don’t think I want his belongings. You can dispose of them.’
‘It would be easier if we could release them to someone. That way we get a signature.’
‘Very well, I’ll come and sign for them tomorrow morning.
Professor McBride stood up. So did Liu.
‘Thank you, De
tective.’
She held out her one arm and they shook hands. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
Liu nodded an acknowledgement and McBride walked out of the bar into the lobby and headed for the elevators.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Once back in her suite McBride put her handbag on the table, opened it and pulled out an envelope. It was addressed to her at the Collegio. She took out the pages, sat down and re-read them.
Professor McBride,
By the time you get this I will be dead. I will have been murdered by the man who killed Sr Philomena. He will be in custody and will stand trial for my murder. If I’m lucky he’ll get life. He was clever and ruthless. Leaving me out of it, he killed five people including his adoptive mother and there was no way anyone could have arrested him for any of the killings with any hope of getting a conviction. There was only one way to get him so I took it. Sikora is clever, he’ll try to worm his way out of my death, I don’t know how, but he will. Whatever story he tells, let him tell it. Let him bury himself with it. When the case goes to court I want you to give something to the police. It’s a brown envelope with some hand-written pages in it. I don’t want anyone to know about it until just before the trial when Sikora can’t change his story. It’s in my holdall. It’s nothing to do with my killing so it should still be there. One way or another make sure that it stays safe until it’s needed. I was given it by Mrs Sikora the day before she died. I read it for the first time the next day as soon as I got back from her house where I saw the son, spoke to the housekeeper and realised what was going on. I knew he’d have to come after me as soon as he saw the note I’d given to his mother. Once I’d read Mrs. Sikora’s story I knew that, whatever he came up with, the contents of the envelope would finish him. It proves he knew about the pictures and the police may even be able to prove he sold three of them. And there’s a bonus, a will. I doubt it will stand up in any court but it will blow any loving son act he puts on out of the water.