Broken Faith

by James Green

  ‘Nothing. Until I was told he was dead, murdered, I only knew what was in Fr Perez’s letter.’

  There was a moment of silence from Jimmy’s end.

  ‘OK, if you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. I also say return at once to Rome. You have done what I wanted.’

  Jimmy rang off and put the mobile away. He began to take her words apart. It wouldn’t be a lie, but it would point him away from the truth, not at it. She said, “You have done what I wanted”. She hadn’t said that he’d done what she’d sent him to do. Was there a difference and if so did it matter? What had she asked him to do? To go and find out what he could about what Jarvis had told Fr Perez. But Jarvis was dead when he arrived. What had she told him to do next? Join in with the police investigation. Then what? Talk to Fr Perez about Jarvis and then get back to Rome. So what did she want him to think he was doing? Running the ETA thing to the ground by finding out if it was connected to Jarvis’s killing? But then she tried to get him pulled back before he had any kind of chance to make some real progress. Was she pulling the plug on what had been a waste of time from the beginning or was she using him again, just like before? But if she was using him then what the hell was she was using him for? It couldn’t be anything to do with Harry’s business, could it? Why would she be interested in an ex-con and a porn racket? Unless … Porn had long fingers and all sorts of people got caught up in it, even priests, even senior clerics.

  The Bakerloo Line train he was sitting in rattled noisily into Maida Vale station. Next stop would be Kilburn Park. Jimmy was heading for his old North London neighbourhood. In fact he was heading for Kilburn High Road, where he hoped things hadn’t changed too much. He needed at least one face to be the same. The train began to move. He gathered up his holdall, stood up, and got ready to get out at the next stop. The holdall sagged on its straps, it was almost empty. He never took many clothes with him when he travelled, what he stood up in and a couple of changes of underwear and shirts and things. Whatever else he needed, he bought, but he never needed much. There hadn’t been much of his gear left at Suarez cousin’s house, and his jacket was impounded in her apartment, so he was still in short-sleeved shirt and slacks with some underwear, two more shirts and two handkerchiefs in the holdall. There was also a toothbrush which he’d bought at the airport. It was summer but this was London not Spain. He would need to pick up a coat somewhere when he left the Underground.

  Jimmy came out of Kilburn Park station, walked up Cambridge Avenue and turned into Kilburn High Road. It didn’t look so very different and he didn’t look so very out of place. A man in a light, short-sleeved shirt didn’t turn any heads but today the English sun was busy playing hide and seek behind the clouds and a wind that had an edge on it came and went. Some hardy souls were dressed like him, but not many. He stopped outside a charity shop. The stuff in the window looked classier than he remembered, there were some quite nice things. He went in, it was all very tidy and well laid out. He walked to the men’s rail and put down his holdall. There were plenty of shirts and they looked like good ones. He took one down and looked at the label. Marks and Spencer, he was impressed. He put it back and looked at the jackets. There was a snappy, light brown cord jacket that might fit. He took it down and tried it on. It fitted. He went to the mirror, it looked good on him, sort of arty. He looked inside at the label. Wolsey. Things had certainly changed from the last time he needed a coat to keep warm and got one from a charity shop on this road. He went back to his holdall and went to the counter. A bright young blonde smiled at him. He smiled back.

  ‘I’ll take it. I don’t need a bag, I’ll wear it.’

  ‘It looks good on you, you look like a writer or something. Here, turn round and I’ll cut off the price tag for you.’

  Jimmy turned and she came out from behind the counter with a pair of scissors and snipped off the price tag which hung over the back of his collar.

  ‘Six pounds. That’s good for that jacket, you’re getting a bargain.’

  Jimmy pulled out his wallet from his hip pocket and took out a twenty pound note. The bright blonde took it and handed him back his change, a five pound note and nine heavy pound coins.

  ‘Sorry, that’s my last five.’

  Jimmy felt the weight of the coins in his hand, then he slipped them into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Not to worry, I’ll have a couple of pints, that’ll thin them out.’

  The bright blonde grinned at him.

  ‘Good idea.’

  Jimmy left the shop and walked on down the High Road until he stood opposite a big Edwardian pub, a London classic. The name on the front was The Hind. He was pleased, it had gone back to its original name, no more Liffey Lad. Thank God that joke was over. He looked at his watch, two o’clock. He hoped they’d changed the beers they sold as well as the name and had something worth drinking, proper London beer. It had been too long since he’d tasted a decent pint. He crossed the road and went in after looking up at the name on the small sign over the door. It wasn’t Eamon Doyle any more, the Irish period was well and truly over. George was still the landlord, but now he was using his real name.

  Inside it was still very well done out, one big room and still one big bar at the far end of the room. But now there were raised areas with dark-stained pine balustrades around them to give the illusion of separateness, in one or two smaller areas they might even give a sense of privacy. The place wasn’t crowded, just gently busy. There were what looked like locals drinking, reading papers or talking, and a sprinkling of male and female suits. He walked towards the bar. He passed a group of four pretty young girls sitting at a table talking and laughing together in a language Jimmy didn’t recognise, but sounded like Russian. He passed an elderly couple who were sitting with the remains of a finished meal in front of them, looking at the dessert menu. He liked it. It was as it should be at the tail-end of a Monday lunchtime. He stopped and looked at the bar. Two young girls in black T-shirts were working behind it. The shirts had ‘The Hind’ printed in big gold letters across the chest and a picture of what Jimmy guessed was some sort of deer over the name. He looked around and then he saw him, sitting by himself reading a paper at a table well back from the main entrance near a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Jimmy walked across the room, pulled out a chair, put his holdall beside it on the floor and sat down. The paper lowered and George looked at him.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy, nice to see you again.’

  He folded the paper and put it on the table.

  ‘Hello, George, you’re looking well.’

  They were about the same age, but where Jimmy looked crumpled and lived-in, George was smart and well-groomed, his stocky body nicely filling out his expensive suit.

  ‘I’m doing well.’

  ‘I see it’s still your name over the door.’

  ‘Not just over the door now.’

  He waved a hand and one of the girls came out from behind the bar. He called to her when she was halfway across the room.

  ‘A pint of Directors, Kristina.’

  She nodded and went back towards the bar. Jimmy watched her go to the bar and saw the black handles of the beer engines.

  ‘You’ve got Directors back on?’

  ‘Yeah, and London Pride, and always a couple of guest ales. There’s a market for it now so we can keep it properly.’

  ‘And it’s all yours now is it? What happened, you buy someone out or did you have to shoot somebody?’

  George laughed.

  ‘No. You were always the violent one, not me. I was the one with brains, remember?’ Jimmy remembered. ‘No-one got hurt, well, not exactly no one. I suppose you could say Nat got hurt, disappearing like he did in a cloud of smoke. And there was the inevitable squabbles after that, a few heads got cracked but there was nothing serious. It was in my name when Nat ran things. Once he’d departed this world I just kept it in my name.’

  ‘Your own name?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That Irish shit didn’t last too l
ong. The trade moved on and I moved with the times. Good food, good beer, and the odd live act in the evenings.’

  ‘Any jazz?’

  ‘Yeah, I still like jazz and it goes down well. Plenty of pubs do live music but we’re getting to be the place where you hear good new jazz played. It gives the place tone and lets the yobs know they wouldn’t fit in.’

  The beer arrived. Jimmy picked up the glass almost reverently, he wanted it to be as good as he remembered. He took a drink. He wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘That is a nice pint, George, a very nice pint.’

  ‘I told you. Appearances can bring in the customers but it’s the quality brings them back. The food’s just as good as the beer. Nothing fancy, not too pricey, but good stuff. You fancy a meal?’

  ‘No thanks, George, I’ve come to ask a favour.’

  ‘I guessed you’d come for something. There was always a favour when you turned up.’

  ‘It’s not a big favour, nothing you’ll have to break sweat over.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But before you tell me what it is, maybe you can tell me why should I do you any favours?’

  ‘Because I’m asking nicely. Should I ask differently?’

  George smiled.

  ‘Be your age, Jimmy. We’re too old for that. You could always take me and I guess you still could, but you’d probably give yourself a fucking hernia in the attempt. Besides, I have decent young blokes who deal with any rough stuff, you might still be a bit of a handful for them, but nothing more than a handful. They could take you. You haven’t come back just to go to hospital, have you?’

  ‘No-one needs to go to hospital. All I’m looking for is a contact.’

  ‘Go on then, ask your favour. If it’s not too much trouble I don’t mind helping out a mate. If I’m sure it’s not going to be too much trouble.’

  Jimmy took another drink.

  ‘How much is it a pint now?’

  ‘Never mind, you’re not paying. Ask your question.’

  ‘Can you get me a journalist?’

  George laughed.

  ‘What you going to do, sell your life-story to the papers?’

  ‘I just need a journalist.’

  ‘A bent one?’

  ‘A good one.’

  ‘Ah, now that won’t be so easy. I could get you a dozen right now who’d write any story you like if you paid them enough, but a good one? Does he have to be straight?’

  ‘Not so long as he’s good.’

  ‘Do I get to know why you need a journalist?’

  ‘Remember Harry Mercer?’

  George trawled his memory.

  ‘Harry Mercer? Oh yeah, muscle for Denny Morris. Last I heard he was doing a stretch for trying to knock over a bookies up north somewhere.’

  ‘Birmingham.’

  ‘Like I said, up north. Anywhere beyond St Albans is up north as far as I’m concerned. He was a mug to go off his own patch. What’s Harry got to do with anything?’

  ‘He killed somebody.’

  ‘A lot of people got killed one way or another over the years, why rake up old times?’

  ‘Because it happened yesterday morning.’

  George looked surprised.

  ‘I would have thought Harry would be too old to still be at the muscle end of anything. He must be nearly seventy by now. Who’d he kill?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, he was trying for me.’

  George moved uneasily in his seat.

  ‘Shit. Are you going to be trouble, Jimmy? I won’t have any trouble.’

  ‘Don’t wet yourself, it wasn’t anywhere near here. It was in Spain. I came across Harry by accident and, well, it looks like we had a little falling out and he forgot to mention it. He thinks I’m pushing my nose into his affairs so he wants me dead.’

  ‘Fuck me, Jimmy –’

  George’s voice carried and the elderly couple looked angrily across at them then put down the dessert menu, got up, looked at them again in a disapproving and shocked way then left.

  ‘I think you’ve just lost a couple of customers. Last time I was here you got rid of your barman because he used language like that in front of the customers.’

  ‘If they’ve never heard it before they’re the only ones in London who haven’t, so sod them. And last time you were here I got rid of that barman because you kicked his teeth out. I don’t want any more blood on my carpets. They really are mine now and I’m legit. Almost.’

  ‘All I want is a journalist to help do some digging at this end, someone who can ask questions and get answers.’

  ‘What’s between you and Harry is between you and Harry. I don’t want any part of it.’

  ‘I told you, Harry’s in Spain, none of this will come to London.’

  ‘It had better not.’

  ‘Is that a threat, George?’

  ‘No, Jimmy, it’s a fucking promise.’

  It was Jimmy’s turn to smile. Still the same old George.

  ‘Just get me my journalist and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. You got a number where I can reach you?’ Jimmy gave George his mobile number. ‘Where you staying?’

  ‘A hotel I suppose. I only just got in. I came straight here, I haven’t sorted anything out yet.’

  Jimmy finished off his pint and stood up.

  ‘It’s a good pint, George.’

  ‘Have another, still on the house.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m knackered. I’ll get a room and have a kip.’

  Jimmy put his hand to his side, the wound was troubling him. George watched him.

  ‘Damage or old age?’

  ‘Knife.’

  ‘How’s the other bloke?’

  ‘Dead.’

  George laughed.

  ‘Still the same old Jimmy. What did he die of?’

  ‘Broken neck.’

  ‘I see, natural causes. Like I said, Jimmy, I reckon you’re still good enough to be a handful, even to the likes of my lads. Go and get your kip and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Is there a hurry?’

  ‘I don’t want to hang about and you don’t want me hanging about so why not get it done?’

  ‘OK, I’ll try and hurry it up. See you, Jimmy.’

  ‘See you, George.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The pub was getting busy with the evening trade when she came in and stood just inside the door looking around. George watched her. She went over to the bar and asked something. The girl behind the bar pointed to George’s table. She turned and came across.

  ‘You George?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She sat down.

  ‘A mutual friend sent me. He said you wanted a journalist.’

  George sat back and looked at her. For a start she was too young, early or mid-twenties, but it was hard to tell because she wasn’t anything like his idea of feminine. She looked arty: a linen jacket, roll-neck sweater, and glasses. Her hair was black and short. George was vaguely surprised she wore a skirt, not trousers. She looked more like a bloody writer than anything else.

  ‘I know a man who’s putting a story together. I think it will be a good story, maybe even a big one. I would like it if you would talk to him.’

  ‘Oh yes, and why would I want to talk to him?’

  ‘I told you, he’s putting together a good story, one that people, important people, would be interested in.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because I know him, he doesn’t piss about. He’s been away, abroad, for his health. The climate in London disagreed with him. If he’s come back there’ll be trouble and it’ll be plenty of trouble if past form is anything to go by. He asked me to get him a journalist so I put the word out.’

  ‘OK fine, if you say so then I’ll talk to him.’ George didn’t say anything, he just sat looking at her. She wasn’t what he had been expecting. She got tired of waiting. ‘So let’s hear what you’ve got so far?�
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  George decided he didn’t like her. Still, she had been recommended, so George got on with it.

  ‘Like I said, I know this bloke, a mate from the old days who turns up and says he needs a journalist. I said I’d get him one. So here you are.’

  ‘Wonderful. But I haven’t come for a job interview or to talk about the old days or to have a drink with your mate. I’ve come here because you put the word out. So what’s the fucking story?’

  No, he didn’t like her. She was … well she wasn’t what he expected, and for a woman, not feminine. Still, she’d been recommended.

  ‘You don’t look like my idea of a reporter.’

  ‘And what do you think a reporter should look like? A bottle-nosed souse in a slept-in suit with matching gravy stains?’

  George was certain now, he really didn’t like her.

  ‘How long have you been around?’

  ‘Since Adolf Hitler wore short trousers. Look, I told you, I didn’t come here to be interviewed or pass the time. The man who phoned me –’

  George decided it was time to see who she was, who she really was.

  ‘I know who phoned you. The question is, do you know the man who phoned you?’ She took off her glasses, pulled out a handkerchief and polished the lenses slowly. George had weighed her up now she was trying to do the same for him. He gave her a second before he carried on ‘Because if you know who recommended you, you’ll know not to fuck me about. If you’re any good that is.’

  She restored her glasses and put away her handkerchief. George watched her. She wasn’t so bad looking when you got used to her but she didn’t make the most of what she’d got. Pity.

  ‘Fair enough, I won’t fuck you about if you don’t fuck me about. OK? What am I here for?’

  George decided that was fair.

  ‘This bloke, my mate, wants to look into something. It’s definitely criminal and probably nasty. It’s not happening here, it’s something over in Spain and there’s already dead bodies in the works. Whatever information he’s going on he’s looking for a connection at this end and he wants help to sort it out, someone who can ask the questions in a way that’ll get answers. With me so far?’ She nodded. ‘So, if you were any good as a journalist would you say that what I’ve given you might be a story?’