Broken Faith

by James Green

  Jimmy stood up, went to the window and looked out into the sunny, tree-lined street below. He felt restless, his mind wasn’t like his body, it couldn’t just close down and accept the much-needed rest. It needed to wind down more slowly. The day looked like being hot but he decided he wanted a walk, to stroll to some quiet, shady bar and sit down with a beer. After that he’d walk some more and find somewhere to get some pasta for lunch. Then he’d go to the doctor. His mind, still restless, flitted to his coming meeting with McBride.

  Six months ago she had pulled him out of Copenhagen. She didn’t have to do that, she could have left him to the Danish police and their Intelligence Service. But she had got him out and offered him a sort of job. She had told him he would be her eyes and ears in places where the Catholic Church got into the kind of trouble it didn’t want anybody looking into except itself. Like the Santander thing. That had been his first real job and he had the very strong feeling he’d bollixed it up, at least bollixed it up as far as Professor McBride was concerned.

  The trouble with her was, you never knew exactly what she wanted and he had used his own judgement. Today, at three, he would find out just how good his own judgement had been. Until then he’d try to settle, to stroll and not think too much.

  Jimmy’s apartment was in a pleasant part of Rome, the Prata, not far from the Vatican. It suited him, it was quiet, expensive, and dull. Each morning he would get up, breakfast and then go to Mass and after Mass go to a bar near the church for coffee. The church he used was a half-an-hour away. He had chosen it because it gave him a good walk each morning. After he’d had lunch somewhere he liked to come home for a rest and then, in the afternoon, he went out for another walk and a beer. It was a quiet routine and now he wanted to get back to it. The Santander thing served to remind him, if he needed reminding, just how much he didn’t want any more excitement in his life.

  He looked at his watch and decided that he wouldn’t stroll aimlessly, he’d walk to his church, go in and light a candle and say a prayer for Suarez. It wasn’t much but he felt he owed her at least that. He collected what he needed and then left the apartment.

  It was as he had suspected when he’d looked out of the window, it was indeed hot, but being back on familiar territory made up for it. He put his mind in neutral until he arrived at the big old church and went inside. The interior was dark after the bright sunshine but his eyes quickly got used to it. He lit his candle and said his prayer.

  ‘Dear God, look after her and don’t hold anything against her. I think she was trying to help, maybe she saw what I couldn’t see, that I needed someone. I don’t know how she did, if she did, seeing as I didn’t know it myself and you certainly never told me. Anyway, I let her down, I got her involved. Don’t you let her down as well.’

  And that was that. What else could he do? He left the church and went to a nearby bar, sat inside away from the sun, and had a beer. What had happened between him and Suarez? And why did he care? From what he had been told by others all those years ago in pubs and bars when they were boasting about their exploits, the whole idea seemed to be not to care. So was it just a casual, sexual encounter? A one-night stand. In all the many years of their marriage he had never been unfaithful to Bernie so he had no idea how these things worked. As far as sex was concerned he might as well still be sixteen. Of one thing he was sure, it might be classed by his Church as a sin, but it hadn’t been wrong.

  Except that it killed her. That bit was wrong.

  A man about his own age came in and sat at a table nearby and nodded to him. This was the bar he used for coffee after Mass each day so he knew a few of the regular faces well enough to smile to or nod or occasionally exchange some simple remark. His Italian wasn’t good enough for conversation above or beyond the simple things. Not that it mattered, because he didn’t want company and he certainly didn’t want friends. He sat thinking. It was funny how, once everything was over, you noticed things, things you missed at the time. He should have spotted George as the London end when he was first talking to Rosa. She said George had told her there were already bodies. Plural, bodies. But he hadn’t told George about Jarvis or Suarez, only the bloke who come after him with the knife. One body, but George told Rosa bodies. That meant George knew about Jarvis and probably about Suarez. And then she said George told her that Harry had sent a bloke to stick a knife in him. He hadn’t told George that Harry sent the bloke yet Rosa had sounded as if George had been very definite. How could George be sure unless he was mixed up in it? But he’d missed it all and it had nearly bloody killed him. He wasn’t going to be much good to McBride if he missed things like that too often. Still, better late than never and it was all over now, except meeting with McBride, so he finished his beer, put some coins on the table and left.

  Despite the heat he decided to walk, it would take him an hour if he strolled and he could get another cold beer somewhere on the way if he wanted to get out of the sun and fill in the time. He thought best when he was walking and wanted to go over what he would say in the coming interview. He had the very strong feeling she was not going to be a happy bunny when they met. Not at all a happy bunny. He set off trying to keep as much as possible to any shade that was going, heading for the doctor’s surgery.

  At three Jimmy stopped outside the modern office block. He felt his side. The doctor had said the stitches should come out and had done the job there and then. Now the thing felt a bit sore. Whether this was normal or due to the doctor Jimmy didn’t know. He went through the main door, out of the heat into the cool of the air-conditioned reception.

  ‘James Costello to see Professor McBride, Collegio Principe.’

  The girl began the same routine as she always did, she checked a screen then picked up a phone.

  ‘Signor Costello to see you, Professore.’

  She put the phone down, made a visitor’s badge for him and handed it over. Jimmy slipped the cord over his head and put the plastic identification into his shirt pocket.

  ‘You know the way?’

  Jimmy knew the way. He went to the lift and when it came headed for the top floor. He arrived at the door and knocked. A voice answered his knock.

  ‘Come in.’ Jimmy went in. Professor McBride looked at him. There was no smile of welcome. ‘Please sit down.’ Jimmy pulled a white envelope out of his back pocket and sat down. He put the envelope on the desk and pushed it to Professor McBride. ‘Your letter of resignation, a written apology, or a bribe to get you off the hook?’

  ‘My expenses.’

  She pushed the envelope to one side.

  ‘We’ll get to that, perhaps. Now, why did you stay away so long, why did you not take any of my calls, and why did you go to London?’

  ‘You sent me to do a job. I stayed until it was done. You wouldn’t have wanted me to come away with only half the work done, would you?’

  ‘As I remember it I sent you to talk to a Mr Arthur Jarvis about a report I received. Mr Jarvis was dead when you got to Santander. You were told to talk to Fr Perez and then return. Why did you not return to Rome when you were instructed to do so?’

  ‘Because that wouldn’t have got the job done.’

  ‘Your job was to ascertain whether the story Jarvis told to Fr Perez about a senior cleric being a member –’

  ‘Of the ETA central whatever it was. I know. But that was what I was told to do. It wasn’t the job I was sent to do.’

  She looked at him for a moment.

  ‘Explain the difference.’

  ‘I was told to go and talk to Jarvis. That was what I was told to do. The job I was sent to do was help convince ETA that the senior Catholic cleric who was one of their inner council was in danger of being blown.’

  They both sat in silence.

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘Shall I begin at the beginning?’

  ‘Does this fairy story have a beginning?’

  ‘All good stories have a beginning. They also have a middle and an end.’

&
nbsp; ‘Then begin at the beginning.’

  ‘Someone finds that a senior Catholic cleric is an inner member of a terrorist group, operating at the very heart of the organisation. I don’t know who or how but it doesn’t matter. Problem – what do you do? Arrest him? No good unless you’ve got him absolutely bang to rights. And it’s very rare to get the very top people in things like this bang to rights even when you know who they are. He doesn’t do any of the actual bombing or shooting so it’s not easy to get a conviction. And he can’t be picked up and interrogated by men who keep his head under water in between beating the shit out of him and not letting him sleep. And he can’t be assassinated because he’s a senior Catholic churchman, one of the untouchables, very naughty but one of our own. But nor can he be left in place, nobody wants that. The politicians don’t like it, the Church doesn’t like it, Spanish Intelligence doesn’t like it, nobody likes it. Everybody wants it solved but no one knows how to solve it.’ Jimmy stopped. ‘That’s the beginning.’

  ‘Is that where you come in?’

  ‘No, that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘The problem gets passed on. Everyone turns to someone with experience of sorting out Church-related messes, especially the tricky ones. Someone approaches the Collegio Principe and the thing gets dropped on your desk. How to get him out without everything going public and turning nasty? Now we come to the middle. An insignificant retired priest in Santander gets told to write a letter to the Bishop’s secretary. He should say that he has been told that a senior Catholic cleric is an inner member of ETA. But he must create a source for the information which will make it absolutely unbelievable. The story has to come out into the open but it has to be completely discounted as nonsense by anyone who looks into it. Fr Perez came up with what seemed to him the perfect man, his friend Jarvis. Perez writes his letter. The secretary tells the Bishop and the Bishop puts it in the bin, or forwards it to Rome where it’s duly ignored as nonsense, it doesn’t matter which. What matters is that you send me to talk to Jarvis. He was supposed to deny all knowledge of the information, which was true, of course. I would then talk to Perez who would stick to his story but have nothing at all to back it up. Just to make sure all this gets properly noticed you tell the police I’m coming and fill them in about my past and suggest I should not be made welcome. When they come and talk to me you say, go on, give your full co-operation, tell them everything and what you end up with is a whole lot of people who have been told that I have come to find out if a senior Catholic cleric is a key man in ETA, but told in such a way that none of them believe a word of it.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make it all a bit pointless?’

  ‘Oh no. You see the message wasn’t meant for any of them, not the police or the Bishop or Spanish Intelligence and certainly not for Rome. The message was for ETA. They were the only ones who would believe it because they knew it was true. And with so many people knowing about it they would certainly get to hear. Once ETA hears about it they know your churchman is compromised so he has to get out and cut all ties. Job done. Where is he now by the way?’

  ‘In South America. He put in a rather sudden application to be allowed to go on the foreign missions. I believe he was sent to a particularly dangerous part of Colombia. When did you realise what was going on?’

  ‘I think it probably started when Inspector Suarez turned up. It was a good plan, if Jarvis hadn’t been murdered it would have worked. It was a pity he was mixed up in Mercer’s porn racket.’

  ‘But why did you go on? You were supposed to stay only long enough to make the police aware of Jarvis’s supposed information. Why didn’t you just do as you were told? ’

  ‘Because I was sent to do a job and that’s what I did.’

  ‘But it wasn’t what I told you to do.’

  ‘I know, you told me what I should do, but you didn’t tell me what I was doing. I had to work that out for myself.’

  ‘Good heavens, Mr Costello, can you never leave things alone? Do you always have to work things out for yourself? You nearly got yourself killed. You certainly got Inspector Suarez killed. And for what? Your job was done as soon as you told the police why you were in Santander and certainly after you talked to Fr Perez. There was no need to go on. Why did you?’

  That was a good question. Why did I go on? What did I get out of it?

  ‘When I told you about Jarvis you told me to co-operate, to act as an observer. So I stayed on. I was only doing what you told me to do.’

  ‘To observe. I needed to know what was going on. I didn’t want you to go out and take on the London underworld single-handed. I just wanted to know what was going on, to be sure enough had been done.’

  ‘I don’t like loose ends and neither does anyone else when a copper’s been killed. Once Suarez was dead I couldn’t leave it alone. If I’d walked away, it would have been someone else doing the digging. Who knows what they might have found? I had to close the whole thing down, get a result on Jarvis and see that it was all finished and tied up. Perez is an old man, a priest, not some ex-villain like Harry Mercer. He would have blown up if anyone had questioned him properly. It had to be me doing the questioning to keep him well out of the frame. He hadn’t lied, at least not a lie of his own. All he’d done was tell someone else’s lie. He was a frail old man who had only done what he had been told to do. He’d spill the whole story if anyone put any kind of pressure on him. He was your loose end and he could unravel the whole thing. That’s what I was doing, looking after Perez, making sure your clever lie worked like it was supposed to.’

  McBride thought about it and knew he was right.

  ‘So now do we get to the end of your story?’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘Now we get to the end. I worked out what was going on, why and how and who was involved. I gave it to the local police all wrapped up. Nobody is looking for anything else. No-one will talk to Fr Perez and he can get on with his retirement. Once it was all finished, properly finished, I came home. The job I was sent to do was done. The end.’

  They sat for a moment. Then she picked up the envelope and opened it and read what was inside it.

  ‘Oh no. I can’t approve this, it’s far too much. My budget for this operation couldn’t possibly include all this.’

  ‘It’s all legitimate expenses.’

  ‘A candle, five Euros?’

  ‘It couldn’t be a cheap candle.’

  She read some more.

  ‘Sheets?’

  ‘Blood on them, my blood. I doubt they would have washed clean so I left the money to replace them. They belonged to Suarez’s cousin or brother, I forget which. He was doing me a favour.’

  And they sat in the office and went through Jimmy’s expenses. Jimmy was sure he would get his money, the expenses were all legitimately incurred. He hadn’t fiddled anything, not broken faith; he wasn’t bent any more, just a bit more broken.

  Unholy Ghost

  James Green

  Fourth in the Jimmy Costello crime thriller series shortlisted for the Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards

  Jimmy Costello, corrupt ex-copper and now fixer for the Catholic Church, always liked Paris, but never got the chance to spend time there. Now his boss in Rome wants him to go back. It’s a simple job: find the missing owner of a piece of valuable property. But Jimmy’s not the only one looking.

  What is he looking for and who else wants it so badly? No one seems to have the answers. This time Jimmy is on his own.

  Copyright © James Green 2013

  The right of James Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN 9781909840737

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publish
ers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental