Broken Faith (12 page)

The young man got up and left. Jimmy waited. When the interviewing officer returned it was with Suarez's boss. The boss spoke in Spanish and the young copper translated.

‘He says you were asked to leave. Why didn't you go?'

‘I've got a knife wound that isn't healed. I didn't want to travel until I was sure I'd be all right on the journey. I wanted to go, believe me, after what had happened I wanted to go.'

The chief spoke again, spoke quite a lot.

‘He says you should leave, Mr Costello. It seems possible that your presence in her apartment was the cause.'

‘The cause?'

‘One explanation of Inspector Suarez's murder is that you were the target, not her. Whoever sent the first assassin may have found out where you were and tried again and Inspector Suarez was unfortunately in the way. We have covered up your killing of the intruder, we will not cover up for this one and we do not want there to be any possibility of what might be a third attempt on your life. Everything is messy enough as it is. You seem to have powerful friends in Rome who might complicate things for us if you remain here. Go back to your friends, Mr Costello. Inspector Suarez was one of our own, we intend to find out who was responsible for her murder. If you have told us all you know and can help us no further we would like you to leave Santander and leave Spain, at once.'

‘If you think I was the target can't I stay and try to help? Maybe I know something I don't know I know.'

The officer unpicked the sentence then spoke to the Suarez boss who listened, looked at Jimmy, then shook his head and said something.

‘Leave, Mr Costello, leave while you still can.'

Was it advice or a threat? Either way Jimmy breathed more freely, he hadn't overdone it, but it was a close call. Suarez's boss said something to the interviewing officer then left. Jimmy wanted to get going, but first he had a question.

‘Whoever it was, how did they get in?'

With the senior man gone the interviewer didn't seem to mind talking.

‘It appears the door was kicked in. There was a good security chain but it wasn't on.'

‘No, I took it off when I went out to church.'

Christ. Not only had he caused her death, he had let the bloody killer in. Suarez should have listened to him. He was still bad news for anyone close to him.

‘OK, I'll get my stuff from the apartment and the house and I'll get the first plane I can.'

‘Everything at Inspector Suarez's apartment must remain. Any clothes you have there cannot be removed. A car will take you to the house you were using, you may take anything you like from there and then you will be taken to the airport. Come with me please.'

Jimmy followed him out of the interview room, along the corridors and out to a waiting car.

‘Goodbye, Mr Costello.'

Jimmy got in and it pulled away.

It was Harry, it had to be. His paid killer had missed so Harry had decided to do the job himself. It was risky but the weather had clinched it. The rain meant he could wear a coat and hat. Go in, do the business and get out. Sleepy neighbours slow to get out of bed, all they would get would be a big man in a coat and hat leaving the building. Once he was in and saw it was only Suarez on her own, he'd have to gun her because she'd have recognised him. Then he'd ridden his luck and would probably get away with it. The police would have a hard time putting anything together as long as Henderson stayed quiet. And Henderson would do that, he had too much to lose if Harry went down. The police weren't going to get anywhere, Harry was too wise, he'd been through it all before.

But I'm not the police, Harry, so I don't have to do it by the book. I'm going to nail you for this, Mercer, I'm going to fucking nail you if it's the last thing I do.

Chapter Eighteen

Professor McBride's voice was sharp.

‘Mr Costello, where are you? I've been trying to reach you for some considerable time.'

‘Yesterday I was helping the police with their enquiries. After that I was escorted to the airport where I spent until early evening sitting in Departures with a minder and then I was put on a plane. I landed over an hour and a half ago and I'm knackered.'

The edge disappeared. Jimmy could almost feel her relax.

‘You are back in Rome? Good, then now you can –'

‘No I can't, because I'm not in Rome. I'm in London.'

There was a moment's silence while Professor McBride let it sink in. Jimmy guessed the news would get up her nose so he was ready for it.

‘What on earth are you doing in London? I went to considerable time and trouble to ensure you were able to leave Santander and return to Rome.'

‘No you didn't, you went to considerable trouble to ensure I could leave Santander and go to London. I know that has to be right because I'm here in London and not in Rome.'

Jimmy could almost hear her silent frustration and annoyance rising to danger levels. But she controlled herself. She was good at control.

‘What are you doing in London? You were told to talk to Fr Perez and then come straight back. Despite that you stayed on and once again managed to involve yourself with the police. Mr Costello, it was only with great difficulty that I was able to –'

‘What do you know about Jarvis's death?'

She paused for a moment but then answered his question.

‘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 long. 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.'