Broken Faith (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

‘Another coffee, Señor Costello?'

‘No thank you, Father.'

The old priest leaned forward and refilled his own cup and then sat back.

‘I spoke to Professor McBride yesterday. She was most encouraging, yes, most encouraging, and she spoke highly of you, as a man in whom I could place full trust.' Jimmy tried to look encouraging, like a man in whom you could place full trust. He wasn't sure how it should go, but he tried his best to look the part and let the old priest carry on. ‘I'm afraid eleven was the earliest convenient time. The sisters are busy until then and it would be inconvenient for me to have visitors. But after eleven things calm down …'

Fr Perez had begun to talk as soon as the nun who showed Jimmy into the old priest's room had closed the door behind her. Jimmy wasn't sure whether he was nervous or garrulous or both. Now he seemed to be settling.

Fr Perez's room was on an upper floor of a local convent, where he and another retired priest were cared for by the sisters and in return said daily Mass for them. From the open window you looked over tree-tops and red-pantiled roofs to distant hills.

‘Forgive me if I talk so much. I like to speak English and it is not like riding a bike. If you don't use it, it slips away. I don't get out much now and I have few visitors. The sisters who look after us all speak nothing but Spanish as does Fr Fernandez.'

‘You talked English with Mr Jarvis?'

‘That is so. He visited and we talked.' The priest made a gesture to the open window. ‘I have a lovely view but it is not the same as conversation.'

 ‘What did you and Jarvis talk about?'

‘Religion mostly. Sin and forgiveness, God's mercy, how Confession worked, was there a heaven and did there have to be a hell? He was an intelligent man, educated. It seemed to fascinate him that the destructive power of sin was equally balanced by its attraction. The nature of sin is an interesting –'

‘Sorry, Father, you've lost me. What was it exactly that Jarvis was interested in?'

Fr Perez thought about the question for a moment.

‘I think his main interest was sin and its consequences. Yes, I'd say that whatever we talked about it somehow returned to that theme one way or another.'

‘Could you be a little clearer, Father? What about sin?'

‘Let me see. It's a big subject, I dare say we covered a lot of ground and I didn't always pay too much attention. It was the company and the conversation I enjoyed. I would have been just as happy to talk about football, although I must say …'

Jimmy quickly dragged him back before he could get started on football.

‘Maybe a simple example?'

‘An example?'

‘Something to show me the sort of thing you discussed with Mr Jarvis.

The old priest thought for a moment.

‘An example, yes, I think I have one. If sin could only destroy then no one would sin, and if sin gave pleasure or reward without retribution everyone would very quickly become sinners. Although as I see things today it seems that for most people –'

But the example hadn't helped and Jimmy decided he wanted to move on.

‘Did you get the impression he was or ever had been a Catholic?'

‘Oh no, he was definitely not a Catholic nor ever had been. Catholics aren't interested in how sin works, or about the tension between its attractive and destructive powers. In fact most Catholics don't think about sin or religion at all. They go to Mass on Sunday, if that, and are the same as everyone else for the rest of the week. I sometimes think that –'

‘But Jarvis came to Mass at your church when he first came to Santander.'

Fr Perez, reluctantly it seemed to Jimmy, finally accepted that Jarvis, rather than the state of world, or the Catholic Church, or football, was the subject of this visit.

‘Yes, I remember him when he first came to Santander. He made a point of making himself known to the few English people who came to Mass and when he found I spoke English he seemed to want to strike up a friendship.'

Fr Perez paused.

‘Yes, Father, you've remembered something?'

‘No, not remembered. It was something I found odd. His attempt at friendship was forced, it was an act. At the time I wondered what it was about, what it was he wanted from me, but he persisted and as it enabled me to talk English I co-operated. I was a parish priest and busy so we didn't meet often or for long and then he stopped.'

‘Stopped?'

‘Yes. He stopped coming to see me.'

‘Was this before or after he had moved here?'

‘Before. He'd turn up at Mass, we'd arrange to meet and talk and then he'd go back to England. It happened four or five times, then it stopped.'

‘Did you ask anyone about him, any of the English who came to your church?'

‘No, why should I? He came, he went, people do. It was none of my business.'

‘But he came back. He came to see you here.'

‘Yes, when I retired. He came to see me and then began to visit. As I say, I have very few visitors so I let him come and we talked.'

‘His friendship had become real, not an act any more?'

‘No, I don't think so. My part was more that of some sort of informal confessor. No, not confessor, guide perhaps.'

‘Guide?'

‘Through the world of sin and guilt, forgiveness and redemption. I told you, he seemed fascinated by the consequences of evil and its attraction. I didn't mind. We spoke English and I have plenty of time so I let him talk about anything that suited him. He was never a parishioner, nor even a Catholic, so the state of his soul was his own business. I never enquired as to his private life which was, I presume, the source of his interest. That again was his own affair.'

‘Didn't it strike you as odd that someone who wasn't a Catholic should have come to Mass at your church?'

‘No, not particularly, not at the time. When he had come to Mass he received communion so I assumed he was a Catholic. It was only later, when he came here and we talked, it became clear he was not and never had been a Catholic.'

‘Could it have been an academic interest, something he thought about, studied, a sort of hobby?'

‘Oh no, it was firmly rooted in reality. I have talked to too many troubled people not to recognise the difference between academic interest and lived experience. But whatever it was that troubled him we merely talked, he never asked me for my advice or help. If he had I would have told him that he was playing a dangerous game. A very dangerous game.'

‘Sorry, I don't understand, what sort of game?'

‘There are two kinds of evil, Señor Costello, rational evil and spiritual evil. Rational evil seeks personal gain or advantage without regard for the good or ill of others. You can see it every day all round you, greed, pride, lust. These are all very human failings, very rational sins. Spiritual evil is quite different, it is a form of worship, a form of religion. It is the desire for evil to prevail for its own sake. It is Christianity in reverse.  Señor Jarvis was close to something evil and I think close to worshipping it, wishing it to prevail.' The priest seemed to come out of a reverie, as if he had been talking to himself, not Jimmy. His manner changed and he gave a dismissive wave of his thin, bony hand. ‘I cannot be sure, you understand, it is no more than a speculation. It is only one explanation out of what, I am sure, are many others for the sort of man he was, or more accurately, the sort of man I thought he was.'

‘But you never tried to help him?'

‘He didn't want help.'

‘And you never thought he might convert? You didn't try to convert him?'

Fr Perez laughed.

‘Good heavens, no. No-one should become a Catholic unless they cannot possibly avoid it. It is like it says on your cigarette packets, it can seriously damage your health.'

‘I know what you mean, Father.'

‘I was sorry when I heard he had been murdered, sorry but not surprised.'

‘No?'

‘As I said, he was playing a dangerous game. Evil never exists in the purely abstract. Like good, it expresses its existence in actions, and its consequences are always, in the end, destructive. In my opinion it destroyed Mr Jarvis.' The old priest gave Jimmy a smile and sat back. ‘And that, I'm afraid, is absolutely all I can tell you about Señor Jarvis. All we did was make a convenience of each other. He needed someone who could talk about sin and evil and I needed someone who spoke English. Concerning the ETA matter, everything I know I put in my letter to the Bishop's secretary. I can add nothing more, except that I find it highly unlikely that Mr Jarvis could actually have come by such information. The only explanation I could offer is that he was mistaken or it was some sort of delusion. Perhaps he sought a brief moment of celebrity, to be in the spotlight and be noticed. I understand some people do that sort of thing. I made the same point to the lady inspector who came to see me but she seemed unconvinced and I have to say I cannot blame her.' Jimmy sat silent for a moment. ‘Tell me, Señor Costello, what exactly is it that you do for the Vatican?'

‘I don't do anything for the Vatican,'

‘But I was given the impression –'

‘I know, Professor McBride is good at impressions. You should see her do Attila the Hun's big sister.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't follow –'

‘I work for Professor McBride who in turn works for a college in Rome. I go on errands for her when her friends in Rome want something done.'

‘And this errand?'

‘I was to talk to Jarvis but when I got here he was dead, murdered.'

‘I see. So now you talk to me.'

‘So now I talk to you. It's taken me a bit more time than I expected to get round to you because I found I had to talk to the police first.'

‘Then, Mr Costello, I fear your journey has not prospered. As I said, I wrote down all I knew and passed it on. I can add nothing to what I have already told you, not about the late Mr Jarvis and certainly not about terrorists.'

‘You have no idea who this senior cleric might be, if there was such a cleric?' Perez shook his head. ‘Nor how Jarvis could have come by the information if it's true.' Again Perez shook his head. ‘You know nothing more than you wrote?'

Perez gave a shrug.

‘It is as I told you. It didn't make sense then and it doesn't make sense now. How could Mr Jarvis get information about the inner councils of ETA? It has to be nonsense. He barely spoke Spanish, never mind Basque.'

‘Did you like him?'

Perez had to think about it.

‘No, I don't think so. He was too self-centred, too inward looking. I would say that if I had known him he would not have been a nice man.'

‘But you let him visit you?'

‘Why not? As I said, he was an educated man, he spoke well and was widely read. I enjoyed talking to him. I didn't have to like him.'

‘Did he ever tell you what he did before he came to live in Spain?'

‘Yes. He was a lecturer in English Literature at a university. Also he wrote books, novels. He said he had given up education and turned to a life of crime. He said education was the higher calling but that crime paid better.'

‘I see. Well, thank you, Fr Perez. In so far as you could, you've been most helpful.'

Jimmy stood up. The priest stayed seated.

‘I have enjoyed our talk, Mr Costello, I hope we can do it again.'

‘No, Father, you've told me all you can. I'm not educated or widely read and I'm not interested in spiritual evil. I stick to the rational sort.'

He held out his hand. Fr Perez shook it and Jimmy left the old priest in his nice room with its pleasant view. The sister who had answered the door when he came let him out and he walked out of the convent gardens onto the quiet street and headed back towards town and his little terraced house. What had Perez told him, too much or not enough? How much was true and how much lies? That was always the problem with priests, one minute they were marrying you, then baptising your kids, then burying your wife, and they always knew exactly what to say and how to look while they were saying it. Perez was no different. He'd put on the manner he thought the occasion needed, it was all an act. Still, thought Jimmy, it was a bloody good act, so it must have been an important occasion and that tells me something. Perhaps that tells me quite a lot.

Walking back to his house he thought about Jarvis. Maybe he had been an English teacher after all, although certainly not at any university. That was handy. The novel writing thing was probably to explain where his money came from. Perez didn't look like the crime-thriller type so there wasn't much chance of him asking awkward questions. The priest had just accepted the story and forgotten it. Now, next question, was Jarvis caught with his trousers down and, if so, did he get sent down for it and if he did, where did he serve his time?  And the last question, was Harry Mercer doing time there as well? That would make a neat fit. That would explain a lot, a hell of a lot.

Chapter Twelve

As Jimmy walked through the streets he looked back over what had happened. He'd been sent to find out about Jarvis. Then he'd been told to cosy up to the police investigation on Jarvis's death. Then he'd been told to drop it all and hurry back to Rome, but only after he'd spoken to Perez. McBride was jiggling him about like she had him on a string, why?

He'd told Suarez she was on the side of the angels and didn't have people killed and he'd believed it when he said it. But when you came right down to it, what did he know about McBride? That she'd used him like a cat's paw to do her dirty work in Rome and people had died. She hadn't had them killed, but they still died.

Yes, all true, but against that she'd protected him and tried to hide him when the shit hit the fan …

Also true, but only after her dirty work was done.

OK, but she'd saved his life in Denmark and got him safely out.

True again. But did that mean she was on the side of the angels or did it mean that she saved him to use in some other piece of dirty work?
This
piece of dirty work.

Jimmy thought about the old priest sitting in his chair in his room with a view. He'd looked as if he couldn't hurt anyone. In fact he'd looked as if he'd find it hard to get to the window and enjoy the view. And those small, bony hands. Could he kill anyone with those? Then he thought of Harry. Harry had duff hands but not so duff he couldn't pull a trigger. The priest was old and small but just because he hadn't got up and walked around didn't mean he couldn't if he wanted to. And Jarvis knew him. Jarvis would have gone into the kitchen with the old priest behind him without any worries at all. But a priest? Could a priest …? Of course he could. Udo Mundt, the man McBride had used to save his life in Denmark, was a priest and he was definitely somebody who knew how to get people killed. Christ, how could you know about people?

And on that question Jimmy decided he'd had enough. He couldn't do people, not the ordinary sort. Professional villains he could do, professional villains were simple, they were what he'd grown up with. They were just bad guys who did bad things. But this? This was all different. This was too mixed up. Harry was an out-and-out villain. Harry was at it. That bit he understood. Henderson was almost certainly mixed up in it and now looked more like a victim than a perpetrator. What about Mrs Henderson? He didn't like her but then he didn't like most people. It didn't make them all criminal. Was Perez a bad guy just because he was connected to Jarvis? Jimmy thought about what he was doing, what he had spent so much of his life doing when he was with the Met. He was helping Suarez build up a little world and making people fit into it.But what if the people didn't fit into their little world. How hard would he push, how much would he bend the truth to get the result he wanted? And who did he want it for, himself, McBride or Suarez?

He turned onto the sea-front walkway, about fifteen minutes from his street. His mind came back to where he'd started, McBride. On the side of the angels or not? And assuming he could answer that or any of the other questions, where did it leave him?

McBride had got her tame Monsignor to tell him he wasn't here to get involved in a murder or a porn ring, that he should stick to Perez and then come back. Well, he'd seen Perez and that looked like – like what? He thought about his talk with the old priest again and decided he didn't know. Maybe he'd stay on for a bit anyway. He didn't feel like walking away from things just yet. Maybe he'd try to help the police nail Harry. Just for something to do, for old time's sake. But niggling away at the back of his mind in a small room marked
Conscience
, a voice kept asking a question – would he be staying to get Harry or to get Suarez? And if it was Suarez it wouldn't be for old times' sake. But Jimmy closed the door of that room. He didn't want to think about Suarez so he walked on thinking about other things, but very soon found that what he was thinking about was Suarez again. Still, if the choice was her or Harry, well – so he left his thoughts alone to sort themselves out and headed for home.

Back in his house he made a cup of tea then made a call. Suarez answered.

‘Hello, it's me. If you check with the UK you may find Jarvis did time in England. No, I don't know for sure, it's something that the old priest told me. Jarvis said he was a university lecturer teaching English Literature before he gave it up and came over here to write crime novels. We know he was a teacher, not a lecturer, and he stopped teaching very early for some reason. One reason would be if he got sent down because he played footsie with a student or two. We also know that Jarvis isn't the crime writer, Harry Mercer is. I think that might be how the connection got made, in the nick. If I'm right I think we'll find that Harry Mercer was doing time in the same prison as Jarvis. Why? Because it fits the facts, that's why. Harry's a villain who only associated with other villains and, apart from an error of judgement in Birmingham, never worked outside of London. Where would a teacher or even an ex-teacher meet up with the likes of Harry Mercer except inside? It won't be too hard to check where Harry did his time and if it clicks with any time Jarvis did then we're off and running, we'll have a solid connection and if we're lucky you might even be able to follow it through and rope in Henderson along the way.' Jimmy listened for a second. ‘Yeah, I was lucky, I don't think the old priest meant to be helpful, in fact I think he was trying to make sure he told me nothing that was of any real use at all.' Jimmy listened. ‘I agree. Put Henderson alongside Mercer and Jarvis on a porn charge and you'll have enough to ask him if he'll please come down to the station and help with your enquiries. From what I've seen he'll spill his guts once you can get him into an interview room with anything that looks remotely like evidence.' He listened again. ‘OK, let me know when you've got anything.'

Jimmy put away his phone and looked at his watch. Time for lunch. A couple of cold beers first and then some fish. They did good fish here, he'd tried a couple of places and they had impressed him. He liked fish, if it was good-quality and fresh. Jimmy left his little house and went to yet another place to try the fish. He sat down and ordered a beer and looked at the menu. It wasn't a tourist place so it was all in Spanish but that didn't deter him, most places you could get by with English and a smile. The waiter brought his beer.

‘I'd like the fish. Can you tell me what fish you've got?' The waiter looked at him, spread his hands, shrugged and said something in Spanish. Jimmy tried again. ‘Fish. I'd like a meal, lunch, fish.' The waiter shrugged again and looked around as if appealing to the other diners none of whom took any notice. Jimmy realised he'd found somewhere or someone who, for whatever reason, chose not to do English. He stood up. ‘Sorry, mate, I don't speak Spanish and you don't seem to speak English. I'll go somewhere else.' Jimmy began to leave the table and the waiter caught his arm and began to speak rapidly. Jimmy stopped and looked down at the hand on his arm then spoke quietly. ‘Let go sunshine or I'll break your fucking arm.' The waiter's hand dropped from Jimmy's arm and he stood back. He turned and called out across the room. A man came from behind the bar to the table. They spoke in Spanish.

‘He says you ordered beer and now are leaving without paying. If you order a drink you must pay for it.'

‘I ordered beer in English and I got beer. I asked him for fish in English but he seems to have forgotten how to understand. I asked him to take his hand off my arm in English and he suddenly remembered he could understand again.' Jimmy looked at the waiter. ‘It sort of comes and goes doesn't it, pal?' The waiter said nothing. ‘Still, if he decides he can't understand my order I'll leave and eat somewhere else. Is that a problem?'

The man from the bar thought about it. He wasn't big but he looked useful, competent. The man spoke to the waiter who turned and left.

‘I will take your order. What do you want?'

Jimmy found he wasn't in a good mood any more and he didn't want the fish even if it did come in English. If he stayed, there would be trouble and he found trouble was exactly what he wanted.

‘I want to leave. I want to leave peacefully without any trouble but I want to leave. I've lost my appetite for food or beer.'

The man looked at him. Jimmy noticed that the other diners were now taking notice.

‘Then if you pay for your drink you are free to go.'

The man didn't move and there was no easy way round him between the tables.

Jimmy looked at the bottle on the table then back at the man.

‘I'll toss you for it.' The man frowned. Jimmy took a coin from his pocket and held it up. ‘Heads I pay, tails I don't?'  Jimmy didn't wait, he spun the coin, caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. He didn't look at it. ‘Tails. I don't pay. Now I'm leaving, sunshine, either past you or through you and I don't give a shit which it will be.'

The man stood for a second then moved to one side. Jimmy went past him, through the room and out into the street where he turned and walked. He didn't care which way he was going.

Now what the fuck was that all about, he thought. But he knew what it was about. It was about a frustration and anger that sometimes, from nowhere, built up in him. He decided to give lunch a miss, he'd lost his appetite. He'd walk. It was hot and the heat would tire him and when he was tired enough he'd stop somewhere for that cold beer.

Would he have hurt the bloke?

Yes, he decided, he would, and he would have enjoyed it.

Jimmy began to walk in the heat, to try and get tired and let the anger die down and drain out of his system. Where did it come from, that pointless hate? But he knew where it came from, it came from who he was and who he'd been, and it was who he'd always be so long as he let it boil up and take over.

About twenty minutes later he was sitting in a bar, tired and feeling nothing except that he needed to sit down out of the heat for a while and drink a couple of cold beers.

He forced his mind back to the meeting with the old priest. He knew he should be satisfied. He'd got everything he expected and a bit that he hadn't expected.

But he wasn't satisfied.

Something wasn't right. Did it matter? He'd done what he had been sent to do and it was what everyone said it would be, a dead end. He'd done all he could. His mind moved on to the murder. It was probably no more than thieves falling out. Should he just wrap it up and go back to Rome.

Why was he fucking about pretending to be a detective? Why wasn't he wrapping it up and going home? What was the point of hanging on? Was it because he was looking at something and not seeing it? Was something staring him in the face and he just couldn't see it?

The picture of Suarez sitting opposite him with that look which disturbed him, looking at him with her legs crossed came to him. Was it Suarez?

It couldn't be Suarez. He hadn't looked at another woman since he had started going with Bernie when he was sixteen, a lifetime ago. He still didn't want to look at another woman.

So why did he look at Suarez and why did he think it might be her that was keeping him here?

Oh, well, beer and cool down, maybe even a snack to make up for the missed lunch. He'd give it two days and then fuck it, whatever it was. It could stay in Spain and he'd go back and report that there was nothing to report. He smiled to himself. At least I can squeeze two more days' expenses out of McBride and, considering she gets nothing in return, that's something. Maybe that's what's staring me in the face.

But it wasn't and he knew it.

That night Jimmy lay in bed, naked with a single sheet thrown over his thighs and legs and the bedroom window open. He couldn't sleep. His mind wouldn't switch off and it was too hot. Outside the cicadas chirruped endlessly. He lay in the dark, sweating. Then, from downstairs, there was a noise, muffled but like the breaking of glass. Jimmy threw off the sheet, got up and went to the door which he'd left open in the vain hope of creating a breeze through the room.

He stood and listened. Somebody was definitely down there, in the kitchen. He heard a click as the kitchen door opened, then he heard the bottom stair creak. Whoever was there was coming up. He padded quickly across the room, arranged two pillows to look like a body and threw the sheet over it. The room was dark but there was just enough light coming in through the window to make it do the job. He went back and stood ready behind the door which he'd eased half closed. After a minute the door began to be pushed back. Jimmy stood, made a hard left fist, raised it and drew back his elbow. Someone was in the bedroom. As he passed the window going to the bed Jimmy had enough of a target. He stepped out, the figure turned and Jimmy hit it hard.

The knuckles landed on the side of the face but it gave Jimmy a better sense of his target and he hit again hard. This time it landed square. The figure staggered towards the window, Jimmy moved in and felt a sharp pain under his left ribs. He ignored it. He moved slightly and hit again, this time with his right fist into the middle of the body. Something fell to the floor as the figure gasped and fell to its knees. Jimmy stepped behind, bent down, grabbed the head, slipped his hands round the neck then rammed his knee into the figure's back as he pulled and twisted. Something cracked and the body went limp.

He let it slip out of his hands and it slumped onto the floor. Jimmy stood back and breathed deeply for a moment, then went and switched on the light. It was a swarthy, youngish man in a light suit. Jimmy bent down and felt his pulse. There wasn't one.

‘Shit.'

He was out of practice, he hadn't meant to break his bloody neck. Then he saw the knife beside the body with blood on the blade. He looked down at his side below his ribs. It was his blood and there was more coming out of the wound the knife had made. He pressed his hand onto the blood and went and sat on the bed. He picked up his mobile with his free hand from the bedside table and keyed in a number with his thumb.