Unholy Ghost (20 page)

Jimmy forced his mind to work. There was another siren, more than one, and they were also coming fast like the ambulance. In a few minutes the place would be crawling with police, putting out tape, taking names, setting up a serious crime scene. He stepped back into the crowd. The Comedian was being put into the ambulance. He edged back through the bodies until he was at the back of those trying to see what was happening. The siren of the ambulance went off and it pulled away. Jimmy turned and began to walk down the street towards his hotel as the first police car arrived. He walked slowly and didn't look back. Act normal, blend in, be one of the crowd.

What the hell had happened? More important, why had it happened? The team on the bike had got a shot off and hit the Comedian but the bike was already moving away because of the car. So did they hit the one they were aiming at? Was the bullet meant for him or the Comedian?

Jimmy turned the thing over in his mind until he came to the doors of the hotel.

Why was he still alive? They'd tried for McBride, they'd killed Heppert and the journalist, now they'd shot the Comedian. They'd had a go at everyone who'd poked their nose into this Colmar thing. Except Carpentier. I, God forgive me, did that job for them. Everyone except me. Why am I the exception? What keeps me alive in all this carnage? 

There were answers somewhere, there had to be, but this was all someone else's story and the thing about stories was, you only got told what the storyteller wanted you to know.

The flush of adrenalin from the shooting had worn off, the weariness was flooding back. He felt old and worn out. He felt too tired to go on caring what it was all about, too tired even to be frightened. All he cared about was rest. He went into the hotel and up to his room where he threw off his clothes and climbed into bed. He just wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes and closed down his mind. And slept.

Chapter Thirty-nine

He woke the next morning at six o'clock. He couldn't remember what time it was when he had gone to sleep so he didn't know how long he'd slept. All he knew was that he felt one hundred per cent better. He showered and got into his clothes, yet again. He might have felt better but from what he saw in the mirror he looked considerably worse. The clothes were deteriorating as quickly as his face, where the thick, greying stubble spoke more of homelessness than any fashion statement. He was certainly beyond what anyone could mistake for designer dishevelled. Unkempt and soiled on the outside he felt much more well ordered on the inside. Somehow things had clicked into place while he slept.

Why go to the trouble of planting Heppert's body in his room if later in the day they were planning to kill him? The Comedian had indeed been the target. But did that mean he had been telling the truth about arranging the killing of Heppert, or was he being clever, using what had come to hand when he saw he could use it to apply pressure? Either way somebody wanted Heppert dead and was using her murder to get him out of the way. That had to mean something, didn't it? Jimmy began to put his ducks in a row.

The old Nazi wouldn't play ball so he had to go. McBride had been a target because she was gearing up to get control of the estate. The journalist was unlucky, when he turned up to talk to Young Hitler's daughter the suicide was their idea of a neat and simple solution. Heppert must have overplayed her hand somehow and that was that. Now the Comedian had been targeted. Did that mean they'd been friends and fallen out or wasn't he ever on their side. And who were “they”? The Americans? Unlikely. The Americans were working through law firms like Henry and Parker, not blokes with guns on motorbikes. The Saudis? The Chinese? India? God, it could be anyone, anyone with enough money to be a player and no bit of the Arctic of their own to play with.

Which leaves me. Why am I still standing?

And finally he got somewhere. ‘They' didn't know about Veronique. If they'd known they'd have used him or Heppert to go and get her. But they'd killed Heppert and framed him. They didn't know about Veronique! But the Comedian knew. And if he knew it had to be because Heppert told him. Who else knew? All of which meant he was been telling the truth, Heppert had contacted him, or the other way round.

He was pleased with himself, he was thinking at last, getting somewhere. But thinking cuts both ways, it shows you everything, not just the things you want to know. If he was right, then Heppert probably hadn't gone to the heavy mob and overplayed her hand. The more likely scenario was that he'd given her to them by trying to be clever, by trying to play Jack the Lad at the gaming club – ‘Parker and Henry, an American firm, I'm working with a woman of influence from their Paris office. Nadine Heppert, Parker and Henry, got that?' Another bloody brilliant judgement that managed to get somebody killed. The brief feeling of self-satisfaction passed. God this was a mess, a total, bloody disaster.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud internal call. His stomach reminded him that though he might have slept he hadn't eaten. Jimmy took the call. He left his room, went out of the hotel, and found a café where he ordered breakfast.

What would McBride want him to do? The very last thing she'd told him was to carry on, to keep going. Well, he'd certainly kept going and the result was two dead bodies and the Comedian in hospital with a bullet in him. True he now had some idea what it was all about, but that still didn't tell him what was it she wanted as an outcome? Did she want the Colmar estate and, if so, why? He thought as he ate but got nowhere. This wasn't detective work, it was big business, finance. He knew as much about that as he did about wonderful, magnificent sex. And even if he found out who ‘they' were, if he put names and faces to the killings, where would that get him? It wouldn't stop any of it. At best, at very best, he might give a couple of people to the Munich police for murder or complicity to murder. But he would never get within sniffing distance of whoever was giving the orders. What more could he do? And to that question he still only had one answer. There was still Veronique, and if the wound wasn't too bad there was still the Comedian. That was enough. With that he could try to do what McBride had told him to – keep going.

Once he'd silenced his stomach with breakfast he went back to the hotel and got Reception to call him a taxi. When it came he headed off to the police station where he'd been interviewed.

If the Comedian was on the side of the good guys then he had to be working with the Munich police, which made sense if he'd been the one who got him sprung, and who else was there who'd do that? In the taxi he made a call to McBride's hospital.

The improvement slowly continued but she was not yet allowed visitors or to receive calls. Maybe if she continued to improve, but there was no way they could say how long that would be. There could be further surgery and …

He put away his phone.

There was no help coming from McBride, not for the foreseeable future. He was on his own so he'd do what she'd told him to do, keep going.

In the police station they put him back into the same interview room. An hour passed but he waited. It was the only line of enquiry that looked like it might get him anywhere so he'd wait for as long as it took. The door eventually opened and the same woman officer as the previous day came in and sat down opposite him. She was on her own and said nothing into the recording machine. She sat and looked at him and waited.

‘I need to speak to …' but he still didn't have any name and he could hardly call him the Comedian. ‘I need to speak to the Danish commander, the one who was shot yesterday.'

He got a blank look. He would have to do better.

‘The Commander and I were co-operating on a matter of great importance, great importance to Denmark.' Nothing. He tried again. ‘Important to Germany and to Europe. He told me he was working with the knowledge and support of the Munich police, he said that if anything happened and I was unable to contact him I should come to the police and they would see that some sort of contact would be re-established. How is he by the way, was he seriously wounded?' The blank look had gone but it didn't go beyond that. He had done enough to get her thinking, maybe even interested but not enough to get her to speak. The trouble was, he'd gone as far as he could by lying. Any further and he'd cock it up in some way. ‘Look, I can tell you what this is all about. If that's what it takes I'll tell you. I don't think you're supposed to know any of the details but I need to re-establish contact with the Commander.' Nothing. He was getting nowhere. ‘When you last questioned me, when I was last here, there was a call that got me released. Find out who it was and tell them I need to re-establish contact. Tell them it's urgent.'

There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer came in carrying a holdall. Jimmy recognised it. It was his. The officer put the holdall on the table and left closing the door behind him.

Stoneface finally found her voice.

‘These are all your belongings from your hotel room. Please check them.'

‘I'm sure it's all there'

‘Please check.'

‘I'm still sure it's all there.'

‘You will be asked to sign for it.'

‘Then I'll sign for it, won't I?'

He reached across and pulled the holdall in front of him.

‘You will be taken to the airport, Mr Costello, where you may take a flight to anywhere you choose so long as your destination is not in Germany.'

‘And who pays?'

It wasn't a serious question, just something to say to get some sort of response. She ignored it.

‘I have been asked to advise you not to return to Munich.'

‘Only Munich?'

‘The matter of the death of Ms Heppert is still under investigation.' A look of distaste came over her face. Whatever she was going to say she didn't like having to say it and she wasn't about to hide her feelings. ‘Early indications are that she committed suicide. At the moment the police are not seeking anyone else in connection with the matter.'

‘So all charges against me have been dropped? Lack of evidence is it?'

There never had been any charges against him, he knew that and so did she, he was still winding her up. He had to take out his frustration on somebody and she was to hand. If he could have hit her and got away with it he would have hit her. He wanted to hit somebody.

The look of distaste stayed but this time it was directed at Jimmy.

‘You seem to have influence in high places, Mr Costello. We both know that Ms Heppert did not kill herself and we both know that you were implicated in her death. You have been told to leave Munich and not to come back. For myself I would like you to return. If you were to do that, Mr Costello, not all the important friends in the world would protect you.'

‘You don't like me very much do you?'

‘I don't know you, Mr Costello. I do not wish to know you. I only wish to know what, exactly, was your involvement with the killing of Ms Heppert.'

Jimmy stood up.

‘Is my taxi ready?'

She stood up and went to the door.

‘Sign for your belongings at the desk before you leave.'

She opened the door.

‘Tell the Commander I've gone to Paris.'

‘I am not your messenger.'

‘The people you call “my influence in high places” would want him to know. Tell them.'

Jimmy left the interview room and went through the corridors into the main reception area where he signed a paper which the man at the desk pushed in front of him. It was in German and could have been a confession to murder for all he knew but he signed anyway.

Outside there was a taxi waiting. Jimmy got in and it pulled away. The driver knew where he was going.

At the airport Jimmy checked his holdall. Everything was there. He went into the toilets and washed and shaved, changed his shirt, socks, and underwear. The ones he'd been wearing he put in one of the bins then he went out into the main concourse, found out which was the first flight to Paris, bought his ticket, and went through Security into Departures. There were no problems. His flight would leave in fifty-five minutes. He would be in Paris by late afternoon. He looked at his watch then took out his phone and made a call.

‘M. Joubert, please. No? But he
is
back at work after his accident? Good, then tell him I called, my name is Mr Costello. I would like an appointment to see him. As soon as possible. I'm arriving in Paris today and would like to see him tomorrow if that can be arranged. Please tell him that I still represent Professor McBride and she wishes him to act for her in the matter of the heir to the Colmar estate. No, this is nothing to do with the Sisters of Bon Secours. She is acting as agent for the claimant. You have all of that? Good. I look forward to hearing from you.'

Chapter Forty

Jimmy stood at the window of his hotel room looking down at the Gare de l'Est. He'd booked into the same hotel and had been in Paris over twenty-four hours but Joubert hadn't called to set up any appointment. He'd phoned the office twice and each time he'd been stalled. He was getting restless. He had no way of knowing if anyone had submitted any kind of claim to the Swiss authorities and no way of knowing how urgent it was for him to get Joubert working on putting in a claim for McBride's nominee.

He picked up his phone and called Joubert's office once more. This time there'd be no stall.

‘It's Mr Costello, I've phoned twice and I … He is, good.'

Joubert's voice came on.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Costello, I'm sorry I haven't been able to speak to you before but I have been busy re-arranging my schedule so that we can meet. Can you come to my office now?'

‘Yes, I'll be there as soon as I can.'

‘Thank you, good day.'

Jimmy left the hotel, crossed the road and headed for the taxi rank by the station. As he approached the rank two men suddenly stood in front of him blocking his way. One said something in French. Jimmy didn't need to get it in English because he also flashed a police warrant card. The other man waved his arm and a car slid up alongside them. The arm waver opened the door and the other man pushed Jimmy towards the car. Jimmy got in and the two men got in with him, one on each side. The car pulled away. There was no siren, now they'd got him they didn't seem to be in any hurry.

Jimmy didn't need any detective skills to see that Joubert had got in touch with the police and told them he was coming to Paris. The thing he couldn't work out was why they'd got Joubert to set him up for a pickup? Why not simply come to his hotel and lift him if they wanted him? He'd told Joubert's office where he was staying. Why all this lifting him off the street business? Then he gave it up. It made as much sense as anything else in this mad farce so he sat back and watched the traffic as the driver made his way to wherever he was going.

Where he was going was to the back entrance of a police station. They stopped and got out of the car. The driver pulled away, Arm Waver went first and opened the doors, Warrant Card came behind and gave regular shoves to keep him moving. They didn't say anything and there was no one in the corridor they went along. There was no one on the stairs they went down or by the cells they came to. For a police station it was an empty place.

Arm Waver went into one of the cells and Jimmy followed, as he went in Warrant Card gave him a hefty shove in the back. Jimmy stumbled forward and fell against the wall. He pushed himself off the wall and turned round.

Turning round was a mistake because it meant he came right onto the punch. He fell back against the wall again and raised an arm to ward off the next blow. It was a useless gesture. Warrant Card's fist landed on his cheek anyway and Jimmy fell sideways.

Don't go down.

He knew the score, if he went down they'd start kicking. It was the kicking that did the damage. He knew, he'd done it often enough himself, or watched as others did it. He leaned against the wall and covered himself with his arms as best he could.

Don't fight back. It only makes things worse.

Then Arm Waver, he thought it was Arm Waver, but he couldn't be sure, kicked his legs out from under him. A fist to the back of his head put him all the way down and he tried to roll into a ball and get his back to the wall as he felt the first boot go in.

Find a place where there's no pain, a place deep inside where the pain can't reach. Find a place …

But there was no place. The pain reached everywhere. He felt the first few kicks then it all blurred into one massive pain that consumed his whole body and he knew he was losing consciousness.

Then, far away, in some foreign country because the words made no sense, he heard shouting. It came and went but the pain stayed. Then he realised no one was kicking him any more and consciousness, if it had gone, was coming back. The voices were closer but outside the cell. He opened his eyes. The shapes of two men were shouting at each other outside the doorway. One might have been Warrant Card. He was doing most of the shouting and, as he came back into focus, pointed to Jimmy a few times.

Then the other man said something. Warrant Card stopped shouting and looked into the cell at Jimmy. He came into the cell. Jimmy kept his eyes open and looked up at him. Warrant Card stood over Jimmy and looked down, then spat at him, turned, and left. The other man looked in, then turned away and he too was gone.

Jimmy lay on the floor trying to feel whether any real damage had been done. It hadn't been such a bad kicking and there'd been no science about it. In fact the whole thing had been a shambles. They'd hit him twice on the face before he went down which meant he'd be marked and the marks would last long enough to have pictures taken. From what he remembered of the kicking it was wild stuff and most had landed on his arms or legs where it would do the least damage but leave the plenty of big, photogenic bruises. It was a fucking shambles, and what for? They hadn't asked him anything and hadn't said anything he could understand. Jimmy dragged himself up onto all fours. He felt the blood on his face and as he looked down a drop of blood dripped from his chin, or it might have been his nose, onto the concrete floor of the cell.

I'll look a fucking mess, he thought.

He pulled himself upright into a kneeling position and held on to the bed. The blood dripped onto his shirt and he tasted it in his mouth. Fucking hooligans. Why? Coppers beating the shit out of people should serve some fucking purpose, shouldn't it? It always had when he'd done it. He slowly stood up.

Fucking amateurs.

He put his hands on his hips and tried to breathe deeply but stopped straight away and clutched at his chest. They must have hit his ribs at least once then. He tried to breathe carefully through his nose but the blood got in the way. It must be broken. He sat down on the hard wooden bed and felt his face. He took his nose in his fingers and squeezed to get his nose back into the right shape.

‘Oh fuck me!'

The noise of his shout bounced off the cell walls. He gingerly felt his nose. It seemed to be the right shape or close enough, but only time would tell. Not that it mattered, his face was never much and for a few days it was going to look more like a glorious sunset elaborated with a bit of cross-stitch than anything else. He continued his explorative work. He was cut above his left eye his left cheek was bleeding as well. He slowly and painfully took out his handkerchief and held it to both places and then looked at it. It had turned dark red. He held it to his chin and tried to stop the blood dripping onto his shirt. He was too late. He slowly slid sideways, painfully pulled his legs onto the bed and lay stretched out looking at the light in the ceiling with his head resting on the folded bedding. At least this way, he thought, their stuff gets the blood stains for someone to clean. Then he closed his eyes and waited.