Stealing God (3 page)

The rector's office was a small room on a narrow, badly lit, top-floor corridor. Most of its limited space was occupied by a large, ugly desk. The bulb hanging from the ceiling had no shade and glowed weakly, shedding as much despondency as light. The single window was grimy and closed. There was no carpet on the floorboards and the walls and ceiling had been painted a slightly bilious green. In the glory-glory days of this imposing building the whole top floor would have been where the most lowly servants slept.

Despite everything, however, the rector liked the room, it suited her mood when she had to come and make use of it.

Professor McBride had an open laptop on the desk when Jimmy entered on which she continued working, ignoring him. He was glad to be able to stand for a few minutes, the wait would let him get his breath back from climbing the several flights of stairs which took you from the grandeur of the downstairs rooms to these garrets in the roof. The rector finally closed the laptop and nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk.

‘Sit down, please.'

From their very first meeting she had reminded Jimmy of the headmistress of his primary school whom he remembered as a thoroughly unpleasant woman, though a nun. The resemblance seemed particularly pronounced today. Jimmy sat down on the hard, upright, chair while the rector busied herself slipping her computer into a carrying case which she then pushed to one side of the desk. She smiled a palpably false greeting.

‘It is bad enough that each month I must be dragged away from important and relevant work to waste my time discussing with you your supposed progress. I do not blame you, you understand, I merely point it out. I always think honesty by far the best policy in relationships, be they personal, political, or whatever.' The accent was American; so was the air of superiority. For some reason Jimmy had never liked Americans; he didn't know why. He just didn't. ‘Do you know what this meeting is about?'

Jimmy shook his head. How was he supposed to know? He had just been given a message to be here.

‘No idea.'

‘Really?'

Jimmy had the distinct impression that she didn't believe him. They both sat in silence. Professor McBride stared at him as if she were waiting for him to break down under her steady gaze and confess what this meeting was all about. She would have a long wait.

So, thought Jimmy, a meeting but apparently not set up by her even though it was going to take place in the rector's office. Strange.

Despite the way she was looking at him Professor McBride wasn't waiting for any sort of confession. She was filling in the time. She had been asked to get James Costello, her student, to this office by two o'clock. She had done that. Now she waited and, with nothing else to look at, she looked at Jimmy. There was a definite air about him, if not of criminality, then an intangible something that justified mistrust. An interesting man.

‘Has anyone questioned you about your papers recently, Mr Costello? In fact have you been approached or questioned by anybody about anything?'

Jimmy shook his head.

‘No. Nobody's questioned me about anything, not officially anyway.'

‘Unofficially?'

‘Only friends.'

‘And what were they interested in?'

‘Me. My background. Who I was, where I came from.'

‘And who exactly are these friends?'

‘Students. Two men I study with.'

‘I see.' She waited. ‘And did you tell them about yourself?'

‘No.'

‘Good.'

And there she fell silent again.

For some reason, thought Jimmy, she seemed pleased with him, with what he had said.

‘Would it matter?'

‘Would what matter?'

‘If I had been approached, questioned?'

She seemed a little put out by his question.

‘I am your rector, Mr Costello, I am supposed to take an interest in not only your academic progress but your general wellbeing while you are here in Rome.'

‘Fine.'

After another few moments' silence Professor McBride looked at her watch. She decided to fill the wait with a little small-talk. Her questions had been a mistake, it might have unsettled him and if it had she wanted his mind elsewhere. She did her best to smile.

‘I have to tell you, Mr Costello, that if I had played a decisive role in your selection you would not now be here in training. You do not strike me as at all suitable for the priesthood, not even the diocesan priesthood.' She spoke as if being a diocesan priest had about the same standing as being an inmate of San Quentin or Wormwood Scrubs. Jimmy sat and listened. He didn't give a toss what she thought of him. All he wanted was to get on with his studies. ‘I know that Duns students are given more latitude in their general oversight because they are men of sufficient independent means to serve the Church without requiring financial support of any kind. Yet if I read your file aright …' Aright! Jimmy gave an inward smile; what a bloody poser. ‘… you have only a policeman's pension to live on. I must say I find that a most unusual and questionable circumstance.' She waited for Jimmy to explain. Jimmy didn't dislike the woman as much as she obviously disliked him but he didn't want her as his enemy so he obliged.

‘My late wife and I bought our house in London when we first married. After she died I moved away and the house was sold. It was just a small house but it fetched what I thought was an almost ridiculous price. That, with savings and two investments made many years ago, gave me the finance to take up a Duns College place. Satisfied?'

She sniffed. No, it said, she wasn't satisfied. She looked at her watch again. Someone was late.

‘Well, Mr Costello, your time may be of no value but mine certainly is so I intend …'

But Jimmy never found out what Professor McBride intended because the ancient black phone on the desk wheezed a ringing sound. She picked up the handset, listened, then put it back and looked at Jimmy.

‘Apparently you are about to be questioned by a detective from the Rome police. An Inspector Ricci is on his way up. I am to wait and confirm his identity and then leave him here to interview you.'

What the hell did the police want, thought Jimmy, but he made sure that his surprise didn't register on his face and they sat in silence looking at one another until there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in.'

The man who came in looked very sharp. Around six feet, well groomed, middle to late twenties with the physique and good looks of an Italian footballer. He wore a light grey tailored jacket with a faint pin-stripe, and faded jeans. He should have looked wrong, top half almost a city suit, bottom half casual, but on him it looked just right. The three buttons at the end of each sleeve were undone and the cuffs slightly flared to show a glimpse of the dark, silk lining. The pale yellow shirt was open at the neck showing a very slim silver chain. The wristwatch was white metal too. Light accessories to set off his dark skin and black hair. Designer sunglasses rounded it all off.

Jimmy looked at him: a man of two halves and already he didn't like either of them. If this was a copper he was independently well off, seriously bent, or on some sort of bloody clothes allowance. The inspector took off his sunglasses and gave the office a brief once-over. For a second you got the feeling he feared for the wellbeing of his rig-out and might walk straight back out. Then he closed the door, switched on a smile, and came to Professor McBride who stood up. His Roman charm brought more light into the room than the window and bulb combined. He was the man you saw in UK and US adverts selling style in a bottle encouraging young men and the not so young to spend a lot of money to look like him, and they never would.

‘Good afternoon, Professor. I am Inspector Ricci; you were expecting me?'

They shook hands.

‘Yes, Inspector, several minutes ago.' He kept the smile going, gave a slight shrug, and didn't apologise. ‘I wasn't told the reason for this meeting.' She was trying, thought Jimmy, but she couldn't get the same acid tone into her voice for this charming officer that she'd managed so easily with him. ‘I have been asked to verify your identity and then leave you with Mr Costello.' The policeman turned and pointed his smile at Jimmy; it was a nice smile. Jimmy made a mental note to be careful of this man when he turned it on. It looked very practised but would work better when he had his sunglasses on because it didn't quite make it into his eyes. The inspector took out a leather warrant card holder and handed it to the rector.

While she examined it he came and held out his hand to Jimmy.

‘How do you do, Mr Costello.'

Jimmy stood up for the rector's sake.

‘I'm fine, thanks.'

But he waited just long enough before shaking the offered hand for the smile to melt and another look to come into the policeman's face.

Whatever this man wants, thought Jimmy, be sure to get off on the right foot – the wrong one. Make someone dislike you and you're halfway to knowing where you'll stand with him. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to antagonise the policeman, he just didn't want him thinking it was OK to get him summoned to the rector's office for no good reason he could think of.

Professor McBride held out the inspector's warrant card holder.

‘Do you want me to wait, inspector?'

‘Thank you, Professor, but that will not be necessary. The matter is purely routine, one or two questions, nothing of importance. I would not want to waste your valuable time.'

‘Very well. Goodbye.'

The inspector went to the door and held it open.

The rector picked up the bag from the desk and left.

After the door had closed the inspector went and sat in the rector's chair. It was funny, thought Jimmy, as he sat down on the hard chair, the number of people he had known who believed authority lay in locating your bum in the right chair.

‘I suppose you would have known I was a policeman as soon as you saw me, Mr Costello? After all, you were one yourself for many years in London before you decided to give it all up and come here to be a priest.'

His English was excellent and the amount of Italian accent he allowed to remain was just right to go with his appearance and his charm. But Jimmy didn't believe in fairies any more than he believed in charming police inspectors no matter how Italian they sounded, so he made another mental note. If this smarmy bugger needed handling he would almost certainly have to be handled very carefully.

‘I didn't take much notice of you but since you ask, no, I wouldn't have taken you for a policeman. You look too expensive.'

He got the false, charming smile again.

‘First, Signor Costello …' there was the briefest of pause but Jimmy left it at Signor Costello. He didn't want this guy calling him Jimmy and thinking they could get friendly. He'd made sure they started off on the wrong foot and that's where he wanted it to stay. ‘I must confirm certain details. You were a policeman in London, yes?'

Jimmy waited long enough for the policemen to be about to ask his question again and then suddenly answered.

‘Don't I get to be told what this is all about?' Jimmy looked at the eyes, they registered something – annoyance. That was good.

‘Certainly, Mr Costello, as soon as I know the information I have about you is accurate I will explain everything. I assure you it is nothing that you need to worry about.'

No, thought Jimmy, of course it isn't. Why would being pulled in and questioned by a detective inspector worry anybody?

‘You were a policeman in London?'

‘Yes.'

‘What was your department and rank?'

‘CID, a sergeant.'

‘You took early retirement?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why was that?'

Jimmy paused, the question wasn't routine so the answer had to be right.

‘It was offered to me.'

‘Why was it offered?'

‘My superiors thought it best.'

‘And why was that?'

‘Ask them, it was their decision. I didn't say I agreed with them.'

‘Would you have agreed with them?'

‘They never asked.'

‘But if they had?'

‘They didn't.'

The policeman stopped for a moment.

‘Is there something about your retirement you are unwilling to tell me, Signor Costello? I assure you these questions are purely routine.'

‘Of course they are if you say they are. Look, I retired, what else is there to tell? Don't policemen ever retire in Italy?'

‘Why are you being so unhelpful, Signor Costello? I merely wish to confirm the information I have been given about you. Your reasons for retirement were not at all problematic, were they?'

‘I don't know.'

The inspector registered mock surprise.

‘You don't know! How can you say you don't know?'

‘I just open my mouth and let the words come out.'

That got a response, the temperature of the inspector's voice dropped a couple of degrees.

‘You know very well what I mean, Mr Costello.'

Signor when he's OK, Mister when he's pissed off. A small thing but every little helped in this kind of game.

‘If I were to speculate out loud about me being problematic I would need to know who felt it was worthwhile to poke their nose into my past, what they were interested in, and why they looked in the first place. If I knew that I might be able to work out whether why I retired would be in any way problematic. For them, that is, it wasn't a problem for me and still isn't.' Jimmy waited, but the inspector didn't seem to have anything to say to he went on. ‘Of course even if I knew the who, what, and why it doesn't mean I would tell them what they wanted to know, or tell anybody they sent sniffing around to get the information even if he was a police inspector.'

He'd finished what he wanted to say, so far as he could, so he waited.