Stealing God (7 page)

‘And you said?'

‘Not much, that they should go to the local police.'

‘Did they?'

‘He said my uncle didn't want to do that. He was treating it like it was nothing, just yobs, and he wanted it left that way, said that he could take care of himself.'

‘Glasgow can be a rough town.'

‘Maybe so, but wouldn't you say there's a possibility someone's decided to put pressure on me through my uncle? Or is it another coincidence?'

They both sat in silence. The waiter came over and asked if they wanted more drinks. Ricci looked at Jimmy who nodded so he ordered two more.

‘So what help am I supposed to give you?'

‘Use your contacts from the old days to see that my uncle is left alone and tell me why I should be frightened of you. If we're going to work together I need to know who I'm working with.'

‘What's in it for me?' The new Jimmy wouldn't have asked, but for the old Jimmy it was always the first question. So it got asked.

‘You get the chance to do the right thing, to help me and my uncle.' Ricci finally finished his drink. If another was coming there was no point in making it last. ‘And then you get to try and find out if a genuinely holy old man was murdered. If it turns out he was, maybe we find out why, and who was responsible. There's no money in this that I can see, just doing the job and doing it right.'

‘That's not much, in fact it's fuck-all, I never worked for …'

The words had come as if by themselves but he managed not to finish the sentence. Don't go back, Jimmy, at least don't go all the way back. Go only as far as they make you go. The drinks came. They both waited until the waiter was gone.

‘Being on the side of the angels never turned a profit that I know of, not in our business. The real pay-offs are always on the other side of the street, but I guess you know that. I suppose it all comes down to whether you really are taking this priest thing seriously.'

Jimmy knew he was right. He'd been asked for help, if he took being a priest seriously then he would have to help because that was the right thing to do. But that would mean resurrecting a Jimmy Costello he wanted to bury for good and that had to be the wrong thing to do.

Shit, he thought, why is it so fucking complicated, so bloody hard? Why can't I walk away and stick to what I came to Rome to do? But that would be putting himself first, making himself the only one that mattered which would mean he hadn't really changed at all. But if he took it on he had to go back to thinking and behaving like the old Jimmy. Christ, what a mess, you're wrong if you do and you're wrong if you don't. The Catholic Church, it gets you coming and it gets you going. No wonder they said we're the experts on guilt.

‘Well, are you in or out?'

Jimmy took a drink.

‘So what do we do? Do you go and see the minister's aide or what?'

Ricci smiled but this time the smile reached his eyes and it didn't look at all practised. Relief usually doesn't.

‘I'll see to this end. I want you to go and get the Glasgow business sorted. I can't leave Rome and I need to be sure my family aren't going to be any part of this. Can you do that?'

‘I can try.'

‘You must still have contacts, if it's yobs or tearaways hired to throw a scare your friends should be able to sort it out without too much trouble.' Ricci picked up his drink. ‘Cheers, you made the right decision.'

He took a long pull at his campari and soda; he wasn't being careful any more. Jimmy watched him. Like hell I made the right decision. I didn't make any bloody decision. He took a long drink of his Tuborg.

Neither of us did.

NINE

Jimmy arrived back to his apartment in the Prati, a quiet, expensive residential district to the north of the Vatican. He went to a drawer, got out a battered old notebook, and looked up the number of a pub in London. He knew he should have thrown the notebook away years ago, it was part of the past he had turned his back on. But somehow he always put it off. Now, when he needed it, there it was. Was that luck or divine intervention? He looked at his watch, in the UK it would still be lunchtime and the pub would be open. He dialled the number. A voice answered.

‘Can I still contact Bridie McDonald through this number?'

‘Bridie who?'

‘McDonald. Bridie McDonald from Glasgow. I want to talk to her. My name's Jimmy Costello.'

‘You must have a wrong number, mate, there's no one of that name here. What number did you dial?'

Jimmy gave his own Rome phone number.

‘No, mate, nothing like. You're miles off.'

The phone was put down.

Two days later his apartment phone rang and when he answered it a London voice said, ‘10 o'clock Mass, Tuesday, St Peter the Apostle,' and rang off.

Jimmy phoned Ricci.

‘I'm going to Glasgow.'

‘You made your contacts?'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘But you've been in touch with people who can help?'

‘I told you, I'll see what I can do.'

‘Look, we need to talk …'

‘No, we don't.'

He rang off.

He didn't need Ricci pumping him for information he didn't have. He'd made a contact. Whether it would do him any good he had no idea but it was the best he could do. Tomorrow he would go to morning Mass and light some candles. If there was a priest available he might go to Confession. It was a big risk contacting Bridie so it was best to be prepared. There was nothing else he could think of so he went into his bedroom, pulled out an old black holdall from the wardrobe, and began to sort out his packing.

The budget flight left Ciampino in bright sunshine, it had been clear skies all the way until the flight reached the North Sea where thick clouds below the plane shone in the sunlight. The final descent to Edinburgh airport took the plane down through the cloud into a dark, wet afternoon and looking out of the rain-streaked windows the passengers' thoughts turned to raincoats and umbrellas. They taxied to a standstill and everybody on the crowded plane got up and started opening and emptying the lockers above the seats. The doors at the front and rear opened and the slow, shuffling exit of passengers began. This was a budget flight so it didn't include protection from the weather at either end of the journey. Going down the steps which had been wheeled to the doors, Jimmy turned up his coat collar against the wind and the squally rain. Once on the tarmac, he didn't hurry as some passengers did. His legs felt stiff and the weather made him feel even more dispirited than he had been when he'd set off from Rome.

It was all very well for Ricci to say use your old contacts. What Ricci didn't understand was that if he got in touch with any of the old contacts, the ones who had fixed his file and kept prying eyes away, he would be a dead man very quickly. His safety lay in staying well away from those contacts. But he needed to know who was doing what. As Ricci had said, it was one thing to fillet a file and get a petrol bomb thrown through a window, quite another thing to fix a visit to the States to lecture on art crime.

By the time he got out of the rain, his hair and coat were wet. He thought of the Rome sunshine he had left just two hours ago. He ran his fingers through his hair and began to climb the wide, carpeted staircase up to the Arrivals terminal.

‘Bloody weather,' he muttered.

‘Get used to it, pal, this is Scotland.'

The Glasgow voice belonged to a smiling young man in a smart, black overcoat who was carrying a small suitcase. Jimmy stood still against the stainless steel handrail and watched the man's back. It was nothing, it couldn't be. Why would anyone be put on the plane? Anyway no one knew which plane he would be on. I'm getting paranoid, he thought. Then he remembered the old joke, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. He came out of the stairway into a wide, well-lit walkway that led towards the baggage hall. He had nothing in the hold of the plane so he walked through Nothing to Declare and on until he went through the doors into Arrivals.

Crossing the Arrivals hall he tried to make his mind find the old routine.

Be careful but not so careful that you're slow. See what's there but only take notice of what matters. Don't get noticed, don't … don't … He heaved a heavy sigh then said, ‘I'm getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.'

He was passing an elderly lady in tweeds. She gave him a sharp look and moved quickly away.

Talking out loud to myself. Yes, I really am getting too bloody old and tired for this crap.

But this time he upset nobody because he said it to himself. He tried again to remember the rules. Don't make mistakes but know when mistakes have been made, your own or anybody else's …

He left the main terminal and bought a ticket for the City Shuttle, the double-decker bus which ferried people to and from Edinburgh. One was waiting so he got on and asked the driver if the bus passed the railway station.

‘Haymarket or Waverley?'

‘I'm going to Glasgow.'

‘Then you need Haymarket. You can't miss it.'

Sitting in the bus looking at the window and watching the rain drops running down, Jimmy went over things.

Ricci got angry when he wouldn't tell him what he planned to do, thought it meant he didn't trust him. He wasn't altogether wrong. But the truth was, when he'd set up the meeting he didn't know himself how he would handle it. Now he had arrived he still wasn't sure.

Another couple of passengers got on the bus, showed their tickets to the driver, stowed their big cases in the luggage rack, and sat down. Jimmy looked at his watch, three o'clock. He looked out of the window. Everything was blurred by the rain and it was dark enough for early evening.

Tomorrow was Tuesday. He should have plenty of time to get settled into a B&B or hotel, find out where the church was, and give it a walk-by to get the layout sorted in his mind. Another passenger got onto the bus, pushed a suitcase onto the luggage rack, and sat down. The driver closed the doors and the bus moved away. Once clear of the airport roads it went up the slip road onto the main dual carriageway and headed for the city.

The driver was right. You couldn't miss Haymarket station, the bus stopped right outside it. Jimmy bought a ticket, went down to the platform and waited. When the train came, he got on, put his holdall on the seat beside him and watched Edinburgh slip by as the train picked up speed.

How rusty am I, he wondered? Well, it was too late now to change his plans. He'd committed himself. He just hoped he hadn't committed himself too far.

TEN

Jimmy found somewhere to stay near the station and then took a taxi out to the church. St Peter the Apostle was a modern church on a quiet road of well-established detached houses standing in their own substantial gardens. This was where post-war Glasgow money had come to live in their architect-designed homes, a leafy suburb for like-minded people with incomes that meant they could afford the best.

He asked the taxi to wait while he went and checked Mass times. The church's side door was unlocked even though it was half-past seven in the evening. If people round here stole they didn't do it on the cheap by sneaking into churches and raiding the poor box. There were better ways to steal from the poor. Jimmy gave the surrounds to the church a once over and chose a couple of places where he could look at the front of the church without attracting too much attention. Then he went back to his taxi and asked to be taken to a decent Italian restaurant somewhere near the station. Once he'd had a good meal and a couple of beers he went back to his room. Everything he could do he'd done. Now it would all be down to Bridie. It had been a long day and almost as soon as his head hit the pillow he slept.

The heavy, main double doors were shut and the few people who went in to morning Mass used the same side door that Jimmy had checked the previous evening. He'd seen Bridie arrive in a black Mercedes driven by a middle-aged woman. The car had disappeared behind the church and a few minutes later Bridie and her driver had both reappeared, talking. They were a couple of well-off, pious, Catholic biddies going to week-day morning Mass, except they weren't dressed like biddies. The driver was smart and sombre in a well-cut suit. Bridie was expensive and brassy, her skirt still too short for her age and legs. Both carried thick prayer books.

Jimmy waited until the Mass was under way then walked across the road, went behind the church and into the car park. The Mercedes was there with a few other cars. Morning Mass, unless the priest was a zealot, would last no more than half an hour, maybe only twenty minutes. There was nothing to do but wait so he put his hands in his pockets, leaned his backside against the front wing, and waited.

After twenty minutes the first person came into the car park, a young woman. She gave Jimmy a look which said, “and what do you think you're hanging about for?” but didn't take it further. She got into a snappy little red sports car and drove off. Soon after that a husband and wife came out and walked past the car park, then a single middle-aged woman. Mass was over. Bridie and her driver came round the corner; they couldn't miss him but neither bothered to look. They were talking and before they got to the car Jimmy could make out what Bridie was saying. She had a carrying voice.

‘… so I said to Father Leahy, Father, I've done the White Elephant stall for ten years and if you want Mrs Mac to help me you can have Mrs Mac do the whole thing because I don't need her help or anyone else's.'

The driver pulled her door open.

‘The cheek, telling you that you need help to do your stall.'

Bridie opened the passenger side door, got in, and pulled it shut. The engine started and Bridie's window slid down.

‘What the fuck are you standing there for, Jimmy Costello? If you came to see me get in unless you're thinking of running alongside.' Jimmy opened the back door and got in. ‘I'll take you back to your hotel and you can tell me what this is about on the way.'