Bad Catholics

by James Green

  ‘You’re missing the point. He only took what was coming to him, he protected his wife and kids. He really was a good family man and he really took Mass and all that crap seriously.’

  ‘You can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘You can if you’re mad. The Krays were like that, Denny Morris was like that, Lenny Monk was, before he let things slip. They were all mad. I’ve seen Jimmy go up against a professional and the professional back off because something had been switched off in Jimmy. He knew that he would go down but he let you know he’d hurt you before you could put him down, hurt you enough to make it matter. You had to be prepared to go all the way with Jimmy or leave it alone. Mind you, he wasn’t violent normally, usually he was a quiet bloke. I asked him once, after we’d done a nasty lift, if he was ever frightened. He said he was frightened most of the time, but his mum had told him, “You’ll often be frightened, son, but don’t let it interfere, just do what has to be done and leave the rest in God’s hands.” And that’s what he did, although I don’t think God had ever shaken hands on the deal. And Jimmy was a good copper.’

  ‘A good copper?’

  ‘A good detective. His arrest rate was something special. But more than that, he got a result in court more often than most. If he was on the case and someone got nicked you had a very fair chance of getting the verdict. And he didn’t fiddle the evidence, he did it all by hard graft. When I went back to his nick as an inspector I always saw to it that the roster got me Jimmy as my sergeant for the times you needed a good detective.’

  ‘So why did he leave?’ Tommy looked at Deal.

  ‘He took early retirement.’

  ‘He wasn’t pushed?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Joe, because you’re a good copper and you’d find out anyway.’

  Deal smiled. He thought he was a good copper too, but he liked to be told. It almost compensated for the beer. He forced another sip.

  ‘Jimmy’s kids left home. Michael became a priest, some sort of missionary I think. Jimmy was dead proud of that. Eileen got married and went to live in Australia. Then we hear Bernie’s got cancer. Next thing she’s in hospital and then she’s dead, quick as that. We all go to the Requiem Mass and back to Jimmy’s house. He seemed all right. That night Jimmy goes out. There’s a tearaway who specialises in burgling old ladies and beating them up but he’s clever and no one can touch him. Jimmy goes round to his flat and beats the living shit out of him. Next he picks up Denny Morris, he just asks him, very polite, to come along. No problem, Denny knows he’s fireproof and he knows Jimmy, so he goes. Nobody stops Jimmy because Denny’s an untouchable, nothing can happen. He’s got everyone who matters in his pocket or on his payroll. What Denny doesn’t run himself, he lets others run and takes his share. He’s got an outfit that could chew you up and spit you out whoever you are. When Jimmy got Morris out of the pub he took him to a building site and broke both his legs with a pick-axe handle and then kicked the shit out of him as well. How he managed it nobody found out. Denny was a hard bastard, nobody thought Jimmy could take him but he nearly killed him, would have killed him if he hadn’t phoned the nick. They got Denny to hospital and he lived.’

  ‘What was it all about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Denny was a dirty piece of work and Jimmy had tried for him once but you couldn’t touch Denny.’

  ‘So Costello scarpered?’

  ‘No, he just went home as if nothing had happened. He didn’t do anything, just stayed at home, did his shopping, and went to Mass on Sunday.’

  ‘Nobody went after him?’

  ‘No, they kept an eye on Jimmy in case he ran and waited for Denny to say what he wanted. Jimmy wasn’t just going to die, Denny wouldn’t let him off that easily.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Morris didn’t die and soon the word came out that ten thousand was waiting for anyone who brought Jimmy’s eyes, thumbs, and bollocks to him in a bottle, with Jimmy along in enough of a state so he could apologise before Morris took out his tongue himself. That’s what Denny said he wanted.’

  For a moment both men were silent. ‘Who saved Costello? Not the police?’

  ‘No, not the police. They were running round shitless wondering what to do, run Jimmy in or protect him from being butchered.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘There was a takeover bid.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One morning they found Denny’s wheelchair by his Jag on a building site and nobody ever saw him again. Nat took over. He was Denny’s right-hand man.’

  ‘Why didn’t he do Costello?’

  ‘What for? If anything, Jimmy had done him a favour. Nat was good but he needed Denny down before he could put him out, and he wouldn’t pay ten quid for any part of Jimmy, head, bollocks, feet, or fart.’

  ‘So Jimmy got off?’

  ‘Yeah, but he couldn’t stay. The tearaway business got sorted, the lad was told there’d be more of the same if he didn’t keep his trap shut and give up his hobby. But like I say, Jimmy was mad, you couldn’t have someone like him on the street. So he got early retirement on the grounds of ill health, brought on by stress. He got his pension and, of course, he had what he’d put away. He left, went to Ireland, I think, his house got sold and that was the last we heard of him.’

  ‘So why’s he back now?’

  ‘Good question, Joe,’ said Flavin, standing, ‘a very good question, and a good copper like you should be able to find that out. When you do, let me know.’

  Deal liked that, a good copper. He finished the last of the sewage water and stood up. ‘I will, and thanks.’

  They shook hands and Flavin left. Deal had finished his own pint but Flavin hadn’t even touched his glass.

  When Deal got back to the station, Eddy Clarke was out somewhere so he left a message with the desk sergeant for him to come to his office as soon as he came in. In his office he took a tablet to settle his stomach and then dealt with paperwork until Clarke arrived.

  ‘How’s the Amhurst case going, anything new?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘I’ve gone over all the reports, there’s nothing there either.’

  I think we should clear it up.’

  ‘OK Boss, if you think so.’

  ‘Have you got anyone to suggest?’

  ‘You’ve got quite a choice. You always have if you want to take something nasty off the street. There’s plenty out there.’

  ‘Right. Put this killing alongside something we definitely know is down to our patsy and make it all watertight: evidence, witnesses, forensic. I want a guilty plea for this one. And make it someone white, will you? It might be worth a slot somewhere for me to say how we’re not as driven by racial stereotyping as the media try to say we are. We have open minds on all our cases.’

  ‘I don’t know the choice is that wide, Boss, not if you want all that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find who we’re looking for.’

  Clarke left and Deal looked out of his office window. Now that the Amhurst case was closed, should he wrap it all up by getting rid of Costello? Maybe, maybe not. It wasn’t clear what would do the most good. One thing he could do. He switched on his computer and began to prepare a report for A10, naming Inspector Thomas Flavin as his source. You never knew when a good report might come in useful.

  Kilburn, September 1975

  ‘Evening, Mr Costello.’

  The Glasgow accent was not so out of place in the parish club, the black leather jacket was, but not the accent. If Jimmy had been in Glasgow, alone, he would probably have gone to just such a parish club for a drink rather than chance his arm amongst strangers in some pub or suffer the frigid safety of a hotel bar.

  The man walked on and took his pint to an empty table. Jimmy had not acknowledged the greeting. He didn’t think he knew him.

  He returned his attention to his pint of bitter. It wasn’t bad beer but he missed the mild. The club steward had taken if off because there was no real
demand any more. Jimmy didn’t mind that it had gone, you couldn’t expect the club to keep mild on for one member, some things were just too much to ask.

  Jimmy liked being a detective. He had been one for two years now. He had liked being a beat bobby but being a detective was better. He had never liked wearing a uniform, he would have been happy to stay a beat copper if it hadn’t been for the uniform. He didn’t like to stand out. He hated being noticed and beat bobbies got noticed, it was part of the job. Another thing he liked about being a detective was that he was good at it, he enjoyed his work.

  It was early and the club was quiet. Later it would fill and he wouldn’t be able to sit like this, by himself, and just think. The one thing he didn’t like about his work was that anyone who knew you were a detective could never tell if you were on or off duty. That had been the good thing about a uniform. In the parish club if things got lively, which very occasionally they did, no one expected him to do any more than anyone else. But being a detective, and everyone in the club knowing it, he felt happier having an early couple of pints after work and leaving before it began to get busier. When Michael and Eileen were younger and more of a handful he had tried to get home in time to give Bernadette a rest. Now they were older there wasn’t any hurry. Jimmy thought about Bernadette and the kids, their life together now and as it had been when they married. He was happy.

  He finished his pint and left his empty glass on the bar. ‘Night, Mr Costello,’ said the barman as he left.

  Jimmy walked down the High Road. He and Bernadette had a comfortable two-bedroomed house in the parish. When Bernie had found it shortly after they were married he had not been keen. Why live in the same place you’ve always lived? Why not have a change? But, as always, she had been right. Being a copper was enough change. The same people, the same church, the same club to drink in, knowing and being known, that was good. Eileen and Michael went to the same primary school that he and Bernie had gone to, he liked that. It gave him a sense of belonging.

  ‘Excuse me. Could you tell me the way to …’

  The question from the man in the car didn’t finish. It had stopped Jimmy long enough so he could see that the driver, who was leaning across the front seat, was aiming a gun at his stomach through the open window. The back door of the car was opened by a man in a black leather jacket who had come from behind him.

  ‘Get in.’

  Jimmy got in and the man shut the door and got in front beside the driver, took the gun and sat, half turned, watching him with the gun out of sight. Jimmy recognised him as the man with the Glaswegian accent from the club. There was another person in the back seat, a blonde, middle-aged woman wearing a fur coat and a skirt too short for a woman of her age and with her sort of legs.

  The car moved off. ‘Hello, Jimmy.’ Another Glaswegian.

  ‘Do I know any of you?’

  ‘You don’t have to. I know you.’

  Jimmy indicated the man in the front seat. ‘Does he know that carrying that firearm is a serious criminal offence, if he hasn’t got a licence for it, of course?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. You see we’re used to Scottish Law, guns are compulsory where we come from.’

  Jimmy sat back and looked ahead as the car drove down the High Road and passed the end of the road where Bernadette was waiting for him. They drove in silence for several minutes, then the blonde spoke.

  ‘I like you, Jimmy, you’re not a gabbler, you wait and see. Jackie, give the packet over.’

  The passenger in the front put his hand inside his leather jacket and pulled out a thick brown envelope which he threw onto the back seat between Jimmy and the blonde. She nodded down to it.

  ‘Take a look. It’s yours, you’re going to earn it.’

  ‘It’s a serious criminal offence to offer …’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ laughed the blonde, ‘is everything down here a serious criminal offence, and if it is how do you propagate the fucking human race in this town then?’

  Jimmy took the package and tore open one end. It was a lot of money, enough to make whatever it was serious, dangerous, and best avoided. Jimmy wanted to get rich but there were other things he wanted besides being rich, staying alive and out of prison being very high on the list. He put the packet back on the seat.

  Blondie laughed again.

  ‘Good man, no questions. It’s my party, so I entertain. All right, it’s a simple job. Let’s talk about Lenny Monk. You know who Lenny Monk is?’

  Fuck, thought Jimmy. Lenny Monk ran most of North London.

  ‘I know who Lenny Monk is.’

  ‘Thought you might. Well Lenny sent a man to Glasgow to talk but he sent the man to talk to the wrong people. I know Lenny’s getting old but he shouldn’t get stupid. I don’t want him in Glasgow so I sent my youngest son down here to let Lenny know. I was friendly, Jimmy, I didn’t send Lenny’s wee man back in bits. I just put him on a train in a box, and I sent my son, Jamie. Not a crew, no violence, see, real diplomacy. It was like in the Bible, I sent him my own son.’

  Jimmy waited.

  ‘I want you to find Jamie.’

  Blondie wasn’t laughing any more.

  ‘How long has he been down here?’

  Blondie was silent for a minute. ‘Three weeks.’

  Jimmy pushed the packet across the seat to her. ‘Sorry girlie, I can’t help. He’s dead.’

  Blondie was staring down at the rings on her puffy white hands, which lay on her short, black skirt. The nails were a vivid red. After a minute she looked at him and for the first time he saw her eyes clearly. They scared the shit out him.

  ‘I know that fucking well enough, and it’s Bridie, not girlie,’ she paused. ‘Find my son, I want him home for a proper burial.’

  So that was it, find a body. That was it, but was that all of it? Lenny Monk was a top villain, Denny Morris’s boss. If he was involved it was very serious, and if Lenny was trying to make connections in Glasgow, bits of people were going to be flying around. He didn’t want any part of it.

  ‘Find Jamie? That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’ She nodded to the packet. ‘That’s a lot of money, plenty just to find a dead body.’

  ‘It is, but if I could find him I would probably find out a lot of other things you might want me to tell you, things other people wouldn’t want you to know. A lot of money’s no good to somebody who’s dead.’

  ‘Listen, I know Monk did it or had it done and I know why he did it, there’s nothing else to know. I’ll deal with him in my own time and my own way. And if it wasn’t Monk who did it himself I’ll find the trigger and deal with him as well. I don’t need any information or help from you. All I want is to bury my boy properly, have his Requiem said and have him in a cemetery near me. Find him so I can take him home.’

  She pushed the money towards him. Jimmy pushed the packet back.

  ‘All right, Bridie, I’ll do what I can, which might be nothing at all. If I find anything I’ll let you know and then I’ll tell you how much it will cost you.’

  Bridie smiled.

  ‘I was told you were a good detective, Jimmy.’ Then she stopped smiling. ‘You find my son or I’ll find yours.’ Her eyes delivered the message.

  Jimmy knew that if Bridie so much as sniffed fear from him now, he would never see his family again.

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Bridie. I haven’t taken your money yet and when I do, if I do, it’ll be payment for services rendered. And don’t ever try to use my family.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or no business will get done.’

  She thought about it. ‘You know The Albion on Walker Street?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The barman there will get a message to me. Where can I drop you?’

  He looked out of the window. ‘Two streets down and turn left.’ The car went two streets down and turned.

  ‘First right.’ The car turned right. ‘This’ll do.’

  The car stopped. Across the street was a wide d
oorway

  with a blue police sign above it.

  ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything silly?’

  ‘No, Bridie, nothing silly.’

  Jimmy got out and stood on the pavement as the car pulled away, then he crossed the road towards the police station. What he needed most at this moment was a dry pair of trousers.

  The two big saloon cars were parked at either end of the quiet suburban street. The fact that they each had two men in them and that their engines were ticking over was not noticed by the very few people who passed them. When the security van which collected the cash from the bank’s branches in that district turned into the street and was between them they both moved, forcing the van to skid to a halt and preventing it from reversing. The men were out of the cars quickly and the security guards were almost as quick to open the van’s doors. The sawn-offs encouraged a willing co-operation.

  The sacks of money were out of the van and into one of the cars along with the four men in under three minutes. The car behind the security van with the men and money in it headed back along the street at speed but, turning right at the first junction braked hard and skidded to a halt, slewed sideways across the quiet road. The road was blocked by police cars backed up with armed police. Two other police cars came up behind, squealed to a halt and blocked any exit.

  No one panicked, no one shouted. The police were armed and would shoot. Sawn-offs frightened people, killed people if necessary, but only at close range. They were of no use here and were thrown out of the cars as the blaggers came out of the car quietly, showing it was all over.

  Everyone was very professional.

  ‘Against the cars, boys, let’s not have any fuss, eh?’ a police voice shouted.

  The four men turned and stood facing their car with their hands on it in clear view as the police slowly walked towards them. They were given the once-over, handcuffed, and lined up. The chief inspector leading the operation walked along the line then went back towards the first blocking police car and spoke to the man in the back seat.

  ‘Not there.’

  Jimmy looked at the men by the car. Tommy wasn’t often wrong, hardly ever. His information was usually good and this time Tommy had said it was Gospel.