by James Green
Nat smiled. ‘Denny’s finished. If the IRA and Bridie McDonald miss, I won’t. But I don’t promise it will be better, Jimmy. That’s in your head, not mine.’
Nat left. They didn’t say goodbye.
Jimmy began turning it all over slowly in his mind. Why would Denny give Father Liam to Special Branch? Why would Denny give anything to Special Branch? In Denny’s book there were only two sides to the street, the law’s side and his side, and Denny would never work with coppers, not with straight coppers, anyway. Denny thought he would live forever and always be at the top. He would never work out that money or fear was never enough insurance. He just wouldn’t bother to think that everybody gets older, slower, or just unlucky, and everybody goes down in the end.
But if you were someone who looked ahead and made plans for their retirement, you’d take out the right insurance policy. If you made a deal with Special Branch and you set out to be a source of info on the IRA, now that would be real insurance, that would put you on the inside, not the outside. What if you got Special Branch what they needed, not just on the IRA but on the other terrorist nutters who came to London for a bit of shopping? You would know things, because some of the people they came to deal with knew and trusted you. Now that really would be insurance, that would give you friends in very high places and buy enough immunity when the time came. But that wouldn’t be Denny’s way. Denny’s brain wasn’t a businessman’s brain.
But Nat’s was. If Nat was already on his way to the top he would have started a pension plan a long time ago, a nice solid government pension plan. Jimmy decided not to make any phone calls. But one day he might, one day the information might be worth making a call. One day, if he lived that long.
TWELVE
Kilburn, February 1995
Jimmy stood with his bag and carrier in the doorway of The Liffey Lad. It was busy. By the fireplace a young red-headed man in a thick white sweater was playing good fiddle music but Jimmy didn’t feel like tapping his foot. At the tables tourists looked on, happily bemused, as they ate their meals. Many tables had part-empty pint glasses of dark beer on them. The Guinness had been duly sampled but it was wine, shorts, and mineral water that was being drunk. Dotted about the room were Irishesque figures with caps on and Aran sweaters. The women looked more authentic than the men, except for one man in a corner, a Catholic priest in a black suit and a Roman collar. Four years ago that same priest had a job in a bookie’s not ten doors down the street. The music, the atmosphere, the rise and fall of voices was all very well done and not a bouncer in sight. Safe as well as fun, real value for money. Jimmy walked across to the bar, put his bags down.
‘A pint of Directors, George, please.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change.
A local stepped to the bar, gently bumped Jimmy, turned to him, and said in a loud voice, ‘Sorry, y’r honour, no offence intended.’ He then turned to the bar. ‘Another pint, Eamon, and on the slate this time by God.’
George looked at Jimmy and then said in an equally loud voice. ‘You’ve had all the drink you’ll get here tonight, O’Halloran. Go home to your wife while you can still walk, though it’s no welcome the poor woman will give you in your state.’
The local swayed. ‘You’re a hard man, Eamon Doyle, with no heart at all.’ You could almost hear the tears of regret in his voice, it was all very well done.
‘Hard as the slate I don’t write your drinks up on.’
The local flourished his cap aggressively at George. It substituted for anything that might upset the customers.
‘Bad cess to you, Eamon Doyle. I will go where I am more appreciated, where a man with the drouth on him can find comfort and congenial company.’ He turned and announced with a grand gesture. ‘Goodnight to all here, may the blessing of St Patrick be upon you all.’
The priest in the corner looked up from his book and said, ‘Amen to that,’ and returned to his reading, as the local swayed accurately between the tables and left.
‘Do they ever clap, George?’ asked Jimmy as the tourist chatter enthusiastically resumed.
‘If they did we’d have overdone it.’
‘You don’t call that overdoing it?’
‘No, it’s all nicely judged, and sorry, we’ve taken off the Directors. What about something else?’
Jimmy looked at the taps and handles. ‘No thanks, I only really looked in to say goodbye.’ Jimmy returned his money to his pocket.
‘No hurry, Jimmy. Let me get you one, out of my own bottle.’ George brought a bottle of Irish whiskey from under the counter.
‘OK, George, but not out of that bottle. I’ll have one from any of those.’ Jimmy nodded to the bottles of spirits over the back of the bar. ‘Just a small one.’
George told the young barman to get Jimmy a small Irish.
‘That your new barman?’
‘Just temporary. Vic does it sometimes if he’s on standby, it’s easy work and he can get away when he’s needed for anything else. He’s out now but I expect him back soon.’
The barman put Jimmy’s drink in front of him.
‘Vic’s been delayed, George. Tell the boy he’ll be needed longer than you thought.’
‘Have you seen Vic?’
‘That’s right. He was with Sammy, they paid me a visit. What’s the matter, George, something upset you?’
George was looking worried. ‘What’s going on, Jimmy?’
‘Vic’s down and Sammy’s running. Soon I’ll be gone too.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m here and Vic isn’t. If Vic was alive, that phone call you asked the boy to make when I came in would have had him here in … how long? How long have I got, George,’ he looked at his watch, ‘with Sammy driving? Is he good? How long?’
George breathed out slowly, then Jimmy took Vic’s gun out of his pocket and put it on the bar.
‘Fucking hell, Jimmy.’
George quickly took the gun off the bar and slipped it into his pocket. A few faces at the nearer tables turned. He lowered his voice. ‘Vic and Sammy in one night? If that’s kosher then it ain’t good. But I can’t let you just leave, Jimmy. Nat will be upset if I just let you walk away.’ George’s hand was still in his pocket.
‘I’m going, George, no need for any trouble. I don’t want trouble.’
‘Like hell you don’t. Nat lets you sit there for nearly four weeks, then when he wants you iced you take out his two best boys. There’ll be those who say Nat’s losing his touch.’
‘Do you say that, George?’
‘I wouldn’t say it, but if someone like you, all on your own, can go up against Nat, who else might not have a go?’
‘Maybe I wasn’t on my own, George, maybe I had help.’
George was doing some serious thinking. ‘Maybe I’ll go and visit my old mum, Jimmy. She’s not been well.’
‘Your old mum drank herself to death years ago when she got too old and ugly to stay on the game.’
‘Jimmy, you’re a bastard. Three years ago you caused trouble and a lot of people got hurt. Everybody had to run for cover till things settled down. But it all got sorted and everything started running sweet as pie. Then you come back, and now…’ George paused.
‘You thinking about visiting your mum?’
‘I’ll think about it, Jimmy. I may have to think about it.’
Jimmy finished his drink and picked up his bags. ‘See you, George.’
‘One thing, Jimmy. Why did you come back?’
‘Still none of your fucking business, George, none of your fucking business.’
The faces turned again and watched Jimmy as he left. The tourists looked at each other excitedly. Now this was what they called value for money. Ten minutes after Jimmy left The Liffey Lad a man walked in and went to the bar.
‘Have you seen Vic or Sammy?’ George shook his head. ‘Anything up?’
‘Someone’s had a go at Nat. He’s OK but he wants Vic and Sammy to drop what the
y’re doing and get to him. Tell them if you see them,’ and he turned and left.
George stood for a moment then turned to the young barman. ‘You close up tonight, Wayne, and when you’ve closed up let Mr Desmond know I’ve just had a message, my old mum’s not well. I’ll have to go away for a bit.’
‘OK, George.’
And George took his coat and left.
Philomena was woken next morning by the phone ringing in the office. She awoke on her bed still fully dressed, and confused. She got up and hurried to the office to answer it. It was Inspector Deal.
‘If you wait, Inspector, I’ll get him.’ She went to Jimmy’s room. It was empty, the bed stripped, everything gone. She went back to the phone. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone, Inspector. No, he didn’t. Either last night or this morning. No, I have no idea where he has gone.’ She put the phone down and went to check Janine’s room.
Inspector Deal put the phone down with a smile. So Costello had gone, that suited him down to the ground. He sat back in his chair, there was a knock at his door which opened before he could say, ‘Come in’, and a man walked in. ‘Inspector Deal, I’m Superintendent Smart of Internal Investigations.’
Inspector Deal got up and came round his desk. ‘Nice to see you, Super, but not altogether a surprise.’
‘No?’
‘Well, I filed a report to A10 concerning Detective Inspector Flavin and the beating up of a sergeant out of this nick. It was linked to an ex-officer called Costello who worked out of some North London nick some years ago. I expected a visit.’
‘Your report?’
‘About Inspector Flavin. You’re here about my report on Inspector Tommy Flavin aren’t you?’
‘No. I’m here because we have received information about a recent case, the stabbing of Mrs Lucy Amhurst. You were the officer in charge.’
Inspector Deal looked shaken. ‘What information?’
‘That you ordered the arrest of someone knowing them to be innocent and fabricated evidence or caused evidence to be fabricated and that you obtained a confession illegally.’
‘That’s ridiculous, who gave you this information?’
‘Your name was given to us by a fellow officer, a Detective Sergeant Edward Clarke, he co-operated fully with us. I must warn you, Inspector Deal, that these are serious charges and may result in criminal proceedings. I must ask you for your warrant card.’
He held out his hand. Deal handed over his card in a dazed way.
‘Please do not leave your present address, and be available for questioning when required. You are suspended from duties during our enquiries. Please leave your office and take nothing with you.’
Deal moved towards his laptop.
‘Nothing, just your jacket.’
Deal noticed, for the first time, another officer standing in the doorway. He collected his jacket and went into the corridor. The other officer joined his colleague inside his office and the door closed.
Philomena found Janine’s room empty and the remains of the fire on the bed. She slowly made her way back to her room and sat down, then she noticed the letter Jimmy had left. It was addressed to her, typewritten on an expensive envelope, there was no stamp.
She took it and opened it.
It was from the Duns College and the address was in the Vatican City. She began to read.
Dear Sister Philomena,
This is to introduce James Cornelius Costello and to thank you for accepting him on a placement at Fr Lynch’s recommendation. He is considering making an application to study for the priesthood at Duns College in Rome, a foundation which offers training to mature men of independent means for the Catholic priesthood.
Following initial discussions in Rome with Mr Costello, it has been agreed that he undertake a short period of pastoral work in an appropriate placement before beginning his final interviews. I have been in contact with the Superior of your Province in England who highly recommends your work.
Mr Costello is a widower with two grown-up children, one married with a family, one a missionary priest. No doubt he will give you any further information about himself you require when he gives you this letter at the commencement of his placement.
Mr Costello served for many years with distinction in the Metropolitan Police Force before retiring. I’m sure he will be as great a help to you as you will be to him. I apologise for the lack of notice in this matter but I’m sure Mr Costello will explain the circumstances.
Yours in Christ,
The signature was a scrawl but underneath it was printed, Honorary Rector, Duns College.
Philomena put the letter on to the table. Why didn’t you tell me, Jimmy? Why keep it secret till you were gone? But she knew in her heart that Jimmy would never tell anyone more than they needed to know. So, you’ve gone for a priest, Jimmy. Well I’ll pray for you. I think you’re going to need lots of prayers.
The front door bell rang, Philomena went down and unbolted it. On the step was Mr Amhurst.
‘Excuse me, Sister, may I come in?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Sister Philomena led him to the kitchen after closing and bolting the door. ‘Tea?’
‘Coffee please.’
‘Would you like to make it yourself to suit you?’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Sister.’
Philomena made her tea while Mr Amhurst made his coffee.
‘I’m afraid I’ve come to ask a favour, Sister.’
‘If it’s anything I can do, I’d be delighted.’
‘Would it be possible, do you think, for me to come and help here, like Lucy did? I’m afraid I don’t share your faith as she did but she was happy at St Bartholomew’s … Bart’s.’
‘It’s not Bartholomew, it’s named for Bartimaeus, the
blind beggar.’
‘Oh.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It’s probably a silly thing to ask of you, my talents outside making and selling plastic bags are as limited as my understanding of your faith, but I can make tea and wash up.’
He paused for a second. ‘I think I would feel nearer to Lucy here than anywhere else and giving up business means I will have plenty of time.’
Philomena looked at him. ‘You want to be a helper?’
‘Very much, Sister, I know I will be of little use, but whatever I can do, and of course if money would help …’
Sister Philomena laughed. Help and finance, and people said there was no God. Wasn’t there always a good soul not far off to help you on your way? ‘How did you get here, Mr Amhurst?’
‘Oh, I used the Skoda, that was right, wasn’t it?’
Philomena nodded. ‘This is what we’ll do …’ and they sat at the kitchen table as Philomena outlined her ideas.
EPILOGUE
No disciplinary action was taken against Inspector Tommy Flavin, who remained in post.
Detective Superintendent Norman Forester took early retirement and obtained a senior post with a large security firm.
Detective Superintendent Eddy Clarke made inspector but shortly afterwards took early retirement. He and his partner Sharon moved to Torremolinos and opened a club for expatriates.
Inspector Joe Deal resigned from the Force and opened a successful string of bistro bars in several major cities outside London.
Bridie McDonald is still running her business in Glasgow but, unfortunately, has lost another son.
Bart’s has re-opened another floor of the building to provide accommodation for homeless or abused women with children and is now fully refurbished. It will soon become financially self-supporting. It has two paid members of staff and Sister Philomena has been allowed by her Order to stay on for the foreseeable future.
Nat Desmond continued his business for six months but died, tragically, when his car was destroyed by a bomb. Police believe it was a case of mistaken identity.
George’s old mother finally got better and he returned to The Liffey Lad when, after a period of uncertainty, a new o
wner was found for Nat Desmond’s business. The whereabouts of Janine McIver remain unknown.
Overheard in a police station canteen some weeks later:
‘If Costello ever becomes a fucking priest the confessionals will need steps for sinners to fall down so they cough to the sins Jimmy’s looking for.’
It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.
James Green
The Road to Redemption Series
Bad Catholics
Stealing God
Yesterday’s Sins
Broken Faith
Unholy Ghost
Last Rights
James Green
Agents of Independence Series
Another Small Kingdom
A Union Not Blessed
The Eagle Turns
Never an Empire
Winston’s Witch
For more information about James Green
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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN 9781783750313
Copyright © James Green 2015
First published by Luath Press 2009
The right of James Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
