by James Green
‘I thought you were taking me to the airport?’
‘The airport’s over thirty miles away. If you want to fly somewhere go to Edinburgh and fly from there. I’m not your taxi. I just deliver you to the station and give you a message.’
‘Why is it called Glasgow airport if it’s bloody miles away from Glasgow?’
Jimmy was trying hard to hide his relief and not piss his pants, saying something, anything, helped. If the driver was annoyed at his stupid question she wasn’t about to show it. Jimmy liked her, whatever it was she did besides driving Bridie he guessed she would be good at it.
‘Finished being funny?’
Outside the car were people and lights. Nothing was going to happen here. Now he knew he was safe the tension disappeared, he didn’t need to hear his own voice to know he was still alive.
‘Yeah, finished.’
‘OK, here’s your message. We don’t like people who bring their London shite up here and cause trouble, especially when they’ve come to ask a favour. It’s bad manners. Maybe somebody will teach you a lesson about that, it could get you into trouble, know what I mean?’ Jimmy didn’t answer. He guessed the question was rhetorical. ‘There’s no more favours for you here, Costello, there’s nothing here for you or your London friends, ever. Tomorrow morning if you’re still in Scotland, anywhere in Scotland, you’re dead and if you’re stupid enough to come back you’ll wind up like Jamie, and you know how Jamie wound up.’ He knew. ‘Now get out.’
Jimmy did as he was told, watched the car pull away, then looked around but as the people flowed past him on their way in and out he asked himself, what the hell am I looking for? This is a railway station, who am I going to see? If Bridie had someone following him until he was clear of Glasgow he knew he wouldn’t spot them unless they were attached to him by a rope. If someone was there then there was fuck all he could do about it so he went into the station, found the toilets, and gratefully relieved himself. Then he bought a ticket to Edinburgh Haymarket and headed for the platform.
While he sat in the train waiting for it to pull away he thought about Bridie. How the hell do you figure a woman like that? A violent, Mass-going biddy who runs serious crime and a stall at the parish bazaar stall. He wondered what she thought about it all, her life, her family, her business, and her Church. If she ever thought about it. He specially wondered why she went to Mass in the mornings. But then he thought, it’s cost her two sons so I suppose she’s got a lot to pray about, we all have. The train began to pull away from the station, out into the night, and Jimmy switched off his brain. Time to rest. Later on, back to Rome, he would do the thinking. He closed his eyes and tried to doze.
At Edinburgh airport Jimmy walked to the nearest departures screen. There was no flight to Rome but there was the last KLM City-hopper going to Schiphol. From there it wouldn’t be a problem to get to Rome. He went to the KLM desk, bought a ticket, checked in, and went through the security checks into the departure lounge. In one of the bars he looked at the beers, ordered a Tuborg, went to a table, and sat down. It wasn’t so very busy, the main rush of the day was over. Most of those waiting were people like him who had to take a late flight, tired, quiet people, ordinary people who, if they looked at him at all, would see just another tired traveller waiting for his flight and having a beer. He grinned to himself and then took a sip. He’d done well, it had been a good outing, worth the effort even though it was no more than he’d expected.
‘Never touched me, Bridie. Never bloody touched me.’
TWELVE
The flight landed at Schiphol just after midnight local time. Once there Jimmy had a choice, a flight to Florence which would get him on his way within the hour or wait just over two and a half hours and fly direct. He was out of Scotland so there was no hurry, but the idea of hanging round an airport for a couple of hours didn’t appeal so he opted for Florence.
At Florence airport he checked his options at travel information and found he had the same choice, hang around and catch the first Rome flight just before seven which would get him into Fiumicino at seven fifty-five or get a taxi to Florence station and catch the five-thirty train which would also get him into Rome at the same time, seven fifty-five. He was knackered, he didn’t want to hang about in another airport so he opted for the station. Once there he could get a bit of breakfast then on the train stretch his legs and sleep maybe. Also, the train put him into central Rome, not out at the airport.
The train made sense.
In Rome he chose a taxi from the station rather than the face the Metro. It dropped him off in a tree-lined street bathed in the sunlight of a beautiful morning where people were on the move going about their business. He was home. He paid off the taxi, went up to his apartment, threw his holdall onto the settee, took off his jacket, kicked off his shoes, then went into the bathroom. He had made it back safe and sound and done what he’d set out to do. Now all he wanted to do was wash the travel off his face and hands, get into bed, and sleep. There had been a young family near him on the train with a baby that must have been teething because it cried nearly all the time. He’d dozed when he could but hadn’t been able to get any real sleep and his body was crying out for it. He went into his bedroom, drew the curtains to shut out the morning sun, dropped his clothes on the floor, and went to bed. Four hours later he woke feeling much better. He showered, shaved, dressed, and made himself some coffee. He sat down and made a call. Ricci was quick to answer.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m back, it’s sorted.’
‘He’ll be left alone?’
‘I did what I could.’
‘But he’ll be left alone?’
‘Look. I’ve had four hours’ sleep in two days. I got home this morning and I’ve called you. Your uncle’s all right, he’s nothing to do with us any more, nothing will happen to him. That’s it.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
Ricci rang off and Jimmy put the phone down.
Ricci wasn’t as good as he’d like to think, he let his personal feelings get in the way and that had made him sloppy. The firebomb was somebody was warning him off, but not from any investigation of a dead archbishop. It was about him nosing about in old files. He’d let his thinking get mixed up. Jimmy got up to make himself another coffee. It was a small fire, only closed a part of the factory and only for one day. Not like getting his mate sent to the US. That was different. That was the sort of thing God Almighty organised from Rome. The fire was just London’s way of saying keep out of Jimmy Costello’s past, or your uncle will pay the price. Well, Ricci wouldn’t be doing any more sniffing in records so it was over, finished.
He looked at his watch. It was just after one and he felt hungry. He would go out, walk in the sunshine for a bit, get rid of the last of the damp, depressed feeling he’d picked up in Scotland and had travelled back with him. Then he’d get a plate of pasta and after that come back and think. There was a lot to think about. He finished his coffee. He felt better, almost happy. He was back doing something he’d been good at. This would be his last outing as a detective, a farewell, a swan song, before he got down to his training and put his past behind him for good. And if it was his last case he’d make damn sure he got a result. Yes, he felt a lot better.
Never touched me, Bridie, never fucking touched me.
THIRTEEN
Jimmy woke in a bed in a room which seemed full of machines with dials and cables. A clear plastic bag hung from a stand at his bedside feeding fluid to his left arm. There was a window with the blind drawn and a low light was glowing in the ceiling. He felt no pain, he didn’t feel much of anything. He guessed that was because he was shot full of stuff. He lay there trying to remember what had happened. He got as far as leaving his apartment but then it all went blank. The door of the room opened slightly and a nurse put her head round. Jimmy turned his head and looked at her. She came in.
‘How do you feel?’ She spoke good English but Jimmy didn’t feel like answering. She smiled at
him. ‘Rest, Mr Costello, rest and get well. We were told to take very special care of you so don’t let us down. Get well.’ She checked the fluid bag then put a cool hand on his forehead. ‘You’re doing fine.’
She left the room and Jimmy lay still. There was nothing to think about, so he didn’t think. He went back to sleep. When he next opened his eyes Ricci was sitting in a chair by the bed looking at him. He wore a light sports coat and an open-neck blue shirt with his sunglasses in the top pocket.
‘Hello, Jimmy, welcome back.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Pretty bad. They certainly messed you up, a few ribs broken and the doctors were worried about your spleen for a while. The biggest worry was whether your head injuries had done some real damage. But you’re a tough old bird, with rest you’ll be OK.’
‘How long have I been out?’
‘You were out cold for two days, that was the tricky time when they thought they might lose you. Then you sort of came round. They say you rambled, kept waking up and trying to tell them about someone touching you or not touching you. It didn’t make much sense that anyone could make out, not the way I got told anyway. Then you started sleeping properly. You’ve slept for nearly two days, now you’re awake and the doctors say you’ll make a full recovery.’
‘I don’t remember talking to anyone.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll remember much of anything for a while. But it will come back, just give it time.’ Jimmy looked at the ceiling. The light was still dimmed. He felt tired again. ‘Your wallet was gone, your watch, and your phone. Was this what it looked like, a mugging, or was it something else? You live in a classy neighbourhood, not many people get attacked in that part of the city.’ Jimmy tried to shrug but stopped as the pain shot through him. He grimaced. ‘Stay still, any moving will hurt. You got messed about quite a lot and they’re reducing the pain killers now you’re on the mend so be ready to suffer.’ He smiled, his real one, the one that reached his eyes. ‘Maybe they were Roma fans and thought you supported Lazio.’
Jimmy could see he was doing his best to lighten things up so he smiled. Smiling didn’t hurt.
‘I wasn’t wearing a Lazio shirt.’
‘Maybe you just look like a Lazio supporter.’
‘What’s a Lazio supporter supposed to look like?’
‘I don’t know, ask a Roma fan. Football isn’t something I’m interested in.’
Jimmy felt better for talking. He guessed Ricci knew that, or maybe the doctor had told him to get him talking, to wake him up a bit.
‘Where was I found?’
‘In the lobby of your apartments, beside the stairway. A neighbour found you.’
‘They were waiting for me?’
There was no smile now. They were back to business.
‘Must have been. You’ve got a very good address and good security goes with a good address. If they were inside the building then they weren’t casual thugs hanging about on the off-chance. Was it anything to do with the trip to Glasgow?’
‘Maybe. Maybe somebody wanted to remind me of a message.’
‘A message? The one that went with the fire at my uncle’s place?’
‘No, another message. One I was given at the station before I left.’
‘It must have been quite a message, it could have killed you. Couldn’t your old contacts have protected you?’
Suddenly Jimmy didn’t feel better any more, the pain had started building.
‘Don’t you understand, you stupid bastard? The business about your uncle was to warn you off looking into my record. You were caught looking, remember?’
Ricci obviously didn’t understand.
‘But if they’re protecting you in London why the beating here?’
‘That came from one of my old contacts, the one I went to Glasgow to see. She didn’t like my manners. That’s the sort of relationship we have. If I try and talk to them, they try to kill me, but this one owed me a big favour so I’m in hospital and not in the morgue.’
‘Sorry, Jimmy. With what I found out and what I guessed, I thought you had contacts, people over there who could protect you.’
‘They’re only interested in protecting themselves. I know too much and if, for one second, they think I might tell anyone what I know I really will be a dead man.’
‘I see.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘You’re right, I don’t. If you’re such a threat why aren’t you dead already?’
‘Because they tried and they found out I’m hard to kill.’
‘They tried?’
‘In London, a few years ago. The one who ordered it is dead, so is the one he sent to do the job. So are a few other people. But I’m still alive and if they’re sure I’ll keep my mouth shut they’ll leave me alone. After the London business I deposited some stuff, life insurance. They’ll have guessed I’d do that so now it’s important that I stay alive or die in the right way.’
‘The right way being only after they’ve got their hands on your insurance.’
‘That’s right. Now you know my fucking life story.’
The pain was getting worse. Whatever he was shot full of was wearing off and if Ricci was right another dose wasn’t coming soon.
‘Now I know.’
Jimmy closed his eyes and tried to shut everything out. It didn’t help. He felt tired. Totally used up. The pain seeped into his mind but his brain reacted by closing down. As he fell asleep his last thoughts were, “Dear God, let it all end here. I’ve had enough”.
Ricci got up and pressed a button. A nurse came.
‘He seemed better, he talked. Then he changed, I think the pain was getting worse. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep or passed out.’
The nurse nodded and left. After a while she came back with a doctor who checked his pulse, looked at a few dials, then gave the nurse some instructions.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector, he’s doing fine. He’ll be sitting up out of bed in a couple of days and should be out of here in a week.’
‘Thanks, that’s good news.’
The doctor left.
Ricci went back to the bed and looked at Jimmy.
‘Get well, Jimmy, there’s still work to do and we’re the ones supposed to be doing it.’
Then he left and Jimmy slept.
His body was busy getting well so he could go back to work.
FOURTEEN
Doctors make mistakes, but in Jimmy’s case their diagnosis confirmed Ricci’s assessment. He was a tough old bird and mending quickly. Ricci was his only visitor and came at the end of most days. He would bring Jimmy up to date and they would discuss progress. At this stage it was all that Jimmy could do. They had both agreed that what they needed was a better picture of Cheng.
‘I’m stuck here but it’s not a two-man job. There’s got to be paper on him, files, archived articles, official memos.’
For four days Ricci read everything there was to read on Archbishop Cheng, wrote up notes, cross-referenced, checked, and then wrote up more notes, and each evening visited Jimmy to go over what he had found.
During the days Jimmy rested and thought about the case, about the information Ricci had brought him so far.
Cheng had been born in Guandong Province in southern China but the family moved to Portuguese Macau in 1945 during the Civil War, and Cheng was educated by the Jesuits. When he left school he applied to join the order, was accepted and sent to Rome for training. In Rome he was a star student, tipped for a top flight career but after ordination he asked to go back into Mao’s People’s Republic as a parish priest. He dug his heels in and in the end got what he wanted. He went and China simply swallowed him up. There Ricci’s paper trail had dried until 1971 when his release was officially announced. He’d served five years of re-education through hard labour under the careful direction of the Red Guards, another victim of the Cultural Revolution. The only reason his release was noticed was that the Fr Cheng who had gone into prison was B
ishop Cheng on release. He’d been elevated by the Vatican while he was being ‘re-educated’. Then nothing again until 1978 when he was re-arrested at the tail end of the Cultural Revolution for anti-patriotic behaviour and acting as a spy for a foreign power, official code for any Catholic priest loyal to the Vatican. This time the sentence he served was ten years. His refusal to sign up to the government-sponsored official Catholic Church meant that he spent a further seven years in prison at one time or another. But one more Catholic bishop being arrested or released wasn’t news except to a handful of specialists, dedicated China watchers. To them, which members of the Catholic hierarchy were in favour and which were in prison was as good a barometer as any to the power struggles within the ruling Communist Party. As a simple rule of thumb Bishop Cheng was invaluable. If he was in prison, the hard-liners were on top. If he was out the reformers were calling the shots.
By the end of the century China was changing fast and ready to play its part as an economic superpower. In 1999 they got back Macau from the Portuguese and during the run-up to the final official handover it was noted by the government-controlled press that a senior Catholic cleric who had grown up in Macau but served all his priestly life in the People’s Republic was visiting his family. That was Beijing’s way of saying to the world that any member of the Catholic Church, even the unofficial Catholic Church, had the same freedom of action and movement as any other citizen who had served the Chinese people loyally and for so long. Now officially recognised, Archbishop Cheng was photographed with his family and local Communist officials.
Ricci had shown Jimmy a copy of a newspaper photo. In it there was a small, smiling man who looked shy and insignificant in clerical black but who, even in the news photo, gave an impression of deep inner peace and strength.
Archbishop Cheng’s trip to Macau was a success and was the beginning of his official rehabilitation during which neither he nor the government ever referred to his years in prison. To the Vatican and to the Chinese government Cheng was a small piece in a long and hard-fought political chess game. After Macau the game had moved into a new phase and Cheng’s role changed accordingly.
