Gospel Truths

by J. G. Sandom

  “What did Brian tell you?”

  “Not much. Randall briefed me.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Your findings. Your results, man. Your analysis. Was it a suicide or wasn’t it?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve only just begun.”

  Hadley nodded grimly. “I see. Yes, well, I suppose that’s sensible. You’d want to go in with an open mind and all that. Only natural. Who are your prime suspects then, if I may ask?”

  Lyman shrugged. “Archbishop Kazimierz Grabowski, I suppose. And Marco Scarcella too.”

  “Scarcella’s in prison, in Switzerland. And he’s an old man now.”

  “Yes, so I heard. But he wasn’t in prison when Pontevecchio died, in June last year. The Lemur told me Scarcella was spotted in France in May, right before Pontevecchio’s death. But it wasn’t until September that they arrested him in Switzerland.”

  “Here, let me show you something,” Hadley said abruptly. He drew his hands together behind his back and hastened down the path toward the conservatory. Lyman followed.

  “Are you a collector, Lyman?” Hadley said, as he fiddled with the door.

  “Sir?”

  “Stamps, coins—that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I see.” The glass door opened and Lyman felt a wall of warm moist air surround him. “Not really.”

  “Pity,” Hadley said. “I think it gives a man something, especially when he retires. Don’t delay, Lyman. You’ll soon be on the ash heap too. Find something, anything. Something to do. Something to hold on to.” He strode forward. Lyman could see the racks and racks of vegetation on the walls around them, thick flowers hanging down, a drape of color on the heavy air. “Something to look after,” Hadley continued. “Shut the door.”

  Lyman stepped in.

  “Orchids have always been my fancy,” Hadley said. “I think it’s because they’re so vital, so organic. Not like the job, eh?” He picked up a leafless spray. The flowers were creamy white, suspended from a piece of corkboard on the wall. “Ghost orchids,” he said.

  Lyman examined a clot of leaves and petals near the door. The flowers looked like open wounds, fleshy and exposed. Where was the soil, he wondered, or did they simply grow that way? “Very nice, yes.”

  “Take a look at this one.” The superintendent pointed at another plant with verdant, palmlike leaves. A spike of flowers hung down to one side. The plant was festooned with two-inch blossoms, pale green with light brown tips, spoon-shaped and hooded like a line of monks on their way to morning prayers. “It’s a Catasetum trulla,” Hadley said. “A friend of mine imports them from South America. Isn’t it lovely? They have the oddest reproductive cycle.” He poked a fingertip into a blossom. “See? Their stamens are buried so deep within them that over the millennia they’ve developed a kind of alkaloid which makes the bees that pollinate them drowsy. The bees fall in, you see, drunk on the nectar, and cover themselves with pollen. Some orchidologists believe the insects actually remember, returning again and again just for the drug.”

  “Fascinating,” Lyman said. “About the case…”

  “Yes, yes, the case. Well, if it wasn’t suicide,” Hadley said, “then I’d put my money on Grabowski.”

  “The archbishop? Why?”

  “I met His Excellency in Rome. It was during the first inquest.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Canadian. Big bloke. Six foot three at least. Sixteen stone. He used to play ice hockey as a boy. I suppose that’s why Pope Paul employed him as a kind of unofficial bodyguard. But he didn’t have any time for us. He kept on saying how busy he was, how he was doing us such a big bloody favor just by seeing me. Meanwhile, all I could think of was how I knew he was born in this hovel in Toronto, on the wrong side of town. His parents were Polish, right off the bloody boat. I mean real wogs. The only reason he even went to university was because he was a priest.”

  “Why would he have killed Pontevecchio?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He wanted to cover up the Vatican Bank’s connection with Banco Fabiano after the scandal broke. Don’t think—just because he’s a priest—that he couldn’t have done it. Believe you me. He may be an archbishop, but Grabowski is no saint. He’s a banker through and through.”

  Lyman nodded glumly, remembering the file on the archbishop. But at some point, he considered, at some time Grabowski must have honestly believed. In seminary perhaps, or as a parish priest in west Ontario. How strange, Lyman thought, that a man of God should have become a banker in the end, trading as much in numbers, in proven formulae, as in the intangibles of faith. “I suppose so,” he said at last. “Then you think he knew Pontevecchio was embezzling from Banco Fabiano.”

  “He must have. They were using the Vatican Bank to get the money from Fabiano out of Italy. The government was cracking down on taxes and the Church was desperate to account for the missing funds. He was desperate.”

  Suddenly George began to bark. Lyman looked up. The dog was playing in the sunken garden, chasing birds.

  “Of course,” Hadley added softly, “that’s only my opinion. It’s your case now, and I wouldn’t want to influence you one way or the other.”

  “Of course.” George barked again and Lyman watched in horror as the dog began to dig around a rosebush. “Sorry,” he said, dashing toward the door. He swung it open, shouting, “George. George, stop that.” The dog looked up momentarily, his paws half buried in the ground.

  Lyman shut the door behind him and walked around the conservatory. “Come here,” he said. “Come here this instant.”

  The dog trotted over. Lyman raised a hand to strike him, but at the last moment he felt his anger falter.

  “That’s no way,” Hadley said behind him. “You’ve got to discipline them. You’ve got to let them know who’s the master.”

  “Yes, I know,” Lyman said. “It’s just that when he looks up at me…” He could not finish.

  “Spare the rod. You know what they say.”

  “He’s really my son’s dog. Or was. I’m not very good with animals.”

  They both glanced down at George. Then Hadley said, “I was sorry to hear about young Crosley, Nigel. He was a good policeman.”

  Lyman nodded.

  “Try not to take it personally. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. I’m sure you did everything you could, by the book.”

  “By the book,” Lyman repeated.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, Nigel. You’ve had a hard time of it lately. I’d take this Pontevecchio case slowly, if I were you. Work back into things. Don’t push yourself. It’s really only a formality anyway.” He looked back at the conservatory. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

  “Actually, I did have some questions about Scarcella.”

  “Yes, of course. Scarcella. I only ask because I have to drive the Mrs. up to Guildford. It’s the music festival next week and—well, you know—she just has to have her hair done.” Hadley looked down at his watch. “You should come out again sometime. Soon.”

  “Thank you, I will. But, about Scarcella—”

  “The bastard’s already in prison, where he belongs. I doubt if I can tell you anything you haven’t read in the files. Sorry I couldn’t be of any further help. Strange, isn’t it? It’s only been a year since Pontevecchio’s suicide and yet it seems so far away. Another lifetime. I hope we get to see you again. I mean that, Nigel.”

  “Thanks very much. Another time then. I’ll ring you.” Lyman patted George on the head. “It was good to see you again.”

  They shook hands, and started toward the driveway at the front of the house. When they reached the car, Lyman opened the passenger door and George jumped in without a fuss. “Well, thanks again,” Lyman said, searching for his keys. “I liked your flowers.”

  “Think about what I said. Find a hobby. Don’t put it off. None of us is getting any younger.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know,” Lyman said, ducking into the car.


  “And Nigel…”

  Lyman looked up through the window.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I wasn’t sacked, you know. Just to set the record straight.”

  “I never thought you were.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you. Not Nigel Lyman.” Hadley smiled sadly. “I made a lot of mistakes in my career, Nigel, but leaving the department wasn’t one of them.”

  Hadley backed off toward the entrance of the house. Lyman turned the ignition key. The motor coughed like a sleeping child, and caught.

  It had been a pointless exercise, Lyman thought, a waste of time. He had learned precious little about Pontevecchio, and even less about Scarcella. He headed down the drive, turning only once to catch a glimpse of Hadley in the rearview mirror throwing a heartless wave into the air. Then he was gone.

  Lyman drove along the country road, trying to think of something other than his case, trying to forget himself within the constant uniformity of the dividing line. Black, white, black. He thought about Tim Hadley, about his orchids and the way their slender roots had dangled in the air, thirsty for moisture.

  Hadley had done all right for himself with his collecting, especially for a policeman. A posh house and a garden, a wife with a taste for music festivals. No wonder he’d retired early.

  The road narrowed up ahead and George began to bark once again, lunging at the window. “Quiet,” Lyman said. “Please, George.” He slowed the car. They were crossing a bridge. On the river far below, a solitary sculler cut the waterway in half, pulling at his wooden blades, gliding on the surface through the reeds.

  Chapter IV

  LONDON

  August 28th, 1991

  LYMAN SAT IN HIS OFFICE, LEANING FORWARD ON HIS elbows, peering at the photograph before him on his desk. It was well past eight o’clock. The rest of the day inspectors had departed, and he was finally alone. A fluorescent lightbulb popped and crackled overhead. The harsh light glazed the photograph so that the nylon line around Pontevecchio’s neck shimmered like a length of barbed wire. The bulging eyes. The blue-gray pallor of the Italian banker’s skin. All these details had set themselves inside of Lyman. He couldn’t shake them. There was a grisly beauty in the way Pontevecchio’s head was squeezed off to the side. It was a tragic pose, as if a great transgressor had finally met his fate, a mythic setting with the dark Thames spilling underneath him, the perfect backdrop for a suicide. Lyman glanced at his watch. Or was it?

  He reached across his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the number scribbled on a scrap of paper in the file before him. Lyman could barely understand the operator at the Treasury Department. He asked for Special Investigator Tony Augenstein.

  “Who’s calling?” came the reply.

  Lyman identified himself and was immediately put on hold. A full minute passed. It was so typical, Lyman thought. Money meant nothing to the Americans. They probably called long distance every day. Suddenly he heard the roaring echo of a man’s voice on the line.

  “Inspector Lyman?” the American said. “I’m putting you on the speakerphone so we can all hear you.”

  “Right, thanks,” said Lyman with suspicion.

  “Mrs. Pontevecchio, this is Inspector Lyman of the City of London Police. The man I was telling you about.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Pontevecchio,” Lyman said. His own voice sounded like distant thunder, always a second behind. “I appreciate your speaking with me.”

  “If I can help you, I am happy,” he heard a woman reply. “Mr. Green and Mr. Augenstein have been very nice to me since I come to America. What can I do? What can I tell you? Salvatore never talked about money with me. That was business. Do you know what it is like to lose your husband? What happened at Fabiano, I do not care anymore. Now I hate Fabiano. The bank killed Salvatore. I hate all of them.”

  “Who, Mrs. Pontevecchio? The bankers? Whom do you hate?”

  “Scarcella. And Grabowski too, the Lord protect me.”

  “Inspector Lyman,” another man cut in. “Would you kindly restrict yourself to those parts of the investigation that pertain directly to your case.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “What my colleague—Mr. Green here—is trying to say, is that you shouldn’t worry too much about the financial side of this thing. You know what I mean?”

  Lyman did. Men woke up every day and drew lines about themselves, borders to their wives, their family, their jobs, their countries. Keep out. Keep off the grass. Don’t stand so close to me. Lyman smiled. There had been a time once when he too had guarded his work so jealously. A long time ago, he thought. But it was the Americans’ party. Their game. Their rules.

  “I only have a few questions, Mrs. Pontevecchio,” Lyman said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Go right ahead, Mrs. Pontevecchio,” answered Augenstein.

  Lyman ignored him. “You testified earlier that you didn’t think your husband killed himself. Do you still feel that way?”

  “Of course I do. Despite everything, my husband was a good Catholic. Do you know what that means, Mr. Lyman? Suicide is a mortal sin.”

  “And yet, didn’t he try and kill himself once before, in prison?”

  “People say such things, but I do not believe them. The last time I talk to my husband, he tell me everything will be okay. Okay, he said. His Excellency, Archbishop Grabowski, will have to help me, he said, because I have found a wonderful thing. Even the Pope will kiss my face, he said.”

  “What had he found?”

  “He would never tell me. He said it was better I did not know.”

  Lyman heard her sigh. He imagined her sitting on a corner of a couch, surrounded by Investigators Green and Augenstein, talking into a little metal box on the table beside her. He imagined the cramped office, the glass partition looking out onto the secretary pool, the tattered calendars and notices on the wall, the grimy window, the distant skyline of Manhattan like a piece of torn sheet metal.

  “Sometimes it is better not to ask things,” she continued. Lyman looked down at the photograph of Pontevecchio on his desk.

  “Why did your husband go to London, Mrs. Pontevecchio?”

  “He told me he had friends there. Friends in high places, he said. He said that they would buy the wonderful thing he had found, and that the archbishop would have to protect him.”

  “Grabowski? Protect him from whom?”

  “From the Informazione Quattro. From Scarcella.” She paused, and he could hear her clear her throat. She had started to cry. He could hear the tears weigh down her words. “And from himself, I think,” she added soberly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Scarcella is not like an ordinary man, Mr. Lyman. He is pestilenziale… like a disease. There is something about him, something of the devil, I think. Something evil. It was never what he did to my husband. It was what he made my husband do. You see. It is better not to look sometimes. It is better not to know.”

  “I think that’s quite enough, Inspector Lyman. I don’t think there’s much percentage in pursuing this any further, do you?” Augenstein’s voice was clipped.

  “I only have a few more questions.”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s just call it quits, shall we? We’ll let you know if anything turns up. Okay, Lyman?”

  “If you insist.”

  “Hell, we’re all on the same team, aren’t we, Bob?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d like to thank you, Mrs. Pontevecchio,” Lyman said.

  “Please, be careful, Mr. Lyman. Beware of Scarcella.”

  “I will. Thank you,” he said. “Good-bye.” Then he rang off.

  He leaned back in his chair. Something was wrong, he thought. The entire world called it a suicide, except Mrs. Pontevecchio. And she was the one telling the truth. Lyman was convinced of it.

  He removed the snapshot of Scarcella from the file. He seemed so innocent in his crisp white polo neck and raincoat. That jolly round face, thos
e twinkling eyes.

  Lyman examined the features carefully. Then, sensing another presence in the room, he looked up. Dotty Taylor was leaning up against the door frame, her left hand planted on her hip.

  “You’ll see him soon enough,” she said.

  Lyman smiled. “I thought you’d gone home ages ago.”

  Dotty closed the door and made her way across the room. She was a tall girl of twenty-eight, fair-skinned and angular. She moved awkwardly, as if she’d never passed her adolescence, and yet there was a grace about the way she set each step that Lyman had always found compelling. “It’s that time of the month,” she said.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I mean report time, silly man. Foster’s having a cow. He made everyone work late.”

  She leaned across the desk and kissed him on the forehead. Her long brown hair fell about his face. It smelled of jasmine.

  “As usual,” Lyman said. He pulled her close to him. Her hips were slim, which made her appear more youthful than she really was, but her eyes gave her away. They were large and dark, with a hint of disappointment in each corner.

  “Aren’t you ever going home?” she said. “It’s your last night. And you’ll be gone for ages.”

  He felt her reaching for him. “A week at the most.”

  Dotty sat down on the desk. “Forever,” she replied. “You’ll meet some girl in lederhosen, and that will be the end of Dotty Taylor.” She glanced down at the photograph of Marco Scarcella. “And all for that horrid old man.”

  “Do you really think he’s horrid?”

  Dotty picked up the photograph and studied it.

  “I think he looks rather jolly,” Lyman continued. “Look at that smile. You can hardly say he’s menacing.”

  “You must be mad,” she said. “He’s probably watching some old lady fall under a bus.” She dropped the snapshot on the desk. “Heaven knows how you ever became an inspector. You wouldn’t know a clue if it stared you in the face.”