Unholy Ghost

by James Green

  Jimmy tried to get the meeting back on track.

  ‘I was told to come here because you wanted someone found.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Who? Who do you want found?’

  The old nun looked surprised at the question.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’

  The words crashed, unspoken, against the back of Jimmy’s teeth. He told himself that he had to stay patient and gentle, that she was a confused old nun who was being kicked out of her convent, that it wasn’t her fault. He tried, but it wasn’t easy with such a rambling old stick in the mud.

  He gathered himself together and spoke slowly and clearly. She wasn’t deaf but he felt he had to do something.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sister, I don’t understand. I was told you would explain.’

  She gave him a withering look as if he was a particularly backward child who was making no effort with what little brains he had.

  ‘Oh I can explain. We want you to find the owner of this house.’

  He waited but nothing more came. She sat looking at him. That, apparently, was it, that was the explanation!

  ‘But the nuns own it, it’s a convent. Your order must own it if it’s a convent.’

  The old nun raised a tiny hand and waved away his words. She’d had enough.

  ‘All of that side of it you must get from the lawyers. We are leaving, the convent is closed, finished. Now the building must be returned. Wait.’ She rummaged about inside her habit and finally pulled out a letter. She handed it to him. ‘The address is the firm who are handling it. Inside is my letter giving you authority to act on our behalf. The lawyers will explain everything.’ She stood up. She was only slightly taller than when she was sitting. ‘Now I must go. There are still things to do. Good day.’

  The meeting was over, he’d been given his instructions and was now dismissed. Jimmy followed her back to the big main door which she pulled open. Jimmy stepped out into the bright sunlight, the door closed heavily behind him, and he heard a bolt being shot into place.

  He had never liked nuns, never since he was a child at school where the headmistress had been a nun. A cruel bitch, he remembered. But he felt some sympathy for the one who had just given him the letter. Seventy-eight and being turned out of what she obviously looked on as her home. No wonder she was a grumpy, rambling dodderer. Poor old sod. Still, it was none of his business. His business lay elsewhere, with the lawyers who would explain everything.

  Chapter Four

  Jimmy stood for a moment and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was pleasant after the cold interior of the big, empty convent. He looked at the letter which was still in his hand, then put it into his pocket. The letter could wait, whatever the batty old nun wanted could wait; it was time for lunch, somewhere with Parisian atmosphere. He looked up and down the street. It was a classy part of the city, old and elegant. True, the buildings directly opposite were all offices, but discreet offices with polished brass plates and elegant, restrained lettering in the street-level windows. The sort of offices that no one ever seems to go into or come out of but nonetheless smell of money, old money and plenty of it. He looked at the window straight opposite. Galvani et cie. Notaires Avocats. Odd, thought Jimmy, that in a place so French the name he picked out was Italian. He looked up and down the street, the whole place looked quietly wealthy. That was good, he shouldn’t have any trouble finding somewhere to eat that fitted what he wanted. Paris class and style, the works. Why not? He could go to the lawyer after lunch, there was no hurry, whatever it was didn’t seem urgent or important. He could take his time and enjoy himself.

  He went down the steps and joined the other sprinkling of pedestrians walking in the sunshine.

  The first restaurant he came to was about four hundred metres away from the convent. It was expensive-looking in the same reserved way as the offices and very much Jimmy’s idea of what it was he wanted. He looked in through the window. It wasn’t crowded but that didn’t mean anything, from what he’d heard nobody hurried their lunch in this city, so it could still be early. He went in.

  A young woman in crisp white blouse and black skirt was standing beside a tall stand on which rested the reservations book. She looked at him as he came in. Jimmy had seen that sort of look before. He guessed he wasn’t what they were used to or wanted, but it didn’t bother him. As a detective sergeant in London he’d turned up in lots of places where people thought he didn’t belong. Here, at least, they probably wouldn’t take him into the back alley and try to kick the shit out of him.

  ‘Oui, M’sieur.’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, a table for one.’ The hesitation was only momentary, but it was there and they both knew it. ‘Unless you’re fully booked.’ Jimmy looked around then back at the young woman. ‘But you don’t look fully booked, not at the moment.’

  ‘This way, sir.’

  Jimmy followed and one or two of the early diners looked up at him. They didn’t think he fitted either. The young woman came to a table at the back of the room, well away from the door and windows, and pulled out a chair.

  ‘May I take your raincoat?’

  Jimmy pulled it off and handed it over. She might be young but she knew her job well enough. The raincoat was crumpled and nondescript but the jacket, although it wasn’t Paris chic, was expensive and, she guessed, Italian, Rome or Milan. The rest of his ensemble hung badly but she could see that they had all started life in some shop that didn’t put the price-tags on their merchandise. English-speaking in good-quality Italian clothes who was comfortable in high-class places even if he didn’t look the part. It made a difference. As she put his raincoat carefully over her arm she gave him a big smile to make up for the doubtful start. Whatever he was he had the right clothes even if they did nothing for his appearance.

  Jimmy sat down.

  ‘Anything to drink, sir?’

  ‘A beer.’

  ‘Any particular brand?’

  ‘Just as it comes, and not chilled if you can.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  She headed off with his raincoat and his order. A waiter arrived and placed a menu before him, removed the other setting at the table, and left. Jimmy picked up the menu. In Rome he ate very simply but this was his first proper visit to Paris and he wanted to do it right. The menu meant little to him except the figures in the right hand column. They, like the decoration of the place, impressed him. He decided he’d talk it over with whoever served him and put the menu down. The girl arrived with the beer and set the bottle and glass down on the table.

  ‘Leave it, I’ll pour when I’m ready.’ Jimmy pointed to the menu. ‘What would you recommend out of this lot?’ The girl seemed not to understand so Jimmy went on. ‘This is my first real visit to Paris and this is my first proper lunch here. I want it to be something, well, something really Parisian. What would you suggest?’

  The girl gave him a smile of understanding then picked up the menu and pointed to something. Jimmy looked at her choice and even with his limited knowledge of the language saw that what she was recommending was the dish of the day.

  ‘Wherever you eat in Paris I suggest you always look first at the plat du jour. It is always freshly cooked and is usually a speciality of the chef. It is only a suggestion, you understand, but it may help.’

  ‘Good thinking, Batwoman.’ She looked at him puzzled. ‘It’s a joke, a way of saying well done. Plat du jour, then.’

  ‘No starter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wine?’

  Jimmy didn’t much care for wine. He drank it more often since he’d been living in Rome but he wasn’t so very keen on it. Still, if this was France.

  ‘You choose, a bottle of something good to go with the plat du jour. I’ll leave it to you.’

  She picked up the menu, smiled again, and left. Jimmy poured himself so
me beer. He liked the place, it was pricey but they were friendly, once they got to know you. He took a drink. It was OK, nothing special, but at least it wasn’t chilled. He made a silent toast to himself.

  To Paris in the spring.

  Then he sat back and got ready to enjoy his first real Parisian lunch. The job, whatever it was, could wait. This afternoon or, if the lunch was really good, tomorrow, he’d get in touch with the lawyers. Today he was busy being a tourist and he intended to enjoy it.

  Chapter Five

  ‘All I was told was to find someone, a missing person. I was given no identity, no name, no nothing. What I was given was your name and address on a letter of authorisation, so here I am. That’s it.’

  The lawyer sat back, put the tips of his fingers together, and looked over them through rimless glasses.

  ‘Hmm.’

  Jimmy waited. The lawyer seemed reluctant to get going.

  Maybe he’s had a better lunch than me, thought Jimmy, and doesn’t like someone popping up without an appointment so soon after he’s eaten.

  Jimmy’s lunch, though expensive, had been a disappointment. The wine had been OK but the actual meal had been sort of chicken casserole, not so very unlike something his mum might have knocked up back in Kilburn. He’d expected something, well, different, more French, more Parisian. Chicken stew with extra veg. on the side, that’s all it had been really. Christ, he might as well have ordered bacon and bloody cabbage.

  The lawyer surfaced again and sat forward.

  ‘Hmm. Yes.’

  He was elderly, thin, and bald, with suspicious eyes behind his glasses. He continued to look at Jimmy but said nothing. The lunch had left Jimmy feeling dissatisfied and vaguely angry and the lawyer’s manner wasn’t helping. His let his voice express his mood.

  ‘The person who sent me didn’t know who I would be looking for, neither did the nun who gave me the letter this morning. If I’m going to go on with this I hope you know who I’m supposed to find.’

  The lawyer slowly shook his head. His English was good, very good and very accurate, but accented, as if he was saying, ‘I speak your language as well as you, but I remain French and therefore not like you’.

  ‘No, Mr Costello, I’m afraid I cannot give you that information either. I have no idea who it is you will be looking for.’

  Jimmy decided he’d had enough.

  ‘Look, sunshine, I don’t like being pissed about, and I get the feeling I’m being well and truly pissed about so either tell me what this is all about or bloody well …’

  The lawyer took it very calmly.

  ‘No, not “pissed about” as you put it, Mr Costello, merely being answered accurately. I do not know who you will be looking for. Nobody does.’ And he raised a hand as Jimmy was about to speak. ‘Let me explain. The sisters have had their convent here in Paris for many years. You visited it this morning so you will know it is closing down. I was approached by a priest friend to assist them. You see they, or more accurately their order, do not own the convent, they rent it. The house was the property of a lady who left Paris at the end of the war and the house was given to the sisters at a peppercorn rent. When the lady died some years ago, in Switzerland, she left everything to her daughter. Unfortunately there was no trace of this daughter. The lady’s will made the sisters executors of her estate and allowed them to continue on in the house on condition that the daughter was found. Once found, the daughter would be free to decide what was to be done with her property. The sisters instituted enquiries through a firm of lawyers in Basel, also through a firm in Paris. No information on the daughter could be found. The matter, shall we say, lapsed – until now. Now the sisters are leaving, like many religious orders their numbers in Europe are diminished almost to the point of extinction, but in South America, apparently, they thrive. Their Paris convent will be closed, so the search for the missing daughter must resume and if no daughter can be found then we must look for the deceased lady’s nearest living relative. That is your missing person, Mr Costello, the rightful heir to Mme Colmar, our deceased lady from Switzerland.’

  Jimmy relaxed, he was off the hook. He could go back to being a tourist for a few days, see the sights, get some proper French cooking, and then go home.

  ‘It’s not a job for me, I’d be no good to you or the sisters. I wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s a legal thing.’

  ‘Would you say so?’

  Jimmy smiled, he felt better.

  ‘I just did, sunshine.’

  ‘You feel you must decline to assist?’

  Jimmy decided to get a little bit of his own back. He couldn’t do a French accent very well, but he did his best.

  ‘Yes, decline to assist. I feel I must.’ He reverted to his normal voice and was about to stand. ‘Now, sunshine, if there’s nothing else …’

  ‘Before you make a final decision, Mr Costello, may I urge you to check with Rome, with Professor McBride?’

  Jimmy sat back.

  ‘You knew she sent me?’

  ‘Of course. I was told to expect you. The letter you were given was a confirmation not an introduction. I am told Professor McBride most strongly recommended you.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘No, to the superior of the sisters’ order. It was she who first raised the matter once the decision to close the convent was finalised. She was in Rome and was advised to talk to Professor McBride. Professor McBride recommended you and the superior contacted me to say that I should expect you to get in touch. That was about two weeks ago. I do not normally see visitors who arrive without an appointment but in your case I made an exception. That should indicate to you how seriously I regard this matter. I hope you will come to see it in the same light.’

  Jimmy thought about it. It all sounded right and the lawyer seemed straight enough even if he was a snotty bugger. But why had McBride got herself involved? It was just a missing heir, wasn’t it? Or was it? McBride might be a devious bastard but she never did anything without a reason. In fact she never did anything without several reasons, all very good ones. The problem was, you never knew which one was the real one.

  Jimmy stood up.

  ‘I’ll talk to her, but don’t get your hopes up.’

  There was almost a self-satisfied smirk around the lawyer’s mouth as if he had scored some sort of point.

  ‘Good day, Mr Costello. Thank you for coming.’

  The lawyer didn’t get up or offer to shake hands. He sat back and put his fingers together again and let the rimless glasses play over Jimmy.

  Jimmy looked down at him.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Costello. Did you say something?’

  Jimmy managed a smile. He thought it would annoy the lawyer. It did, so Jimmy kept it going.

  ‘I said, “hmm”.’

  ‘And that means?’

  ‘It means, hmm.’

  Jimmy turned and left. He didn’t bother to close the door.

  Outside the offices the sun was still shining and Jimmy tried to get back the feeling he’d had before lunch, of Paris in the spring. So what if the lunch had been nothing special? There was still the EiffelTower, the Louvre, and all the other stuff. Most of all there was Paris itself, just enjoying the place.

  He set off walking. Time enough to get in touch with McBride tomorrow. She’d probably planned it that he would have to call her, so she would be waiting. OK, let her wait. Tomorrow, or maybe even the next day. Right now he had more important things to do. He had to walk along the Seine, see some of the sights, visit Sacré Coeur. And he had to leave enough time to plan his dinner. He didn’t want to take pot luck again with any dish of the day. This time he wanted to get it right. He headed back the way he had come to the nearest Metro.

  In the office the lawyer was on the phone.

  ‘He was very much as described, Professor, not an easy man nor particularly pleasant. I told him to get in touch with you as I had been instructed. Very well, I will wait to
hear from you.’

  The lawyer replaced the phone.

  He had not communicated directly with Professor McBride before, and, as he was a thorough and a careful man, as soon as he had been told about her involvement he had given her and the Collegio Principe some careful attention.

  The Collegio was an obscure college founded in the late sixteenth century from a bequest in the will of one of the minor Borgias. The income from several farms had been given over to its support. The Collegio was originally staffed by Dominican friars and its purpose, apart from praying for the soul of its founder, was to study the relationship between politics, power, and religion. Through the centuries the Collegio became a secular institution and its farmland became modern office blocks, the income from which meant that the small Collegio, unlike so many other bigger and better known academic institutions, never had any money worries. In fact it was wealthy.

  Apart from its history, the lawyer’s enquiries had indicated that the Collegio, in the person of a Professor McBride, seemed to have considerable political influence but in an ill-defined and even shadowy sort of way. In particular it had some sort of relationship with the Vatican, nothing official and nothing sufficiently concrete and demonstrable that any lawyer would consider it suitable for use as evidence into a court of law. Nonetheless the lawyer was convinced that a definite relationship existed.

  He looked down at the phone he had just replaced. The man who had left, this Englishman, was no ordinary private investigator. His manner was all wrong and his attitude abrasive. He was more like a policeman, a detective. Or perhaps a criminal. Both? The lawyer mused for a moment on Jimmy then decided that whatever he was, he was someone well used to trouble and trouble would undoubtedly attend whatever involved him. He then moved his mind to Professor McBride. Her accent was American. That had surprised him and, in his opinion, did not bode well. This Englishman Costello had unsettled him. Any connection with the Vatican, no matter how remote, unofficial, or unintended, unsettled him. And now an American. The Vatican was bad enough, but if the Americans were involved …