Unholy Ghost

by James Green

  ‘She didn’t. It’s not for her, it’s for me. For something I’m doing for her. Something we were working on before she was shot and almost certainly related to her shooting. As you say, she’s in intensive care and not allowed visitors but she still made them let me see her. Look, phone the hospital.’ The professor thought about it then took out his phone and looked at it. Jimmy gave him a nudge. ‘It’s important or she wouldn’t have sent for me. It cost her a lot to do that, the doctor told me it might even have killed her.’ Then he gave it his last shot. ‘He was the same as you, he didn’t like having to make a tough decision either.’

  The professor gave him a look, he didn’t like the crack. Jimmy didn’t think he would, that’s why he’d made it.

  ‘What is it, this file?’

  Jimmy could see he was coming round so he decided to tell him the truth.

  ‘It’s a dossier containing information on some people. One has already been murdered, an old man in Munich a few years back. Another, an old woman, died in Switzerland also a few years back. I have no real idea what it’s about other than it involves the woman’s legacy which may or may not involve crimes committed during the war. Professor McBride sent me to Paris to begin looking for the dead woman’s legal heir. Then she got shot so I came back. She sent for me and told me to keep looking. To do that I need the dossier. Now you know as much as I do and if you finish up dead or in intensive care don’t blame me, it will be your own fault.’

  That was the clincher, Scolari didn’t need any more persuading. If Professor McBride could be shot in broad daylight right outside the building then the sooner this man, whoever he was, was gone the better. Scolari put away his phone and they set off along the corridor to Professor McBride’s office. At the door he stopped, pulled out a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door.

  ‘I will go into the office with you. You are to touch nothing. If what you want is there I shall get it for you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They went in and crossed to the desk.

  ‘It’s in there, that drawer. A folder with a few pages in it and some photos.’ Scolari opened the drawer then looked at Jimmy. ‘OK, my mistake, try the other one. The folder’s green.’

  Scolari opened the other drawer and took out the green folder. He put it on the desk and they both looked at it.

  ‘Well, do I get it?’

  Scolari continued looking at the folder. Then looked at Jimmy.

  ‘No.’

  It was Jimmy’s turn to shrug.

  ‘Why bring me in here then?’

  ‘You may look at it but you may not take it. When you have looked at it I will return it to the desk.’

  Jimmy could tell that was as far as he would get, Scolari wouldn’t budge any further. A look was all he was going to get.

  ‘OK, open it.’

  Scolari flipped the folder open.

  Jimmy reached over and pulled the folder to him. The top pages were the ones he had seen before but there was one sheet that was new to him. Clipped to the top left-hand corner of the sheet was a passport photo of a woman, sad-looking, plain, with mousy hair and glasses. A face it would have been difficult for even a professional photographer to flatter and whoever had taken this photo hadn’t tried. Jimmy picked up the page. There was a name, date and place of birth. Veronique Colmar, 5th February 1965, Saigon. Jimmy looked at the face again, he could see no trace of anything oriental. He looked at the notes under the name, date, and place.

  Daughter of Thèrése Colmar. Father unknown. Present whereabouts …

  Jimmy stopped reading. He didn’t want to know where she was. If he knew he could be made to tell so he didn’t want to know. He looked back at the photo. This was McBride’s woman, the one she was going to put in the frame. This was the old whore’s inheritor, or the candidate McBride was going to put forward for the job. He closed the folder and pushed it back.

  ‘Finished?’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘I may need to see it again.’

  Scolari picked it up, dropped it, into the drawer and pushed it shut. The fear had evaporated, common sense had returned.

  ‘That will not be up to me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Professor McBride.’

  ‘If she lives.’

  Scolari went to the door and waited.

  ‘If she does not live then it will be up to the governing council of the Collegio or perhaps to the Collegio’s lawyers. Perhaps even the police.’

  ‘That sounds like it would take a long time.’

  ‘It would, probably a very long time. But if you know Professor McBride at all well you know that if she has survived so far then the probability is that she will live.’ Jimmy wanted to believe that, but somehow he didn’t share Scolari’s faith. But the professor didn’t care one way or the other. He was already regretting what he obviously considered to have been an error of judgement and for that error he blamed Jimmy. ‘If you want to visit this office again for any reason please bring with you written permission from Professor McBride when, of course, she is well enough to give it to you. Now you must go. I have work to do.’

  They left the office and went down to the ground floor. Jimmy left the building. Scolari stood and watched him all the way out. They didn’t shake hands.

  Jimmy walked away from the building. McBride had given him a way in. God knows what it must have cost her to get him into the hospital and give him her message. It must have come bloody near to costing her life so it had to be enough to do more than just get in. It had to be enough to get him off and running and keep him going.

  So, back to Paris to do what needed to be done. And maybe find the bastards who’d put her where she was now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jimmy’s flight landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at eight fifteen in the morning. He had reported to security and asked to speak to someone, explaining that when he had last visited Paris he had been expelled by the police and didn’t want any trouble on his return. He had already been waiting for over an hour and a half to see anyone who might be interested in what he wanted and who was prepared to speak English. Two French-speaking-only guys had come to see him and gone away again. Now he was parked in a room almost identical to the one the police had used when he was bounced out of the airport, although this time there were no closed blinds at the windows through which the bright morning sun poured in. Finally a tall man in a smart white shirt, blue tie, and impeccably creased trousers came into the room and sat down at the desk where he had been waiting.

  ‘I understand you want to speak to somebody about a friend who was deported from this airport …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I was deported. It was me.’

  ‘I see.’ The man was very black, spoke beautiful English and didn’t seem in any hurry. Jimmy waited. ‘Or perhaps I don’t see.’

  ‘I came to Paris on business, private business.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘From Rome. I live in Rome.’

  ‘But you are English? You have an English passport.’

  Good, thought Jimmy, at least he did a bit of checking before he came to see me. Now I might get somewhere.

  ‘I live in Rome but I’m English. As you say I have an English passport.’

  ‘And you came to Paris on private business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes. Our records show that you came to Paris from Rome.’ He smiled. He had beautiful teeth and he still didn’t seem to be in any hurry. ‘And you say you were deported?’

  ‘Yes. By the police from this airport.’

  ‘But now you are back and you have come from Rome.’

  He waited so Jimmy tried to help him along.

  ‘Yes, I’m back.’

  ‘You previously had business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that business is unfinished? Is that why you have returned?’

  ‘Yes. Before I could finish my previous business
here I was picked up by the police, brought here, interviewed by what I assumed to be a senior police officer who told me I was to leave the country and not come back.’

  The man nodded and thought for a bit.

  ‘But here you are again. Why were you told to leave?’

  ‘I wasn’t told.’ The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise, real or pretended Jimmy couldn’t tell.

  In fact he wasn’t at all sure whether this bloke was really confused or pissing him about. He suspected the latter but he didn’t want to lose his temper, so if this guy really was pissing him about he would just have to live with it. ‘I was told to leave but I wasn’t told why I had to leave. OK?’

  ‘Ah, I see, yes now I see.’ Another pause and Jimmy waited. ‘And what is it, exactly, that you would like airport security to do?’

  At last, a sensible question.

  ‘Tell the police I’m back. Tell them that I’m staying at the same hotel …’

  The man held up a hand.

  ‘Wait, Mr Costello. Wait, please. We are airport security, not a message service. If you want the police to know you are here I suggest you go and tell them yourself.’

  ‘No. I think it’s best if I tell you, so I’m telling you. And I want you to remember that I told you as soon as I arrived. Remember that. I did it before I did anything else.’

  ‘I’m afraid what you think is not the issue. We are still not …’

  Jimmy decided a little pushing would help.

  ‘Look. I was picked up by an unmarked police car, brought here and bounced out of this airport and out of this country just over a week ago by a senior plain-clothes copper. Maybe I’m a security risk, maybe I’m a danger to the French state, maybe I’m an undesirable alien. I don’t know, I wasn’t told. But now I’m back and if I get picked up by the police I shall make it very clear to them that I reported my arrival to airport security as soon as I got here and asked that they be informed. Clear?’ But he didn’t wait for a reply, it was clear all right. ‘And if you haven’t passed on the information about my arrival then it’ll be your arse in your nicely pressed trousers that will be on the line, sunshine, not mine.’ Jimmy got up. The man on the other side of the desk didn’t move or say anything. ‘Right, I’ve officially reported in, now I’ll be on my way.’

  Jimmy walked to the door of the small interview room and opened it. An armed, uniformed man was outside, he turned and blocked the doorway. Jimmy looked back at the man behind the desk who said something in French. The guard turned away and moved to one side. The black man looked at him for a second before he spoke and when he did there were no more smiles.

  ‘You are free to go, Mr Costello.’

  So Jimmy went.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was still Paris in the spring, but Jimmy wasn’t interested in the sights or the weather any more. He wasn’t a tourist. He wasn’t sure what he was except for one thing, he was working. He took a taxi from the airport into Paris and booked into the same hotel opposite the Gare de l’Est. As soon as he was in his room he went out and stood on the little balcony set into the slope of the roof and looked down at the road below and, across the road, the station. People going somewhere, people whose lives had purpose, people who mattered. They’d shot McBride because she mattered, she was important, she had a purpose. But him they could ignore. He wasn’t important. To them he had no purpose in whatever it was that had almost killed McBride.

  ‘Well, fuck you,’ he said to the empty air, ‘I didn’t matter, but I will. I’ll find you and when I do …’

  But the futility of flinging words into nowhere silenced him, empty words into the empty air. Don’t talk about it, get on with it. He went back into the room, sat on his bed, and made a call.

  ‘Good morning, I’m trying to contact M. Joubert. He is? I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he soon recovers. I had an appointment with him just over week ago, he was helping the sisters at the convent of Bon Secours to trace somebody and I’ve been assisting in the search. Yes, Mr Costello, that’s right. I came from Rome, visited the convent, and brought a letter of authorisation. You remember, good. There was also a dossier which I sent to M. Joubert by courier to return to Rome. Did it arrive safely and was it sent off like I asked? It arrived but you don’t know if it was sent on. I see. Will M. Joubert be continuing to act for the sisters when he recovers sufficiently? No. Then perhaps you could tell me who is acting for them now. One minute, I need to get a pen and paper.’ Jimmy pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and a pen from another pocket. ‘Go on.’ He wrote down the information as he got it. ‘And I should ask for?’ He added a name and a direct line number. ‘Thank you, you have been most helpful. Please tell M. Joubert I asked after him. A sad comment on our times, I’m afraid. Goodbye.’

  Jimmy put his phone down and looked at the name of the lawyers who had taken over from Joubert. It meant nothing to him except it wasn’t French – Parker and Henry International. He picked up his phone again and dialled the direct line he had been given.

  ‘Good morning …’ The voice at the other end replied and he glanced at his watch. It was two minutes past twelve. ‘Quite right, good afternoon. My name is Costello, James Costello, I have been asked by the Sisters of Bon Secours to assist them in the matter of finding someone. I was working with a M. Joubert but unfortunately he has had an accident and his office gave me Parker and Henry International as the firm who have taken over. I was told to ask for a Nadine Heppert. Thank you.’ He waited until a voice came on the line. ‘Miss Heppert, Nadine Heppert? My name is Costello, James Costello, I was given this number by … Ah, you know what it’s about. Good, that saves us both time. Would it be possible to meet? Thank you, that would suit me fine. I’m afraid I don’t know Paris, which would be the best Metro station? La Défense, Line One, or RER Line A and it’s the thirty-first floor of the Tower Initiale. No, don’t bother, I’ll ask directions when I get there. Thank you, and I look forward to our meeting.’

  Tomorrow nine thirty. That was quick. He doubted she was someone with a lot of spare time so she must really want to see him. Why? As soon as he’d given her his name she knew what it was about. How did that work? Jimmy decided that tomorrow’s meeting with Ms Heppert was going to be most interesting. One more call, then a beer and then somewhere for lunch.

  Jimmy’s call was to the hospital in Rome and the answer was “no change”, the non-committal bulletin he would go on getting until there was a change. But at least it meant she was still alive.

  When Jimmy returned from lunch the receptionist told him there was someone waiting for him in his room.

  ‘You do that in Paris, you let callers wait in people’s rooms?’

  The receptionist ignored the irony of the question.

  ‘Yes, if they are the police and they say they have been asked by the guest to call.’

  ‘Did I ask this one to call?’

  The clerk shrugged disclaiming any responsibility and looked down at some paperwork.

  ‘He said so.’

  ‘And you just took his word.’

  The clerk looked up with dead eyes. He didn’t care and nothing could make him care.

  ‘Why not? He is the police.’

  Jimmy went up to his room and let himself in. Sitting in a chair by the balcony windows was the same man who had bounced him from the airport. He didn’t get up as Jimmy closed the door. Seeing as how the policeman had the only chair Jimmy sat on the bed.

  ‘You got my message then?’

  ‘What do you want, Mr Costello? I am a busy man and I have no time for games.’

  ‘Deporting me was a game?’

  ‘You were not deported, merely asked to leave. You left of your own free will.’

  The policeman was about forty with short black curly hair. He wore a dark suit with a tie hanging loose at his open collar. He looked worn rather than sloppy. Jimmy guessed he was more a working copper than a desk-jockey.

  ‘You’re a busy man and I have a job to do so le
t’s not jerk each other about. You got told to kick me out and warn me off, which you did. Now I’m back. Are you interested or not?’

  The policeman waited before he answered.

  ‘Go on, Mr Costello. I’m listening.’

  ‘I got asked to do a job of finding a missing person for the Sisters of Bon Secours here in Paris. I was sent by my boss in Rome as a favour to the superior of the nuns’ order.’

  ‘Your boss?’

  ‘Professor Pauline McBride. She works for an institution in Rome, a College …’

  ‘She works for the Vatican?’

  ‘No, not that sort of College, Collegio Principe, an academic institute. When I got to Paris I met with a nun at the convent who sent me to a lawyer, M. Joubert. All clear so far?’

  ‘Go on, Mr Costello, I’ll ask if I have questions.’

  ‘Right, because this is where it all becomes very unclear and the questions start for me as well as you. My room in this hotel gets turned over by experts. Very neat job but I spot it. I decide to leave. I get a taxi from across the road and head for the airport but the taxi gets stopped by your lot and we meet at the airport where you deliver your message. When I get back to Rome my boss, Professor McBride, gets gunned down by somebody who knew what they were doing, silencer, motorbike, the whole works. But she lived, she lost an arm, and is in intensive care, but she lived. Next thing I hear is that Joubert has been mugged, put in hospital for a couple of days, and has dropped the case. Now that is what I would have called in my days as a police detective a set of connected circumstances indicating criminal activity, perhaps involving police corruption.’

  The last couple of words juiced up Jimmy’s visitor considerably. He had guessed it would.

  ‘Are you making some sort of accusation, Mr Costello?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m saying that there must be a connection between the attempted murder of Professor McBride, the criminal assault on Joubert, and the instructions you were given to see that I left Paris. Unless you can explain that connection I’d say that at the very least there is a criminal conspiracy between the perpetrators of the crimes and someone high up in your police. That’s my accusation.’ He paused for a second, then went on. ‘But I’m making it to you, privately, in this hotel room, not to anyone else and not in any way that it might go public.’