Broken Faith (5 page)

He picked up the folder and handed it to her. He liked the way things were progressing. The only trouble was, he didn't mean with the investigation …

Chapter Six

The black SEAT stopped on the drive of a large bungalow, obviously the home of someone who had done well before coming to live in Spain.

‘Who is it this time?'

Suarez looked at her list.

‘Mr and Mrs Henderson. Both retired. He used to be an accountant, she was a teacher.'

‘He must have been a good accountant, there was never much in teaching.'

It was Mr Henderson who came to the door, a short, chubby man, balding and in his middle to late fifties. When Suarez showed him her warrant card he seemed to become nervous and tried to edge back behind the door which he pushed a bit more closed.

‘What is it?'

‘It concerns a Mr Jarvis.'

‘Really, Inspector I have spoken to the police already, we both have. My wife and I knew Mr Jarvis very slightly. We can tell you nothing more about him, absolutely nothing.'

‘I understand that, Mr Henderson. I have only a couple of questions. Are you or your wife Catholics?'

Henderson's surprise at the question overcame his nervousness for a second. The door inched open and a little more of Henderson emerged.

‘Catholics?'

‘Yes.'

There was a pause before he answered and when he did his voice was no longer nervous so much as cautious.

‘My wife is a Catholic. Why do you ask?'

‘It appears that when Mr Jarvis first started coming to Santander he went to Sunday Mass at Sancta Maria Mater Dei church. Is that the church your wife uses?'

The answer was still cautious.

‘It was.'

‘Perhaps we could come in, Mr Henderson. Is your wife at home?

Henderson had got a grip on himself, he was more in control now. He even managed a weak and insincere smile as he stood back, opened the door and they went in. He lead them through the house onto a patio which looked out over a large, well-kept garden. Unless they were both fanatical gardeners Jimmy assumed they employed someone to look after it, or maybe two, given the size of the place. He must have been a very good accountant, thought Jimmy. On the patio by a table and in the shade of a large umbrella a woman was sitting reading a book. She turned and looked at the trio as they came out of the house. She was also in her fifties, with her iron-grey hair pulled back giving her sharp features a severe look. She was thin, which did nothing to soften her appearance. She reminded Jimmy of a character in a book he'd read at primary school who had frightened him, a wicked school-mistress who did something nasty to her pupils. He couldn't remember what it was.

‘It's the police again, Dorothy, something about going to Mass. This is,' he turned to Suarez, ‘I'm sorry I didn't catch the name on your identification.'

‘Suarez, Inspector Suarez, Mrs Henderson, and this is Mr Costello, he is acting as a liaison in the investigation.'

Mrs Henderson didn't get up. The way she was looking at them, Jimmy felt as if she suspected them of walking mud or something worse across her best carpet. He almost looked down at his shoes.

‘Costello, it's not a Spanish name.'

‘No, it isn't.'

Jimmy had taken a rapid dislike to the woman. He didn't like her manner, the way she looked or the way she spoke. He glanced at Henderson, soft and …what? Sly maybe? Then he looked back at Mrs Henderson. She was angular and hard and he instinctively felt there had never been much chance of any little Hendersons. Mrs Henderson waited but when she realised he didn't intend to offer her any further information she transferred her attention to Suarez. Jimmy got the feeling she would like to smack his leg and then tell him to stand him in a corner with his face to the wall.

‘What is it you want, Inspector?'

‘You husband says you are a Catholic, Mrs Henderson. Do you attend Mass on Sundays?'

‘I don't know what that has to do with the police but, yes, I am a Catholic and I do go to Mass on Sundays.'

‘Do you go to Sancta Maria Mater Dei church?'

‘No. We used to go there some years ago but then we moved house, the area was going down. The wrong type was moving in.'

‘The wrong type?'

‘Loud and common. Plenty of money but precious little of anything else. I now go to the Jesuit church.'

‘When you went to Mater Dei was Fr Perez the parish priest?'

She thought for a moment.

‘Yes he was.'

‘And did you first meet Mr Jarvis there?'

‘No, I never met him there. The police have already been told that we hardly knew Mr Jarvis other than to say hello if our paths crossed, which wasn't often. What very little I saw of him didn't give me the impression that he was our sort of person.'

‘Loud and common with money and precious little else? The wrong type.'

She gave Jimmy a look, but as she didn't have a ruler handy he felt safe with his hands out of his pockets.

‘I'm sure I couldn't say what type sort of person he might have proved to be if we had known him, Mr Costello. But, as I said, we didn't know him so I couldn't comment.'

Suarez intervened, she didn't want things turning too nasty.

‘I see, thank you, Mrs Henderson.'

Mrs Henderson went back to her book. They were dismissed, they could go out to play now.Mr Henderson took his cue.

‘I'll see you out.'

Henderson led the way back through the house and closed the front door behind them. They got back in the car.

‘Well, Jimmy, I'm not sure it's any use but we've got our first point of contact. Jarvis used the same church as she did when he came here.'

 ‘But she says they didn't know him. Of course she could be lying.'

It was more wishful thinking than anything else.

‘I doubt it. It would be too easy for us to check. Still, it's a connection, not that I see it takes us anywhere.'

They were standing by the car. Jimmy looked back suddenly at the bungalow. A face disappeared behind a curtain. It was just a glimpse, but enough to that see it was a chubby face.

‘Maybe it does. She said, “we”.'

‘We?'

‘She said, “we used to”, that means they both went to Perez's church. She might not have met Jarvis but that doesn't mean he didn't.'

Suarez face lit up with a grin.

‘I like it.' They got into the car but Suarez didn't start the engine. Jimmy watched the window. The curtain moved slightly. Chubby was still watching. ‘So, we have Henderson maybe alongside Jarvis but if so, keeping it to himself. What did you think of him?'

‘I don't know. Retired early and with plenty of money. There's something about him, nervous, sly. But with a wife like his that may not mean much. And he's been watching us since we left.'

Jimmy pointed to the window and Suarez looked but the curtain didn't move.

‘Doesn't mean much.'

‘No,'

‘And her?'

‘Poison. Self-centred, bossy poison. He's probably shit-scared of her and if they ever had a fulfilling sex life I'll eat your handbag.'

‘Nothing doing, it's an expensive one, but I see where you're going. Timid, bullied husband with no sex-life to speak of. What does he do for thrills?'

‘I wonder if he has a computer?'

‘Oh, he'll have one, everyone has one these days. But unless we turn up a lot more than we've got I doubt we'll get to have a look at what he's got on it.'

Jimmy agreed.

‘So who's left for this morning?'

‘Just one, Harold Mercer. I kept him till last.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because he's the only one on the list who might count as a bit of a celebrity. I wanted to surprise you'

‘A celebrity? How come I haven't heard of him then?'

‘Are you a big reader, Jimmy?'

‘I read a book once. It didn't take.'

‘I thought so. I'm told Harold Mercer is a writer of crime fiction. I thought you might enjoy meeting someone who makes a living out of crime.'

‘We'll see.'

Chapter Seven

‘Fuck me, it can't be!'

He was a big man, wearing a gaudy shirt and the accent was London, definitely north of the river. He stepped out of the doorway with his hand out. Jimmy took it.

‘Hello, Harry, when did they let you out?'

‘Jimmy fucking Costello, as I live and breathe. Where did you spring from?'

‘Here and there. I move about.'

The man who had answered the door laughed.

‘Still the great communicator, I see.'

 ‘That's right, Harry, still no such thing as free information.'

Suarez stood by the door and looked from one to the other. Harold Mercer was maybe five to ten years older than Jimmy, well-tanned, over six foot tall with a shaved head. The neck of his brightly-patterned, short-sleeved shirt hung open and around his neck were assorted gold chains. He wore tailored shorts and flip-flops and there was more gold on his wrists, with faded tattoos on both arms. Suarez took the same dislike to him as Jimmy had taken to Mrs Henderson. She didn't like his looks, his manner or his language and what she didn't like most was that he knew Jimmy and Jimmy obviously knew him.

‘You know Mr Mercer?'

Jimmy shook his head.

‘No, I don't know any Mr Harold Mercer. I knew a Harry Mercer once, but he didn't write. He was a blagger, a thief, an all-round low-life and muscle for some of the nastiest villains ever to walk north London.' He turned back to Mr Mercer. ‘How you doing, Harry? Nice to see you again.'

Mercer grinned.

‘And you, Jimmy boy, and you. Come in, come in both of you. This calls for champagne.' And he led them through the imposing villa into the living room where he stopped, turned, and looked at Jimmy again. ‘As I fucking live and breathe, Jimmy Costello. Hasn't anybody killed you yet, you bastard?'

‘Not yet, Harry, I'm still around.'

Harry looked at Suarez. He didn't need to see any ID. He still knew a copper when he saw one, even a good-looking one like her. He looked back at Jimmy.

‘Still playing copper? You're a bit long in the tooth aren't you? And if you are, you're well off your patch. What's brought you out from under your stone into the sunshine?'

‘I thought we were going to get champagne. Or has the mood changed?'

‘Sorry, I never could get any kind of stranglehold on the social graces. Sit down both of you. I'll be right back.'

They sat down and Harry went out of the room.  Suarez gave Jimmy a look and Jimmy gave a Suarez a shrug. It was nothing he'd planned. He was as surprised as she was. Harry came back with a tray. There was a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Suarez refused the glass Mercer offered her.

‘Not for me, thank you.'

‘Not while on duty?'

‘Not while driving.'

‘Very sensible. Here you are, Jimmy, you're not driving.'

Jimmy took his glass. The cork popped, and Harry poured the wine, then sat down and held up his glass.

‘To old times.'

Jimmy held up his.

‘And fair shares for all.'

Harry laughed.

‘Bugger that. Now I'm making legit money I don't share it with any fucker, not even the tax man.'

They both drank. Suarez stood up. Mercer looked at her but didn't get up.

‘Not going already, dear?'

‘Oh, I think so, Mr Mercer, I can see you two have some catching up to do. Mr Costello will deal with what I came to ask you. Please don't get up, I'll make my own way to the door.' Harry hadn't looked like getting up. She turned to Jimmy. ‘You'll get a taxi?'

‘Yeah. I'll catch you later.'

‘Good day, Mr Mercer.'

‘So long, love.' Suarez left. ‘Who's the fancy copper?'

‘Local inspector, name of Suarez. I like her, she's OK. Got me somewhere to stay.' Jimmy looked round. ‘Not like this though. It looks like you're doing well for yourself.'

‘Better than when you last saw me. Remember that? The security-van set-up when you thought you were going to get Denny Morris. Last time we talked was in an interview room with you asking me what I'd stand for to help clear the back-log.'

‘As I remember you all walked on that one.'

‘Yeah, we walked. It was a neat piece of work, like everything you ever did. It was down to you, wasn't it? You got the fix put in?'

‘No, Harry. I was just a Detective Sergeant. I couldn't put that kind of fix in.'

‘OK, some high-up actually did the business, but it was clever, it had Jimmy Costello written all over it. We knew your work when we saw it. Still, who cares? It's all ancient history now. I still make a living from crime, but now only by writing about it. Another?'

Jimmy held out his glass.

‘Why not?'

Mercer refilled their glasses.

‘It was something you said to me in that interview room got me started on all this. Remember what you said?'

‘I said a lot of things.'

‘You said I was getting too old, I should learn a proper trade next time I was inside. Well I took your advice.'

‘You got sent down again? I never heard.'

‘It was a fuck-up not so long after the security-van thing. Me and Sid, you remember Sid Temple, little bloke, good with a knife?' Jimmy shook his head. ‘Anyway me and Sid joined an out-of-town geezer who told us he had a walkover. We checked him out and he was kosher so we went off our own turf with him and tried to knock over a bookies in Birmingham. A shooter went off and – well, like I say, it was a fuck-up. I wasn't inside when the gun went off, I was the wheel-man. No one actually got hurt so I only drew a ten stretch. You know what I did when I was inside?'

‘Tell me what you did when you were inside, Harry.'

‘I studied with the Open University. I got a degree in English Literature. We were all mugs taking to crime. If I'd done some proper schooling instead of setting out to be Jack-the-Lad I could have done this writing lark years ago and not spent my time with hooligans, wasting any money I made on booze, tarts and gambling. We were all just a bunch of fucking mugs really, especially the clever ones who could have made it going straight. Remember Nat?' Jimmy nodded, he remembered Nat. ‘He was a clever bugger, he had the brains to be anything and look what happened to him?' Jimmy knew what had happened to Nat but he let Harry go on. ‘Somebody car-bombed the fucker. I was inside but I heard about it.'

Mercer poured himself another drink. Jimmy watched him. Was he getting maudlin on two glasses of champagne? Or had he been drinking before they had arrived? Jimmy looked at his watch. Ten-past eleven. He'd started early, then, but he hadn't looked like he'd been hitting the bottle when he'd answered the door.

‘Help yourself, Jimmy.'

Jimmy reached to the bottle and poured himself half a glass.

‘I never had you down as a literary type, Harry, more the violent type as I remember.'

‘I was then, when we knew each other. Like you, nasty and vicious, not a nice bloke to have around. In stir I decided it was time to use what I knew in a way that didn't hurt people any more. I didn't think I'd end up a writer but once I started studying I thought, why not? What about you, Jimmy, you still hurting people?'

‘Not intentionally, I gave it up a long time ago.'

‘But not the money, don't tell me there's no money in this for you, whatever it is. There always had to be something in it for Jimmy. That hasn't changed has it? Whatever you're up to over here, you'll get your share out of it.'

‘That's right, Harry, I'll get what I want out of this.'

‘I thought so, still the same old fucker.'

And he finished his glass and poured another.

‘So how did you get started as a writer? Just put it all down in words, what you'd got up to with Denny and your mates, turn it all into a story?'

‘If it was that simple every villain in London would be at it. No, it's like anything else. You learn your trade, you practise and practise until you get it right. Then you need to get lucky. I got lucky, a real London villain turned writer made enough of a story to get my first book taken on by a publisher. Once it did OK I decided I could make a living out of it. Writing the second one turned out to be a real bastard, I had to graft at that but I managed it and it did better than the first so I came over here to get away from everything and get on with writing. An ex-villain turned writer sounds all right in a newspaper or magazine but there were too many old connections in London for me to have stayed on.'

‘You put the lads in your books, then?'

‘Yeah, most of the boys were in there one way or another.'

‘And they didn't mind?'

‘I didn't have much to do with them after I came out and my first book got published. The ones I met who knew what I was up to seemed more pleased than anything to think they were getting written about.'

‘What about me? Was I there?'

‘A really bent, bastard of a copper? Well, I couldn't leave you out, could I?'

‘Just as well you didn't ask what I thought about putting me in a book.'

Mercer laughed.

‘What? Tell you I was putting you in a book and have you putting me in hospital? You were never one for the limelight were you? Besides, our paths never crossed after we walked from that set-up. But don't worry, you only had a small part and I didn't say what you really got up to. You got killed in chapter four of the first book. A character based on Denny Morris killed you and you remember what Denny was like, it wasn't a nice way to go. See, writing isn't like what really happened. Some people in my books have to get what they deserve. The really bad guys like you don't get to walk away like they did in real life. The public like happy endings where people get what's coming to them.'

Harry poured the last of the champagne into his glass and took a drink. Jimmy smiled.

‘What was it, wishful thinking on your part, Harry? Knocking me off the way you would have liked to see me go?'

Harry paused.

‘Maybe, most of us wanted you to go, that way or any other way. You were a toxic bastard, Jimmy. It would have been nice to see you getting what you deserved.'

There was genuine regret in his voice.

‘Sorry you and the boys all got disappointed.'

Mercer took another drink that emptied his glass.

‘What the hell? I say fuck it. It was all long ago and now it's all just stories in books, smoothed out and tarted up to please the punters. A little peep into the cess-pit. You were there, you were one of us, you remember what it was like. Stupid fuckers making stupid talk in shit-house pubs and backstreet clip-joints. Hurting people, doing jobs, doing time. It was all shit, but it was the only shit you knew so you rolled about in it and put on that you didn't notice the smell. When I went inside that last time I guess I must have developed a sense of smell. That, and knowing I didn't want to go back inside for another stretch once I got out. Do you know how many years I've done in stir? Sixteen, not counting young offenders' time. With my record if I'd have gone down again – well, I decided I wouldn't go down again and, like I say, I got lucky with the writing. So here I am in the sun with money in the bank and no coppers breathing down my neck.' He looked across at Jimmy. There was no friendliness in the look but there was a lot of something else. ‘Except you. Now you've turned up. What you up to here in Spain?'

‘Know a bloke called Arthur Jarvis?'

‘Heard of him, saw it in the papers and on the telly, didn't know him. He got croaked a few days back didn't he?'

‘That's right. You didn't know him, never came across him anywhere?'

‘No, I don't mix with the local Brits. Like I say, somehow I never got round to getting any manners and my language is still fucking awful. And this isn't the Costa del Crime, this is the Costa del Retired Middle-Class Suburbia, so I keep myself to myself, walk a bit, eat out, have a few drinks and write. If I get any urges I have a girl sent round, but I don't get many urges these days. I know what you're thinking. It doesn't fit with the me you knew in London in the old days. Well, maybe it doesn't but I like it, it suits me.'

‘No rough stuff?'

Mercer put his glass down and held up his hands so Jimmy could look at the back of them. There were no rings and Jimmy could see why. The joints were noticeably swollen. Harry put his hands down.

‘I can hold a glass and still use two fingers on a keyboard to do my writing but if I hit you with one of these I would be the one that you'd hear screaming. I take stuff for it, but it doesn't do much good. Give it another couple of years and they'll look like fucking claws.' He put his hands down and looked at them. Then he looked up again. ‘So, what's Jarvis got to do with anything, what's your interest? And why the visit here from you and your sexy inspector?'

‘It's nothing, at least nothing that applies to you. She's got you on the list as a Catholic. You were never a Catholic, Harry. How come you're on the list as one? As I remember it you were never the religious type.'

That got a laugh.

‘Too fucking true. It was when I wanted to come over. I had a record, didn't I?. I wasn't what you might call a desirable candidate so I put down anything I thought might help.'

‘How did you think that would help?'

‘They were all supposed to be RC over here, at least that's what I was told. Anyway, I wasn't exactly familiar with abroad was I? I mean look what happened when I went to fucking Birmingham. I wanted to blend in, being an ex-villain was OK back in London but it was no good to me over here. I came here to get away from all that so on the forms I put down RC.'

‘Ever go to church?'

‘A few times, just for appearances.'

‘Where about?'

‘Here and there, there's plenty to choose from. I can't remember which ones, like I said, it was only for appearances.' Jimmy stood up. ‘What you doing? Not going already? Stay and have a chat, I'll open another bottle.'