Unholy Ghost (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The hotel was nothing special, clean, reasonably comfortable, but cheap and quiet because it was well away from the centre of Rome in the Quadraro district in the south-eastern suburbs.

Jimmy had run fast but in the end he hadn't run far. He'd caught the Metro and headed for Ciampino airport where the budget flights came and went. But once on the Metro he had changed his mind. He didn't want to run. He'd done too much running and it had never solved anything or got him anywhere except where he was now. He had nowhere else to go so he got out at Porta Furba Station. He chose it because he knew the district slightly. He'd been there with a local detective inspector when on his first job for McBride a few years earlier. He found a hotel and booked in.

The next morning things still seemed the same, nowhere to go and no reason to go there. He found a church and lit another candle but this time he had no words to go with it. It was a gesture, a bit of his past that he wouldn't let go.

After an aimless morning walking, drinking coffee, and more walking, he took an early lunch. He sat at a table under a big awning outside a restaurant and watched the traffic on the busy Via Tuscolana. He ate out of habit not hunger and after he had finished his meal ordered a coffee. He didn't want it but it gave him a reason not to get up and leave. The coffee came and grew cold at his elbow while he sat thinking, not that he could make much sense of his thoughts.

Whoever had turned over his room had been waiting for him when he went to Paris or picked him up after his arrival. Either they knew he was coming or had found out he'd arrived in double-quick time. If they had been told about him who told them and why? McBride? But somebody had gunned McBride. Was it the same people or someone else? Then there were the police, they also knew he was in Paris. Who told them? And why did they bounce him out so promptly and in such a very non-police way? Then there was Lawyer Joubert, immobilised but not dead. Nobody had tried to kill him, just knock him down to get the dossier, roughed up enough to be scared off. Again who and why? Who knew Joubert was involved? And that took him back to Professor McBride. She hadn't been roughed up and nobody had tried to scare her off. Somebody definitely wanted her dead.

And it all had to do with the Paris convent, an old whore who was also a blackmailer, a missing daughter, and Nazi loot with a very nasty American connection. He absently picked up his coffee and quickly put it down. It had formed a cold skin. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his lips. There were too many unknowns and what little he had got in Munich didn't help him with any of them. And on top of all that he didn't know how much of what McBride had told him was important or even true, nor what sort of game she was playing. Was it political or financial? Both or neither? He didn't know who ‘they' were or if ‘they' were one or more. He didn't know why the French police …

The high revs of an approaching motorbike grabbed his attention. The bike pulled in sharply at the curb opposite his table. On it were two leather-clad riders with full-face, black visors. Both were closed. The engine was still running as the pillion rider pulled the zip of the leather jacket down. Suddenly Jimmy found his legs wouldn't work. He couldn't move. The pillion rider got off the bike. Jimmy tried to think of a prayer but nothing came. Then the rider pulled off her helmet and shook out her long brown hair. The one on the bike took off his helmet, they kissed and the girl turned and walked away swinging the helmet by its strap. The rider put on his helmet and the bike roared back into the traffic.

Jimmy looked down at his hands, his fists were clenched and his knuckles white. Slowly he moved his legs under the table. Now, too late, the words came, Dear God … but now they didn't matter. He unclenched his hands and picked up his cold coffee. His hand was shaking but needed to do something, anything, to tell himself he still could function. He took a sip of the coffee and put the cup down, used his handkerchief on his lips again, wiped the sweat from his face then sat breathing deeply but slowly. Finally his mind unfroze and he asked himself the last question of all. Why the hell was he still alive?

The waiter appeared at his elbow and looked at the coffee.

‘More coffee?'

‘No.' But he needed something and it wasn't coffee. ‘Grappa.'

The waiter nodded and took the cold coffee away.

OK, he'd listed all the things he didn't know. So what did he know?

He tried to think of who might be his friends in all of this but came up empty so he went to the other side of the ledger. Enemies? That wasn't so difficult. If he went on looking then probably everyone involved, known and unknown.

The waiter arrived, put the glass on the table, and left. Jimmy took a sip, it tasted harsh like all spirit tasted to him. He wasn't used to it and didn't like it, but after a couple of pulls it seemed to work.

He finished what was left in the glass, beckoned the waiter, and asked for another. It might only be Dutch courage, but as things stood he'd take whatever courage he could get however it came.

The first thing he needed to decide was, should he go on with this, whatever it was? He looked at his hands then held them up with fingers outstretched. There was no shaking. He shuffled his legs, they also seemed back to normal and he hadn't wet his pants, thank God.

So, back to the question, go on or give up?

But could he go on with it even if he wanted to? He knew damn all for certain – no, wrong, not damn all, he knew a little. The convent was real, Joubert convalescing after a kicking was real, Young Hitler's death was real, and McBride dead or in a critical state was real. The Colmar woman … No, never mind the Colmar woman, not yet. The first thing he needed to be sure of was where he stood. Was he a target like McBride? There was only one way of answering that, to put himself out in the open. If they were after him then he had to make it easy for them to get him. And if they did – well, that was that.

The waiter came and went and Jimmy took a good drink.

Sitting in a café feeling philosophical about dying after a couple of drinks was one thing. Actually going through with it was another. The motorbike had shown him that. Still, he had to start somewhere and all he had at the moment was himself. Did it matter so much if they shot him? Probably not. If they'd killed McBride then they'd pretty much killed him as well. Without McBride to give some crazy sort of reason to his life he would be just going through the motions, like lighting candles to prove there was something to believe in. He looked at his drink but left it untouched. McBride. Maybe he wasn't on his own. She wasn't dead when he last heard. Maybe she'd make it and if she did he wanted to be ready.

If he put himself out in the open and nothing happened it meant they weren't looking for him and he could get on with trying to find out what all this madness was about. He pushed what was left of his drink away. It had done its job and now he knew what to do.

He picked up the bill and put the money and tip on the plate and walked back to his hotel and settled up. Then he went to the Metro station and set off back to his apartment. Sitting on the train he felt surprised. He wasn't scared any more. He might die but he wasn't scared, not like he'd felt when he saw the bike stop. Was that was something to do with McBride or was it the grappa? Or both? One thing he was sure of, he couldn't leave her dead or dying and not try to do something. And if she made it then he wanted to be ready, to show her something, to let her know he'd done all he could. She'd been there for him, now he had to be there for her.

But then a small voice whispered to him.

‘No, Jimmy, no lies. You're not doing this for her are you? You're doing this for the only person you really care about, Jimmy Costello.'

And he knew his conscience was right. He needed a reason to keep going and at the moment McBride, dead or alive, was his only reason.

The Metro rattled on. Jimmy changed lines at Termini and got out at Lepanto where he'd started his brief attempt at escape the day before. Back in his apartment he had a thorough look around. If it had been turned over he couldn't spot it.

Oh well, give it two or three days and if you're still alive, you stupid old sod, get back to work. Find out which bastards shot McBride and, if you find them, kill them. Now, phone the hospital and find out how things stand.

The news was good. For once God had held up his side of the deal, or the medics had, or McBride had done it on sheer will power and bloody-mindedness. She was alive, still in intensive care but alive.

And she'd asked for him. 

Chapter Fifteen

When Jimmy got to the hospital the doctor tried to speak in his most serious voice. He wanted Jimmy to be absolutely clear how much he disapproved of the visit.

‘She is really far too unwell to have any visitors, even close family. Not even a priest.'

‘I'm not family and I'm not a priest.'

The doctor shrugged. He didn't really care who Jimmy was.

‘She asked for you.'

‘I know, that's why I came.'

Jimmy waited. The doctor seemed unwilling or unsure how to go on.

‘She is fighting.'

‘Isn't that good?'

‘Under certain circumstances, yes, but in this case, no. She is fighting and the drugs cannot do their work properly. She needs to rest and let the medication work, she needs to let her body heal.'

‘Give her something.'

‘We have to be careful, at the moment she is stable but her condition is still critical. We have done all we can. We cannot, as you say, give her something. All that can be done has been done. Now she needs to rest. But she is a strong woman, not strong physically, not in her present condition that would be impossible, but …' he tried to find the right medical words but the best he could come up with were, ‘… strong spiritually, you understand?'

‘No.'

‘No? No, neither do I. She fights, not to live you understand, not to cling on to her life, but for some other reason, and this fighting will kill her. She says your name, more than once, so finally we ask that you be found and that you come. Whether it will help …'

He shrugged again and stood looking at the floor. Jimmy waited a moment.

‘So do I see her?'

The doctor was young and looked tired. Jimmy guessed it wasn't easy for him. Let her have a visitor and it could kill her. Keep this visitor away and it could also kill her. Either way he would get the blame.

‘Any strain, any strain at all … you understand?'

‘No.'

The doctor looked annoyed.

‘She must not be …'

But Jimmy was also tired and he was no longer young and he didn't give a fuck any more about who got any blame.

‘Look, Doc, I know she was shot, twice. As I understand it she's lost an arm and should be dead. The medical side is up to you lot here. If you let me see her you let me, if you don't, you don't, but spare me the words, will you? I didn't ask to come, she asked for me. You're the man who gets to decide. It's your decision so make it. Do I see her or don't I?'

The doctor didn't like it but he couldn't argue with it. It
was
his decision. But he still didn't like it. She shouldn't be alive but she was; she shouldn't be holding her own, but she was. She definitely shouldn't be having a visitor. But apparently she was.

The doctor took Jimmy to the door of a room.

There was only a low light but Jimmy could see the bed clearly. McBride lay there with a plastic bag of clear fluid hanging from a stand and a tube going down to her arm. There were wires leading to machines on trolleys where screens turned her life into numbers and lines. He looked at her. She seemed dead. He could see no sign of life whatsoever. In one wall of the room there was a window beyond which was another room with a light on and the head of a nurse who looked up when Jimmy and the doctor appeared.

The doctor pointed to a chair that had been put at the bedside.

‘Please, as short as possible and as little strain. Press that button if anything, anything at all happens. The nurse in the next room will come immediately if you press the button or make any gesture of concern.'

He stood to one side and Jimmy went and sat down in the chair.

God, she'd changed. He'd only ever known her turned out crisp, clean, and totally in control. This wasn't her. This was a tired, old woman who had pain and suffering written into her face. Her tight, curly, black hair had flecks of grey amongst it. One arm lay on the white sheets with the pale palm half up and fingers slightly bent. It looked useless, as if the fingers would never close on anything ever again. This was a worn-out, old black woman waiting to die after a hard life. This wasn't McBride.

Jimmy waited but her eyes remained closed. He couldn't see any evidence of breathing. He wondered if he should call the nurse but decided against it. As he sat and waited his mind went back to another bedside, one in a London hospital where another tired woman was waiting to die. Nobody had shot her, it had been cancer that had killed her. He had waited by her bedside as useless then as he was now.

The head on the pillow turned slightly and her eyes opened. She didn't try to smile or show any sign of recognition or welcome. Jimmy bent close to catch whatever she might say.

‘Keep going. Even if I die don't give up.'

The head turned back and the eyes closed. He was dismissed. She had finished with him and had gone back to the business of trying to stay alive.

Jimmy looked around the small room, full of complicated kit and most of it seemed connected to her by tubes or wires. But he knew it wasn't all this medical kit that was doing the real work, that was being done by the woman inside. The woman inside was the one keeping the woman outside alive.

Jimmy got up quietly and looked down at her. In his head he said, Christ, you're a stubborn old bastard.

And in his head he heard her voice reply, ‘Sometimes you have to be.'

It was his imagination of course, but that didn't change anything. He knew exactly what she meant. And she wasn't wrong.