Broken Faith (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Jimmy sat at the back of the church. His shirt and slacks were damp and his hair wet. There had been a sudden, heavy shower about five minutes after he had left Suarez's apartment and he'd come out without a jacket because the morning was already warm. He hadn't seen the threatening black cloud because it had cunningly hidden itself behind the other apartment blocks. Anyway, his mind had been elsewhere. The shower stopped before he reached the church, the sun had come out and he'd dried off a bit but inside the church it was cool and he felt cold and uncomfortable. Other people coming into church for the Mass glanced at him and he felt a bit foolish to have let himself get caught in the rain in just a short-sleeved shirt, but he'd left the apartment quietly and in a hurry because he wanted to get to Sunday Mass, it was important.

They had passed the church on the way back to the apartment the previous evening and he'd remembered that tomorrow was Sunday. Suarez had read the times of Masses off the notice board for him. Eight was the first and he'd woken early enough to slip out of the apartment and get to the church with plenty of time to spare. He'd lit some candles, one for Bernie, one for Michael, one for Eileen and the kids, then sat down in one of the back benches and thought about him and Suarez.

The church was filling now with a congregation, which was like all Catholic congregations he had ever known. The majority were women and children and most of the men present were middle-aged or older. It was the young adults who, with a few exceptions, were conspicuous by their absence. He waited for the Mass to begin and thought some more about Suarez. Why did he feel about her the way he did and, stranger still, why did she seem to feel anything for him? She was young and attractive, she didn't need a broken down has-been. Her lover should have been someone young and good-looking, someone successful, like her. How could she –

The bell rang and the priest came out on to the altar, preceded by the altar servers. Everybody stood up and the Mass began. Jimmy stopped thinking about Suarez and began thinking about what he always thought about in Mass, the whole stupid, meaningless mess that was his life. The words from the altar, though in Spanish, were the same, his memories the same, the regrets the same, the same meaningless mess that each day he tried to bully, cajole or pray into some sort of order or meaning. But he knew that however long he tried, and however hard, he would never even come close to achieving by his own efforts what Suarez had achieved in one act of gentleness and compassion. That was why it had been important to get to Mass, for Suarez, to say “thank you” for something that was completely human but had given him hope that somewhere there might indeed be something divine.

The Mass went on and when the time came he didn't go to communion, he slipped out of the back of the church into the sunshine. He wanted to try and be there when Suarez woke.

Jimmy felt the fear jump into his chest when he turned the corner and saw two police cars, their lights still flashing but sirens silent, parked outside her apartment block. There was a uniformed policeman at the entrance and across the road, in front of an identical block, a small crowd had gathered. The kind of crowd he recognised from his days as a detective, the inevitable collection of inquisitive watchers who gathered at the scene of some disaster. Something had happened, something bad.

All he could think was, please God, don't let it be Suarez. But he knew it was, and he knew it was nothing to do with God. He crossed the road and joined the edge of the watchers. One or two turned to look at him but he was of no interest, just a stranger who, like them, was curious to see what was going on. Another police car arrived, a black SEAT, along with an ambulance. This time there were no flashing lights and no sirens. Jimmy recognised the man who got out of the SEAT, greasy black hair, squat and in an ill-fitting suit. Suarez's boss. The man went to the uniformed policeman at the doorway and they began to talk. The ambulance crew got out and began to unload their kit. They didn't seem to be in any hurry. Jimmy left the little crowd and crossed the road heading towards the doorway. The uniformed officer looked over the squat man's shoulder and saw him coming. He shouted something to him in Spanish and waved a hand at him to go back. Jimmy kept on coming. The uniform shouted again and Suarez boss turned. He said something to the uniform who went silent and they waited until Jimmy was standing in front of them.

‘Suarez?'

Her boss nodded

‘Sí, Suarez.'

‘Dead?'

‘Sí.'

‘How? How did she die?'

The squat man looked at him obviously struggling to understand. The uniformed policeman said something, Suarez boss listened then turned back to Jimmy.

‘Dos, two …'

He held up two fingers and then his almost non-existent English gave out and the uniformed copper took over.

‘Two shots.'

The chief turned to the uniformed man and rattled off something in Spanish. The uniform looked at Jimmy.

‘He says get into the car. That car.' He pointed to the SEAT in which the squat man had just arrived. ‘At once. Go.'

Jimmy went to the car and got into the back. The driver ignored him.

The two men from the ambulance disappeared into the building followed by Suarez's boss. The uniformed man stood looking at him. Jimmy noticed the flap of his pistol holster was undone. Then another uniformed man joined him and also began watching him. He didn't care, if anything he was glad. He would be taken to the station where he might get told something. And he was glad he hadn't been the one to find her. He didn't want to see her dead body because he knew it was his fault she was dead. He had acted like a stupid kid, he had gone back to being sixteen, the last time he had fallen in love. He had behaved like a moon-struck, bloody adolescent. And it had killed Suarez. He let his mind run, it was either think about Suarez or think about something else and there was only one other thing to think about. Whoever sent the killer with the phoney Romanian passport wanted him dead, and wanted him dead in a hurry. The Romanian had missed so he should have been ready for the second time. Or he should have got out, like Suarez told him to. If he had got out she would still be alive. But he had hung on, pretending to himself … Except it hadn't been a pretence. Suarez had cared about him, cared enough to … He stopped thinking. Suarez wouldn't be pushed out of his thoughts so he stopped thinking about anything.

The front door of the car opened and Suarez's boss got in. He turned and looked at Jimmy then turned round, picked up the handset and made a call. He motioned to the driver and the car pulled away. Jimmy looked at the crowd on the opposite side of the street as they watched him go. Now they were interested in him, now he wasn't just a stranger to be ignored. Now he was somebody of importance.

Jimmy sat patiently in the interview room. It was clean and air-conditioned. The chair he was sitting on was comfortable and the table in front of him had a plastic cup of water on it. Since his arrival everybody had been polite and very non-threatening. There had been a murder and he was helping the police with their enquiries. He was co-operating and they appreciated his co-operation. So why did he feel uncomfortable?

He was being interviewed by an English-speaking officer. A youngish man in a white, short-sleeved shirt who smiled a lot for no apparent reason. He had smiled throughout the initial formalities and he was smiling now as he got down to business. So far, Jimmy hadn't felt like smiling back.

‘Where were you at half-past eight this morning?'

‘At Mass, the church was about a fifteen minute walk away from Inspector Suarez's apartment. I don't know what it's called. She was shot at half-past eight?'

‘Yes. Two shots, the first killed her. She was in bed.'

Jimmy knew she was in bed. That was where he had left her when he had quietly got up just before seven to get himself ready and go to Mass. In bed, naked, and fast asleep.

‘Someone heard the shots?'

‘Several people. We have the description of a man leaving the building. He wore a raincoat, dark glasses and a hat.  It was not a good description, but good enough to know you were not the man. You need not worry, Señor Costello, you are not a suspect in this investigation.'

‘I'm just helping with your enquiries.'

‘Yes. You are helping us with our enquiries.' Another pointless smile. ‘What was the nature of your relationship with Inspector Suarez?'

Jimmy picked up the plastic cup from the table and sipped the water. It was a good question. Were they friends, colleagues, lovers or strangers, or the whole lot rolled into one? How could it get like this in just a few days? It had taken him over two years to go to bed with Bernie for the first time and then only because George was in hospital and lent them his flat. This time it had taken a few days.

‘We met when she brought a message from her superiors –'

‘We know when and why you first met.'

‘Then you also know that she got me a place to stay when it was agreed I should act as an observer on the Jarvis murder. It was a holiday let which belonged to her cousin and was vacant for a week or so. While I was there a man broke in and tried to kill me. And you also know that he was the one who ended up dead but before he died he stuck a knife in me. I told Suarez I didn't want to stay in hospital so she let me stay at her apartment until I could get back into her cousin's place.'

Jimmy stopped. He could leave it there but that wouldn't help. The autopsy would show that she had recently had sex, and a DNA test would show Jimmy was the one she'd had it with.

‘Yes, Mr Costello?'

‘Yes what?'

‘The rest, Mr Costello.'

‘There is no rest. I stayed in her spare room. This morning I got up and went to Mass –'

‘Why did you go to Mass?'

‘Because it was Sunday. I go to Mass on Sundays.'

‘You are a Catholic?'

‘Yes, I'm a Catholic, and Catholics go to Mass on Sunday.'

‘Not all Catholics.'

‘No, you're right, not all of them, but I do. Is my going to Mass relevant to your investigation?'

‘Seeing as it coincided with the murder of Inspector Suarez, yes, it is.'

‘You mean it gives me an alibi or you think I wanted to be somewhere else when it happened?'

‘It could do both if it can be confirmed.'

Jimmy knew it would be confirmed. A stranger sitting at the back of church in a wet shirt at Sunday Mass got noticed by somebody. He'd be remembered.

‘Were you intimate with Inspector Suarez?'

‘Intimate?'

‘Did you have sexual relations with her?'

Another smile, but not so pointless this time.

Jimmy paused. If he lied he tied himself into her murder more than he already was. If he answered truthfully there would have to be explanations, and he had no explanation. He had no idea himself how it had happened.

‘Was she known to be of a promiscuous nature?'

The smile got switched off.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Was she well-known for sleeping around with casual acquaintances?'

A glint of anger appeared in the young man's eyes.

‘She was a colleague, Mr Costello, a well-regarded police inspector.'

‘Then why do you think she would have jumped in bed with me? We hardly knew each other for God's sake. Or do I strike you as the type attractive young women can't resist and fall for on sight?'

The officer looked at him. There were no smiles now but no anger either. Jimmy was glad he was still a bit dishevelled. He had never looked any oil painting but now, the way he looked, he guessed the force of his argument was at its high point. He ran his fingers through his grey, cropped hair. It was enough.

‘The spare bed had been slept in, but not necessarily last night, and it looked as though her bed could have been shared.'

‘Well if it was, I wasn't the one sharing it.'

‘You slept in the spare room?'

‘As it happens, no.'

‘No?'

‘We had dinner together. She wanted to cheer me up, getting knifed can lower your spirits a bit. We had some wine with the meal and we talked.'

‘About what?'

‘She told me that she had been married, to a guy in England, Croydon, who ran a restaurant. But it didn't take and she came back here and joined the police. Then we went back to the apartment and opened some more wine and talked some more.'

‘About what?'

‘About my wife and kids. I was glad to talk, I hadn't talked to anyone about them for a long time and she was a good listener.'

‘You have a wife and children?'

‘Had. My wife died of cancer and my son died in Africa. He was a missionary priest.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Why? Everyone says they're sorry. Why is that? You didn't know him or my wife and you don't know me. Bernie died of cancer and Michael died of something else, something tropical, I don't know what. My daughter lives in Australia with her family. We talked about them and we drank, no, we didn't drink. I drank, she listened. I don't know how long we talked or how much I drank. I don't even remember going to sleep. All I remember is waking up in the chair with a blanket over me and everything tidied away. I assumed she had gone to bed after I passed out. I made some coffee and just sat around until it was time to go to Mass. If she had someone in with her last night he came late and I have no idea who he was. That's it.'

And that was it, most of it. Except that they hadn't drunk much and he hadn't fallen asleep in the chair. He had fallen asleep beside her, and she had been right, he didn't pull his stitches and there had definitely been no pain. Now he had to wait. If they let him go he had to be out of Spain before the results of the autopsy came through.

‘Wait here, Mr Costello.'