Stealing God

STEALING GOD

James Green

Corrupt copper and bad Catholic Jimmy Costello is back, and he's studying to be a priest in Rome.

But his old life refuses to stay buried...

When a visiting archbishop dies in suspicious circumstances, the Kilburn hard man is asked to drop his religious studies and help local police investigate. Together with his partner Inspector Ricci, Jimmy follows a twisting trail of evidence from the streets of the Holy City to Glasgow and back, where they uncover a sinister plot more evil than they had ever imagined.

Author's Note

I don't suppose many writers get the chance to re-write a book once it's been published, so I want to thank Accent Press for giving me that chance. Stealing God was written seven years ago while Bad Catholics was getting excellent reviews and shortlisted for a Crime Writers' Association Dagger, and the public were fretting for the second book in the series. Stealing God lays the foundations for the rest of The Road to Redemption series, but the world has definitely moved on since its first publication. When I saw I had a second chance to work on it, I took the opportunity to incorporate new themes which have a stronger relevance in today's world. Now, some years since it was written, I feel that Stealing God can take its proper place in the violent life and hard times of James C. Costello.

Newark on Trent, 2015

In February 1945 Germany was a defeated nation, the war almost finished. The victors, Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt, met at Yalta, in Crimea, to carve up post-war Europe. When it was suggested that the views of Pope Pius XII should be taken into account Stalin asked his now famous question, ‘How many divisions has the pope?' The answer, of course, was none, so Vatican sensibilities were ignored. Stalin outmanoeuvred both Churchill and Roosevelt and got most of Central and Eastern Europe. The Soviet Union became a superpower.

Was Stalin right? Can the Vatican be dismissed as a serious player on the stage of world politics?

Well, just over fifty years later both Stalin and the Soviet Union were gone but the Vatican remained, arguably stronger than it had been for over three hundred years.

Makes you think, doesn't it?

The Past is a foreign country: we did things differently there …

Life isn't fair and it can be bloody unkind. If you want the breaks you have to make them for yourself. That was Jimmy Costello's view in the old days and the breaks he made were usually an arm or a leg, other people's of course. But things change. You do your best but then you find your best isn't good enough. You make money, lots of money, but the girl you make it for goes and dies on you. What then? Well, if you're London Irish from Kilburn you do one of two things: you humbly accept God's will and carry on or you turn your back on God and take your future into your own hands, and if your family and friends don't like it you tell them to go to hell. Unfortunately Jimmy wanted to do both and it nearly tore him apart. In the end, however, after a spell in the far west of Ireland and with the friendship of an old and wise priest, Jimmy found a way of dealing with who he'd been, who he was, and who he would become. He put himself back together and made a promise to the girl he'd worked so hard for. He'd put things right, he'd put himself right. Wherever she was he'd make her proud of him.

Jimmy applied to the Church to see if he was fitted for the Catholic priesthood. This initial enquiry got him a placement in a Paddington refuge to see if he was suitable material. But London wasn't a safe place for Jimmy and his old ways came back to bite him and they nearly bit his head off. So, in 1995, Jimmy left London, once again in a hurry, just like he'd done when his wife Bernie had died of cancer and, for a time, the madness had taken over. This time, however, he didn't hurt anyone – no one important, that is – so no one was looking for him. Jimmy put his money somewhere safe, where it would work for him, and set off for one last visit, to make peace with what was left of his family.

Jimmy and Bernie had two children, Eileen and Michael, and Jimmy had always thought of himself as a good husband and good father who protected his family and made sure they would never want for anything money could buy. But as soon as they were old enough they'd both left home and put as much ground as they could between themselves and their father. Eileen married and emigrated to Australia and Michael joined a Catholic religious order as a missionary priest. Too late, at Bernie's hospital bedside, Jimmy realised what staying with him but losing her children must have meant to his wife.

Michael survived four years of vicious civil war in south Sudan before his order finally pulled him out and sent him to a supposedly safe place in Africa where he'd picked up something nasty which had killed him inside two months. But there was still their daughter, Eileen. She had two children and lived in Melbourne with her builder husband. Jimmy had never seen his grandchildren, and Bernie never would, so he decided to go and see his daughter and her family and make whatever sort of peace and amends he could. He took his time in travelling, not because he wanted to see new places and new faces but because he didn't have high hopes and was in no hurry to have a door slammed in his face. There had always been a Christmas card with a short letter until Bernie died, then nothing. Jimmy felt it wouldn't be a long visit.

Eileen wasn't glad to see him, but he'd expected that. With the children, though, things were different. They weren't carrying any baggage from the past; to them he was Gramps, not only an English rellie but an ex-detective sergeant, someone new and different, and, to Jimmy's surprise and Eileen's disapproval, they decided to love him. Eileen's husband, Frank, was an Australian and they had met and married quickly while he in London as part of a European trip to see the world before he settled down. Eileen had told Frank nothing about her father but he could read his wife's attitude just as well as Jimmy. One night he took Jimmy out to a bar and told him that what was between Jimmy and Eileen was their business, but didn't want his children involved. If Jimmy could keep things civilised he was welcome to make as long a visit as he liked. That seemed eminently fair so Jimmy found somewhere to rent and began to get to know his grandchildren.

Eileen went along with her husband's decision and for a while he was happy, he had discovered something utterly new to him: an uncomplicated life with nothing to haunt him and nothing to fight for or against. He had money so he began using it for his grandchildren and Frank and Eileen let him. The weeks he'd intended to stay soon turned into months and then into years while the children grew and flourished. But Jimmy knew it couldn't last. He hadn't changed, he was still looking after himself, making sure he got what he wanted, and using money he'd made by bending and breaking the law to be safe, idle, and happy in a faraway country wasn't answering for the past. He'd promised Bernie he would become different, better, he had to go back and make that promise work. So, some years later than he had intended, Jimmy went back to Ireland to resurrect his application to Rome …

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

Epilogue

James Green

ONE

The narrow side street was domestic Rome, unattractive, functional, and none too clean, the small bar halfway down was a place where locals met for a drink, a smoke, and perhaps a game of cards or dominos. At one end the street opened out onto the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele where the sidewalks were full of bright dresses, casual slacks, tailored shirts, and sunglasses. The traffic, as always, churned noisily and fitfully with the inevitable sounding of horns. But in the warm, spring sunshine no one wanted to think about the Eternal City's eternal chaos, certainly not the three middle-aged men sitting in the bar. They looked at home, friends having a lunch-time drink in their local. One of them looked at his watch, a man with a lived-in face, short, grizzled hair, and a rumpled shirt, who looked as if he might have been born and raised in such a street. When he spoke, however, it was English and the accent pure north London.

‘I'll have to go soon, the rector wants to see me.'

‘What's up, Jimmy, smack on the wrist or a pat on the back?'

The question came from a small, balding man in a sweater. This time the accent was Australian. Jimmy smiled but didn't respond so the third man, a big man, filled the silence.

‘You don't expect him to tell you, do you? He never tells anyone anything if it's about Jimmy. I've been served clams in chowder that I knew more about than I do about him.' He turned to Jimmy as if inspecting him. ‘Eight months since we first met and I'll tell you what we know about you. You're a Duns College student, we know because we got told. You're studying with us but you're not one of us. You come from London, your accent tells us that. You must have plenty of money because Duns students have to be self-financing here and afterwards. That's common knowledge.' He nodded to the bottle and glass in front of Jimmy. ‘You like beer, not wine or spirits. And that's it, that's all of it.'

The Australian chipped in.

‘Except that you don't talk about yourself.'

They were all smiling; it was banter between friends.

‘That's right, Ron, he don't talk about himself.'

Jimmy finished his drink.

‘What's to talk about? Anyway, neither of you came to Rome to get my life story so what's the difference?'

The big man laughed easily; you got the feeling he laughed a lot. He was wearing an overcoat and had a scarf hanging round his neck. The Jamaican accent explained why it wasn't yet time for him to get into short sleeves.

‘Never mind why we came to Rome. We all know why we came to Rome, and you're right, it wasn't to talk about ourselves. But I tell you it isn't natural for people working together not to know something about each other. A careful mouth is a good thing, a secretive one is something else altogether. Secrets have a way of popping out at you when they can do the most harm.' Then he winked at the Australian before putting his elbow on the table and shielding his face with his hand. ‘Confess, my son, tell me all and receive my absolution before it is too late and the fires of Hell engulf your immortal soul,' and he laughed a deep, West-Indian laugh. The Australian joined in.

‘Take him up on it, mate, he'll go easy on you. He used to be a copper back in Jamaica so he's seen it all. You can't shock Danny.'

‘That's right, you can't shock me.'

‘Sorry lads, there's nothing to shock you with. I might bore you to death though, if I ever got going.'

‘Don't tell me a life lived in London hasn't had its moments, mate. I can't believe that.'

‘I don't suppose London's much different from Perth if all you do is live and work there and raise kids.'

Danny laughed loudly and slapped the table with his hands, hard enough for the barman to stop reading the paper and look up and the few others in the bar to glance across at them.

‘Information, Ron, information about Jimmy's dark and secret past.'

Ron joined in grinning.

‘So, married with kids, who'd have thought you would let something like that slip …'

But the laughter died quickly and Ron and Danny looked at each other, then both looked down, away from Jimmy. It was Ron who finally looked up and spoke. There was no laughter at the table now.

‘Sorry, mate, I wasn't thinking. No offence intended.'

Jimmy looked at his watch again.

‘None taken, lads, none taken, but the way I look at it, it's best to let the past alone. Then maybe it will let you alone.' He stood up. ‘See you.'

He left the table, put the bottle and glass on the bar, nodded to the barman, and walked out. The barman didn't respond but gave Jimmy's back a half-angry look as he left. Then he looked at the glass and bottle. Why did the Englishman do that? Collecting glasses, clearing tables, was his job. What was the reason? What was he trying to do, avoid giving a tip? But it couldn't be that because he did leave tips. The suspicion natural to the Roman mind lasted as long as it took for Jimmy to leave the bar. Then the barman went back to his paper, pointedly leaving the bottle and glass where they were.