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Jimmy felt distinctly foolish at the airport, being treated as if he was somebody. He had followed the Monsignor’s lead and everything had gone like clockwork. No fuss on arrival, just out of the taxi, through to Departures and ushered into the VIP lounge. It was while they were waiting in the VIP lounge that the Comedian turned up. The Monsignor had switched on his best smile.
‘Come to see us off, Commander?’
‘To talk to Mr Costello for a moment.’
‘By all means. Anything we can do to help.’
‘Alone.’
The Monsignor left them, but Jimmy could see from his back as he walked away that he wasn’t happy about it.
Jimmy and the Commander sat together out of earshot of the few other VIPs scattered around the lounge.
‘You may now be travelling on a Vatican diplomatic passport, but it won’t stop me having you arrested if you ever set foot on Danish soil again.’
‘Arrested for what?’
‘Illegal parking, possession of a dog without a licence, aggravated jaywalking, I’ll think of something. Just don’t come back, Mr Costello. I hoped when you left Denmark last time that we had seen the end of you, but you came back. Don’t repeat that mistake. Next time the Israeli Secret Service will be the least of your worries.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘Because it’s my job to know things. A car bomb goes off, it becomes my business. It isn’t terrorist-related, so I find out what it is related to. My enquiries turned up a certain ex- Soviet, ex-Russian Intelligence officer, Yuri Kemedov, who defected to the British and now lives with his wife in Nyborg and calls himself Charles Bronski. I checked everyone he made contact with and turn up Udo Mundt, ex-Stasi, now a parish priest in Copenhagen. Father Mundt has a house guest, you. So I check on you. For a man with so many years as a detective in the Metropolitan Police your file is remarkably slim. There must have been very little crime in London while you worked there. Almost none at all according to your file. So I arrange to have the three of you watched but, as it turned out, perhaps not well enough. Bronski skips off to Hamburg. Then he comes back.’
‘Did you follow him?’
‘No, as far as I was concerned Bronski can do what he likes so long as he does it somewhere that isn’t on Danish soil. Next thing, all three of you leave for Germany and travel in a curiously circuitous route. Again we didn’t follow, again on the same principal. Outside of Denmark I didn’t much care what any of you got up to. When you all left, including Mrs Bronski who conveniently flew off to the UK, I hoped that might be that. Unfortunately it wasn’t; you all came back.’
‘Do you know anything about what happened?
‘I know what everyone knows. A local businessman and a female British tourist were found murdered in a disused industrial building near Lübeck.’
‘And you believe that’s what it was?’
‘I don’t care, Mr Costello. What happens in Lübeck is not my concern. It is only while you are in Denmark you are my concern. You arrive, a car gets blown up. You go to Lübeck, two people die. I wait to see what will happen next. What actually happens is I get a call from a Monsignor who is based in Rome. He is concerned about you. He says you are the target of an Israeli snatch team and, as you are a member of the Vatican Diplomatic Service, he requests our protection for you. If I don’t protect you, I will have a Diplomatic Incident to deal with.’ He smiled. ‘Now that did surprise me. That, I had not anticipated. I increased surveillance on you so I was told immediately you were picked up by the team. The rest you know.’ He stood up. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing but I know you’re trouble. So go to Rome, Mr Costello. Go to Rome and stay there. And whatever you do, don’t ever come back to Denmark.’
‘What will happen to Bronski and Father Mundt?’
‘Nothing. They have done nothing, not on Danish soil anyway. If they continue to do nothing, they will both be left alone. Goodbye. Have a pleasant flight.’
He left. Neither felt a handshake was needed.
An hour later he was on a business-class-only jet with a diplomatic passport in his pocket, leaving Denmark for good. He turned to the Monsignor who was sitting next to him reading a book.
‘How did you know about the Israeli snatch team?’
The Monsignor stopped reading and looked at Jimmy, annoyed.
‘Has it occurred to you we are not alone on this plane?’
‘There’s no one in the seats in front and I promise to keep my voice down. How?’
‘We were tipped off by the Americans. The man you call Bronski had contacted their embassy in Paris with an offer to sell you to them. They told us what they thought would happen, so we did what we did. We were already prepared. Father Mundt had alerted Professor McBride and she anticipated that there might be some such complication. She had the necessary contacts in place. Personally I think we were wrong. We should have let them have you. It would have been a neater end to the mess you’ve managed to create around you.’
He returned to his book.
Yes, thought Jimmy, I can see how you might have wanted that, but you’re still not the one who gets to make the decisions, thank God. McBride still does that.
‘Will Udo be all right?’
The Monsignor did nothing to hide his annoyance at having his reading interrupted again.
‘Udo?’
‘Fr Mundt.’
‘Yes, I should think so. Why shouldn’t he be all right? Has he done anything?’
No, thought Jimmy, only saved my life and ordered a small-time gangster and a British agent executed. That’s all.
The Monsignor closed his book with a finger marking his page. He had decided on a little light conversation now that his reading had been interrupted.
‘I liked Fr Mundt. I was with him only for a short time but I liked him. I’m glad to say I was able to help him with a small problem that had been worrying him.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. Someone, an English woman I think he said, had come to him and asked him to hear her confession.’ He lowered his voice even further and leaned towards Jimmy. ‘It seems she told him that she was going to poison her husband.’
He leaned back and waited for a response.
‘If it was her confession, should Udo have told you, and should you be telling me?’
The Monsignor made a dismissive gesture with his free hand.
‘No, the seal of the confession doesn’t apply in this case.’
‘Why, because you’re a Monsignor?’
‘Not at all. It doesn’t apply because there was no confession. You cannot confess a sin you are going to commit. Only sins you have already committed, are genuinely sorry for, and have a firm purpose of amendment not to commit again. Fr Mundt explained that to her.’
‘So what advice did he need from you?’
‘He asked me whether, if she was sure her husband was going to kill her, killing him could be classed as self-defence?’
‘And?’
‘I told him not. Proportionality applies. If she was indeed certain her husband was going to kill her, the correct response would to go to the police, not to kill her husband.’
‘What if she couldn’t go to the police?’
‘Strangely enough, Fr Mundt asked me the same thing, but I hardly see the question arises. Claiming you are going to kill your husband because he is going to kill you is hardly what you would expect from a fully balanced mind, is it? I told Fr Mundt not to let it bother him.’
‘Not even go to the police?’
‘Good heavens, no. If one did that every time a wife said she wanted her husband dead or the other way round, the police would never get anything else done. Oh, no. I told Fr Mundt he should leave it alone. If he wanted to do anything at all, he might recommend a good analyst.’
The Monsignor opened his book and returned to his reading. He had finished having a little conversation. Jimmy signalled to the stewardess. He felt like celebrating. He didn’t like wine as a rule, but this was an occasion that called for something special.
‘Have you any champagne? I’ve just had some very good news.’
‘Certainly, sir. A full-sized bottle or just a half-sized?’
Jimmy turned to the Monsignor who determinedly continued his reading. Jimmy waited. Finally, with a bad grace, the Monsignor shook his head, never taking his eyes off the page.
‘Just a half-bottle.’
‘Thank you.’
And she left to get his champagne.
So, thought Jimmy, that was what you meant, Udo. Bronski’s luck had finally run out and the bastard was going to die. Well done, Elspeth, you little star. Well bloody done.
A few moments later the champagne came.
Charlie Bronski was finding it difficult to get to sleep. His stomach was unsettled just like it had been recently, but worse tonight. He thought about it. Maybe it wasn’t just Elspeth’s awful cooking. It wasn’t only his stomach, the purplish rash on the back of his left hand was spreading. Tomorrow he would make an urgent appointment with the doctor.
Next to him, facing away, lay Elspeth, her eyes looking into the dark of the bedroom. She was silently praying an Act of Contrition to herself even though she knew it would do no good. For an Act of Contrition to work there had to be sorrow for the sin and a firm purpose of amendment. She had a firm purpose, but not one of amendment.
When it was over she would be able to make a proper confession. She would probably have to make another sort of confession as well, and not to a priest. A sudden death would mean an autopsy and the rat poison would certainly be identified. But she didn’t care. Fr Mundt had been quite clear. She couldn’t go to the police and Charlie would certainly kill her if she tried to leave him or gave herself away. And she knew that somehow she would give herself away so it was self-defence, not really a sin at all. The only sin was enjoying it. She shouldn’t be enjoying it, at least not so much. She might go to prison, or she might not, but at least Charlie would get what he deserved.
She had not found it as difficult to poison Charlie as she had expected. She had simply said she wanted to have a go at some of his recipes. He was proud of his writing, rightly so, and she had played on that pride.
‘I know I can’t help you with ideas, but at least I can have a go and you can tell me where I went wrong. That would help, wouldn’t it? Let you see it from the reader’s side a bit. I do want to help, Charlie. And I need to feel I’m doing something useful.’
Of course he had agreed. After that, all she had to do was choose meals with plenty of spice in them, get it wrong and add the rat poison to his meal before she brought the plates to the table. And it had worked. He had eaten and then pontificated about how she had got it wrong. She smiled to herself. And he never mentioned rat poison once.
Tomorrow would be her fourth attempt. It would be a spicy goulash out of Hungary in an English Kitchen. She wondered, not for the first time, surely there had to be some taste to rat poison? But if there was, Charlie hadn’t noticed, and the goulash would hide it just like the curry, the chilli con carne and the sweet, spicy lamb had. Then a thought struck her, what if she ran out of suitable recipes before the poison worked? How long did it take to kill someone with rat poison? She didn’t know and couldn’t very well ask. Was it working? Charlie had complained of bleeding gums yesterday morning and she had told him she’d get him a softer toothbrush. Was that a symptom? She’d make it a stronger dose tomorrow, as strong as she dared. The trick would be to get the goulash hot enough but not so spoiled that Charlie couldn’t eat it. Difficult.
Slowly, dreamily mulling over her problem, Elspeth drifted off into sleep. Next to her, the pain in Charlie’s stomach suddenly grew alarmingly, he felt violently nauseous as if he was going to throw up. Then there was a sudden, blinding pain in his head. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. He felt himself losing consciousness as the pain in his head increased. He tried to reach out to Elspeth, to shout to her, to tell her he was ill, but he couldn’t. He could open his mouth but no sound came. His whole body refused to respond to his will and a terrible agony engulfed him. Then a spasm shook his body, he gave a final, small shudder and quietly died. The poison had caused massive haemorrhaging in his stomach and in his brain. Elspeth slept on, peacefully unaware that the problem of the extra-hot goulash was now solved.