Last Rights Read online

  Jimmy enjoyed the book. It was easy to read, well-written and interesting, set in the Raj at the time of the Indian Mutiny. He also found two good articles in the New Yorker, so when the plane banked to make its final descent and he got a glimpse of the sky over Vancouver he felt reasonably cheerful. The morning looked clear and sunny and Vancouver would be a new experience, one he hoped he might have time to enjoy. He didn’t know much about Canada but what little he knew was encouraging.

  The plane touched down and taxied to its allotted place. Once the seatbelt lights went out the rush to get hand luggage began. Jimmy didn’t normally join in this scramble, there was never any point in hurrying unless you had to. But as he was in an aisle seat he had to make way for those on the inside, he got up and, when he could, pulled his holdall from the locker and then stood and waited. Why the rush? thought Jimmy. Getting off the plane quickly only gave them more time to stand waiting to get their hold luggage back. When he travelled his needs never ran to more than one holdall small enough to count as hand luggage. Bernie had always been the one who made sure he looked presentable, and now she was dead he didn’t much care how he looked.

  The plane doors opened and the exodus began.

  He felt distinctly better as he entered the Arrivals area. He had expected the usual anonymous, functional processing area, a place for discharging the stream of life that was nothing more than self-loading baggage. But this was different. It was, as far as could be achieved in an international airport, almost welcoming. It was smaller than Jimmy had expected and was dominated by a huge, elaborate totem pole. Jimmy had never seen anything like it, and he was pleased and impressed.

  After taking in the totem pole he looked around to see if he was being met. He wasn’t. He moved to a quiet spot, put his hand into his jacket pocket, and pulled out the envelope McBride had given him. He looked at it for a second then tore it open. Inside was a sheet of paper with a name, an address and a phone number. The name was Sister Lucy Gray SSZ. What the hell did SSZ stand for?

  He looked at his watch then remembered he hadn’t adjusted it. He looked around and saw from an arrivals board that the local time was just before eight in the morning. He changed his watch and pulled out his mobile. He looked at the phone number on the paper then dialled. It kept on ringing until a recording of a woman’s voice cut in and asked him to leave a message. He rang off.

  What now? Was it urgent, this job? McBride had pulled him off the Brussels thing at the very last moment and sent him here double quick. The way she’d done things it seemed urgent, so why no reception at this end, just a name, an address and a number that wasn’t answering? McBride must have told this Sister Gray he was on his way and yet there was no-one at the airport or at the phone number. His mood soured again. It had all the hallmarks of a screw-up. But at least it wasn’t his screw-up. He put away the envelope and the phone. He would go into town, get a room, have a shower, take a short rest and then try to rejoin the human race. Until he’d spoken to this Gray woman or to someone else who knew what was going on he wouldn’t know anything about anything. He dismissed immediately the idea of contacting Professor McBride.

  He looked around and saw a sign for taxis and headed for it. When he got to the taxi-rank and was about to get into the taxi he realised he didn’t know where he wanted to go. A hotel, obviously, but whereabouts and what sort? If he was going to have to spend time in this city he wanted to be comfortable and at a good address.

  The driver was waiting patiently for a destination.

  ‘I’m on holiday. I want a good hotel, somewhere with views and in a part of town where I can see the sights, one where I can make myself at home, spread out, not be cramped in just one room. Know anywhere like that?’

  The driver turned and gave him a big smile. She seemed a friendly sort.

  ‘Sure, you want the Rosedale on Robson.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I say so.’

  ‘OK, the Whatsit on Wherever.’

  The driver turned around and the taxi pulled away into the airport traffic and the morning sunshine.

  Chapter Three

  Jimmy hadn’t slept on the plane, hadn’t even managed to doze, so now his eyelids felt heavy and whatever sort of landscape he was travelling through failed to register. After a while he caught himself napping, pulled himself up in the seat and looked out of the window. The taxi was among city traffic and there were skyscrapers on either side of wide, busy roads. It was all pretty much what he’d expected, but it was only with an effort he didn’t doze off again as the cab made its way through the canyon-like streets. Eventually the driver turned a corner on which stood yet another skyscraper and then pulled into a small square, drove round it, stopped and turned to Jimmy.

  ‘Here we are, mister.’

  Jimmy realised that this skyscraper was his Whatsit on Wherever. He hauled himself and his holdall out of the taxi, paid, adding a generous tip, then went into reception. Did they have a suite available?

  The young woman gave him a big smile. She too seemed a friendly sort of girl.

  ‘All our accommodation is in suites, sir, the Rosedale on Robson is an all-suite hotel.’

  ‘Fine. Can I have one with a nice view?’

  ‘Sure. Do you have any more luggage?’

  ‘No, just this.’

  His lack of luggage didn’t seem to bother her and the check-in routine continued. When it was over Jimmy thanked her, refused help with his holdall and took his plastic pass-key. As he was about to leave, the smiling girl asked him if he wanted anything special sent up to his room? Jimmy paused; there was something about the way she’d said ‘special’. Was she offering to have a prostitute sent up? It didn’t look like that kind of place but how could you tell? Vancouver wasn’t London or Rome. Maybe it was different over here.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’re English, sometimes our English guests like to have a toaster in their room and a teapot, you know, for breakfast.’

  That got a smile out of him.

  ‘Thanks, no toaster. I’ll take a teapot though. I’ll sort myself out about anything else.’

  ‘You’ll find everything you need in your suite and there’s a store just round the corner, they’ll have milk and everything else you might want.’

  ‘I’ve just got in from Rome via Heathrow and O’Hare and currently I’m one of the walking dead. I really don’t fancy shopping, even just round the corner. Could someone get me some instant coffee, milk and sugar, and tea bags if they have them? Any sort will do.’

  That got an even bigger smile out of her, which wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected a Roman response, something sub-zero which, whatever words were actually used, would mean ‘do your own bloody shopping’.

  ‘Sure, I can arrange that. I’ll have everything sent up.’

  He was right, it was different over here. He’d never been in a hotel where they took this much trouble - but then again, his had been a sheltered life, especially where decent-class hotels were concerned. He’d arrested people in a few, but not stayed in many.

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Skimmed, semi-skimmed or full-cream?’

  For a second Jimmy thought she was sending him up. Then he realised she was really trying to help.

  ‘Full-cream.’

  And he headed off for the elevator while the girl on reception picked up a phone.

  Check-in had dispelled any lingering grouchiness and he went up to his suite feeling better, but still dead tired. His suite had a good-sized living room with a small kitchen area to one side, a bathroom and one bedroom. He unpacked and then took a shower. While he was drying himself someone knocked at the door. He wrapped the towel around him and went. A young man was holding a carrier bag. He held it out to Jimmy.

  ‘The things you asked for, sir.’

  Jimmy took the bag.

  ‘Can you put it on the bill?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  ‘
OK, come in.’

  The young man came in and Jimmy went to his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He took out his wallet.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Six dollars eighty-three cents.’

  Jimmy counted out seven and held them out.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  The young man looked at the money. Jimmy grinned and took out another five dollars.

  ‘That OK? I’m not used to Canadian money yet.’

  The young man returned the grin.

  ‘That’s fine, sir.’ He took the money and pocketed it. ‘In fact I’d say it’s generous. Thank you.’

  So, friendly but not dopes. Jimmy began to feel he might like Canadians if they were all like the ones he’d met so far. He finished drying himself, emptied the things out of the carrier bag and put them away. Then he went to the bedroom and sat on the bed and phoned reception for an alarm call in two hours. Two minutes later he was in bed and asleep.

  He didn’t know how long the phone had been ringing when it finally penetrated his consciousness. He leaned over and picked it up.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then came back into the bedroom. When he was dressed he went into the living room and stood at the window. His suite was sixteen storeys up and below him Vancouver was busy going about its business. He felt better, cheerful even. The taxi driver had been dead right, the Rosedale on Robson was just what he wanted and, after the journey he’d had, what he’d needed. From what he’d managed to take in of the ground floor it seemed a classy sort of place and, from what he could see down below, it looked to be in a good location. Beyond the other skyscrapers which surrounded the hotel he could see distant mountains and blue sea.

  He suddenly felt grateful to the elusive Sister Lucy Gray. Not meeting him and not answering his phone call meant he had time to look around and explore. But first it was time to get himself localised, and right now he wanted to see whether his plan would work. In Vancouver it was lunchtime so his first meal here would be lunch, and the way he looked at it, his body clock would get a good kicking from his stomach if it tried any kind of grouch about what sort of meal he ate. Sort out your stomach, get it used to local-time meals straight away, and your body clock could go and whistle Dixie. Anyway, that was his plan. And he was hungry. He had eaten nothing except a few biscuits and a sandwich since leaving Rome, which meant his insides felt like one large aching void crying out to be filled.

  He left the suite and headed down to the ground floor. The hotel restaurant there didn’t do anything to dent the good impression the place had made on him. The food was good, the service excellent, and the staff, again, were friendly. They made you think they actually cared about whether you enjoyed your meal. Was it good employee training or were all Canadians like that, he wondered. Jimmy decided it had to be training: a country of friendly people didn’t exist. How would it survive?

  After his meal he went to the bar just to sit. He was tired again, he needed a couple more hours in bed to keep him going, but he wanted to think about the job before he went back to his suite. That devious sod McBride was up to something. He was sure of that because she was always up to something. If she wouldn’t tell him anything at all about why he was here then it was certainly because she wanted him in Vancouver without knowing anything about the ‘why’. So, if he knew nothing about the ‘why’, what did he know? She’d made him drop Brussels at the very last moment and rush over to Vancouver by some stupid, roundabout route. Whatever that had been about, it wasn’t primarily about any ‘special price’ to keep the accountants happy. And why, when he got here, make him sit on his hands because his only contact couldn’t be contacted? He tried to think why she would want it that way, but his tiredness kept blocking his focus on the problem. No, he was still too whacked. If his brain wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t, so he left the bar and made his way to his room. Five minutes after he arrived at his suite he was back in bed and once more fast asleep.

  Chapter Four

  There was a ringing somewhere. It woke him, he reached out for the noise and his hand found the phone. A strange voice spoke to him. It was an effort, but he managed a reply.

  ‘What alarm call?’

  Jimmy didn’t know where he was or what this woman on the phone was talking about. He barely knew who he was.

  ‘The one you ordered yesterday evening.’

  Jimmy didn’t remember doing anything yesterday evening but he didn’t like to call her a liar.

  He put the phone down and lay back. Suddenly he remembered where he was and he forced his eyes open. It was eight o’clock, time to get up and get some breakfast. If he let himself go to sleep again he knew he’d sleep until lunchtime or beyond. He struggled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The shower helped. It only got him halfway but that was enough. He knew how to handle things now. This was something he’d done more times than he cared to remember. You’d had a long day and a harder night, surveillance maybe or a nasty collar in the small hours. You finally got to bed, knackered, and as soon as your head touched the pillow the alarm woke you and you had to begin again. By the time you left the house you had to be up for it, fit and alert on the inside even if you looked like shit on the outside. Detective sergeants couldn’t afford to go on duty while they were still half submerged. Senior officers were mostly unforgiving bastards, but young inspectors were the worst because they were the ones chasing promotion and allocating blame was one of the things they did best, however many mistakes they made themselves. Tiredness or a hangover from the night before didn’t count. If you went on duty you had to be ready for whatever turned up. And that was how he wanted it now, especially as he still didn’t know what was waiting for him.

  He dried himself, put on a bathrobe, and went to the kitchen area and made himself a cup of tea. He would drink his tea and get his mind into gear then he would go for a short walk before getting some breakfast downstairs. He looked across at the window. The sun was shining. It looked like it might be another nice morning.

  When he left the hotel he found he didn’t really need to be wearing his jacket. There had been rain, you could tell from the pavements and from the hanging droplets glittering like diamonds where the sun hit them, but it had stopped some time in the night and the sky was clear blue. It was autumn but to Jimmy it felt like the beginning of a fine English summer day. He set off in no particular direction. Already the place was busy, people and traffic all on their way somewhere, shops doing morning trade and food outlets serving coffee to people on the way to work. It was a big city but somehow the place still managed to have some sort of charm. He couldn’t say what it was exactly but it was the same feeling he’d got when he had passed through Paris a couple of times, a sort of comfortable easiness among all the bustle. Maybe it would be a good substitute for Brussels after all. He decided he could like Vancouver if it gave him a half a chance.

  After his walk, back in the hotel eating his breakfast, he turned his mind to yesterday’s journey. McBride wanted him tired and harassed by the time he took off at Heathrow and she wanted him angry about her ‘special price’. That had given him something to think about, something to occupy his mind during the long flight. She wanted him in a bad mood when he arrived so he wouldn’t try too hard to make contact - if no-one’s answering the bloody phone then sod them. Find a good hotel, Mr Costello, settle in and take your time. And she’d got exactly what she wanted, but why did she want it that way? Then his mobile rang. He took it out.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Who is that, please?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘It’s the one answering the phone. Who are you?’

  There was a pause. Jimmy was about to end the call when the voice came back.

  ‘You aren’t by any chance Mr Costello?’

  Now it was Jimmy’s turn to pause.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Sister Lucy Gray. I got a missed call message and
didn’t recognise the number. I thought I’d check. I was told a Mr Costello, James Costello, would be getting in touch. Are you Mr Costello?’

  ‘Who told you to expect him?’

  Another pause.

  ‘I understand your caution if you are Mr Costello, but I can give you no further information until you confirm who you are.’

  Suddenly Jimmy was tired of pissing about being careful. This was his contact, she was the only one who could tell him what the hell he was doing here.

  ‘Sure, I’m Costello. I phoned you from the airport as soon as I arrived. I had the crazy notion I was coming here because something was urgent.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get me. I didn’t know when to expect you or I would have come out to meet you, although even if I had known, well, it was one of those days. I had an early meeting and then I had to go to the…’

  ‘Thanks, the story of your life will be fine some other time. Just at the moment I’ve flown six thousand miles and have no idea why.’

  ‘I see. I thought you would have been told.’

  ‘No, I haven’t been told.’

  Another pause. It was still early but already it was a big day for pauses.

  ‘We should meet.’

  ‘Yes, Sister, we should. Where and when?’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘The Robson on, no, it’s the Rosedale on Robson.’

  ‘I know it. Could we meet in your suite? I think I would like our talk to be in private, somewhere where I’m not known and no one will see us together.’

  ‘Should I wear false whiskers and dark glasses? Will we need a password?’