hadnât really changed at all. But if he took it on he had to go back to thinking and behaving like the old Jimmy. Christ, what a mess, youâre wrong if you do and youâre wrong if you donât. The Catholic Church, it gets you coming and it gets you going. No wonder they said weâre the experts on guilt.
âWell, are you in or out?â
Jimmy took a drink.
âSo what do we do? Do you go and see the ministerâs aide or what?â
Ricci smiled but this time the smile reached his eyes and it didnât look at all practised. Relief usually doesnât.
âIâll see to this end. I want you to go and get the Glasgow business sorted. I canât leave Rome and I need to be sure my family arenât going to be any part of this. Can you do that?â
âI can try.â
âYou must still have contacts, if itâs yobs or tearaways hired to throw a scare your friends should be able to sort it out without too much trouble.â Ricci picked up his drink. âCheers, you made the right decision.â
He took a long pull at his campari and soda; he wasnât being careful any more. Jimmy watched him. Like hell I made the right decision. I didnât make any bloody decision. He took a long drink of his Tuborg.
Neither of us did.
NINE
Jimmy arrived back to his apartment in the Prati, a quiet, expensive residential district to the north of the Vatican. He went to a drawer, got out a battered old notebook, and looked up the number of a pub in London. He knew he should have thrown the notebook away years ago, it was part of the past he had turned his back on. But somehow he always put it off. Now, when he needed it, there it was. Was that luck or divine intervention? He looked at his watch, in the UK it would still be lunchtime and the pub would be open. He dialled the number. A voice answered.
âCan I still contact Bridie McDonald through this number?â
âBridie who?â
âMcDonald. Bridie McDonald from Glasgow. I want to talk to her. My nameâs Jimmy Costello.â
âYou must have a wrong number, mate, thereâs no one of that name here. What number did you dial?â
Jimmy gave his own Rome phone number.
âNo, mate, nothing like. Youâre miles off.â
The phone was put down.
Two days later his apartment phone rang and when he answered it a London voice said, â10 oâclock Mass, Tuesday, St Peter the Apostle,â and rang off.
Jimmy phoned Ricci.
âIâm going to Glasgow.â
âYou made your contacts?â
âIâll see what I can do.â
âBut youâve been in touch with people who can help?â
âI told you, Iâll see what I can do.â
âLook, we need to talk â¦â
âNo, we donât.â
He rang off.
He didnât need Ricci pumping him for information he didnât have. Heâd made a contact. Whether it would do him any good he had no idea but it was the best he could do. Tomorrow he would go to morning Mass and light some candles. If there was a priest available he might go to Confession. It was a big risk contacting Bridie so it was best to be prepared. There was nothing else he could think of so he went into his bedroom, pulled out an old black holdall from the wardrobe, and began to sort out his packing.
The budget flight left Ciampino in bright sunshine, it had been clear skies all the way until the flight reached the North Sea where thick clouds below the plane shone in the sunlight. The final descent to Edinburgh airport took the plane down through the cloud into a dark, wet afternoon and looking out of the rain-streaked windows the passengersâ thoughts turned to raincoats and umbrellas. They taxied to a standstill and everybody on the crowded plane got up and started opening and emptying the lockers above the seats. The doors at the front and rear opened and the slow, shuffling exit of passengers began. This was a budget
âWell, are you in or out?â
Jimmy took a drink.
âSo what do we do? Do you go and see the ministerâs aide or what?â
Ricci smiled but this time the smile reached his eyes and it didnât look at all practised. Relief usually doesnât.
âIâll see to this end. I want you to go and get the Glasgow business sorted. I canât leave Rome and I need to be sure my family arenât going to be any part of this. Can you do that?â
âI can try.â
âYou must still have contacts, if itâs yobs or tearaways hired to throw a scare your friends should be able to sort it out without too much trouble.â Ricci picked up his drink. âCheers, you made the right decision.â
He took a long pull at his campari and soda; he wasnât being careful any more. Jimmy watched him. Like hell I made the right decision. I didnât make any bloody decision. He took a long drink of his Tuborg.
Neither of us did.
NINE
Jimmy arrived back to his apartment in the Prati, a quiet, expensive residential district to the north of the Vatican. He went to a drawer, got out a battered old notebook, and looked up the number of a pub in London. He knew he should have thrown the notebook away years ago, it was part of the past he had turned his back on. But somehow he always put it off. Now, when he needed it, there it was. Was that luck or divine intervention? He looked at his watch, in the UK it would still be lunchtime and the pub would be open. He dialled the number. A voice answered.
âCan I still contact Bridie McDonald through this number?â
âBridie who?â
âMcDonald. Bridie McDonald from Glasgow. I want to talk to her. My nameâs Jimmy Costello.â
âYou must have a wrong number, mate, thereâs no one of that name here. What number did you dial?â
Jimmy gave his own Rome phone number.
âNo, mate, nothing like. Youâre miles off.â
The phone was put down.
Two days later his apartment phone rang and when he answered it a London voice said, â10 oâclock Mass, Tuesday, St Peter the Apostle,â and rang off.
Jimmy phoned Ricci.
âIâm going to Glasgow.â
âYou made your contacts?â
âIâll see what I can do.â
âBut youâve been in touch with people who can help?â
âI told you, Iâll see what I can do.â
âLook, we need to talk â¦â
âNo, we donât.â
He rang off.
He didnât need Ricci pumping him for information he didnât have. Heâd made a contact. Whether it would do him any good he had no idea but it was the best he could do. Tomorrow he would go to morning Mass and light some candles. If there was a priest available he might go to Confession. It was a big risk contacting Bridie so it was best to be prepared. There was nothing else he could think of so he went into his bedroom, pulled out an old black holdall from the wardrobe, and began to sort out his packing.
The budget flight left Ciampino in bright sunshine, it had been clear skies all the way until the flight reached the North Sea where thick clouds below the plane shone in the sunlight. The final descent to Edinburgh airport took the plane down through the cloud into a dark, wet afternoon and looking out of the rain-streaked windows the passengersâ thoughts turned to raincoats and umbrellas. They taxied to a standstill and everybody on the crowded plane got up and started opening and emptying the lockers above the seats. The doors at the front and rear opened and the slow, shuffling exit of passengers began. This was a budget
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