The Schiapello Cross

By J.P. Burke

THE SCHIAPELLO CROSS...

Santini watched in awe as his father took the Christ figure and laid it on the cross. With delicate manipulation of the plunger, he soldered the figure to the stem without allowing any excess molten gold to drip from the joint.

Leaving the cross aside, he picked up the small golden band and with the same painstaking precision, attached a circle of diamonds, taking great care with each. The band was then fixed to the cross over the head of the crucified Christ. Finally, he soldered the red rubies to the body – one to each hand and another to the figure’s feet.

Now almost complete, he waited for the cross to cool before carefully placing it in the workshop safe.

Santini knew the German officer who had commissioned the work, would soon call to collect the cross. What he did not know was that his father would never part with his masterpiece ... it was their heritage. It was the SCHIAPELLO CROSS!

A maelstrom of international murder and intrigue, something quite new to Detective Sergeant Scobie Tierney of the Irish police. But when it comes knocking on his door, there’s no better man to take it on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311692504

J.P. Burke

ABOUT THE AUTHORSean Burke was born in Athlone, Co. Westmeath in Ireland. His forty year marriage to his wife Mary has resulted in four children and five grandchildren. Educated in the Marist Brothers College in Athlone, over the years he has worked in the aviation, pharmaceutical, engineering, and service industries. A sportsman all his life, he represented his country at all levels in his favoured sport of basketball.A voracious reader, his preferred authors cover most fiction genres.Over the years, he published short stories and poetry in magazines and newspapers and has only lately ventured into writing novels. Already with four books to his credit, each feature his hero, Detective Sergeant Scobie Tierney of the Irish police. Sean still lives in Athlone.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The strident and persistent ringing of the alarm clock eventually penetrated his fogged up brain and Gerry Tierney blindly flailed his arm about until it located the clock and a balled up fist silenced the alarm by knocking it to the floor.

‘James Street.’ His head was pounding like a jackhammer on steroids.’ His mouth was dry and fuzzy and his tongue was lumpy and swollen as if someone had pumped it full of botox.’ Opening his bleary eyes, he was taken aback to see a bare bottom protrude from under the duvet. It certainly wasn’t his.’ His was hairy and lumpy, with the odd red scaly patch of eczema. This one was pert and smooth with the only blemish, a small dimple on one cheek which seemed to wink suggestively at him. Slowly pulling down the duvet, he saw the black hair spread out on the pillow.

Mother of God. What the hell had he got up to last night.

As the main organiser of the Superintendent’s retirement party, he had gone early to McCluskeys to make sure that all was ready.

McCluskey himself had been behind the bar and had stood him a large whiskey. One had followed another and by the time most people began to filter in, he was well and truly drunk. The Super had arrived at half past eight, shaking hands all around him like a politician at a funeral. Gerry remembered welcoming him, his wife and two daughters and he also vaguely remembered his speech and the Waterford glass presentation. He wouldn’t forget that in a hurry.

He had been demonstrating his oratory skills with some whiskey fuelled lavish arm movements and one such sweep of the arm had caught the large crystal decanter and knocked it from the high stool he had precariously balanced it on before starting his speech.

Only for the quick reflexes of Guard Donovan, he could have been presenting a few hundred pieces of crystal and a large tube of superglue. For feck sake, he had warned himself against getting drunk. There were two chief superintendents at the do – not to mention the inspector from his own station. Had he insulted any of them? And who the hell was the owner of this bare arse sticking out of his bed? Lying back against the headboard, he racked his brains as he tried to piece together the latter stages of the night.

He vaguely remembered leaving McCluskeys with Smithy and Flannery. But where had he gone from there?

Swinging his legs out of the bed, he put his feet on the floor but quickly fell back as one of them stood in something wet and slimy. Lifting it up, his stomach wretched as he saw the brown sauce and bits of rice smeared across the sole and sticking between his toes giving his foot a leprous look. Well that was one problem solved. He had definitely gone to the chipper. His sudden collapse back down on the bed woke the sleeping figure and as she sat up rubbing her eyes, Gerry studied her closely. There was something familiar about her but he couldn’t quite put a name to the face. Certainly over forty if she was a day so no spring chicken there.

‘Jeez, that was some night we had Scobie,’ she said as she smiled over at him. ‘I thought at one stage that they were going to run out of Sambuka in Aces.’

James Street. He had been in the casino. For feck sake. He had sworn never to go there again after losing over two hundred euro on his last visit and equally sizeable sums on previous ones.

‘I thought they were going to ask us to leave when you started shouting,’ she continued.

Gerry put his throbbing head in his hands and groaned. What else was she going to tell him and what had he been shouting about?

Reaching down to the floor, she groped about for her handbag and took out her cigarettes. Extracting one from the packet, she flicked the lighter and put the tip to the flame. Exhaling a large stream of smoke in his direction, she folded her arms and looked at him with a bemused look, the smoke curling up in blue grey wisps and hanging in the air between them. ‘You haven’t a clue about last night, have you?’ she said.

‘Well – things are a little bit hazy all right,’ he replied.

‘Do you even know who I am,’ she asked, the irritation beginning to creep into her voice.

He got it just in time. ‘Course I do. Why would you think I wouldn’t know you, Rachel?’ Rachel Kelly – owner of the hairdressers on Adams Street. Separated for a few years and always on the prowl for a new man. And here she was sitting up in his bed. It all began to slowly come back to him then. Arriving outside Aces Casino and trying to coax Smithy and Flannery to come in.

‘Just for an hour,’ he had said but they were having none of it.

‘You would be better off going home and hitting the old scratcher,’ Flan had said. ‘You’re fuller than a bingo bus.’

They had eventually given up and gone off in a taxi.

Rachel Kelly had been sitting at the small bar when he arrived up the stairs and in the condition he was in – she had looked very attractive to his alcohol fused eyes. He had bought her a drink and then the two of them had sat down at the roulette table – his nemesis from many a previous visit. They had won on the first few spins of the wheel and to celebrate, he had ordered Sambuka shots. After that, his memory was blank. James Street. How the hell was he going to get rid of her now and how much had he lost in the end?

‘Time I was up and about Rachel,’ he said as he reached over and rifled through the bedside locker looking for a clean pair of underpants. He was in luck. There was just one pair left but he was out of luck for fresh socks. Reaching down, he grabbed the pair balled up in one of his shoes. After a quick sniff of each, he decided that they were good for another day.

‘I have to be on duty at nine,’ he said as he put on the underpants and then the socks. Reaching for his pants which were draped over a chair, he pulled them up and then patted his pockets to locate his wallet. Time to see the damage done at the casino.

His heart did a quick somersault when he saw the bundle of brown fifty euro notes crammed into the bulging wallet.

‘James Street.’ For once it looked like he had come out on top.

Noting his surprised look, Rachel said, ‘You were on a right streak and kept on doubling your stake. On the last spin, you won over a thousand. You started whooping and hollering then and beating your chest, doing your Tarzan impression. It was then that the manager came over and suggested it would be a good time for you to leave. Suppose it wouldn’t have looked too good if he had to call the cops to eject one of their own.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Gerry knew Simon Carey from his previous visits and got on quite well with the man whom he always shared a few words with when in the club. He would have to call around and thank him for getting him out when he did. Going over to the wardrobe, he pulled a clean shirt off the hanger and put it on.

Rachel sat smoking and watching him from the bed.

Eventually, she stubbed out the cigarette, slid out of the bed and began retrieving her clothes piece by piece from the floor.

Catching sight of her stick thin body, he silently remonstrated with himself. She was a few years older than him if she was a day and he preferred his women to have a bit of flesh on their bones.

How the feck had he let himself shift this stick insect.

When they were both dressed, Gerry said, ‘Come on, I’ll drop you off at your place on my way to work.’

As they left his apartment, they had the misfortune to bump into Ms. Timoney, owner of the travel agency over which Gerry resided, his landlady, pillar of the community and self-appointed guardian of the town’s morals.

She had opened the small agency after retiring after thirty years service as an air hostess with British Airways – or as Gerry often laughingly told the lads in the station – since Pontious was a Pilate.

She concentrated on pilgrimages to Lourdes, Fatima and Medjurgorje and the occasional charter to the Holy Land.

Once she had ventured into a football charter for one of Ireland’s games in Poland but had lost money after having to pay the hotel for the damage caused to some of the rooms by clients more used to holding pint glasses than rosary beads. She had quickly reverted back to religious tours only. There was little fear of these more elderly clients thrashing their hotel after a sherry or two.

Her disapproving look made Gerry feel some embarrassment but Rachel Kelly felt no such discomfort and glared right back at her.

‘What the hell are you looking at?’ she said in a sharp voice. Ignoring her, the elderly woman drilled her gaze into Gerry.

‘I’m very surprised at you, Detective Sergeant Tierney and more than a little disappointed. I would have thought that a man in your position in the community would have better values than to be seen with that individual.’

‘Get stuffed, ya dozy old cow,’ Rachel retorted. ‘But there’s little chance of that, is there? There must be cobwebs growing on it by now.’ Gerry asked her to shush but she continued. ‘Frustration – that’s what’s wrong. You’ve never got a bit in your life. If you fell into a barrel full of gramophone needles, you wouldn’t get a prick.’

Grabbing Rachel by the arm, Gerry hurriedly apologised to his shocked landlady who stood staring open-mouthed at them and pushed her to his car parked in front of the shop.

After they were both in, he quickly started the engine and pulled away. ‘What the hell did you have to say that to her for. She’ll be bad mouthing us around the town now for weeks.’

‘As if I care,’ Rachel said, ‘Snooty old bitch thinks she’s Lady Muck just because she was a glorified trolley dolly for British Airways. Thinks she shits chocolate eclairs.’

Gerry could not resist a smile at this last comment but made a mental note to call into the shop later and apologise again.

He did not want to risk losing his apartment.

Afew minutes later, he pulled up outside the Curl Up Hair Studio and sat waiting for Rachel to get out of the car. He was fecked if he was going to hop out and open her door.

Rachel leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Perhaps we could go out for a meal sometime soon, Scobie?’

‘Yeah, maybe. Sure, I’ll give you a call,’ he said.

‘You will in your arse,’ Rachel thought as she got out of the car and slammed the door.

‘But don’t hold your feckin’ breath,’ Gerry said to himself as he put the car in gear and drove off. Five minutes later, he arrived at Manor Street Garda station and parked in the carpark at the rear. Entering the station through the back door, he saw Guard Donovan over at the coffee machine.

Walking over, he gave him a hearty slap on the back.

‘Good save last night young fella. Lucky for me you play goalie for Emmets and have those big shovels for hands.’

‘No problem, sarge – sure it probably wouldn’t have broken anyways. Sure you know that Waterford glass. It’s as thick as shit.’

‘Well it’s a flagstone floor in McCluskeys so even if it hadn’t broken, it certainly would have chipped, so I owe you one.’

Moving to his desk, he was no sooner sitting down when Flannery and Smith came over. ‘Well Scobie,’ said Flannery, ‘what devilment did you get up to last night after we left? Did you go to Aces?’

‘Feckin’ did,’ he replied. ‘Won over a grand and then fecked up the night by shifting your woman Rachel Kelly – owns the hairdressers on Adams Street.’

‘Ya didn’t,’ said Smith. ‘That bony old mare. Sure that one has handled more pricks than all the nurses in the Irish Blood Transfusion Board put together. I hope you used a triple layered rubber.’

‘James Street.’ Had he? He couldn’t remember. Oh please God, let there be one on the bedroom floor when he got home. ‘Course I did,’ he replied, his confident voice betraying his inner doubts.

Further discussion on the sexual proclivities of the bony hairdresser was interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Clancy who beckoned for Gerry to follow him to his office upstairs.

‘Good night last night,’ the inspector said as he hung his overcoat on the stand and took his seat behind the desk. ‘Casey seemed to be happy enough with the night,’ he continued.

‘Thought at one stage though that we would be sweeping the presentation up onto a dustpan and putting it in a bag for him to bring home.’

Gerry felt the blood rush to his face.

‘Sorry Guv,’ he said. ‘Had a few quick ones with McCluskey before the whole thing kicked off. Hadn’t had any grub so guess they took more effect than they should have.’

‘Just be careful, Gerry. You have a reputation for drinking, not to mention your fondness for a flutter and a pretty face – and unless you keep it under control – well, it won’t do you any favours if you are planning to move up the ladder. With all the cutbacks in the force, opportunities for promotion will arise and despite your lifestyle outside of the job – you are a good officer.’

‘Thanks Guv,’ Gerry mumbled. ‘I’ll be more careful in future.’

‘Now then, how are you getting on with the investigation into the robbery at Naughton’s Co-Op?’

The pep talk was over. It was back to business.

*****

Chapter 2

It was just after midnight when he was getting ready to retire for the night that Father O’Mahony got the call. Like a lot of people, he had spent much of the evening watching the television coverage from the Vatican as the Sacred College of Cardinals emerged from their sixth day in conclave to elect a new Pope. It had been just after seven o’clock when the white smoke had begun billowing from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

Thirty minutes later, the senior Cardinal Deacon had appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica and announced the immortal words: ‘Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum. Habemus Papem – I announce to you a great joy. We have a Pope.’

The new Pope was sixty-seven year old Cardinal Iosephum Cavelli. According to the television commentator, this was something of a surprise but for Father O’Mahony, it was a happy day. Following his return after twenty-two years on the missions in Africa, he had worked closely with the Cardinal in Rome when he was appointed as his secretary. He knew him to be a man of great faith and humility but also a man who had very strong opinions on world affairs and was not shy about expressing them.

Having served on the missions himself in his early years, he particularly had angry words for the arms manufacturers whom he said, lived in their ivory towers as millions of ordinary people around the world – but particularly in the poorer countries in Africa – were controlled and butchered by the instruments of death peddled to despot and dictator alike, without conscience or restraint.

In latter years, he had had more than one well-publicised verbal joust with Heinrik Vorstaken, the head of the Gelsinheiber Corporation who were one of the biggest manufacturers and exporters of armaments throughout the African continent. The clash between the two men had even made the cover of Time magazine with a picture of both separated by a jagged red slash, craftily made to look like they were trying to stare each other down.

Inside, the article centred on the Cardinal’s attempts to have the Gelsinheiber shareholders remove Vorstaken as it’s chief executive officer for his continued policy of selling arms to both sides in various conflicts throughout the world but particularly, on the African continent. Vorstaken had won the vote quite comfortably. Founded in 1912 by one Klaus Vorstaken, the company was initially set up to manufacture a range of farm implements and machinery. It added a small range of shotguns and handguns to its product range and over the next fifteen years, this side of its business was developed and eventually replaced the farm equipment completely. When war was declared, it had established itself as a major supplier of side arms, machine guns, hand grenades, mortar bombs and artillery to the German army. It also produced a range of designer hunting knives.

When his only son was declared missing shortly before the end of the war, Klaus Vorstaken had retired and stewardship of the company had fallen to his brother Dieter.

Under his guidance, the company quickly established new markets around the world and in 1968, the company was floated on the New York Stock Exchange with Klaus retaining forty-five per cent of the shares. In 1972 – three months before his death – Klaus established a family trust in which he placed his share of the company and a considerable personal fortune.

Still clinging to the hope that his son was alive somewhere, he dictated that the trust be frozen until March 2012 – one hundred years after he had founded the company – and then the contents would revert to his nearest living relative at that time.

In 1997, Heinrik took over as head of the company following the death of his father and he was quick to exploit the African market where a succession of bloody conflicts provided big sales opportunities. More far seeing than either his father or uncle had been, he set up a subsidiary company called Gelsin Oil and soon he was making lucrative arms for oil deals with the less than democratic leaders of some oil rich countries. At the same time, he covertly supplied the opposing factions in these countries so he was biting from both sides of the apple. His shareholders may have applauded this lucrative double dealing but it attracted quite a lot of adverse criticism from some relief agencies working in these countries.

Cardinal Cavelli had added his voice to these criticisms. He had accused Vorstaken of putting guns into the hands of children and fanning the flames of genocide. The company’s only god was the profit margin and it’s balance sheets were awash with the blood of countless innocents butchered and bombed by the rising sales graph in the company’s luxurious boardroom where Vorstaken and its corpulent members equated death with profit. Vorstaken was quick to respond to this highly publicised criticism, accusing the Cardinal of pontificating from the cloistered surrounds of his Roman palace without any understanding of the business world. He had a responsibility to his shareholders to maximise sales as best he could. What people did afterwards was not his responsibility.

Afew days after this public spat, one American newspaper had featured a cartoon showing both men. Under the headline ‘Who Will Africa Embrace’, a young African boy of about fifteen was shown with Vorstaken on one side, his arms extended towards the boy with a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. A smaller caption read ‘Arms of Man.’ On the other side of the boy, Cardinal Cavelli was shown dressed in full religious garb with crozier and mitre, arms outstretched in open embrace. His caption read ‘Arms of God.’

The discord between the two had simmered on and off over the years but other world events diluted the amount of coverage it got. Vorstaken was occasionally mentioned in the business section of the world press as both Gelsinheiber Corporation and Gelsin Oil continued to prosper while Cardinal Cavelli had been mentioned recently as a likely power broker in the search for a new Pope.

Father O’Mahony had enjoyed his time working with the Cardinal and the two had become close friends. He had been sad to leave when appointed to his new position as a parish priest back in Ireland but he and the Cardinal had maintained contact and whenever he had cause to visit Rome, the two always shared a private meal and long chat.

*****

Chapter 3

The call he now received was from the housekeeper of Colonel Tobias Harding, the retired British army officer who lived in the rambling old house on the outskirts of the town. The Colonel had taken a sudden turn and was now asking for the priest.

‘But he’s not a Catholic?’ a somewhat bewildered Father O’Mahony said. ‘Perhaps you should be calling Reverend Wilding, the Church of Ireland vicar.’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘He specifically asked for you.’

‘Most strange,’ Father O’Mahony mused as he pulled on his overcoat and made his way to his car which was parked in front of the parochial house. ‘Most strange indeed.’

He knew the Colonel only by reputation and what he had heard, well, it did not endear the man to him. It was reputed that he had been a high up official in the British defence ministry with responsibility for some very clandestine missions. He had come to the town about eight years ago and bought the old Caulfield home which had been idle for a couple of years.

It was reputed that he had underpaid the various tradesmen who were employed to make the old house habitable and in one instance, was said to have threatened one brave soul with a shotgun when he had argued costs with him.

No – not a very pleasant individual by all accounts.

He had lived a virtually reclusive life since coming to the town with only the housekeeper for company. She had always been tight-lipped about the Colonel and most people considered that it was fear of dismissal that kept her lips sealed. A taciturn old spinster, Mrs. Ledwith had a room at the house and was only seen in the town twice a week – on Friday afternoon when she did the weekly shop and on Sunday morning when she attended the early mass in the church.

Driving through the entrance gates, Father O’Mahony was saddened to see just how dilapidated the place had become. What had once been in the Caulfield days, a vista of lovingly manicured lawns and vibrant colourful flower beds, was now a rampaging wilderness. The once impressive driveway with its archway of majestic oak trees was now akin to an overgrown bog road with grass, weeds and potholes vying for prominence.

The exterior of the big house was weather beaten with a unkempt ivy growth all but smothering it in a dark green blanket. The faded and peeling paint on the entrance door completed the haggard and rundown look of what had once been an imposing residence.

Pulling up beside the blue Toyota Avensis which he recognised as Doctor Mallory’s, Father O’Mahony made his way up the eight worn concrete steps but as he reached for the large curved brass knocker, the door opened and Eddie Mallory came out with his customary brown medical bag in his hand.

‘Father Pat,’ he exclaimed. ‘Now what are you doing here? Didn’t think the old Colonel was one of your flock.’

‘He’s not,’ the priest replied, ‘but Mrs. Ledwith rang me and told me he had taken a turn and wanted to speak to me. I don’t know why but here I am. How is he doing anyways?’

‘Better than he has a right to be,’ Eddie replied. ‘I’ve asked him if he would let me call an ambulance but he steadfastly refuses to go to hospital. He is over ninety but for his age, he’s remarkably lucid and strong-willed. Good luck with your visit. He might be nearing the end but he’s still one antagonistic and cantankerous old devil.’

Passing through the door into the cavernous hallway, the priest was once again struck by the bleakness of the place. A solitary light shed its limpid glow which failed to penetrate the outer reaches and initially, he did not see Mrs. Ledwith standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘Thank you for coming Father,’ she said, drawing his attention to her presence. ‘The Colonel has asked me to bring you straight up.’

She turned and started back up the winding staircase. Following behind, Father O’Mahony noted the worn stair carpet which was badly frayed and almost threadbare in some spots. The heavily embossed wallpaper must have been on the walls for over forty years and was badly faded in places with dark damp stains visible at the top where it peeled from the wall in places.

At the top of the stairs, the housekeeper paused to allow him catch up and then knocking on a door to their left, opened it and ushered him inside. ‘Father O’Mahony is here sir,’ she said.

Glancing around the dimly lit room, the priest spotted the frail figure propped up on pillows in the large four poster bed which commandeered most of the room. ‘Over here,’ the gruff voice said as a skeletal hand beckoned him to a seat beside the bed.

As he sat down, Mrs. Ledwith left the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

‘I suppose you are wondering why I asked you to come,’ the old man said as he fixed his rheumy gaze on the priest.

‘Well yes, I must confess to be somewhat puzzled by your request to see me,’ Father O’Mahony replied as he took in the frail body propped up in the bed. Extremely emaciated, the sagging skin hung from his body in wrinkled folds, his eyes were weak and watery looking in the heavily lined face. His bald head, face and hands were mottled with the brown liver spots of old age but the snow white moustache was still clipped tight in military fashion.

‘I have a story to tell,’ the old man said, ‘and I would be grateful to you if you would let me tell it without interruption. If you have any questions after I have finished, I will do my best to answer them.’

Father O’Mahony nodded his acquiescence and settled back in the chair as the old man began.

‘In 1945, as a young newly commissioned officer in the British army, I was stationed in Rome to assist with the processing of German prisoners. It was my very first assignment. One day a distraught local came to my office and asked for my help in protecting his daughter from a gang roaming the streets hell bent on savage reprisals against those they considered to have collaborated with the Germans.’

‘The girl was only guilty of falling in love with a young German officer who had deserted near the end of the war to set up house with his daughter. They had lived quietly in a small ground floor apartment, keeping out of the way of both German army patrols and the local people. They had a young child and he now feared for their safety from this angry mob.’

‘I decided to accompany the man to the apartment and assess the situation myself. A foolish decision and one I have regretted ever since. As we approached the building from a side street, there was a crowd of some seventeen people gathered in the street in front of the apartment. To the front of the crowd, two men held a struggling young woman. The window of the apartment was broken and at the open door, a young man stood with a gun pointed at the mob, swinging it from one person to the next in sweeping arcs.’

‘From inside of the apartment, the wailing of a young infant added to the surreal scenario which was playing out in front of us. Grabbing my arm, the girl’s father begged me to intervene. That was his Elena they were holding. I was a British officer. I had the authority. Do something quick, but I was scared. I was an inexperienced officer, newly commissioned with no experience of mob control. As I held back in the shadows, the father suddenly rushed forward and threw himself at the two men holding the girl. He was quickly grabbed by some others and beaten to the ground. Still I stood frozen to the spot. As I watched in horror, one of the men holding the girl suddenly produced a knife and drew it across her strained throat in one swift motion.’

‘As the crimson flow cascaded down her white dress and she slumped to the ground in a crumpled heap, a guttural roar went up from the crowd. Mob mentality had infected all of them that night. It was the sudden sound of gunfire which snapped me out of my fear-induced trance as the man in the doorway began firing wildly into the crowd, screaming at them in German.’

‘As they scuttled back seeking to hide behind each other, I advanced quickly to within a few feet of the man who was unaware of my presence. Drawing my revolver, I shot him through the head. It took a while for the crowd to realise what had happened but when they did, they stood back and silently watched me.’

‘If I was to control this dangerous situation, the time to act decisively was now. Shooting the other man had somehow bolstered my confidence. I was not too sure of the identity of the man who had killed the girl and to try and establish which of them it was and apprehend him was fraught with danger. The crowd could easily turn ugly again and I was only one against seventeen.’

‘I ordered them to disperse quickly and forget about what had happened there that night. Those that were injured by the gunman’s random shooting were to be taken by their friends and have their injuries treated discreetly. I warned them all that if even one of them spoke about the events, they would all face charges for the girl’s death. Fear and self preservation are great motivators so I knew that all that had happened there that night – might be whispered about now and again between themselves – but would never be spoken about outside the group and certainly not to anyone in officialdom.’

‘They quickly disappeared into the night taking their wounded with them and soon all that remained on the street were the two dead bodies, the girl’s weeping father and myself. The distraught father was beside himself with grief and started ranting at me. I was a disgrace to my uniform. I had let them kill his little girl and then let them all go off free. He was going to report me to my superiors and wouldn’t rest until I had been punished for my cowardice and complicity and for shooting the young German.’

‘The mob had been dangerous in one way. This man was even more dangerous in another way and could have posed major problems for me. I was a young officer with a bright future ahead of me so I could not let the events of that night – and my part in them – become known to the authorities. To do so would have ended my career. I had no choice. Checking that the street was still empty, I reached down and retrieved the Luger pistol from the dead man’s hand. Before he had time to realise my intentions, I aimed the gun at the old man and shot him through the chest. I then shot him again through the leg to make it look like he was the victim of random shooting. I replaced the pistol in the German’s hand and entered the small apartment.’

‘In a small back bedroom, a small and frail looking infant lay crying in a cot. Leaving him there, I returned to the main room and began a quick search. It was in the bottom of a cupboard that I found the old suitcase with the gold cross inside. About eighteen inches tall and quite heavy, I had never seen anything so beautiful. I assumed it had been taken from a church or cathedral at some stage during the occupation by either the dead German outside or by some of his army colleagues.’

‘There was also a folder containing a collection of documents and letters. I closed the case and checking that all was still clear outside, I crossed the street to a dark alley where there was a large street refuse bin. The bin was empty and was unlikely to be touched for another few days so I placed the suitcase inside. But I was not finished yet. Returning to the apartment, I searched again until I found a tin of paint and a brush under the sink in the small kitchen. I went outside and using the brush and paint, daubed the words ‘Morte Traditori Di Tutti’ – ‘Death to all Traitors’ across the door.’

‘Back in the apartment, I located the phone and had the operator connect me to my superior officer. I told him that I had come across what had all the appearance of a vigilante attack and that there were fatalities. He ordered me to stay at the scene and he would inform the appropriate officials.’

‘A few weeks later, the incident was all but forgotten. The authorities were quick to sweep the events of that night under the carpet and I was instructed not to discuss it with anybody.’

‘The girl had unfortunately been the victim of mob justice and her father had got caught in the crazed random shooting of the German officer. As for the German himself – well, he was a soldier who had deserted so in a way, it had merely been military justice executed by someone unknown.’

‘The child had been taken over by a lady from the state and was in the process of being passed to an Italian couple agreeable to adopting it with no questions asked as to its background. The whole incident was neatly packaged away. The case with the cross and documents were now stored away in my quarters.’

This recollection of events from a long time ago was obviously tiring the old man and for a while, he lay back on the pillow, silent and unmoving with his eyes closed.

Father O’Mahony sat in silence, digesting all that he had been told and still puzzled as to why he was selected to be the listener.

Did the old man want some form of final absolution from him?

Was he going to be a deathbed convert?

Fair enough – shooting the German could possibly be construed as necessary under the circumstances but the deliberate shooting of the father just to silence him… no, that was murder, cold and simple. And then his theft of the suitcase and his collusion in hushing things up? What age had he been then? Twenty-three… twenty-four? God knows what other dark secrets he harboured from the intervening seventy-odd years of his life.

The priest stood up from his chair and poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside locker. Putting an arm behind the old man’s back, he held the glass to his dry lips and assisted him in taking a few sips. When some trickled from the corner of his mouth, he took out his hanky and dabbed it dry.

He resumed his seat, waiting quietly for the story to continue and for the purpose of his summons to the house to be explained. After a few minutes silence had elapsed, the Colonel spoke again.

‘After two years in Rome, I returned to England and continued my career in the army. I married a girl from Bristol but lost her and my unborn son in childbirth. I never remarried and concentrated the rest of my life serving my country – for forty years in the army and then working for the Department of Defence. In both capacities, I was directly involved in the procurement of weapons for our defence forces. I was given virtually a free hand to procure requirements from whatever source I saw fit. As you can imagine, this was a powerful position to be in. I had many dealings with the Gelsinheiber Corporation and both Dieter and Heinrik Vorstaken.’

‘Whilst a lot of these dealings were on public record, there were others that were of a more clandestine nature. Part of my brief was to procure armaments for factions in Africa deemed by the government of the day to be crucial to British interests in the region. In some cases, we supported the ruling party; in other cases, the guerrilla forces opposed to them. It was all decided by the suits in Downing Street. I got my instructions from them.’

‘Obviously, when that Cardinal in Rome began to publicly criticise Vorstaken and his dealings, I was anxious that our dealings with the company not be exposed. I decided to find out all I could about this Cardinal Cavelli and through channels and connections I maintained over the years in Italy, I investigated his background.’

Indicating the water jug beside the bed, the Colonel waited while Father O’Mahony gave him another drink. As he did so, questions raced through his head. Did the old man know of his friendship with the Cardinal? Was this the reason he had been summoned? Was there some ulterior motive connected to his friend? The old man seemed to sense his thoughts.

‘Yes, I know about the time you spent working with the Cardinal in Rome and I am fully aware that you and he are close friends. You need have no worry. Why I called you here are for reasons which are to his benefit – should you and he decide to use the information I am now about to divulge. I hope you do.’

Drawing another deep breath, he continued.

‘As I told you, there was a child involved in the events relating to the German officer and Italian girl of which I spoke earlier. A quick adoption had been arranged and I had thought no more of that incident until I started looking into the Cardinal’s background.’

‘In my search, I discovered that he himself had been taken in by a couple who owned a patisserie in San Giovanni. Their names were Mario and Gina Cavelli – the same names as the couple listed as the adoptive parents of the child orphaned in Rome on that night. They were never shown to have had more than the one child. It had to be him. All involved in that adoption process are now dead except myself. I am the only one living who knows the new Pope is the bastard son of an Italian girl and a German officer who deserted his post. But – and this is the important bit – who was his grandfather?’

Raising his hand, the old man pointed to a big chest of drawers in the corner of the room. ‘In the bottom drawer you will find a suitcase. Bring it over here to me.’

Father O’Mahony rose from his chair, went over and opened the bottom drawer as requested. Beneath some folded sheets, he found a battered brown suitcase which he carried over to the bed. The heavily rusted clasps had not been opened in quite a long time and took some coaxing but eventually they snapped open.

Resting on top of a