The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  He nodded. Smiled with bright eyes. ‘Thanks. A friend mentioned Sheffield steel from York Shire is the one to buy. Is that right?’ He lied with ease. His thick New York accent breaking the word Yorkshire into distinct syllables.

  ‘Sheffield steel is world famous, sir. Looked after, it will last a lifetime,’ she said. ‘Selfridges, ought to have what you need.’

  The receptionist’s directions were thorough. He could either take a taxi, or walk the mile north to King’s Cross rail and underground station. There, he would be able to buy a day ticket for the tube network. The journey to Oxford Street necessitated taking the Victoria Line southbound for three stops and changing onto the Central Line at Oxford Circus for one stop and disembarking at Bond Street. Alternatively, he could alight at Oxford Circus, ascend to street level and take his chances amongst the hordes of Christmas shoppers along Oxford Street.

  Exiting the Holiday Inn, Jameson fended off the unwanted attention of cabbies milling around the entrance enjoying the crisp winter morning and chose the brisk mile-long walk to King’s Cross. The area to the south of King’s Cross Station was a notorious red-light district. After decades of gentrification the side streets around Grays Inn Road had taken on a more upmarket mews-type appearance. Pausing, Jameson sought refuge amongst motorcycles and scooters chained to iron railings along the pavement. He paused. Studied the map. Ran a finger over the smooth paper.

  On his first visit to London—as a student, fifteen years before—he’d found himself surprised by the frantic traffic, the cacophony of noise and the cosmopolitan mix of London’s eclectic population. An abiding memory was the huge gulf between rich and poor. A college acquaintance from the north of England told him that for all intents and purposes, London was a country within a country. A place you either loved or hated. As far as Jameson was concerned, the jury was still out on that one. He was however sure of one thing: he’d be able to act with anonymity in the vast urban sprawl of concentrated humanity.

  ‘You’re going to need a Zone 1 and 2 day ticket, my man. Gonna be five-fifty,’ said the dread locked ticket seller from behind the glass screen of the underground ticket booth. ‘You paying cash or card?’

  Jameson found the tube crowded, stuffy and uncomfortable. Shoppers scurried like subterranean ants below busy streets. The noise and body odour was unbearable.

  Ascending the escalator to street level, Jameson made a mental note to pay for the knife and pendant in cash. Took a moment to remind himself to destroy receipts and dispose of the knife in the Thames. Reassured himself that the knife would never be found. Resolved to make sure the Celtic cross would be.

  5

  Benedict Luppi was a success. He worked for an American global accountant with a multi-billion-dollar turnover. The firm specialised in corporate takeovers and tax matters. Luppi—a Senior Account Manager—managed a team of twenty people and oversaw inward investment into the UK by American-owned corporations. The job was stressful. He thrived on pressure. Worked long and irregular hours. Took the role in his stride.

  On the evening of the first day, Monday, Luppi left his workplace at 5:30 p.m. In the homeward bustle, Jameson lost sight of his quarry on the short walk to Bank underground station. Luppi’s journey home took him west on the Central Line tube train for ten stops.

  Jameson’s research revealed Luppi was unmarried, though cohabiting. Luppi shared an apartment with his partner of ten years, Adrianne. They lived in a penthouse apartment at the end of a no through road in the wealthy Holland Park suburb of West London.

  * * *

  The next day, Tuesday, Jameson jostled into position beside Luppi on the tube. Several times during the journey, their shoulders met as the train jolted along the ageing track. The name badge pinned to the lapel of Luppi’s crisp-pressed pinstripe suit confirmed his identity. Fearful of arousing suspicion and biding his time, Jameson decided against following Luppi off the tube.

  Benedict Luppi was an unremarkable medium built man with discernible middle-age spread. His olive-skinned face was oval shaped with a heavy bulbous nose under a receding hairline. Luppi dressed smart and carried himself with the calm assurance of a battle-hardened Roman centurion.

  On the third day, Jameson adopted a different approach. Assuming Luppi would arrive at Holland Park tube station at 5:50 p.m., he waited for him there; planned to tail him home. Luppi did not arrive. Jameson waited an hour. Killed time in a low-rent, Turkish run greasy spoon cafe opposite the tube station entrance. Found himself surrounded by Irish road workers in a boisterous mood. Their outrageous boasts of sexual conquests were an education.

  Luppi appeared at the tube station exit one hour later than expected. Jameson fell in step behind Luppi at a discreet distance. Tailed him home. Noted that the well-lit route provided numerous opportunities to get close to Luppi. Jameson was becoming impatient. It was Wednesday, with two working days until the weekend.

  A weekend, Jameson hoped, Luppi would never see.

  6

  The Friday before Christmas was one of the busiest days of the year for licensed premises. On that day, many office workers would start their Christmas break with an extended boozy lunchtime at the pub which would continue long into the night. With a nod to local practice, many international employers recognised the early Christmas break and closed for business on the lunchtime of “Mad Friday”.

  ‘Fancy a couple at Hennessy’s, Benny, old chap?’ asked Luppi’s line manager, Jonathan Bailey. Luppi drew a long breath, frowned, maintained his gaze on the computer screen. ‘Be a sport, Benny. Let your hair down. You’ve earned it. We’ve had a bumper year,’ said Bailey. ‘You, my friend, deserve a break.’ Bailey’s voice was as loud as his pinstriped Saville Row three-piece suit.

  ‘You go ahead without me. Just two more invoices and I’m done. I’ll follow on. Honest, I will.’

  ‘Make sure you do. If you’re a no show, Benny boy, I’ll be recommending cancellation of your Christmas bonus … young Mr Scrooge,’ said Bailey, grinning, shuffling into his coat, turning to leave.

  ***

  The evening before, Jameson sat balanced on a barstool at the hotel bar gazing at the optics, lost in thought.

  ‘Are you thinking of going into the city tomorrow, sir?’ quizzed the barman, making small talk, pouring a double whiskey and soda.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Jameson replied, with indifference.

  ‘Because it’s Mad Friday, sir.’

  ‘Mad Friday? What the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s the day when office workers break-up early for Christmas, sir. The day when most people make a beeline for the pub at lunchtime and get shit … I mean … blitzed…’

  ‘Blitzed?’

  ‘Blind drunk, sir. It’ll be crazy. Drunks everywhere: people, much the worse for wear. If you do go into the city, please be careful, sir. There’s always a lot of trouble. If I were you I’d steer well clear of the pubs,’ added the barman, rotating a pint glass, drying it with a hand towel.

  Last drink, resolved Jameson. Tomorrow, I need a clear head.

  Jameson slipped off of the barstool. ‘Thanks for the advice, but I have an important appointment with a client in The City of London tomorrow afternoon. Not something I can dodge, unfortunately. Make sure you have a great Christmas.’ Jameson slipped a crisp ten-pound note underneath the empty glass.

  On the way up to his room, Jameson smirked sourly at his reflection captured in the lift cars’ mirrored walls.

  Tomorrow, he thought, Mad Friday would be just a little crazier.

  7

  Most Fridays Luppi left work at 3:30 p.m.

  Jameson—seeking refuge from persistent rain—sheltered inside a fire escape recess set into the brick wall opposite Luppi’s office entrance. One hour passed. Raising his right arm, he glanced at his wristwatch. Noted with irritation that 3:30 p.m. had come and gone, with no sign of Luppi. He gritted his teeth, ran a hand over his face.

  Another hour passed. Luppi stepped out from the office entrance
, flicked open his umbrella, turned left and hurried along Gresham Street. He carried a scuffed patent-leather briefcase. One hundred yards from the entrance, Luppi stalled at the kerb, looked left and right and ran across the road at a break in traffic. Heading towards Old Jewry Street, he halted on the pavement to let a group of fancy-dress clad, inebriated women pass. They cackled and huddled under a shared umbrella. The rain continued to fall from a brooding grey sky, but did little to dampen the spirits of the city’s inhabitants. Luppi halted in the doorway of Hennessy’s, shook his umbrella with vigour, and pushed through the stained-glass door. A cacophony of a hundred voices spilled out onto the street.

  Hennessy’s was an archetypal Victorian London pub. The interior featured dark mahogany panelling, polished brass rails and period black and white photographs depicting famous people and notable events. Not a square inch of carpet was visible as a wave of bodies assaulted the impressive bar to the left of the main entrance.

  As Luppi pushed through the door, he spotted a huddle of work colleagues standing in a loose circle directly ahead. He negotiated through the crowd towards them. Bailey saw him first.

  ‘Benny. Benny! You’ve come! Look everyone … Benny has made it! We’re all here. Excellent. The whole team!’ boomed Jonathan Bailey, reaching forward, giving Luppi a man hug.

  ‘What’s your tipple old boy?’ Bailey gushed, ebullient as ever. ‘Charles is at the bar. One minute… I need to go and siphon the python. I’ll catch up with him on my way to the bog,’ bellowed Bailey. ‘What’s your tipple old chap?’

  ‘I’ll have a pint of real ale, please. London Pride if they have it,’ shouted Luppi above the din of the crowd, nodding acknowledgements to colleagues.

  ‘Sorted. Consider it done,’ boomed Bailey. ‘Give me five minutes. Before I forget… Well done on the invoicing front,’ roared Bailey, heading off to the bar, right arm outstretched over his head. ‘Coming through… Man in need… Man in need…’

  Luppi disliked cheap alcohol. He’d had far too many bad experiences in the past. He would give it a couple of hours, make his excuses, take the tube home, grab a pizza, call at a local convenience store and surprise Adrianne with a bottle of her favourite Italian red.

  Jameson sat on a barstool next to Luppi’s group. He wore a beige raincoat, clutched a damp copy of the day’s Daily Telegraph and had a tumbler of Irish whiskey set against his lips. He lifted the tumbler to the light cast by a ceiling spotlight. Savoured the amber coloured mash against the light. Sniffed the warming aroma. Took a warming sip. Aware of the irony, he smiled a wry smile. The whiskey his pseudonym: Jameson’s.

  Two hours later, Luppi had reached his limit.

  ‘Time I got off, guys. Get home. The missus will be wondering where the bloody hell I am. Everyone have a very Merry Christmas,’ said Luppi, spinning and catching the arm of the seated man drinking whiskey behind him, spilling his drink.

  ‘You fucking eejit!’ growled the man. Luppi recognised an American twang with an Irish lilt in the man’s voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Luppi, rushing off towards the door.

  ‘No worries,’ the man called after Luppi. Adding under his breath, ‘You’ll have no worries soon enough, wee gobshite.’

  The man in the beige raincoat sank the remaining whiskey, lowered himself from the barstool and set off for the door.

  8

  Rain teemed from a sullen sky. Conscious of the aggressive words and manner of the man in the raincoat, Luppi exited Hennessy’s without looking back. He didn’t want trouble. Never did. Needed to get home. Home to Adrianne.

  Clutching his briefcase against his chest, Luppi turned right onto Old Jewry Street towards Bank underground station. The heady, super-heated atmosphere of the pub and the hoppy gaseous beer slopping around in his stomach, were having an effect. Spilling out onto the street into the damp coldness of the evening, his vision swam and spiralled. A million coloured lights reflected and swirled from the rain-drenched pavement. A sickly dizziness overcame him. Pausing, he fought back the rank hoppy bile rising inside his throat. Searching for refuge, he spotted a service alley. Stumbled into it. Entered its dark embrace and retched.

  Hurrying along Old Jewry Street, Luppi slipped and slid on the rain-soaked pavement and almost lost his grip on his briefcase. Several times he slipped out of the way of drunken partygoers. Decided against using his umbrella. Imagined getting into an altercation with a drunk impaled on its point.

  Arriving at Bank underground station, Luppi’s clothes felt cold against his skin. In his haste, he’d forgotten to button up his overcoat. He shivered. Hunger pangs ripped at his guts. He felt bad. His mind raced. Longed for home. Standing on the platform he looked down and studied the worm casts of vomit mingling with the pinstripes in his suit.

  Central Line westbound departures came along every few minutes. Luppi wouldn’t have to wait long. Deep down in his pocket, he found a fifty pence piece. Enough to buy a coffee from the vending machine. He looked to the dot matrix sign suspended above the platform. His train was due in six minutes. Luppi staggered over to the vending machine, dropped the coin in the slot, made his selection and stepped away. The machine clicked and fizzed. He pushed freezing hands deep into silk-lined pockets. Within seconds the vending machine had dispensed a black-as-tar coffee. Luppi blew across the surface of the hot caramel-flavoured brew and sipped the steaming hot liquid.

  Turning towards where the train would arrive—across the bleakness of the windswept platform—Luppi steeled himself against the shrill east wind. As he turned, he glimpsed a shadowy figure leaning against the brick arch at the rear of the platform. The figure levitated, moved forward, stalled suddenly and then faded away. Luppi checked himself. His confused mind raced. The figure, he imagined, wore a beige raincoat. Deciding his imagination was playing tricks, Luppi sipped coffee and waited for the tube train to arrive.

  9

  An eclectic mix of passengers, workers, schoolchildren, partygoers and Christmas shoppers swayed in the packed tube train. A boisterous posse of mixed-race teenage girls in pleated knee-length dark green skirts and matching V-necked jumpers over white blouses, gyrated around a cassette player. The Band Aid single Do They Know It’s Christmas? boomed from a bluetooth speaker.

  ‘Tonight thank God it’s them instead of you!’ The girls high-pitched voices were a sharp contrast to Bono’s gravel.

  Normally, Benedict Luppi enjoyed such exuberance, but not today. A rank and bilious taste swam in his mouth. The girl’s voices bore into him like an electric drill. The rhythmic sway of the carriage made him feel queasy. Luppi prayed for an end to the torture.

  ‘Next stop is Holland Park. Next stop is Holland Park. Please mind the doors and ensure you take all your belongings.’ The train driver announced mechanically over the loudspeaker signalling the imminent end to Luppi’s misery.

  A five-deep throng of bodies stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive. The instant the train stopped, Luppi squeezed through the door gap, bounded from the train onto the platform and ran for the exit. He desperately wanted to avoid the queue at the ticket barrier. Luppi reprimanded himself for drinking so much. Became annoyed at his weakness. Arriving at pavement level, he steeled himself. Found to his relief that the rain had eased. Freezing fog enveloped the street. Dank. Cold. Life-sapping, freezing fog.

  Turning right, Luppi headed off towards La Scarpetta Italian restaurant and takeaway on Clarendon Avenue. He promised himself a fortifying brandy to settle his stomach and help clear his head—a Napoleon or something of equal quality—while the pizza baked.

  Twenty yards distant from the restaurant—concealed in the shadows, away from the illuminating hand of the sodium streetlights overhead—the man in the beige raincoat reached into his right pocket. Wet fingers settled on the smooth steel hilt of the twelve-inch long carving knife, moved down and fingered the razor-sharp blade. In his left pocket, he caressed with religious fervour, a small silver Celtic cross pendant.

 
10

  He intended to use his superior height and strength advantage to attack Luppi from behind. The kill would be swift and clinical.

  A ten-foot high yew hedge loomed over the end of Luppi’s cul-de-sac. The hedge—the product of an over-enthusiastic residents’ committee—provided excellent concealment. He would hide. Wait. Bide his time. Strike from the shadows.

  Hours later than planned, Luppi rushed along the drenched pavement with his head down against the drizzle. His knee-length black Crombie overcoat bulged with pizza and wine.

  Arriving at the crossroads with Lansdowne Road, Lansdowne Mews and Boyne Terrace Mews, Luppi glanced left and right. Satisfied, he set off across the junction. Gathering pace, he crossed the rain-sodden road in a series of swift steps, all the while dodging puddles. Hot pizza and cool wine firm against his body.

  Entering the street, he crossed into the shadow of the hedge and passed the gated entrance of the mews terraces next to his own.

  Reaching the periphery of the hedge, he glanced up. Saw the warm glow from the table lamp in his penthouse apartment. Spotted Adrianne seated in her favourite armchair. Home looked warm and inviting. A sense of relief coursed through him. In minutes, he’d be taking a warm shower, contemplating pizza and wine. Perhaps even, the best kind of dessert.

  ***

  Luppi never knew what killed him.

  In his final dying moments, he understood only that the attack had come from behind. He’d had no time to react. A firm hand across the mouth had stymied any cry for help. The first deep slash across his larynx had been enough.

  Luppi crumpled to the concrete in seconds. Lifeblood leaching away in a deluge of hot crimson. The only sound, the muffled crash of the exploding wine bottle on the unyielding concrete. The killer had followed him down and finished him off with a strong vertical stab up through Luppi’s collapsing chest. It had chased out his final breaths.