Cross

by Ken Bruen

  I said, 'There's a connection, has to be.'

  Ridge was highly sceptical, said, 'I'm highly sceptical.'

  My mind was in hyperdrive and to stall I offered her coffee, then to rile her added, 'Or vodka?'

  She looked like she was going to hit me.

  'That was a one-off. And I'm off coffee, I don't need stimulants.'

  Ignoring the mini lecture, I said, 'You need to get yer head out of yer arse is what you need.'

  Her eyes danced in anger, but before she could reply I asked her about King, the warehouse guy, and told her about Eoin Heaton drowning in the canal.

  She was vicious in her dismissal.

  'Oh, for Christ's sake, he was a drunk, they go in the canal all the time, and if you ask me, not enough of them.'

  I didn't rise to the taunt, asked, 'And what about the dog tied to his stomach?'

  She gave a bitter, nigh twisted laugh, said, 'It's what drunks do, bring the innocent down with them.'

  She was a piece of work.

  I asked, 'Will you find out about King for me?'

  'I'm not wasting time on a wild goose chase.'

  Then I said, 'Maria Willis's funeral – I'm going to go.'

  Ridge was horrified.

  'God, how morbid are you? Why would you attend?'

  'Call it a hunch.'

  She looked like she might call it a lot of things, hunch not being one of them. She stormed past me, out the door.

  I waited till she was in the hall, heading for the stairs and said, 'You're wrong.'

  She didn't even look back. 'About what?'

  'Geese. It's a dog chase. Get your terms of reference right.'

  And I slammed the door.

  Childish?

  But very satisfying.

  Back in the days of the Tinkers, when I'd worked with them, I'd met an English cop, name of Keegan. Now I've known crazy, been crazy, but he was so far out there, you'd have to invent a whole new order of madness. He'd been a great help to me and then, ignoring his advice, I'd made a tragic error of judgement. But we were friends and I called him.

  Took a time to get him to the phone and his opening gambit was, 'Taylor, yah mad bollix.'

  Same old greeting, same old banter.

  We did the polite dance of asking for each other's health and all that stuff, then he went, 'So, whatcha want?'

  Cut to the chase. I didn't bother feigning offence that he should think I was only calling for help, so I outlined the details of the crucifixion and asked him to check into the family of Nora Mitchell, anything he could get me.

  He was quiet for a moment, then, 'You'll be wanting photos, rap sheets, if any, that sort of thing?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Have you a fax?'

  I'd prepared for this, arranged with the local printers to receive and gave him the number.

  He asked, 'What's in this for me, boyo?'

  'My deep appreciation?'

  'Fuck that, send me a case of Jameson.'

  His parting words were, 'You're crucifying them now?'

  What could I do but agree. He rang off with, 'You Catholics, you find a gig that works, you stick to it.'

  Short of saying We had it nailed, I wished him luck. He said, 'Carry a Sig Sauer, luck won't matter.'

  I paced my small room, all sorts of possibilities up for grabs. I wanted to make coffee but was too preoccupied to take the time to even boil a kettle.

  Ridge rang to say that Mr King was a respected businessman who exported canned delicacies. He'd never been in trouble and was in every sense an upstanding citizen.

  I asked, 'Fond of dogs, is he?'

  She paused.

  'What sort of silly question is that?'

  'That's exactly what I intend to find out.'

  I hung up on her protests.

  The phone had exhausted me. When your hearing is wonky, it's a real strain and I felt knackered. Checked my calendar and, wouldn't you know, it was my day to get fitted with the hearing aid.

  I might not be able to see the full picture, but I'd certainly soon be able to hear the machinations behind it.

  Told meself, I'd almost the makings of a Zen quote right there.

  17

  'At the moment of commitment,

  the universe conspires to assist you.'

  Goethe

  The girl was planning to go to the funeral of the girl she'd burned.

  Her father had cautioned against it, saying, 'They'll be right on this now. It can't be long till they figure it out.'

  The girl wondered if he was losing his commitment. He was starting to look old and was always moaning about pains in his chest. What the fuck did he expect? They were killing people, did he expect to be uplifted? And her brother was a loser, whining as if he was born to it. Doing what he did best – like most men, sulking.

  She said, 'We wanted them to suffer. What's the bloody point if we don't see it?'

  Jesus, what was wrong with them?

  Her brother said, 'I think we should keep a low profile.'

  The girl stepped in, said in a cold measured tone, 'Rory, remember him?' She paused, making sure she had their full attention, then said, 'The one who mowed Mum down like an animal, who fled the scene, left her to die in agony by the side of the road. Are we going to let him dance away?'

  They were suitably abashed.

  Then her brother said, 'He won't come back, he'd be mad to.'

  'His whole family have been wiped out. Even a pig like him will have to show.'

  I got fitted with my hearing aid. It was smaller than I'd expected, less obtrusive, but still made me feel odd.

  I asked the specialist, 'Does it show?'

  He smiled.

  'Depends on what you're looking for.'

  A philosopher to boot.

  I snapped, 'I don't want to seem like… you know, feeble.'

  He laughed. 'I don't really think you can blame the hearing aid.'

  Ireland, everyone feels they can speak freely, just lay it out. The fuckers never lie at the most crucial times. Save that for when you really need the truth.

  I stared at him. He had a full head of hair so I asked, 'That a jig?'

  He was horrified, tried, 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

  'Sure you do. A jig… rhymes with wig.'

  He touched his hair and said, 'It's my own hair.'

  On my way out I said, 'Most people would believe you.'

  When I saw the bill, I was very sorry about my flippancy.

  The bandages were off my hands but you could see welts, bruises on the knuckles, and they hurt, but that was a familiar feeling. Ridge had given me some more info on King, the warehouse guy, and I put on my best charity-shop suit, added a white shirt and dark tie and I was good to go.

  Though good is probably not the right term. More like antsy. I'd made up some documents. Between the internet and business centres, you could create just about any accreditation you wished for. I put mine in a small black leather case and practised flicking it open. I looked like a broken-down FBI agent and could only hope the hearing aid testified to gunfire.

  King's warehouse was large and had an air of intense industry. Lots of vans coming and going. Business was brisk, but was it, dare I say, kosher? A receptionist in her early twenties greeted me warmly.

  I flicked my ID, said, 'Department of Health. I wish to see Mr King.'

  It's a constant source of amazement that any type of official document impresses people.

  She was suitably impressed and said, 'I'll just buzz him, let him know you're here.' Then, with a worried frown, 'There's nothing wrong, is there?'

  I kept my expression in neutral.

  'That's what I'm here to find out.'

  She spoke on the phone for a moment then announced, 'Mr King will see you now. Just go on through.'

  I said, 'Don't leave town.'

  Freud said, 'The most dangerous thing in the world is an angry baby.'

  King looked like an angry baby, albeit a sixty-year
-old one. He was completely bald, and seemed to have no eyebrows. There was not a line on his face, yet he had an air of having been round the block many times and each trip having been rough. He sat behind a massive desk and I bet he drove a massive car. He didn't rise to meet me, or offer his hand, just glared at me. I knew it wasn't personal, least not yet. Glaring was his gig. The world had his toys and, by Jesus, he was intent on getting them back.

  I flipped the ID. 'Department of Health.'

  He took a small container out of his impressive suit jacket, rammed snuff up his nose, least I think it was that. If it was coke, he had me full admiration. Then he did that irritating clearing of his nostrils and I waited.

  He bawled, if you can do such a thing with a thin wispy voice, 'What's the problem?'

  I sighed – always helps if you're weary too – said, 'We've had a complaint.'

  He was on his feet, demanding, 'From whom? About what?'

  I took out my notebook.

  'I'm of course not at liberty to divulge our source, but I can tell you that some concern has been raised as to what you're exporting.'

  He looked ready to explode.

  'We export fish delicacies, sealed in tins. I just take delivery of the tins and send them on to our markets.'

  I mused on this and then said, 'There's been a suggestion that something… erm, something other than fish is going into your product.'

  He was on the verge of a major explosion.

  'What the hell are you suggesting?'

  I could have attempted to mollify him, ease him down a notch, but you know what, I didn't like the bollocks, he was an arrogant prick used to shouting and having tantrums, so I decided to push a little more.

  'Our source mentioned you might be using… how should I put it… canine parts.'

  Took him a moment to digest this and then he laughed. Not a sound like most laughter, more a mix of cackle and spite.

  'I get it. Jesus H. Christ, that drunk who was here, a total burn-out, trying to say that dogs have been snatched and we're using them for our Asian markets.'

  I fiddled with the hearing aid, trying to turn this guy down. He accused, 'Are you tuning me out?'

  As if.

  So I stayed with the needle, asked, 'And are you using such material?'

  He seemed like he might physically attack me, but reconsidered and said, 'That's slander. What's your name again? I'll have your job for that.'

  I kept my voice level, said, 'I haven't accused you of anything, simply posed a query. If you're clean, why are you bothered?'

  He made a cutting gesture with his right palm, said, 'This charade is over. You want to talk to me again, contact my solicitor. Now get the hell out of my office.'

  I stood up.

  'Thank you for the coffee.'

  Threw him, then he rallied.

  'You're some kind of wise arse, that it? You won't be so smug when I get your job reviewed. And that drunk, tell him to stay away from here.'

  I said at the door, 'That might be a tad difficult.'

  Always wanted to try tad in a sentence, see if it was as priggish as I thought.

  It was.

  He stopped his pacing, asked, 'Why, is he as deaf as you?'

  I let that reverberate then said, 'No, he's dead. But I'll pass on your condolences to his family.'

  Back in reception, the secretary was smiling and I saw a cheeky glint in her eye.

  I said, 'Nice man, your boss. Must be a joy to work for.'

  She looked back at his office. The door was closed and she whispered, 'Know what we call him? Crybaby.'

  The fax had arrived from Keegan in London and I took it to a coffee shop, ordered a slice of Danish and double espresso, began to sift through the data.

  Best of all, there were photos.

  The father, Bob Mitchell, known as Mitch, was a small-time hood – some strong-arm stuff, credit-card scams, local enforcer, but nothing major. His son Sean was nineteen and there was something about the boy, I'd gotten a jolt of recognition, but couldn't pin it down. The daughter, Gail, was twenty, pleasant-looking face, nothing special.

  Their mother, Nora, had been on holiday in Galway when she was killed by a hit-and-run driver.

  Guess who?

  Rory Willis, brother of the crucified boy. He'd been arrested, convicted and was waiting sentence when he skipped. In the old days, you got convicted, you went straight to prison, but now you had a time before sentence was handed down and usually you got time to prepare for your incarceration. It wasn't that we had such an enlightened justice system, it was pure maths – the jails were overcrowded and even convicted persons were out and around.

  Rory was believed to have gone to England. Keegan had added his own thoughts: the family had been especially tight-knit and the girl had made some sort of suicide attempt after the death of her mother. The father had gone off the local radar and the whereabouts of the family was currently unknown.

  My coffee came and I bit into the Danish. Very sweet but I appreciated the rush. Add the double espresso and my blood was hopping.

  It had to be them, but the sheer violence of the two murders, a crucifixion and a burning, bothered me. There was a massive degree of insanity here that I couldn't fathom. Round and round it went in my head. The ferocity of their acts had me stumped, but it was them, wasn't it? And if it was?

  Case solved.

  My stomach heaved as the pictures, imagined, of what they'd done to that boy, the actual nails, etc… Jesus.

  Mainly I felt sickened to my stomach. Such violence, to crucify a boy, burn a girl in her car. I pushed the Danish aside. Even the coffee had lost all taste. The funeral, it came back to that. If I went, I was going to learn more, I was absolutely convinced.

  Meanwhile I'd call Ridge, give her the material, see what she did with it.

  As I said, just maybe I was finally getting a handle on this investigation lark. My instincts, free from the whispers, the dark warped whispers of cocaine, booze and nicotine, were finally kicking in.

  Long time coming, oh yeah.

  And more's the Irish pity it took so long.

  My gut was telling me that Maria's funeral would bring the Mitchells out, certainly the girl. The more I read of Keegan's notes and faxes, the more I became certain she was the prime motivator, the dark angel. Proving for me that you throw enough grief at a person, wreak enough physical damage on a basic decent human being, you can create a monster. I was willing to bet my passage to America she'd show.

  She did.

  Wet doesn't describe the weather. As Bob Ward says, four kinds of rain, all bad. The real in-yer-face personal stuff, it wants to lash you, soak you to your soul, and by Jesus it does. Galwegians, they take rain as God's way of saying, 'I prefer the Brits.' I prepared for it: my Garda all-weather coat, Gore-Tex boots that I'd bought at a closing-down sale in a sports shop, an Irish fisherman's cap that I found in the flat.

  It wasn't enough. Galway rain has ways of sneaking in, dribbling down the back of your neck, in your ears, and don't even mention the blinding assault on your eyes. My main concern was, would it affect the batteries in my hearing aid?

  It didn't, but not from lack of trying.

  A sizeable crowd for the funeral.

  I spotted a girl dressed in a drab black coat, with a black beret to hide her hair, standing well back from the mourners, lest anyone chat to her. She was oblivious to the rain pelting her face.

  I heard straight away that Maria's father had suffered a stroke and the mother had retreated into catatonia, and who could blame her?

  This girl was bound to be feeling cheated, she wouldn't see their suffering. They were out of her game, and, worse, there was no sign of Rory, the eldest son.

  The burial went quickly and afterwards I approached her, said softly, 'Gail.'

  I could see she thought it was a voice inside her head, but she turned and I knew she saw a middle-aged guy, with a slight smile and, OK, a bedraggled look. She was taken by surprise, the use of h
er name had thrown her.

  'I'm Jack Taylor and, yes, I know who you are. Come on, let me buy you a coffee.'

  She marshalled her resources, dismissing me as some burned-out bum, despite what I said.

  She said, 'I don't know you. Piss off.'

  The steel in her eyes, I had no problem now imagining the acts she might have committed. I let my smile widen, gave a glance round the graveyard.

  'Nice language in a cemetery, but here's the deal. See these people, they're Claddagh folk, real clannish and they know me. You – not only are you English, I tell them you killed their kin, they'll tear you limb from limb.'

  She risked a look round, and, sure enough, some of the men were giving her hostile stares, nothing warm in their eyes.

  She tried, 'You're bluffing.'

  I spread my arms, palms opened. 'Try me.'

  I grabbed her arm, said, 'I'll take that for a yes.'

  I could see she wanted to lash out, but the truth was, she could sense the vibe in that place and she didn't want to test it.

  She said, defiance writ large, 'I'm not paying for the coffee.'

  I nodded, showing I was reasonable.

  'Course not. But you'll be paying for all the rest. That's not a promise, that's a guarantee.'

  There's a small café on the edge of the Claddagh, a no-frills place. They don't do lattes or any designer caffeine, they brew up huge pots of real strong java and if you don't like it, well, they couldn't give a fuck. We got in there, took off our sodden coats, sat and a woman in her late sixties came over and said, not asked, 'Two coffees?'

  I nodded.

  Gail asked, 'You have any apple tart?'

  In the morning?

  Go figure. She was English, I guess.

  She looked at me and for one brief moment she was a young girl, almost naive. 'I love apple tart.'

  A fleeting hint of a sweet nature and she got her mask back in place.

  The coffee came and the tart, laden with cream, the woman saying, 'Nice young girl like you, deserve a treat.'

  Yeah, nice… till she crucified a young man and burned his sister.

  She dug into the tart, said between mouthfuls, 'I'd offer, but I'm not real big on sharing.'

  I let that sit then said, 'I'm not real surprised.'