Ken Bruen - Cross

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 her 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.'

She finished it in jig time, wiped her mouth with a surprisingly gentle motion and gulped some coffee. She glanced briefly towards the corner of the café, as if she saw something there. Whatever it was, it seemed to embolden her.

Then she quickly looked back at me and asked in a harsh tone, 'So, fuckhead, what do you want?'

The change was instant. One moment Miss Dainty, and, in the blink of an eye, psycho city.

I examined her face. She might have been pretty once, but the heavy make-up, the set of her jaw, neutralized that. Her eyes were the interesting feature. Nobody has black eyes in the literal sense, but she came as close as dammit. An energy came off her, like a blast from a furnace, and all of it malevolent. I moved back a few inches. You sit in the proximity of pure evil, it infects you.

I asked, 'What's next on the agenda? The elder brother doesn't show up, how are you going to pass the time? You have a taste for it now – killing people, I mean. You're not going to be able to stop, and you know what? You're not going to want to.'

This seemed to amuse her. She watched me with those black eyes, then shrugged.

'You know nothing about me.'

I wished I had a cigarette, it was definitely one of those times.

'What's to know? You're a sadistic bitch, a coward who went after easy prey. You think your mother would be proud of you? She'd spit on you.'

And the flash in the eyes, I saw the beast for one moment, deadly and lethal.

She leaned over, hissed, 'You bastard, you leave my mother out of this.'

I took a sip of my coffee, said, 'Your mother has nothing to do with this any more, you're doing this because you get off on it.'

Then her whole body language changed and she adopted a pose of lazy sensuality, stared into her already empty cup, purred, 'I want more coffee.'

Fucking with me, a terrain I was better able to play on.

I said, 'Get it yourself.'

She didn't, considered something, said, 'This has been interesting, but so what? You have no proof. If you could do anything, I'd already be under arrest. You're full of shit.'

No argument there.

'Justice isn't always in a courtroom,' I said.

She loved that, asked, 'You think you can take me on, a beat-up old geezer like you? You've a hearing aid, you walk with a limp, you couldn't find your dick with a map.'

Maybe it was the arrogance, or how much I detested that guy who owned the warehouse, or just her virus rubbing off on me, but I suddenly decided to kill two birds with one stone. It seemed to strike me out of nowhere, and maybe that's how the worst things happen, spur-of-the-moment viciousness.