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The Celtic Cross Killer
Keiron Cosgrave
COPYRIGHT
THE CELTIC CROSS KILLER© 2019 by Keiron Cosgrave. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.keironcosgrave.net
Facebook: Keiron Cosgrave Author
Cover and Interior Design, Editor: Author
Publisher: Indium Publishing
This book is written in British, English (1.0)
Created with Vellum
THANK YOU!
I hope you enjoy reading THE CELTIC CROSS KILLER as much as I did writing it. If you do, I’d be forever grateful if you could take a moment to leave A REVIEW ON AMAZON. Just PRESS THE LINK BELOW (if you are reading an ebook)…
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REVIEWS help other people to find my books and help me to keep writing.
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HAPPY READING!
Also by Keiron Cosgrave
Promises, Promises – D.I. Wardell Book 1
With Menaces - D.I. Wardell Book 2
Beyond Absolution – D.I. Wardell Book 3
Murder at Devil’s Bridge – D.I. Wardell Novella
Coming soon in 2019, the JON HAZE series novels:-
Havana Haze
Alaskan Haze
Desert Haze
For more information, visit my website
keironcosgrave.net
Or my Facebook author page - Keiron Cosgrave Author
Dedication
To Harry x
The Celtic Cross Killer
Contents
Part One - London, 1984
Part Two - Sicily, 1990
Part Three - Brooklyn, 2005
Part Four - Brooklyn, 2007
Part Five - Brooklyn, 2009
Epilogue - Brooklyn, 1930
Contents
I. London
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
II. Palermo, Sicily
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
III. Brooklyn
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
IV. Brooklyn
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
V. Brooklyn
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Epilogue
Epilogue - Brooklyn, 1930
Also by Keiron Cosgrave
1. January 1999
2. Christmas Day 2012
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
TO PURCHASE OTHER BOOKS BY KEIRON COSGRAVE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Part I
London
1984
1
He gazed across the elevation of the three-storey red brick townhouse from across the street.
Although not located in one of Brooklyn’s more salubrious neighbourhoods, the historic, six-bedroom townhouse at
834 St. Paul’s Avenue, Adelphi would suit him just fine. The property though structurally sound, required cosmetic refurbishment. On the plus side, it was only a short commute from Brooklyn and the wider New York City area. Best of all, it represented a sound financial investment.
The sales details were refreshingly honest - the property needed repair. He thought the repairs were well within his capabilities. He would enjoy making plans: the selection, sourcing and ordering of materials, and the physicality of the labour. The project would provide some much-needed respite from his otherwise cerebral existence.
As he wandered around the interior scoping the works, he felt he had arrived at a turning point and remembered one of his mother’s favourite sayings, “What goes around comes around.” How apt, he thought. Why let his wife’s infidelity define him, or destroy his future?
He imagined a new life living in the house, alone. Going about his daily business. Troubling no one. Savouring his freedom.
He called the realtor and offered a little below the asking price. Given the rising market, demanding a substantial discount would only inflame the vendor. And there was always the possibility of losing the house to a speculative builder, student landlord, or yuppie couple. His stock was good. He could move quickly. Put down roots. Re-evaluate life in the aftermath of a messy divorce. Was there any other kind, he pondered? A swift return to the property market would be desirable psychologically. Otherwise, given the ominous and ever present temptation of alcohol lurking in his subconscious, he might come off the rails.
Later that day, the realtor returned his call bringing good news. The vendor had accepted his cash offer of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars subject to completion of the sale within the month.
What better timing he thought, beaming. It gave him enough time to finalise his plans, execute them and return home in time to sign the contract of sale.
The time to start over had arrived.
2
The nine-hour flight to London Heathrow on British Airways flight 923 from New York JFK on the evening of Sunday 16th December 1984 proved uneventful. Scheduled to land at 6:50 p.m., the pilot announced an arrival time thirty-five minutes earlier than scheduled. Progress over the Atlantic assisted by a strong tail wind.
He felt the fake passport against his chest. Given his connections with the criminal underworld, buying the forgery had been easy. Money talked.
At JFK, the congenial female immigration official gave his passport photograph only the most cursory of glances, said, ‘Thank you, Mr Jameson. Have a pleasant trip.’ Her courteous approving smile was a huge relief.
The quality of the counterfeit passport was high. He’d had no problems so far. He would travel as Tom Jameson from Detroit: a sales executive in advanced composites attending a trade convention in London.
The captain requested the cabin crew to “take their seats for landing.” The Boeing 747 reverberated with the deep pneumatic clunk of the wing flaps descending. The sound heralded the final stages of descent. An acidic eddy of turbulence bubbled in the pit of Jameson’s stomach. The plane danced into cloud. His fingers bit into the fabric of the armrests. He glanced left. Grinned a sickly grin at the woman in the next seat. Longed for the safety of terra firma.
The hand of panic gripped his throat. He drew a long breath. Inhaled hard. Beads of perspiration trickled down his back. Would he be discovered? What, he pondered, was the penalty for attempting to enter the UK on false documentation? If detected, where would he be imprisoned? Would the other inmates single him out because he was American? Would he be ass raped in the showers? Stop it! Be rational. He admonished himself. Get a goddamned grip. Otherwise, you’ll fall at the first hurdle and the job, it, won’t get done…
* * *
Five minutes later, the wheels of the Boeing imperceptibly met tarmac. A weary cheer and half-hearted round of applause echoed around the cabin.
Since it was the week before Christmas, the queues at passport control were long. Jameson joined the back of the queue with a sigh of resignation. The arrivals hall buzzed. Christmas carols played on a merry loop over the public address system. Zombie processions shuffled towards glass booths. Inside one booth, a middle-aged, bespectacled female officer looked across the lengthening queue with sleepy eyes. She was dog-tired. Jameson noticing her absent expression, changed queues. He shuffled forward one tortuous step at a time. A carnivorous worm of anxiety gnawed at his confidence. Sweating, he arrived at the booth. Halted. Sucked a calming breath and handed over the eagle-crested passport to the border control officer. She gave the passport only the most cursory of glances and with the mechanical rhythm of an automaton, handed it back.
His fears came to nothing. ‘Have a good stay in the UK, sir,’ she said, her words laced with insincerity.
3
His research was absorbing. After three years of concentrated investigation, he had established the identities of all living and closest male relatives of the Fratellanza Gang. He had not had the luxury of being able to speak with any relatives, but it was incredible what information the public record offices held in the USA, England and Italy. The fashionable upsurge in family genealogy had resulted in public records departments adopting a relaxed, often procedural response to almost any enquiry. The norm would be to offer immediate, unfettered access to public depositories, with only the minimum of formalities. Officialdom, he mused, could be naïve. Certain of their identities, he would act on the assumption that his research was correct and imply a perverse, vicarious guilt.
* * *
The cabbie halted the taxi at the hotel’s main entrance and glanced into the rear-view mirror. ‘Here you are, Guvnor, Holiday Inn King’s Cross, just like you asked,’ said the cabbie, in thick estuary cockney. ‘That’ll be twenty quid … for cash,’ he said with a thin smile, sliding the glass partition at his shoulder, open.
Jameson paid the fare and stepped out of the taxi.
His plan was simple. For the first week, he’d follow Benedict Luppi from the moment he left home in the morning to his eventual return in the evening. He would establish Luppi’s habits and confirm the nuances of his daily routine. He imagined Luppi would live to a defined pattern. Once satisfied, he’d finalise his plan of attack and strike with surgical precision. Afterwards, with due haste, he’d destroy his clothing, dispose of the murder weapon, settle the bill and return home to enjoy the Christmas break. He hoped to see the New Year in at his new home in Brooklyn. Had booked a flight for the late evening of Saturday 22nd December.
First, he needed to check in, get some much-needed sleep and establish the whereabouts of a department store. The store should have a kitchenware department: somewhere he could purchase a knife - a sharp knife.
4
Jameson faced a manicured middle-aged woman across the reception desk.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help?’
She looked mature enough to appreciate that good manners counted. Jameson liked that.
‘I need directions to a department store, please, miss. Some place with a kitchenware department. You see ... my niece … she’s a trainee chef at a Michelin star restaurant. Lovely girl. Doing great. I want to buy her a present: a fish filleting knife, something like that.’
‘Okay,’ said the receptionist. ‘You’ll find a wide range of department stores along Oxford Street in the West End. It’s the main shopping street. There you’ll find Selfridges, House of Fraser and a huge Marks & Spencer. If it’s something a little more upmarket you’ve got in mind, then why not try Harrods in Knightsbridge?’
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 1
