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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.

  I LOVE hearing from my readers, too. You can contact me via my FACEBOOK page, Keiron Cosgrave Author, or via my website. Here’s the link to my WEBSITE.

  www.keironcosgrave.net

  As a THANK YOU, I’d like to offer you a FREE NOVELLA - MURDER AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE when you sign up to my PRIVILEGE CLUB. All you have to do is follow this link and instructions. It’s FREE to join and you can leave at any time.

  www.keironcosgrave.net

  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?’