Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

1. Benediction

2. Bridge of Sighs

3. Bless This Humble Abode

4. The Blood of the Innocents

5. Merton Mania

6. Forgive Us Our Trespasses

7. Zen Mode

8. Anglo-Irish

9. The White Feather

10. Ice

11. Sweet Sobriety

12. Dark Preparation

13. All That Shines

14. Funeral Path

15. Holy Water?

16. Restless Wind

17. Pint of Ferocity

18. Friendship of the Damned

19. Retribution

20. Sisters in Arms

21. Lord Have Mercy

Part Two

22. Loaded

23. Child of Fate

24. Answers

25. Country of the Blind

26. Watch the World Slide By

27. Just Another Town

28. Dark Proposal

29. My Brother’s Keeper?

30. Dead Eyes

31. Sanctuary

32. Little Boy Lost

33. Confession Is Good for the Soul

34. The Guards

35. Amen

Also by Ken Bruen

Copyright

About the Book

Two guards; one nun; one judge.

When a letter containing a list of victims arrives in the post, PI Jack Taylor is sickened, but tells himself the list has nothing to do with him. He has enough to do just staying sane.

A guard and then a judge die in mysterious circumstances. But it is not until a child is added to the list that Taylor determines to find the identity of the killer, and stop them at any cost.

What he doesn’t know is that his relationship with the killer is far closer than he thinks. And that it’s about to become deeply personal.

Spiked with dark humour, and fuelled by rage at man’s inhumanity to man, this is crime-writing at its darkest and most original.

Also by Ken Bruen:

FUNERAL

SHADES OF GRACE

MARTYRS

RILKE ON BLACK

THE HACKMAN BLUES

HER LAST CALL TO LOUIS MACNEICE

A WHITE ARREST

TAMING THE ALIEN

THE McDEAD

THE GUARDS

LONDON BOULEVARD

THE KILLING OF THE TINKERS

THE MAGDALEN MARTYRS

BLITZ

VIXEN

THE DRAMATIST

PRIEST

CROSS

For more information on Ken Bruen and his books, see his website at www.kenbruen.com

Sanctuary

Ken Bruen

For Lou Boxer

M. D.

The spirit of David Goodis

Frank Callinan, who restored my faith in lawyers

and

Jay and Lisa Bolick, true renegades

In total admiration

‘For my own part, I believe no one on Earth should be so happy as a nun.’

Dame Laurentia McLachlan, Benedictine nun

Part One

‘For now at least, all that was to come, and would come in its own delicious time. She would enjoy each minute of what was to come next, let it unfurl as slowly as she liked.’

Cathi Unsworth, The Singer

1

Benediction

2

Bridge of Sighs

I WAS STANDING on the bridge that faces the Spanish Arch in Galway city and the rain was pelting down, drenching me to the core. Despite my all-weather coat, item 8234 of my former Guards issue, and a watchcap pulled down over me forehead, I was soaked. And thinking.

Oh sweet Jesus, if only I could stop thinking.

I should have been in America – even better, down in Mexico, lying on a beach, cold beer on my mind and who knows, maybe a señorita? I certainly had the cash. Yeah, I’d sold my apartment and was sitting on my suitcase, waiting for the cab to the airport. Then the phone had rung.

Even now, I cursed myself for answering.

Ridge, in Irish Ni Iomaire, a female Guard and my partner in hostility and uneasy alliance for years, had been having tests for breast cancer. She was scared, not a thing she ever gave in to, and I was scared too, for her. It’s God’s own vicious joke, the only woman I managed to keep in my life was gay.

I put the phone to my ear and she had said one word.

‘Malignant.’

Is there a more loaded, sinister one in the whole of the language?

I remembered the story about Joyce furiously ripping through a dictionary and Nora Barnacle asking, ‘Aren’t there enough words in there for you?’ And he said, ‘Yes, but not the right ones.’

What’s the right word for a death sentence?

So I had stayed.

And every single day I was sorry.

Sorry is what I do if not best, certainly most frequently.

They’d removed Ridge’s right breast and she was now two months along in recovery.

How does a woman recover from that?

She was out of hospital and recuperating at home, if recuperating means sitting in an armchair, listening to the kind of whining music they give free razor blades with, and drinking.

Yeah, Ridge, drinking. She’d busted my balls for years about my drinking and here she was, sinking into the abyss.

I tried to go round most days to see how she was doing and at first it was a bottle of dry sherry on the mantelpiece, then the bottle was on the coffee table, always getting nearer to reach, and now it was vodka.

First few times, I didn’t mention it, especially as she was glaring at me, willing me to go for it.

I didn’t.

But finally, a damp cold Monday, not yet noon and there she was, in her dressing gown, the bottle, near empty, perched on the arm of the chair.

‘Need to watch that shite, it creeps up on you,’ I said to her.

‘That’s priceless. The last of the real alkies telling me to watch it?’ She stood up, went to the dresser, took out a pack of cigs, turned and with sheer brazenness lit one and blew the smoke in my direction.

Smoking? Another stick she’d beaten me with for so many years.

I was still wearing the patches and hadn’t smoked for a long time. Her body language suggested she was ready for war.

Patience has never been one of my strong points. I asked, ‘Like me to score you some coke? Then you’d have all my old habits down.’

Her eyes were slits of anger. ‘I think I’d have a while to catch up with you, Jack. I mean, how many are in the cemetery because of you?’

It hit me in the stomach like a knife. It was true.

Seeing my reaction, she faltered, tried, ‘Sorry, that was uncalled for. I didn’t mean . . .’

Was I letting her off the hook? Was I fuck. ‘Oh, you meant it, and if you carry on like this, you’ll be joining them,’ I lashed.

Did I do the childish thing of banging the door on my way out?

You betcha.

I limped down the road, ready to kill some bastard, adjusted my hearing aid, then turned it off. I’d heard enough for one day.

Hearing aid, limp, you’re wondering what kind of shape I was in?

Take a wild guess.

The limp was the result of a beating with a hurley, and my hearing had begun to fade in one ear. The specialist asked me, ‘Ever get a bang on the head?’ Count the ways.

Back on the bridge now.

I could see my beloved swans, so graceful. Sheer poetry to watch them glide on the water. I could just make out the Atlantic Ocean, and but a wish from there was my promised land, America.

The Spanish Arch, of course. Still intact, portal to Long Walk and gateway to the Atlantic. Primarily, it acts as overseer to the old fishing village of the Claddagh and literally, as the line goes, ‘Age has not withered its appeal.’ The Virgin sits atop the arch, like a forlorn illusion of hope.

I was thinking of the letter I’d received.

It had come about a week before and contained a list of people the writer was going to kill: guards, a nun, a judge and, most frightening of all, a child. A whole series of questions jostled in my mind. How did this lunatic get my address? I’d have to check on that and it worried me, not just the disturbing letter but the psycho knowing where I lived. Should I get the locks changed? To say these thoughts preyed on my mind is understatement.

I phoned a guy in the Post Office named Sean. I did him a favour a time back and he’d said, ‘You ever need anything, give me a call.’

He was friendly, as always, and pre-empted me with ‘Jack, anything I can help you with?’

I said, ‘I recently changed address and have got a letter from someone I don’t know. How would that happen?’

He laughed. ‘Easiest thing in the world, mate. We live in a world where information is readily available. Not just your address – if you follow the news you’ll see they can find out your bank details nowadays, your credit rating, anything.’

Jesus, that was scary and I told him so.

He made a sound that carried all the implications of ‘tell me about it’. He said, ‘Try working in the Post Office. Lots of people who’ve had your experience think we are responsible. But Jack, let’s lower it a notch, to ease your concern.’

I’d love to hear how he intended to achieve that.

He continued, ‘You have, let’s face it, a high profile – all that stuff with the tinkers, the Magdalene Laundries, the priest, and just about everybody knows you. How hard would it be to follow you to wherever you live? You’re not exactly invisible.’

This was lowering it a notch?

I said, ‘Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it.’

‘Glad to be of help. Just treat it like junk mail – dump it.’

Right.

I’d sworn I was out of the investigation business, but this was personal, or so the lunatic who wrote it implied. I had some choices.

I could just ignore it, or . . .

That or has been the curse of my life.

Earlier that morning, I had checked out the first guard mentioned and sure enough, a Garda Flynn had been killed in a hit and run just over a week ago. The letter-writer could be just using his death to lure me into a sick game, but my instinct told me it wasn’t so. Despite Sean’s reassurances, this Benedictus knowing where I lived was like an ominous cloud.

I was still staring at the water and a guy passing said, ‘Jesus, jump or get off the frigging path.’

He wasn’t working with the Samaritans, I guessed.

3

Bless This Humble Abode

I DECIDED I’D better do something about the letter, and the action I thought of filled me with dread.

My best friend, way back in my early days as a young guard, had been Clancy. I got bounced and he went all the way to the top and was now Superintendent. We shared a history. Over the years, my involvement in some cases had made him look bad and he had been determined to even the score. His early friendship with me had become a bitter enmity. He loathed me with a ferocious passion, saw me as a drunk, a loser – you get the picture. And the fact that I’d solved some cases he’d abandoned made it worse.

I was now renting a small place in Dominic Street. It was only temporary, I told myself. When Ridge got back on her feet I’d head for America. It was tiny, just a living room and a bedroom, and cost a fortune, like everything in our new rich city. Someone had cooked a lot of curry in it at one time and the smell still lingered. I had a single bed, ten books, yeah, ten, one sofa, one kettle, and what passed for a shower, behind a cardboard alcove.

Oh, lest I forget, and a portable television, black and white, that flickered constantly, like my bloody life.

Next morning, I was sneezing. I suppose if you stand on a bridge for a few hours in the driving rain, you’re not going to be the picture of health.

I dressed in my one suit, a shirt that was more grey than white, a Galway tie and a pair of Timberland boots I’d bought for my trip to America. I’m sure they would have been real useful in Mexico. I had a coffee – black, as I’d forgotten to buy milk. It tasted as bitter as I felt. I took a deep breath and headed out.

At least the rain had stopped and something that might have been the sun was trying to make an appearance.

It failed.

My building had six apartments and I’d only met one of the neighbours, a very camp gay who liked to play. His name, or so he said, was Albert. ‘Or you can call me Hon if you like, big guy.’

How the fuck do I find them or they me? It’s like there’s a neon sign above my head that reads: ‘Gather here, you crazies of all creeds.’

They did.

He was in his very bad late thirties, emaciated to the point of anorexia, always dressed in black and with the worst comb-over I’ve ever seen.

He was coming out of his apartment and was, of course, dressed in black. On seeing my black suit, he screamed in mock horror, ‘Oh my God! One of us will have to change.’

I tried to get past him as quickly as I could, said, ‘It’s a little late for me to become gay.’

Took him a moment, then he playfully punched my arm.

I loved that.

And he said, ‘Oh you, you are wicked.’

Is there a reply to this? I mean, seriously.

He continued, ‘Jack. Is it OK to call you Jack? I’m having a little soirée on Friday and I’d love you to come. Nothing fancy, just bring yourself and a lot of alcohol or drugs. Just kidding – but do bring drugs.’

I gave him the look. His accent was that new trend, quasi-American and very fucking annoying. I asked, ‘Where are you from?’

Paused a second then said, ‘Aren’t we all citizens of le monde, dear heart? But if you must know and you swear never to tell a soul, I’m from Cork.’

I was pretty sure they didn’t use soirée a whole lot in Cork, but Ireland was changing so fast, maybe they did. I asked, ‘And did you play hurling?’

The finest hurlers come from Cork. They are born with a hurley in their fist.

He was not amused. ‘Hardly.’

I said, ‘Well, here’s the deal. In my shitty room there, I’ve got a hurley and if you ever call me any of those endearments again, I’ll give you a real fast lesson in the game.’

He faltered for a moment before recovering. ‘You brute, you. Must dash. Don’t forget Good Friday.’

I shouted, ‘I don’t do parties.’

He threw back, ‘Never too late to start, even for a man of your senior years.’

Touché.

4

The Blood of the Innocents

THE KILLER WAS staring at the montage on the wall.

There were photos of two guards, a nun, a judge, a young child and, heading them, a large photo of Jack Taylor. Posted above this in gothic letters was the word Benediction. A small table beneath the display held six candles. One had been blown out.

‘The first shall be last,’ said the killer, addressing the photo of Taylor. The killer had left out that little detail from the letter, wanted it to be a surprise.

‘Sanctus.’

Kill Taylor.

The killer took a long carving knife from the table and began to cut a deep wedge along the right arm. The pain was a moment in arriving and when it did, the killer let out a deep aah of agonized pleasure, whispered, ‘The blood of the innocents.’

5

Merton Mania

I HADN’T PHONED ahead for an appointment with Superintendent Clancy – he’d have blown me off so I was going cold. I didn’t have far to go. The Guards station was at the top of Dominic Street, and a sign across from it, mounted over the river, proclaimed, ‘Call the Samaritans first!’

And what?

If they didn’t help, you could jump in the river?

The station was relatively quiet, and thank Christ, the young guard behind the counter didn’t know me. I asked if I might see the super. He inquired as to the nature of my business and asked for my name. I gave that then said, ‘Personal.’

He told me to take a seat and picked up the phone.

His face changed as he listened and I knew he was getting an earful on who I was. He summoned me and now he’d a hard edge. ‘He’s in a meeting. Won’t be free for at least two hours.’

I said I’d wait.

I’d been expecting this shite and had brought along a book, The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton.

Merton and a pint had been my staple diet for years until I lost faith in him and the pints lost faith in me. Fair trade off, I guess. Now I was trying to reconnect with him. I cracked open the book and hit on this:

‘I read William Saroyan when I was too tired to read the hard stuff.’

Jesus, I was too tired for the hard stuff.

I became engrossed in Merton’s account of Harlem and almost didn’t feel the three hours go by.

Almost.

The station was getting busy, a line of non-nationals seeking driving licences, passports, help. They were cowed and defeated in their demeanour.

Welcome to the land of a thousand welcomes.

A drunk was dragged in by two burly cops, shouting, ‘Kerry will win the All Ireland!’ As they tried to drag him to the cells, he spotted me, screamed, ‘I know you. You’re a drunk.’

I didn’t answer.

One of the guards gave him a wallop on the side of the head and he shut up. The non-nationals pretended not to see it; they were learning the game.

Finally, the young guard called me, said, ‘He’ll see you now.’ Then added with a smirk, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Right.

I was buzzed through to Clancy’s office. It was even larger than I remembered and alight with awards, citations, honours. He was dressed in his full regalia, the dress blues, the stripes. He’d put on a ton of weight, he looked like a fat Buddha in a uniform, without the serenity. On his massive desk was a sheaf of files and a framed photo of him, his wife, I presume and a young boy. There was a hard chair in front of the desk and I looked at it.

‘Don’t bother, you won’t be here long enough to warm yer arse,’ he said.

‘And good to see you too, Super.’

He snapped, ‘Boyo, don’t try any of your lip, I’ll have you out of here in jig time. I thought you’d fucked off to America and we were finally rid of you.’

I gave him my best smile. I have terrific teeth, cost me a bundle after a guy removed my old ones with an iron bar. I said, ‘I got sidetracked.’

He leaned back in his chair, gave me his full inspection, then said, ‘A hearing aid! Doesn’t seem to have improved your ability to listen much. What do you want? And make it brief.’

I told him about the letter, showed it to him.