Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
AUTHOR′S NOTE
R . J . ELLORY
′A mesmerizing tale whose intrigue will pull you from one page to the next without pause, casting you into the gloom of dread and the shadow of grief until you reach the climatic end. R.J. Ellory′s remarkable talent for probing the unknown establishes him as the master of the mystery game. The perfect author to read late into the night.′
Clive Cussler
′R.J. Ellory is a uniquely gifted, passionate, and powerful writer.′
Alan Furst
′R.J. Ellory′s A Quiet Belief in Angels is that rarity, a book that will haunt you for years, in all the best ways. It is a riveting mystery that is as compelling as it is moving. Joseph is destined to become one of those seminal characters of literature. Here is a book that restores not only a quiet belief in the redemptive power of literature but is a novel you put on the shelf to read over and over again.′
Ken Bruen
′R.J. Ellory is a class act. If you like James Lee Burke or James Sallis, he′s a writer who speaks your language.′
Val McDermid
′A Quiet Belief in Angels is a rich, powerful, evocative novel of great psychological depth.′
Jonathan Kellerman
′An awesome achievement a thriller of such power, scope and accomplishment that fanfares should herald its arrival.′
Guardian
′A Quiet Belief in Angels is a beautiful and haunting book. This is a tour de force from R.J. Ellory.′
Michael Connelly
′Ellory is a powerful talent . . . A Quiet Belief in Angels . . . seems set to launch him into the stratosphere of crime writers.′
Independent on Sunday
′This isn′t your standard shock and bore serial killer novel. It′s an impassioned story of a man′s life told in Ellory′s distinctive voice, and it confirms his place in the top flight of crime writing.′
Sunday Telegraph
Also by R.J. Ellory
Candlemoth
Ghostheart
A Quiet Vendetta
City Of Lies
A Quiet Belief in Angels
A Simple Act of Violence
The Anniversary Man
R.J. ELLORY
Orion
www.orionbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion Books, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin′s Lane London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK company
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © R.J. Ellory Publications Limited 2009
The moral right of Roger Jon Ellory to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 1 4091 0648 7
Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd, Lymington, Hants
Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham, Kent
The Orion Publishing Group′s policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
www.orionbooks.co.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Seems I spend a good deal of time thanking people, without whom my books would never arrive in bookstores. Invariably, these people are humble, and they tell me not to make a fuss of them, but that element of humility merely serves to exaggerate their greatness in my mind. So, once again, here we go:
Jon, my editor; Euan, my agent; all those at Orion - Jade, Natalie, Gen, Juliet, Lisa, Malcolm, Susan L. and Susan H., Krystyna, Hannah, Mark Streatfeild and Mark Stay, Anthony, Julia, Sarah, Sherif, Michael G., Pandora and Victoria, Emily, Suzy, Jessica and Kim, Lisa G., Kate, and Mark Rusher. You have all worked so very hard, and I have done my best to meet your standards.
Robyn Karney, a remarkable copy-editor and a remarkable woman.
Amanda Ross, for your continued friendship and endless support. I am indebted.
Kate Mosse, Bob Crais, Dennis Lehane, Mark Billingham, Simon Kernick, Stuart MacBride, Laura Wilson, Lee Child, Ali Karim, George Easter, Steve Warne, Ben Hunt, Mike Bursaw, the crew at Cactus TV, Mariella Frostrup and Judy Elliott at Sky, Chris Simmons, Sharon Canavar, Barry Forshaw, Judy Bobalik, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Paul Blezard, all the guys at WF Howes, Jonathan Davidson, Lorne Jackson, Matt Lewin and Sharone Neuhoff. Also to Lindsay Boyle, Ciara Redman, Paul Hutchins and Andrew Tomlinson at the BBC for the truly remarkable Washington trip.
A special mention to June Boyle, Fairfax County Homicide, and Brad Garrett of the Washington FBI, and Walter Pincus of The Washington Post who all gave me a glimpse of the truth.
To my brother Guy, my wife Vicky, my son Ryan.
You all rock.
′And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you′
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
Dedicated to all those who looked into the abyss, and yet never lost their balance.
For a long time John Costello tr
ied to forget what happened.
Perhaps pretended that it had not.
The Devil came in the form of a man, around him the smell of dogs.
He wore an expression as if a stranger had handed him a fifty-dollar bill on the street. Surprise. A sort of self-satisfied wonder.
John Costello remembered the panic of wings as pigeons rushed away from the scene.
As if they knew.
He remembered how darkness approached in a hurry, delayed somewhere and now anxious to meet its schedule.
It was as if the Devil possessed the face of an actor - an unremembered actor, his name forgotten yet his face dimly recognized.
′I know him . . . that′s . . . that′s . . . honey, this guy here? What the hell is his name?′
Many names.
All of them meant the same thing.
The Devil owned the world, but he remembered his roots. He remembered he was once an angel, cast down to Gehenna for treason and mutiny, and he withheld himself as best he could. But sometimes he could not.
It was ironic, like sex in cheap motels with unattractive hookers. Sharing something so intense, so close, and yet never speaking your given name. Believing yourself guilty of nothing significant, and thus innocent.
John Costello was nearly seventeen. His father owned a restaurant where everybody came to eat.
After it happened, John was never the same.
After it happened . . . hell, none of them were.
Jersey City, out near Grove Street Station, always the smell of the Hudson; place looked like a fistfight, even on a Sunday morning when most of the Irishers and Italians were dressed up for church.
John Costello′s father, Erskine, standing out front of The Connemara diner - named after the mountains where his ancestors fished in Lough Mask and Lough Corrib, and hauled their catch home after dusklight, and lit fires, and told tales, and sang songs that sounded like history before the first verse was done.
Erskine was a quiet tree of a man - bold eyes, his hair black like soot; spend enough time with him and you′d wind up answering your own questions out of loneliness.
The Connemara sat beneath the shadow of the El train platform with its wrought-iron steps and gantries like walkways to some other world - a world beyond all of this, beyond this universe, beyond the dreams of sex and death and the denial of hope for all that this strange and shadowed quarter of the city had to offer.
John was an only child, and he was sixteen years old in January of ′84.
It was an important year.
The year she came to stay.
Her name was Nadia, which was Russian for hope.
He met her on a Sunday at The Connemara. She came on an errand for her father. She came for soda bread.
Always there was music from the radios, the rumble of laughter, the slap of dominoes. The Connemara was a hub for the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, and the drunks - the ebullient, the aggressive, the angry - all of them silenced by the food Erskine Costello made.
Nadia was seventeen, five months older than John Costello, but she had a world in her eyes that belied her age.
′You work here?′ she asked.
First question. First of many.
A great moment can never be taken away.
John Costello was a shy boy, a quiet boy. He′d lost his mother some years before. Anna Costello, née Bredaweg. John remembered his mother well. She forever wore an expression of slight dismay, as if she′d entered a familiar room and found the furniture moved, perhaps a seated stranger when no visit had been scheduled. She started sentences but left them incomplete, perhaps because she knew she′d be understood. Anna Costello conveyed multitudes with a single look. She angled herself between the world and her son. Mom the buffer. Mom the shock absorber. She challenged the world, dared it to pull a trick, a fast one, some sleight of hand. Other mothers lost children. Anna Costello had only one, and this one she would never lose. She never thought to consider that he could lose her.
And she spoke with some kind of instinctive maternal wisdom.
′They call me names at school.′
′Kind of names?′
′Whatever . . . I don′t know. Just names.′
′Names are just sounds, John.′
′Eh?′
′Think of them as sounds. Just make believe they′re throwing sounds at you.′
′And what good would that do?′
Smiled, almost laughed. ′Why . . . in your mind you just catch them and throw them back.′
And John Costello wondered later - much later - if his mother would have seen the Devil coming and protected them both.
He smiled at the girl. ′I work here, yes.′
′You own the place?′
′My father does.′
She nodded understandingly. ′I came for soda bread. You have soda bread?′
′We have soda bread.′
′How much?′
′Dollar and a quarter.′
′Only have a dollar.′ She held out the note as if to prove she wasn′t lying.
John Costello wrapped a loaf of soda bread in paper. Brown-bagged it. Passed it over the counter. ′You can owe me.′
When he took the dollar their fingers touched. Like touching electric.
′What′s your name?′ she asked.
′John . . . John Costello.′
′My name is Nadia. That′s Russian for hope.′
′Are you Russian?′
′Sometimes,′ she said. And then she smiled like a sunset and walked away.
Everything changed afterwards, after the winter of ′84.
John Costello realized he would become someone else, but he could not have predicted how.
Now he finds safety in routines. In counting. In making lists.
He does not wear latex gloves.
He is not afraid to drink milk from the carton.
He does not take plastic cutlery to restaurants.
He does not collect psychotic episodes to share with some shallow pervert mind-voyeur on a five thousand-dollar couch.
He is not afraid of the dark, for he carries all the darkness he needs inside him.
He does not collect clipped fingernails or locks of shorn hair for fear that hoodoo will be performed and he will die suddenly, unexpectedly, in Bloomingdale′s, his heart bursting in the elevator, blood from his ears while people scream hysterically. As if screaming could serve some purpose.
He would not go gently into that sweet goodnight.
And sometimes, when New York was bleeding the heat of its summer from every brick and every stone, when the heat of a thousand earlier summers seemed collected in everything he touched, he had been known to buy bottled root beer from the chilled counter, and press the bottle against his face, even touch it to his lips, with no fear of what fatal disease or virulent germ might be there upon the glass.
See him in the street and he would look like a million others.
Talk to him and he would appear to be just like you.
But he was not. And never would be.
Because he saw the Devil in the winter of ′84, and once you see the Devil you don′t forget his face.
She came again the following day.
She brought the quarter, and paid her debt.
′How old are you, John Costello?′ she asked.
She had on a skirt, a tee-shirt. Her breasts were small and perfect. Her teeth were matchless. She smelled like cigarettes and Juicy Fruit.
′Sixteen,′ he said.
′When are you seventeen?′
′January.′
′You got a girlfriend?′
He shook his head.
′Okay,′ she said, then turned and walked away.
He opened his mouth to speak but there was silence inside.
The door closed behind her. He watched her reach the corner, and then he watched her disappear.
The Connemara was never empty. It always held atmosphere, if nothing else. But the people wh
o came were real people with real lives. They all carried stories. More than the stories themselves, it was the words they used to build them; no-one talked like that anymore. The detractions and minor anecdotes they employed to fill the gaps, like mortar between bricks. It was the way those words sounded - the timbre, the pitch, the cadence - as they followed one another out of their mouths and into the world. Words the world had waited for.
Old men who selected pieces of their varicolored lives for sharing - different hues for different days - and unfolded them carefully, as if they were delicate gifts, fashioned to survive just one telling, and then they were gone. Gossamer stories, perhaps cobwebs or shadows. They told stories to be heard, so their lives would not go unnoticed by the world when their work was done. Some of these men had known one another twenty, thirty years, but knew nothing of occupations. They spoke of externals - baseball, automobiles, sometimes girls, all things outside, all things definable with phrases from newspapers and TV, some of which they used with no real understanding. Often their conversations were not conversations in the real sense of the word. Ask a question and then they′d tell you what you thought about it. Everything was a matter of opinion: their own. But they didn′t see it. They saw a discussion, a two-way thing, structured and balanced, a meeting of minds. But it was not.
These old men, the ones who haunted The Connemara, perhaps they also saw their end when the Devil came. Perhaps they looked back at the gaping yaw of the past and they saw a world that would never return. Their time had been and gone. Their time had run out.