In the Galway Silence Read online

  IN THE GALWAY SILENCE

  Ken Bruen

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About In the Galway Silence

  After much tragedy and violence, Jack Taylor has at long last found contentment. Of course, he still knocks back too much Jameson and dabbles in uppers, but he has a new woman in his life, a freshly bought apartment, and little sign of trouble on the horizon.

  But once again, trouble comes to him, this time in the form of a wealthy Frenchman who wants Jack to investigate the double-murder of his twin sons. Jack is meanwhile roped into looking after his girlfriend’s nine-year-old son, and is in for a shock with the appearance of a character from his past.

  The plot is a chess game and all of the pieces seem to be moving at the behest of one dangerously mysterious player: a vigilante called ‘Silence’, because he’s the last thing his victims will ever hear.

  Content

  Welcome Page

  About In the Galway Silence

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 1

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part 3

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part 4

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About Ken Bruen

  The Jack Taylor Series

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated

  to

  Michael

  Bec

  Chris

  Crowell

  and

  the wonderful Marie Lee, the essence of Grace,

  alongside Leon, manager of Dubray’s

  Prologue

  Jean and Claude Renaud were twins.

  Terrible twins.

  Truly.

  Les enfants terribles.

  Their father was French and the mother from Galway.

  On their eighteenth birthday they were given matching sports cars. That neither could drive was neither here nor there. The father had made a greedy fortune from one of the first hedge funds in Ireland and was cute enough to get out before the ax fell. He then invested in property and made more.

  Instead of being jailed, he was made a Freeman of the City.

  The twins on the said birthday went on a massive pub crawl.

  Ingested

  Ecstasy

  Speed

  Coke

  Jack Daniel’s.

  And did it bring them any joy?

  Nope.

  Just added to their sense of entitlement. Barred from the clubs along Quay Street, they headed for the Spanish Arch, seeking aggravation. Saw a man huddled in a wheelchair on the edge of the pier. Jean said,

  “Let’s fuck with the retard.”

  Claude shouted,

  “Hey, spastic!”

  Jean came up behind the chair as Claude came from the front. There was a moment of utter quiet, then the man lashed out and caught Claude in the groin, and then he was out of the chair and hit Jean with the flat of his hand in the throat. Moving quickly, he bundled them forcibly into the chair and secured them with duct tape, grabbed Jean’s mouth and applied a liberal dose of superglue to his lips, then the same to Claude.

  Finally, he took a sign wrapped in cellophane, attached it to the back of the twins, stood back, and, with a firm push, sent them into the water.

  He waited as the water settled over their frenzied thrashing and, satisfied that he could read the sign, turned on his heel, strolled away.

  The Irish

  can abide

  almost anything

  save silence.

  1

  I was happy.

  Unbelievable as that sounds.

  I had endured just about every trauma there is and had reached the point of suicide, and then,

  Things got worse.

  I was friends with a nun, which is as unlikely as me being happy but true. I had helped her out some years back and we remained friends. She introduced me to her cousin Marion and we had clicked.

  Were even considering moving in together. I had moved to a new apartment on the Salthill Promenade. Big spacious place with a view of the ocean that was astounding. I had been

  Involved

  Mired

  Baffled

  Over the past few years with a homicidal goth punk named Emily / Emerald. She had wreaked all kinds of murderous havoc until I had reluctantly taken her off the board.

  Now get this.

  She had left me a shit pile of money.

  Go figure.

  Thus the new pad and certainly a factor in my new view of the world.

  For the zillionth time I had cut back on my drinking. Yeah, yadda, yadda. As Marion was fond of a drink, I was reasonably free from censure for the time being. Felt no need to mention the wee issue of Xanax. I had also stopped beating people in every sense.

  Marion came with her own story: namely, a son.

  Nine years old and the first time I met him I would like to think we bonded and shared warm days out at hurling matches.

  Dream on.

  Marion brought him to the GBC, my favorite restaurant as they still served old-fashioned grub and had no list of calories on the menu. The boy was small with blond hair and, fuck, a curled lip, from attitude rather than design. Before I could speak, he whined,

  “Why couldn’t we go to McDonald’s?”

  I put out my hand, said,

  “I’m Jack.”

  He looked at my hand like it was diseased, scoffed,

  “Who even shakes hands these days?”

  I let that slide.

  He sighed, said,

  “I’m Jeffrey.”

  Least that is how I heard it. I said,

  “Good to meet you, Jeffrey.”

  He raised his eyes to heaven, said,

  “It’s Joffrey.”

  I said,

  “What?”

  He looked at his mother, said,

  “You tell him.”

  She said, with a tinge of mild hysteria,

  “Like Joffrey in Game of Thrones?”

  He stared at me, asked,

  “You do know what that is?”

  This asked with a world-weariness.

  I said,

  “Joffrey is the spoiled pup that gets poisoned.”

  *

  I was sitting in Garavan’s, black coffee with a base of Jay. Reading the latest horror from Trump. Le Pen was ranting in France and all of Europe in turmoil.

  When you manage to grab the snug, it is implicit that you do not want company. A large man appeared before me, blocking the light, muttered,

  “Taylor.”

  He was in that bad fifties range with streaks of stringy blond hair clinging precari
ously to the scalp. Disconcerting was the hint of baby powder from him. From a grown man it is just creepy.

  I said,

  “I’m busy.”

  He moved in front of me, launched a slew of photos on the table, said,

  “I’m Pierre Renaud. You have heard of me.”

  Not a question.

  I said,

  “Nope.”

  There was a trace of accent in his speech, as with those for whom English is a second language.

  He said,

  “I received Man of the Year five years ago.”

  Before I could be scathing about that, he said,

  “My beloved sons, look, murdered.”

  I looked at the photos and could make out two men bound and bloated in

  A wheelchair?

  I asked,

  “Is that a notice pinned to one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t decipher it, asked,

  “What is it?”

  He took a deep breath, then said,

  “Silence.”

  I tried,

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

  That seemed to seriously annoy him. He said,

  “Your condolences mean nothing.”

  He produced a thick envelope, dropped it beside my empty glass, said,

  “You will find who did this terrible thing and bring them to me.”

  I pushed the envelope aside, said,

  “I won’t.”

  This shocked him. He asked,

  “You say no to me?”

  I stood, pushed past him, got a refill, then back to the snug where he was still standing. I sat and went back to the paper. He leaned over, said,

  “You will do this for me.”

  I was sorry for his loss but beginning to tire of the aggression, said,

  “Go to the Guards.”

  He spat in contempt, said,

  “Imbeciles.”

  I shrugged, not something I had ever done but felt it was at least Gallic. He gathered up the photos, said,

  “À bientôt.”

  Sounded a lot like

  “Fuck you.”

  Silence is one of the great arts of conversation.

  (Marcus Tullius Cicero)

  2

  I didn’t want to investigate the murder of the twins. To immerse in darkness again was a road I had no wish to travel. Battered and wounded by all the loss of previous cases, I had barely managed to survive. Beatings, attacks, had left me with

  Mutilated fingers

  Hearing problems

  A limp

  Lethal dreams

  And

  A shitload of anxiety that Xanax barely kept a lid on. With a new woman in my life and happy for the very first time, would I risk it all?

  Nope.

  But.

  It is that very but that has led me astray so many times. A sly curiosity niggled at me so I figured,

  “Vague inquiries couldn’t hurt.”

  I had one ally / friend still remaining in the Guards.

  Owen Daglish.

  He was a drinker of fierce proportions and that might have held my link to him. When I called him, he groaned, said,

  “If you want information on anything, fuck off now.”

  I did what you do.

  I lied.

  Said,

  “Hey, I just want to buy you a pint.”

  We met in the Stage Door. Sounds like a theatrical pub and there is always plenty of drama afoot but, get there early afternoon, it is quiet. Owen was already at the counter, murdering a pint. Seeing me, he said to the barman,

  “Couple of large Jamesons.”

  The barman was a nonnational, asked,

  “Ice?”

  Like, seriously?

  Owen gave him the look, said,

  “Not if you want to go on breathing.”

  Owen was dressed in a cheap suit and cheaper shoes, and his hair needed a trim. He had the look of a guy who had been on the lash for too long. I said,

  “You look, um... great.”

  He laughed, said,

  “Fuck you.”

  Got the iceless drinks and moved to a corner table where Owen produced a silver tube and sucked on it.

  Vaping.

  Blew a cloud of vapor over our heads, said,

  “Had to pack in the cigs so I’m reduced to this...”

  He looked at the tube.

  “This shite.”

  I asked,

  “What do know about the twins who were tied together and tossed in the river?”

  He sighed deeply, then,

  “I thought you were out of this game.”

  “I am, really, but, you know, sounded like a bizarre case.”

  He shook his empty glass and I got some refills. I settled for a single Jay. I was meeting Marion later and had to mind my manners. I said,

  “Sláinte.”

  He didn’t reciprocate, said,

  “Superglue.”

  “What?”

  “Their mouths were sealed with it.”

  “God almighty.”

  He took a deep drink, said,

  “Takes one sick fuck to do that.”

  I asked,

  “The father, Renaud, what’s his story?”

  Now he turned to look at me, said,

  “You seem awfully interested for a guy who is not investigating.”

  Time to cough up.

  I took out a flat envelope, said,

  “A little something for the Garda fund.”

  He put it quickly in his jacket, then,

  “Seriously Jack, stay well away. Renaud was up to his arse in every kind of hedge fund scam. A guy like that, you don’t want to be around.”

  To lighten the mood, I said,

  “I appreciate your concern, Owen. It is kind of touching.”

  He scoffed, said,

  “Jack, I couldn’t give less of a fuck what happens to you.”

  On that bright note we parted.

  *

  Marion worked as a speech therapist and was offered a chance to attend a conference in America.

  Attending a conference in the U.S. was like a mini lottery win in Ireland. Half of the government usually were in on this scam. Plus all the travel expenses to be claimed. She asked,

  “Jack, come with me.”

  Phew.

  So many years I had tried to go to America. It was my ultimate dream but always something conspired to ruin the plan. Usually my own self. Life is a bitch. Just when you’ve deleted the hope it sneaks up and kicks your arse.

  I said,

  “No.”

  Cold as that.

  She was taken aback and took a few moments to ask,

  “Why?”

  I said,

  “It is not a good time.”

  She gave a brief, rueful smile, then tried,

  “Could you expand a little?”

  I always hoped I wouldn’t be one of those assholes who whimpered,

  “I need you to trust me on this.”

  I said,

  “I need you to trust me on this”

  She considered for a moment, then,

  “Fuck that.”

  We had that awkward moment when you basically want to cut and run. The mature thing was to discuss.

  Thrash out the issue

  Ponder a bit

  Concede, etc.

  I ran.

  Joffrey was at the door as I passed and he said,

  “Shithead.”

  Love has no past or future.

  So it is with this extraordinary state of silence.

  (Jiddu Krishnamurti)

  3

  I crawled back to Marion, murmuring contrition. She forgave me in that Irish fashion:

  V

  E

  R

  Y

  Slowly.

  And, of course, with a codicil.

  To mind Joffrey.

  Like fuck.

  I did weak
ly protest,

  “I’m not great with kids.”

  But she had me by the balls and said,

  “I will only be gone a month. Joffrey is staying with relations and you...”

  Pause.

  “Could take him out twice a week.”

  I said,

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  She laughed, said,

  “Joffrey doesn’t like anybody.”

  Terrific.

  *

  I began a low-key investigation into the deaths of the Renaud twins. It wasn’t a mystery as to them being killed but a mystery as to why it hadn’t happened sooner.

  Like that.

  A series of pubs, clubs, and friends all spoke of the sheer nastiness of the boys. Using their money as a weapon, they had abused, bullied, and mocked just about everybody they ever encountered. Three girls at least hinted at rape being part of their repertoire but any allegations had been crushed by the twins’ solicitor, named Nery.

  I went to see him.

  His office was on Merchants Road and consisted of a lot of glass and bespoke granite. I went to reception and a frosty receptionist snapped that I needed an appointment. I decided to test the weight of the family name, said,

  “I don’t think Mr. Renaud will be very pleased to hear that.”

  Presto, I was in.

  Nery looked like a cricketer gone to seed. Fading blond hair swept in a hopeful quiff, a suit that said,

  “Here is serious fucking cash.”

  He was in his late fifties with a high complexion and eyes that had never alighted on anything they liked. My appearance didn’t change that view.

  He barked,

  “ID?”

  I said,

  “My name is Jack Taylor and Mr. Renaud hired me to find out what happened to his sons.”

  Nery grimaced—or it could have been a smile—said,

  “They were murdered is what happened.”

  I said,

  “I can hear your deep sorrow even saying that.”

  His head shot up and he asked,

  “Sarcasm? Well, some washed-up drunk comes into my office and gives me... sarcasm?”

  I wanted to slap his well-fed face but went with,

  “Any light you could shed on the matter?”