R.J. Ellory - The Anniversary Man

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Table of Contents

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. Ellorys 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. Ellorys 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, hes 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 isnt your standard shock and bore serial killer novel. Its an impassioned story of a mans life told in Ellorys 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

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 tried 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... thats... thats... 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 Costellos 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 youd 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. Hed lost his mother some years before. Anna Costello, ne Bredaweg. John remembered his mother well. She forever wore an expression of slight dismay, as if shed 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 shed 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.

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