By Graham Masterton
One chilly spring morning in County Cork, fishermen discover a package deal of rags floating within the Blackwater River.
It is the bloated physique of dad Heaney. His fingers and ft are certain, and his neck bears the marks of garrotting cord. Worse nonetheless, he has been castrated.
When a moment priest is located murdered, his physique bruised and overwhelmed and a similar savage wound hidden underneath his soutane, Detective Inspector Katie Maguire unearths proof of a sinister cover-up at St Joseph's Orphanage.
But the Catholic diocese nonetheless wields massive strength right here, and the Garda are stressed to shut the case. Katie has to paintings by myself if she is to trap the killer in time - yet first she needs to shatter a wall of silence that for many years has hidden a bad secret.
A mystery that's past belief...
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Extra resources for Broken Angels (Katie Maguire, Book 2)
He would not provide anyone with a reference point for the beginning of his decline. Before he was finished he would have those damned suitcases, or three others exactly like them, filled with money. He looked at his watch as he walked along the rutted, unused track, was surprised to see that despite all that had happened this morning it was still only a few minutes past eleven o'clock. A great deal could be done yet today-if they were lucky enough to find their way off the mountain unobserved.
The racket was almost certain to be audible the length of the slopes and would draw reinforcements from the mansion. In five minutes the site would be swarming with Baglio's gunmen. Still, this was the quickest, simplest way to let those inside the limousine know that this was serious business, rough business, and that they were hopelessly outgunned. When the echo died, Tucker was at the driver's window, the stubby shotgun leveled at the old man's neck. A blast from the first barrel alone would shatter the window and fragment the chauffeur's skull before he could complete any dive for the floorboards.
While he held the shotgun on them, Harris went downslope to the place where he'd climbed the bank, gained the road again and walked back up toward them. "Nowhere," the driver said. " The smaller of Baglio's men, the one who hadn't had enough sense to keep quiet before, looked at the driver quizzically, then smiled and looked up at Tucker. His face might as well be a blackboard with a huge, chalked message on it. "You're never going to get out of here. Mr. " Tucker asked the driver. "No," the driver said.