The Killer in Me
Page 27
He looks at Baz. “Paid Brennan to keep the area clear and keep an eye on it. He works there. Could come and go without much bother.”
Baz pushes him further. “Can you give us some more detail about the contents of the container, Mr. Lynch?”
“I don’t fucking know. I wasn’t eating my meals there or nothing.”
“Right.” I stand. And he looks panicked and relieved all at once. He holds out his hands.
“You charging me now?”
“We’ve a few things to check out first.”
He gets up and his chair tips over. “I fucking confessed. It was me; I did it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lynch.”
He moves out from behind the table, steps toward me. “Do you need me to give you a demo, Detective?”
Baz is on his feet, fists clenched. “Calm down, Jimmy. These things take time.”
I move to the door. “Put your feet up,” I say, and watch the red rage descend over his face. “We’ll be back soon enough.”
Baz follows me out of the room. I close the door on our suspect, and both of us pause. Clancy is standing at the viewing window. Eyes on Lynch.
“That was something.” He gives us both a sheepish smile.
Silence draws out across the small room. I look to Baz. He tucks his notes under his arm, then pushes both hands into his pockets. “Well, I wasn’t expecting a bloody confession, that’s for sure.”
More silence. Finally Jack looks between us. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I nod. Make my way into the hallway. “Lynch is lying,” I say over my shoulder.
Jack gives a short laugh. “No doubt about it.”
I wave them out of the room toward the main floor. Jack draws the staff’s attention; eyes peek out round partitions. Helen on a call, half-listening, tracks our progress to the case board.
He stands in front of the board, tips his head back, takes in the width of the case. “The suit,” he says. “That’s important.”
“Sheridan’s suit?” Baz asks.
“Yes,” I say. “The suit looks increasingly like a remorse thing. I thought it was part of the killer’s signature maybe, an extra little flourish to add to his titillation but, after Lynch’s account, I think dressing Sheridan in the suit was Lynch.”
I scan the array of photos. The Hennessys. Sheridan. The Shines. Our line of suspects, major and minor: McDonagh, Brennan, Lynch. “Maybe he’s developed a relationship with the killer. A closeness. Neither of the Shines was dressed with such care. The priest’s vestments were clearly part of the killer’s signature. A two fingers up at hypocrisy, Alan Shine the church volunteer who then went home to terrorize his wife. Geraldine Shine was left naked from the waist up. But Conor was dressed well enough for his own funeral. It’s common among killers who know their victims to cover the bodies up afterward. Conor Sheridan’s clothes might have been a display of remorse that came from someone who knew the victim. And as you said”—I glance back at Baz—“Jimmy Lynch was his flatmate of five years.”
Baz shakes his head slowly. “But he was happy enough to stand by and let him be murdered. At least we now know why Conor’s room was bolted. He probably suspected something was going on with his housemate.”
I give him a smile, nod. “I don’t think Jimmy Lynch killed Conor Sheridan, but he was definitely there when his flatmate murdered, or soon after, and dressed him in that suit.”
Baz lets out a long breath; his shoulders sag. “He got the crime scenes all wrong too. No mention of the journal in the freezer. Not able to remember he’d written KILLER in the sand at Sheridan’s feet. Or recall that WEAPON had been etched on the knife.”
“I would think he was on a need-to-know basis.”
Clancy is still studying the wall. “So he’s protecting someone, or he’s more afraid of the killer than a prison sentence,” he murmurs to no one in particular.
“Helen?” I call out. She puts down the phone and approaches. I see her arms twitching at her sides and for a moment I think she might just hug Jack Clancy.
“Hi, sir, just wanted to say how good it is to see you back.” A well-restrained smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Clancy doesn’t lift his gaze from the case board when he replies. “I’m not back.”
Her smile widens. “Yes, sir.”
I bring her attention back to me. “Helen, have you got the copy of the journal?”
“Yes, Chief.” She goes to her desk, collects it, and brings it over. “We’ve been working with a hand-writing expert. Nothing to name the writer but the samples match the letters to Sheridan, also the message written on the brick that was thrown through Tanya’s window.” I feel a gut-punch of anxiety at the mention of Tanya’s name. The case reaching out, someone’s hands grasping at my home, my family. I cough to clear the tightness in my throat. “However.” Helen hands me the journal. I open it and she continues. “I did notice something about the picture of Seán Hennessy. It wasn’t one that has been circulated in the press. I’m guessing it must be from the family’s collection?”
I turn to the image of Seán Hennessy at the back of the journal, pass it to Jack. Then look over his arm at the photo.
Jack taps the photo as if to bring forth the memory. “You’re right. He’s much younger here, hair not as long as when—” He stops and I reckon he was about to say when he was with Rona but he catches himself. “—when he was arrested,” he finishes.
I take the journal from Clancy. It’s still open on the last page. The image of Seán, pigeon-toed and skinny, standing in his garden. Along the side of the photo where it has been cut, the edge of a green sleeve. Another person standing out of shot. Something stirs in my memory. For some reason, I know it to be the sleeve of Bríd Hennessy’s coat. A green wool coat. A bright color. I hunt for why I know this.
“You all right?” Clancy asks.
“The photo,” I say. “Cara Hennessy. I visited her a few days ago. She was wearing a locket. Inside was a picture of her and her mother, Bríd. This looks like it was cut from same image.”
I remember the small picture enclosed in Cara’s locket and can easily imagine what the whole would’ve looked like. A family portrait. The sky scrubbed gray, like it might be drizzling. The family under the sycamore in their backyard. A formal presentation for an important day. Bríd’s hand resting on Cara’s shoulder. Cara is in her Communion dress. Her dress is grand. Startling white. Neat white slip-ons encase her feet, her hands are pointed in prayer.
Baz leans in. “Justice,” he says, reaching across and pointing at the label over Seán Hennessy’s image. “The final stage in the criminal sequence. Victim, weapon, killer, and justice.”
“Seán’s the final victim?” I ask.
Immediately Baz asks another question. “So that’s who Lynch is protecting? Cara Hennessy. She’s directing and he’s doing the heavy lifting.”
I share a worried glance with Baz. My mouth becoming dry at the thought that Cara has been pulling the strings of these murders all along. Seventeen years in the making. A grand tapestry of death, mimicking the murders of her parents. Her victims chosen carefully, all symbolic of the slow, winding path that led to her own family’s destruction. The victim of domestic abuse, the abuser, the killer who wrote up the story, selling the lie that an abuser was a good man and therefore leaving more victims vulnerable. And now, finally, justice for what happened to a ten-year-old girl on the back lawn of her home. “She blames Seán for what happened.” I taste acid on the back of my tongue. “If she got close to Lynch, she could get close to Sheridan,” I reply. “Maybe she convinced Lynch this had to happen until his belief matched hers.”
Clancy looks down at Hennessy’s picture. “If Cara Hennessy is after justice who else could be on her list?”
Baz is leafing through the journal. He lingers over the pages with his image, Clancy’s.
“I think if she’s looking for justice, there are many who could fit that bill. The law, for example.” He glances quickly at Clancy then at me. “All of us here, Tanya, the lawyer who is trying to overturn her brother’s conviction . . .” He pauses, glances at Jack. “Even Rona could be a possible target.”
Clancy shifts his weight. “Someone should get Hennessy to a safe house. Get armed officers out to Tanya and”—he clears his throat—“Rona. The rest of us, stay armed and stay in touch.”
Baz hands me the journal, points to the picture of Bríd Hennessy facedown on the lawn. There is a large circle drawn in red over the top half of Bríd’s body; I’d thought it was the killer’s way to focus their attention on the pattern of stab wounds but now I see what’s caught Baz’s eye.
“The blouse,” I say.
“Makes some sense now,” he says. “If Bríd was found like this, with her top torn off, Geraldine had to be found like this also but”—he peers back into the journal—“perhaps returning the blouse to the house was all about a longing to bring her mother some respect. If she couldn’t cover up her mother’s nakedness, she would return her clothing to a symbol of their home.” When he looks up, there’s a heavy kind of sadness in his eyes. “You said a deep psychological need, didn’t you?”
“But the partial footprint?”
“Jimmy’s.” He straightens, nods to Helen. “Helen, put an alert out on the system. She could be armed. What’s her address, Frankie?”
I take a deep breath, pull back the curtain, and let Cara Hennessy out from behind Eva Moran’s shadow. “Milfield Road, Athlone.”
“I’ve no doubt Lynch will have sent her word before we brought him in, but maybe luck is on our side,” Baz says.
I picture Seán Hennessy. A sitting duck in his flat. How delighted he’ll be when his sister turns up on his doorstep. All full of the hope of reconciliation. Would she kill him immediately, or would she crush that hope first?
Helen raises her pencil in the air. “How about her phone? Could we use that to trace her? Site Analysis might at least give us a county to start with.”
In my mind’s eye, I see the picture of Seán Hennessy, the word JUSTICE hanging over his head like a guillotine. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about where she’s heading but yes, try it.” I grab my coat. “I’ll get Seán to a safe house.”
During the interchange, Clancy has gone quiet.
“Okay?” I ask.
I can see the worry shifting beneath Jack’s thick brows. Rona.
“I—” he starts.
“You should go to Rona’s.”
He draws in a breath, his head bobbing in agreement. Then he’s gone, a desperate stumble in his step as he hurries to get to his daughter.
Baz has already taken over a desk. Phone against his ear, Athlone garda station on the other end. I take a last look at the wandering case on the wall. Seventeen years in the making. A grand tapestry of death, mimicking the murders of her parents. How long has Cara been planning this?
I think of that little spider hidden under its roof of silver. Waiting. So patient. And I know the answer. She’s waited a long time to come out of hiding. And all the while she’s been laying out her web, waiting for her prey to hit the sticky tendrils.
CHAPTER 24
BY THE TIME we get out to Seán Hennessy’s, dawn is reaching across the sky, gray clouds softening the light. I park a little way down the street. It’s raining. A soft swirl on an icy breeze. Baz sits tense beside me, his eyes searching the front of Hennessy’s building. I turn off the ignition. The streets are pretty empty. No dog walkers but a couple of cars pass, early commuters determined to beat the city traffic into work. The silhouette of a jogger disappears down the promenade, sending a flock of seagulls into the damp air; their screeches echo across the quiet bay.
It’s not that I expected Cara to be walking the streets of Clontarf but all the same I can’t help looking out for her quick stride, her head bent to her chest, her hands in pockets, doing her best to remain unseen. But if she is here, I can’t see her, although I know she won’t be waiting for us.
“Ready?” I look to Baz.
He nods, checks his holster. “Why do I feel like we’re walking into something bad here?”
“We just need to get Seán to safety and then we’ll regroup. Keep watchful.”
He reaches into the backseat and grabs the enforcer. “Just in case,” he says, and I nod in agreement.
He pushes the door open, and I follow suit. We meet round the front of the car then with another glance up and down the road, we cross and walk briskly toward Hennessy’s building. There’s a nervous kind of anticipation emanating from Baz. His hand goes to his ribs too often, and I worry that he might still be harboring bad feelings about the beating.
We’ve sent uniforms out to the old Hennessy house, or where it once stood, although I know they’ll find nothing there. This is not the movies. We won’t find our killer sitting in their favorite childhood spot, bathed in a sepia light and contemplating the path that led them there. No, we find our perps in one of two places, either running from us or toward us.
When we get to the building door, we try Hennessy’s doorbell and wait for an answer. When none comes I press the doorbell of the flat opposite. Seán had mentioned an aged neighbor, and I hope whoever it is will let us into the building. After a few moments, a shaky voice crackles through the intercom.
“Hello?”
I lean close to the speaker to overcome the sound of the wind coming in from the sea. “Hello, this is Detective Frankie Sheehan. We’re trying to access flat six; could you let us in, please?”
There’s no reply but shortly after the door buzzes and we push inside. I make my way up the stairs in silence, Baz trailing after me. I can feel his watchful eyes on my back. When we arrive on the right floor, the neighbor’s door is ajar and I see the old man, wearing a pressed light gray shirt, his white snowy hair and soft eyes peeking through the few inches that his door chain allows.
“You looking for Seán?” he asks. His voice quiet and hesitant. Not quite what I was expecting given Seán’s description of him.
“Yes,” I say, and hold up my badge. “Is he in?”
The man’s eyes widen a little in what could be fear or understanding. He purses his lips slightly as if he’s about to tell us something then shakes his head. “I couldn’t say.” And he shuts the door and I hear the sound of the lock turning.
Baz doesn’t wait much longer; he raps on Seán’s door. “Mr. Hennessy, it’s Detective Harwood and DCS Sheehan. Could you open up, please.”
There’s no answer but I can hear movement beyond the door, the gentle pad of footsteps across the floor. Baz glances at me; he hears it too. He tries again. “Seán?” Another rap.
And for the first time since leaving the Bureau, I feel a real twist of discomfort in my gut. A fear that pulls on my breath. I have an image of Seán taking up those pups, submerging them in the bucket of cold water, then Cara spinning the locket at her throat. I blink, inhale the stiff air of the stairwell and try to focus. Baz looks back at me, nods, an understanding that we’re going in. I unclip my gun and suddenly I’m unsure about what we’re going to find on the other side of the door. Seán, confused but alive, well and muttering about being woken so early—or something else.
Baz stands a little back from the door and widens his stance; he takes a second to brace himself then drives the enforcer at the door. The wood of the door splinters and the sound of the impact crashes through the building. Another swing and the lock gives. He steps aside, puts down the enforcer, and removes his weapon. I’ve already moved forward, my hand out on the edge of the door. I push it all the way open, into Seán’s flat and a cold dread washes through me.
“Don’t move,” I hear Baz command from over my shoulder. His voice is hard but it has little effect on our suspect.
“Where’s Seán?” I ask.
She fixes me with a dull look. “He said you’d come here.” Her voice is small and calm. She lifts the gun and holds it out. “Don’t worry; it’s not loaded.”
Baz keeps his weapon trained on her. “Drop it to the floor and slide it toward us.”
She does as she’s asked, lays the gun on the bare boards of the floor and pushes it away with her foot. Baz removes a plastic bag from his pocket, takes the gun up, checks the chamber. Satisfied it’s not loaded, he drops it inside the bag and puts it in his pocket. I walk toward Cara Hennessy, cuffs ready. She holds out her hands.
“Against the wall,” I say.
She moves, faces the wall next to the window.
“Wrists together at your back.” She does as instructed. I close the cuffs around her narrow wrists, give them a tug to check they’re secure then turn her to face me. “Where is he?”
She keeps her mouth tightly closed as if parting her lips even for breath might cause the answer to spill out.
“Cara Hennessy, I’m arresting you for the murders of Alan Shine, Geraldine Shine, and Conor Sheridan. You do not need to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down as evidence and used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
She doesn’t answer but looks at me as if she can see right through my being, the expression on her face calm but there’s a defiant spark in her eyes. Baz is checking through the other rooms in the flat. He emerges from the bedroom, a pair of trainers in his hands; he holds them out toward me. “I don’t think Seán is the one in danger here,” he says. The trainers are black and are the same brand as those that left the impression on Geraldine Shine’s kitchen floor. The house is around me again. That soured place. The smell of the blackened roast in my nostrils, the piercing speck of blood lit up by the luminol and beside it a shoe print. My throat closes over. And I see him. Seán Hennessy. A dark figure against the orange evening. He’s at the back of the Shine house. His hand, gloved, pries open the window. It’s easy to slip inside but not so easy on a wet day to not leave something behind. The edge of a footprint as he steps across the kitchen floor, the impact shakes a mist of blood from his sleeve. It’s a risk but the desire is great. How perfect to invade his victim’s life with such thoroughness, to violate the haven of her home with a token of her death.