Impostor

by L. J. Ross

  Gregory felt his stomach twist and he turned away, leaning his head back against the wall to stare at the ceiling until the feeling passed.

  * * *

  Niall left Declan to his mother’s safekeeping, and found Gregory waiting for him in the hallway.

  “The paramedics will be here as soon as they can,” Alex said, to give the man some comfort. “He’s in good hands until then.”

  “Where’s Emma?”

  “She’s with her mother,” Gregory said softly. “We need to find her, as soon as possible. It can’t wait.”

  Niall fought a battle between comprehension and confusion.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would she leave Declan alone?”

  Gregory put a hand on the man’s arm.

  “Emma lied to me—she told me she’d been having an affair with Tom Reilly and was with him the morning Claire Kelly died. I thought she was giving him an alibi, but she was really trying to set one up for herself. We need to get to her mother’s house, right away. There’s no time, Niall. It may already be too late.”

  The other man’s eyes were dark with misery, and then horror, as broken images from the crime scenes began to run through his mind, like an old-fashioned show reel.

  Not Emma.

  It can’t be…

  “Mary lives on the other side of the lough,” he said, speaking robotically. “In one of the villages.”

  “I’ll drive,” Gregory offered, and started to leave, but Niall stopped him.

  “Wait—you can’t. The lough road’s been closed after a flood, and it’s the quickest route.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  Niall speared both hands through his hair while he tried to think, to get past the waves of shock that rocked his system.

  “Ah, there’s a longer route via the main roads,” he said. “Takes twice the time, but it’d be the only other option by car.”

  He swung around to look for Emma’s keys, and found them gone.

  “I probably passed her, on the road coming home,” he said, in a monotone.

  Gregory put a hand on his arm, to bring his attention back.

  “Is there any other way?”

  Niall shook his head.

  “There’s no other way on the roads. She’s already got a head start on us; if we leave now, we’d be too late.”

  Alex swore softly.

  “Unless—we could take a boat…” Niall said.

  The two men looked at each other, then at the raging storm outside, howling against the windowpanes.

  “At least it’s not an aeroplane,” Gregory muttered. “Where do we find one?”

  Niall’s face was set into determined lines.

  “Connor’s hut.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The two men left at a run, and didn’t stop until they reached Connor’s hut.

  The rain was coming down in sheets, saturating their clothes and shoes, but they neither noticed nor cared. The water level was high on the lough, and Connor’s boat bobbed precariously on the choppy waves, its rudder tapping against the wooden jetty.

  “We need a key!” Niall shouted, his voice carrying on the wind.

  Gregory didn’t hesitate but tore through the plastic Garda line barring the entrance to the fishing hut and, when the door wouldn’t give, planted his boot and give it a couple of hard kicks. If Niall was surprised, he said nothing, and while Alex began searching the disordered space for boat keys, he put a call through to Superintendent Donoghue.

  The phone answered after several attempts.

  “Donoghue?”

  “This better be good,” she told him. “I’m at home with my family, Niall. I’ve told you, we’ll consider a petition for Connor’s bail in the morning—”

  “We know who it is,” Niall said, but couldn’t bring himself to say her name.

  “What?”

  Niall brought her up to speed, and Donoghue agreed to send an army of squad cars to the address.

  “No helicopter will go out in this weather,” she said, “and the lough road’s impassable. The earliest they’ll be able to get there is forty-five minutes, and that’s thinking optimistically. Niall, I’m ordering you to stand down.”

  Inspector Byrne thought of the woman on the other side of the lough, who was the mother of his child. He thought of the other women she had killed, and would kill again, if he did nothing. He looked down at the smartphone in his hand and, very carefully, ended the call.

  Gregory jiggled some keys.

  “Only ones I could find,” he said. “Did you get through to Donoghue?”

  “She’s sending reinforcements, but they won’t be able to get there for a while.”

  He looked out across the lough, whose waters crashed against the shore, and then back at Gregory.

  “We’re on our own.”

  * * *

  Gregory had sailed plenty of times before. That is, if you counted taking a pedalo around the headland of a Greek island in the height of summer, or rowing a pretty girl across the Serpentine in Hyde Park at springtime. The reality of his present situation was a world away from those pleasant memories, and he gripped the edges of the tiny fishing boat with white knuckles.

  There had been times in his life when he’d been afraid, but now he knew real fear. The kind that came only from staring death in the eye and entertaining the possibility it could claim you, with one wrong move.

  Niall gunned the boat’s engine, but it struggled against the force of the waves, its propeller growling and spluttering as it chugged slowly across the rolling waters. He felt his stomach heave as the bow of the boat reared up, where it was suspended for an endless moment, before crashing down again.

  Alex manned a lever at the bow, the muscles in his arm burning as he worked to pump water from the bottom of the boat and back into the lough. It was a losing battle against the force of the storm, but he continued to fight it while the spray blinded him, and the waves tossed the little wooden boat from side to side.

  Teeth gritted, bodily exhausted, they skirted around the headland, pushing the boat onwards through dark waters where jagged rocks lay hidden, until a small cluster of lights appeared up ahead.

  “There!” Niall shouted, and fought the power of the waves to bring the boat around.

  * * *

  The boat overturned as they were coming into a small inlet nearest to the village of Innishmore, where Emma’s mother lived. The first shock of the water stole the breath from their bodies, while the current dragged them under and spun them around, so they were no longer sure which way was up. There was no daylight to guide them, and they took in mouthfuls of water as they struggled to find the surface.

  When he did, Gregory opened his mouth to take in air, but was immediately bombarded by another rolling wave which battered his body and sent him crashing against the side of the upturned boat. He made a weak grab for the side and held on with all his strength, heaving water from his lungs while his legs worked to keep him upright.

  When he was able, he tried to call out to Niall, but heard nothing over the sound of the water.

  But, in the reflected light of the village, he thought he saw an arm rising up to the surface, flailing around before falling under again.

  He pushed away from the boat and struck off in that direction, arms and legs screaming, until he spotted Niall. With one last push, he made a grab for the other man and held on for grim life.

  * * *

  They were shaking and shivering when they washed up on the small shingle beach at Innishmore. Alex rose up on all fours and vomited water before collapsing back against the pebbles, while Niall dragged himself across and took a fistful of his shirt.

  “Thank you,” he said, hoarsely.

  “Don’t mention it,” Gregory wheezed, and then ordered his body to move.

  Move!

  The water was freezing, and so were they.

  “C’mon,” he said, dragging himself up again. “We need to keep moving.”


  By the time they stumbled off the beach, they were both shaking badly.

  “Which way?” Gregory demanded, rubbing furiously at his arms to warm them. “We need to find some dry clothes.”

  “Mary will have some at the house,” Niall said. “It isn’t far.”

  * * *

  It took less than two minutes to reach the cottage where Emma grew up. Like many in the area, it was small and boxy in construction, white-washed with a traditional thatched roof. From the outside, there was nothing to cause them any alarm, and Emma’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  “Maybe we beat her to it,” Niall said, and might have cried.

  She was already the enemy.

  “Or, she could have parked elsewhere. She was planning to go out and be back before you got home, leaving Declan to sleep. She wouldn’t want to park her car here for someone to witness.”

  As they approached, Niall paused.

  “You take the back, I’ll take the front. It’ll cut off her escape route.”

  “Niall? When you speak to her, tell her that you understand.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “I can’t. She’s murdered two people—”

  “Don’t think of her as the Emma you want her to be, think of her as a woman whose mind is broken. That might help, when the time comes.”

  The other man nodded.

  “She’ll feel threatened, Niall. I don’t think she’ll attack, but when she sees you, she’ll know it’s all over and there’s nothing to lose. That changes the perspective. She might harm herself, or you; maybe both. Be careful.”

  “And you, Doc.”

  CHAPTER 41

  It might have been September everywhere else in the world, but it was Christmastime inside Mary Callaghan’s cottage. The large, artificial tree she usually kept in the attic until the first of December had been set up in its usual spot by the bay window, decked with baubles and tinsel. Beneath the tree, there was a nativity scene and little presents, carefully wrapped. Bing Crosby sang from an old CD player, and Home Alone played silently on the television next to a large wicker basket embroidered with a teddy bear.

  Mary was lying on the sofa, rendered unconscious by a single blow to the head.

  Beside her, a smart red dress had been laid out in readiness; the one she always wore during the festive season because it had been her husband’s favourite.

  While she slept, her daughter baked in the kitchen.

  Emma hadn’t bothered to wear the coveralls she’d taken from the boot of Connor’s car. She was protected here, where the Garda would expect to find her prints and DNA, but she would take extra precautions once Ma got changed for dinner.

  Ladies always changed for dinner. That’s what her mother used to tell her.

  She looked over at the dining table, which had been laid for two using the china her mother usually reserved ‘for best’. There were crackers and Christmas napkins, and candles all around. A golden turkey sat in the centre, still hot from the oven, and the vegetables were almost done.

  “Nearly ready, Ma!” she called out, and reached across for the heavy, five-inch carving knife in her mother’s block. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  She turned off the cooker and hob, checked everything was in place, and then washed her hands.

  Cleanliness was next to Godliness.

  That’s what her father used to say.

  * * *

  Niall let himself into the cottage very slowly, preparing himself for an attack at any moment. If he allowed himself to think about it, about Emma and what she had done, he would fold.

  He had sworn to protect.

  He had vowed to love her in sickness, and in health.

  When he slipped into the living room and saw the decorations, his first reaction was to wonder how long she had left their young son drugged and alone in order to set up her bastardised celebration.

  Anger was raw, and visceral, but he told himself to remain calm.

  Secure the scene.

  He spotted his mother-in-law on the sofa, and hurried across the room to check she was breathing. A deep gash to the side of her temple was weeping onto the cushion beside her, but she was still alive.

  There was no time to take cover before Emma walked back into the room. She wore a Christmas jumper he’d given her a few years ago, and carried a large carving knife by her side. She stopped dead when she saw him standing there, cold and shivering.

  Time seemed to stand still while husband and wife regarded each other.

  “You weren’t invited,” she said, in a funny, high-pitched voice.

  He searched her face for any sign of the woman he loved, but saw only an impostor.

  “It’s time to go back, Emma,” he said. “You need to come with me, now.”

  “Not until we’ve eaten Christmas lunch,” she said, stubbornly. “Mammy says we can open our presents after lunch.”

  Niall was out of his depth, floundering deep in something he didn’t understand, when he spotted Gregory slipping through the back door and into the dining room, behind where Emma stood.

  “What did you put on your Christmas list?” he asked, and she spun around, raising the knife as if to attack.

  “You’re not going to hurt anybody with that, Emma.”

  He held eye contact, and spoke slowly and clearly.

  “I understand that you don’t want to hurt me, Emma—or Niall, or yourself.”

  She sobbed, and shook her head.

  “I understand you don’t really want to hurt your mother either,” he said, and she swayed on the spot, looking down at the knife in her hand and then over her shoulder to where Mary was lying on the sofa.

  “What happened, Emma? Will you tell me?”

  She sobbed again, and the knife lowered a fraction. Behind her, Niall took a careful step closer.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  A promise is a promise, her father used to say.

  “Did somebody hurt you, Emma?”

  The woman seemed to have abandoned her body, leaving only a child behind. Gregory spoke to the child, now, and not the woman who had murdered three people—and attempted a fourth.

  “Daddy said not to tell.”

  Niall let out a small sound of shock and sadness, and she turned on him, raising the knife once again.

  “Stay back!” she screamed. “Don’t you come near me!”

  Gregory wondered whether she saw Niall, or the father who had died.

  “He’s gone, Emma,” he said. “He won’t hurt you anymore.”

  But she was shaking her head, and gripping the knife tightly.

  “It was Christmas,” she whispered, looking across to where her mother had begun to stir. “She knew, and she did nothing. She did nothing at all.”

  “I understand, Emma,” Niall said, remembering Gregory’s advice.

  She turned to him and smiled, her face softening back into the woman he’d loved; whose hand he’d held at the altar, and on the delivery table.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Gregory saw the flash of movement, and lunged forward as the blade swept up to her throat.

  CHAPTER 42

  Not long after, Gregory stood outside Mary Callaghan’s cottage in Innishmore, watching while her daughter was transferred into a waiting ambulance, under Garda supervision. His interception had been timely, and the knife had only caught the surface of her neck, leaving an angry red line rather than severing the arteries beneath. He knew there would be some who might say that death would have been the better option; the same people who believed in taking an eye for an eye. But, as somebody had once said, if everybody took that attitude, the whole world would end up blind. Somewhere inside the shell of Emma Byrne, there had been a loving mother and wife, a good friend and a productive member of society. Unfortunately, a small, crucial part of her had been broken, and the wound had never healed. It had festered instead, and the gangrene left to spread until it obliterated the woman she might once have been.


  He looked over to where Niall was giving his statement to Superintendent Donoghue and couldn’t help but admire the man’s fortitude. There would be months and years of trauma to deal with; denials, tears and, finally, acceptance that he was not to blame for his wife’s actions. When she went through the court process, others would decide whether she was of sound mind but, whether she lived out her days in a prison or in a secure hospital, she must live with the consequences of taking a life.

  A few minutes later, Niall walked over to join him.

  “How’re you holding up?” Gregory asked.

  “It seems unreal,” he replied. “Yesterday, she was Emma. My wife. Now—”

  He fell silent, and they watched the ambulance doors close.

  “She wanted me to go with her to the hospital,” he said. “And a part of me wanted to go, but I just can’t. I can hardly look at her.”

  Horror, betrayal, pity…it was all there, Gregory thought.

  “Nobody expects it of you,” he murmured. “There’s no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ answer.”

  Niall nodded.

  “The signs were there,” he muttered. “All the things you said in your profile—right there in front of me, and I never even thought of her.”

  “Why would you?” Gregory countered. “She’s your wife.”

  “All the same, there were signs,” he said. “She couldn’t stand to be touched. Started having nightmares, violent terrors, and lashing out if I tried to help. Looking back, it all began after her father died. You said there’d be a trigger.”

  Alex nodded.

  “She wished her mother could have been more like Claire, or Aideen. She wanted a chance to relive her childhood as she wanted it to be, not how it really was. The true source of her anger had already died without any resolution, so her mother became the main focus. It takes courage to act on the darkest of fantasies, and she built it up by killing the others first.”