"Maybe he's being smart."
"Impossible. This is Brendan Mahon we're talking about."
"Hang on a second," Frank said, stopping her in her tracks. Another voice had entered the background. It was muffled and complaining. Elizabeth sank onto the cream leather couch and kicked her shoes off, eavesdropping on the conversation.
"I know, Delaney, but you'll have to wait," Frank said in exasperation. The muffled voice belonged to Derek Delaney, the most obnoxious detective on Frank's team.
"Sorry about that," Frank said, once Derek had left. "I'm afraid I’ll have to love you and leave you, Elizabeth. There's been a shooting this morning. Delaney wants to head over there now. Apparently, we should have been at the scene an hour ago."
"Busy, busy, busy." She yawned.
"I’m too busy to be dealing with hoax letters."
"I never said it was a hoax. I said it wasn't Campbell; that doesn't mean I don't have a bad feeling about the letter. Someone wants us to think it's from Campbell."
"Can you get the original letter from Brendan, so I can have it analysed?"
"I’ll try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath."
"Could you send me whatever you have on Campbell: friends, colleagues, whatever you recall?"
"Shall I identify the Zodiac Killer while I'm at it?" she asked.
"Sorry, I'm getting carried away, but I know the Assistant Commissioner will take his time authorising an investigation, especially if I've got nothing but some headcase's letter to go on."
"So you have to wait until a woman is murdered before you can even look into it?"
"I’ll do my best. Is there any chance that Brendan will let us have the original letter without a warrant?"
"I doubt it. You should have seen the excitement on his face this morning; he thinks this story is his big break. He won’t let it go without a fight."
"The letter said that the killings would begin on All Saints Day; when is it?"
"I thought you were a Catholic born and raised. I'm shocked."
"Let's just say my faith has lapsed over the years. So when is All Saints' Day?"
"It's today."
Chapter Three
Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had made her long, dark hair frizzy. Her shirt hung loosely off her shoulders, as if she'd somehow shrunk without realising. Her cheekbones were sharp in her thin face. She felt as if she were disappearing, as if her body had huddled in on itself to escape from what she knew was coming.
The rain continued for most of the afternoon. She stayed indoors, in hiding, as she tried to make sense of everything. Eventually, she unlocked the safe in her bedroom and pulled out the files that she'd kept on Campbell, which hadn't been touched in almost a decade: newspaper clippings; tapes and transcripts of interviews with Campbell, his son, colleagues, neighbours, police, as well as the friends and families of his victims. There were photocopies of crime scene reports, evidence inventories, and witness statements. She even had photographs of Campbell and his son, but she didn't have the nerve to look at their faces yet, and she certainly wasn't ready to hear Campbell's voice again. He was already too real in her mind.
She hadn't touched the files in years, not since she had locked them away in her safe, out of sight but never out of mind. They were the dark presence in her life. She didn't need her notes to remember Campbell; her biggest problem was forgetting.
The detective in charge of the Teardrop case, DCI Gary Smith, had been nearing retirement. He overcompensated in his urge to convict Campbell, but his instincts were sound. The Met were too concerned about escaping from the embarrassing spotlight of evidence tampering to admit that Smith was right about Campbell; they just wanted to bury the mess. Elizabeth knew that Campbell was guilty; too much fitted. Together, she and Smith set out to nail him.
Of course, Campbell couldn't stand trial on the same charge a second time, but he had only been charged with the murder of two of the five victims because of a lack of direct evidence in the other cases. Elizabeth was convinced that they could reel him in if they had the right bait.
One night, she drove to the hills where the city gave way to the wild. She agreed to meet Campbell in a remote pub with a witness who could prove his innocence. He was waiting for her in the dark, by the side of the road: masked, taunting, with a gun in his hand. She shot him, but a plea of self-defence wouldn't have held up in a country where carrying a gun was a criminal offence, especially when she was on disciplinary leave.
She had carefully divided her life into two parts: before Campbell and after Campbell, and did her best not to dwell on the time in between. The Teardrop investigation almost broke her. Resigning and retreating to Ireland were her only options.
Her settlement for damages against The Met was more than enough to set her up for life, but she missed the fast pace and instinct-driven nature of her job, so after settling in Cork, she set up in business as a private detective. Thinking on her feet, while manoeuvering around difficult situations in the pursuit of evidence, reminded her of everything she'd enjoyed about her old job.
Reluctantly, she picked up Campbell's photo and studied his smug face, remembering his gasp of surprise as she spun away from him and fired the gun. She savoured her memory of the exhilaration and the satisfaction she felt as she watched him realise that he couldn't take her like he had taken the others.
One shot was all it took--a shot that splintered the silence and scattered the birds through the trees. Half his face was gone, and in his last moment, Campbell entered her consciousness forever. She dragged his body into the forest and buried him so deep that dawn was creeping over the horizon when she finished.
As the afternoon darkened and died, she sat in her apartment staring at the photo, dissecting the letter, and struggling to connect the pieces. Campbell had haunted her nightmares for years, but now he had escaped from her mind. Wherever she went, she knew she'd be stepping over his bones, or worse, the bones of his victims.
Chapter Four
"We found her,'' said Frank.
Elizabeth glanced at her phone, squinting against the bright light in the darkness of her bedroom. It was just after midnight, and she couldn't sleep. "I'm on my way."
Ten minutes later, she was in her car, driving through the cold streets. The city was busy with scantily dressed young people as they stumbled from the pubs and queued to get into the nightclubs. She shivered as she cranked up the heating. Music from the 1980s blasted from a pub on Patrick Street and the stink of fast food hung heavy in the air. Nearby, a siren screeched. She hit the central-locking system and waited for the traffic lights to change.
The blue flashing lights from the squad cars lit the bare winter trees. As she turned the corner, she saw Frank's car parked among them. The victim had only recently been discovered. Uniformed officers were still securing the crime scene. The unit photographer had just started taking his first overlapping photos of the scene. She could see the familiar faces of the Murder Unit standing around waiting and whispering: Derek Delaney, Sean Hayes, and Mike Foley.
A fresh-faced police officer tried to stop her approaching the scene, but Frank waved her through. "It's okay, Sergeant, she's here at my request." If the sergeant thought it unusual, he didn't say anything. Frank was wrapped up warm against the cold, grim-faced, his black hair blowing in the icy wind, his breath frosty. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. "Where did you park your car?" he asked, when they'd stepped out of earshot.
"Around the corner. You look like you're ready to drop."
"Maybe I should."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss the letter. It's unforgivable."
"You couldn't have known."
"You knew. You had a feeling. Where the hell was my feeling, my instinct?" He avoided looking at her, and she didn't have the answer. "This is the beginning."
"We'll find him."
"Do you believe that?"
/>
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
He turned and led her back to the crime scene tape, as close as he could. Just beyond the tape, a few trees lined a path that ended under a low bridge. Prostitutes often took their clients there. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Elizabeth saw a lonely shape sprawled in the shadows: a twisted foot, a stiletto heel, an outstretched arm with ghost-pale skin. A screen went up to keep the body out of sight of the onlookers who were starting to congregate on the other side of the road. The news crews and journalists wouldn't be too far behind.
"When was she discovered?" Elizabeth asked.
"About an hour ago by a man on his way back from the pub."
"Was she strangled?"
"It looks that way. There's a ligature mark around her neck, but she's face down; who knows what we'll find when she's turned over. It seems that she was dragged towards the water, as if he wanted to throw her in."
"I wonder why he didn't wait until they were by the water before he strangled her. Why strangle her where they were still in view of the road?"
"The risk was probably part of the thrill for him. Maybe he got too excited and couldn't wait. Maybe he was afraid that she would get away if he waited."
"Was there a note?"
"We haven't found one yet."
"Was she a prostitute?"
"I think so," Frank nodded. "She had some condoms in her handbag, about fifty euro in cash, and some coke. Clearly, the motive wasn't robbery. We'll know more when Kennedy arrives. Where is the old codger anyway?"
A sudden bright light made them blink. As if on cue, Charles Kennedy's silver BMW drove towards them, headlights on full blast. Everyone turned as the car stopped and he hauled his considerable girth out the driver's door. Charles Kennedy had been Cork City’s pathologist for almost two decades. Each year made him wearier and more pensive than the last. He drank too much, but drinking came with the job; it was part of him, like his black humour and eccentric ways.
His wild hair and dishevelled appearance spoke of a man who'd reluctantly dragged himself from his bed. He greeted Elizabeth with a nod as he approached the crime scene tape. She could smell the whiskey on him. "How are you, Charles?"
"Not too bad. How's yourself?"
"I've been better. How's your wife?"
He frowned. "My darling has finally left me. Two weeks ago, she hightailed it to Donegal, where she's been living with her sister, Miss Irene Maloney: number one fan of the Anti-Charles Kennedy Society."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Elizabeth said. She meant it; she'd always liked him.
"It can't be helped. She's had enough of me. I can't imagine why."
Frank stepped aside for a moment to speak with Derek Delaney. Elizabeth could see by his expression that they found something.
"What is it?" she asked.
Frank held up a sealed, transparent, plastic bag containing a note that was typed in the same font as the letter.
"Delaney just found it, folded up tight in the palm of her hand."
"Exactly like Campbell's first victim."
"We have a name. One of the uniforms thinks it's Amber Foley. It should be easy enough to confirm; most of the girls around here have a record. The lads are about to start a sweep of the scene, so if you want to get started, Charles, I'll take you over." Frank held up the tape for him as he ducked heavily under. He turned to Elizabeth. "I should get back to it."
She understood, offered a smile, and then he was gone. She crossed the road. A crowd had gathered to see what was happening, sidetracked on their way home from the pub, or woken by the noise outside the nearby flats. Whispered rumours mingled with the low crackle of police radios. Some watched her, wondering what her connection was to the scene, but no one dared to ask. Crime scenes always drew a crowd, like car crashes and people arguing.
Elizabeth gazed at the lights of the city as they shone at the edge of the darkness. She watched the blue flashes on the trees as Frank's unit started their painstaking circles around the body. She was familiar with their routine: sketching, measuring, searching for blood spatters, taking samples, and making endless notes, collecting what physical evidence they could find near the body, although she doubted they would find much evidence out in the open, in an Irish winter. The rain had started again. There would be little hope of finding fingerprints; they didn't show up on wood, rocks or leaves.
She had attended similar scenes many times before, watching over the broken and the dead in the same eerie calm that only ever covered a silent scream. It always amazed her how a place of such pain and terror was often so quiet afterwards, but it would never be free of the memory. Evil lingered; one evil act could instigate a chain, which, if left unbroken, could unravel forever.
It was a while before she realised that someone was standing beside her. Brendan Mahon was watching and smirking. She wondered how long he'd been there. "I'm not in the mood for an argument, Brendan."
"I've already forgiven you," he said. She cringed at his smarmy tone. "What's done is done."
"That’s very magnanimous of you."
"I blame myself for showing you the letter. I should have known you'd be a goodie two shoes and show it to your boyfriend."
"What choice did I have? It might have saved someone's life."
"But it didn't, did it?" She wanted to wipe the smug smile off his face. He pulled his coat tight around his skinny body.
"Maybe she would have been saved if you had shown me the letter as soon as you got it," she retaliated. She didn't bother telling him that no one had believed it anyway. "Does this mean you'll be publishing it?"
"You'll have to wait and see. Buy tomorrow's paper, and you'll find out."
"I won't bother; you're too predictable."
"Did your boyfriend give you any interesting tidbits?"
"Do you think I'd tell you if he had? It'd be all over the front page by the morning."
"Well, tomorrow's edition is covered. I've already spoken with one of the detectives. He said she was a prostitute. I've spoken with some of her colleagues, too."
"Are they offering you a discount in exchange for a mention in your column?"
"Funny," he laughed. He was on a high and couldn't have cared less about the dead woman. He was focused on his letter and the impact it would have when it hit the front page.
"Here’s your source," she said as Detective Mike Foley emerged from the shadows. She was pleased when Brendan flinched.
"Foley's not my source."
She shrugged. Everyone knew that Foley had been taking money from reporters for years. It wasn't difficult to plot the connection between their nights out and Brendan's sudden insights into an investigation.
"Hurry up or you'll miss him." She shut her eyes to shut him out, and when she opened them, he was gone. She hung around for a while longer, but Frank wasn't able to talk, so at 4a.m. she headed home. She was exhausted. Sleep came quickly, but Campbell and the face of Amber Foley were waiting for her in the dark.
Day Two
Chapter Five
Elizabeth was two drinks ahead of Frank by the time he arrived at the pub. His blue eyes were dark-circled and bloodshot.
"You look the way I feel," she said. She'd been up before five, checking the online news, and not liking what she read.
"That good?" He looked at her appraisingly.
"Wine?" she asked, lifting the bottle.
"I'll stick to coffee. I’ve another long night ahead."
While they waited for their food, she opened her iPad and showed him the online edition of The Examiner. "Have you read it?"
He glanced at the front-page headline: Teardrop Returns. The first five pages were devoted to the murder. Photo after photo: long-distance shots of the crime scene; one of Frank talking into his phone; and another of the covered body being lifted into the mortuary van.
Brendan Mahon had provided the story, while clinical psychologist Dr. Rita Dunne provided the analysis. "She's more screwed up than her clients," Frank sa
id as he read the doctor's opinion. "The killer is filled with rage against women. He will kill again. How much do they pay her for this crap?"
"It gets better," Elizabeth said, scrolling to the letter. "He doesn't state that the letter was written by Campbell, but it's heavily implied." She closed her iPad quickly, afraid that Brendan Mahon and “exclusive'' in the same sentence would turn her stomach. "Why do the killers always have a nickname?" she asked. "The Night Killer, The Shooter, Teardrop."
"It's the papers glamourising them."
"That's the problem with hacks like Brendan Mahon. For some, killing is their way of making their mark on the world, but the reaction of others reinforces their behaviour."
"It's a vicious circle, where the victims are caught in the middle,'' Frank agreed.
"There's no way the killer's going to quit any time soon, not after this accolade. Publishing his letter is like an open invitation for him to live up to the headlines and be the beast they want him to be. He'll be getting his own prime time television show next."
"And this is just the first victim." Frank rubbed his tired eyes, dreading the night ahead.
"Have you come up with any information from the door-to-doors?" Elizabeth asked as she picked at her meal.
"We've interviewed a few locals, who knew Amber Foley, and we've searched her house, but we haven't found anything of interest yet. The other girls aren't too forthcoming." Frank bit hungrily into his burger.
"Did they mention any strange clients hanging around?"
"Nope, no one in particular. It'll take more persuading to get them to talk. I suppose I should have gotten someone more likeable than Derek Delaney to have a word with them."
"Mr. Diplomacy--not." She rolled her eyes. "What were you thinking?" She wasn't surprised that the detectives had hit a wall. The residents of the area where Amber Foley died weren't the type to relish chatting with the police. They were mostly short-term renters who lived there because they had easy access to drugs. "I could try having a word with the girls. They might talk to me."
Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 2
