"I suggested that to McGovern, but he wasn't interested. He thinks I should focus on working the scene."
"That’s rich coming from someone who has never worked an entire case in his life."
"He was giving me the Assistant Commissioner Routine, letting me know that he’s the boss, but he admitted that you know more than anyone else about Campbell."
"I thought we’d agreed this isn't Campbell."
"You know it, maybe I know it, but McGovern doesn't know it. Campbell's the obvious follow-up and that's where McGovern wants to focus resources. He can't see past the letter and the M.O."
"It's all crap."
Frank shrugged. "The path of least resistance is McGovern's favourite route, at least until he's shown otherwise."
"I can show him otherwise."
"Show him why it's not Campbell; that's your way in."
"I don't know if I want in."
Frank wiped his mouth and took a long swig of water. "It's up to you, Elizabeth. You're under no obligation. There's a place for you on the investigation if you want it."
"In what capacity?"
"As a consultant. Unfortunately, I don't have as much influence as I'd like. My title might be Chief Superintendent, but McGovern's in charge. He knows your background, and he seems willing to listen to your input and let you sit in on meetings, interviews, read the case files and review the evidence. Like I said, it's up to you." He held her gaze."
"Count me in." She smiled.
"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist." He touched her hand lightly. "That's why I've already told McGovern you’d be happy to offer your services."
"That's rather presumptuous."
"I'm glad you're on board. You'll be a great help. You always have ideas." He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling.
"Yeah, ideas are about the only thing I have. My problem is getting people to listen to me."
"Begin with Campbell."
"But you said..."
"I know what I said, but all roads lead to Campbell. If it's not him, it might be someone connected to him. Whoever the killer is, they've chosen Campbell for a reason. He wants to be Teardrop, which means something."
"Maybe he wants to hide his identity and send us in the wrong direction,'' she suggested.
"Most killers want to say, "This is who I am". They believe that the world doesn't understand them, that they're the real victims, so killing is their way of making their mark on the world, of making themselves heard. We need to eliminate the killer's connection with Campbell, and the only way we can do that is by returning to Campbell. I know that sounds contradictory, but that's where you should begin."
She took another sip of wine, letting his words sink in. Then she pushed the half-full glass aside. She needed to think clearly, no matter how much she longed to sit there and drink herself into oblivion. "When's the autopsy?"
"This evening. Kennedy's in court until then, and we're still doing the follow-ups. I doubt the autopsy will reveal anything we don't already know. We're focusing on the door-to-doors for now; someone out there must have seen or heard something."
"Have Forensics found anything yet?" she asked.
"Not yet. They found a few hairs on Amber Foley's clothes, but they could have come from anywhere. We might get a match if we can get a suspect, but unless he's been caught before, the hairs won't actually lead us to anyone." He drained the last of his water. "Actually, there was something: a bottle."
"The riverbank's littered with bottles."
"This bottle was under the body. The tech lads discovered a Heineken bottle when they lifted Amber. It seemed like it had been put there deliberately. The lads bagged it and took some other bottles from the scene for comparison. We might get lucky and lift some prints off it."
"Maybe you'll catch someone for littering, if nothing else. At least the night won't have been a total waste of time." She yawned.
"You look exhausted. You should get some sleep."
"Look who's talking.''
“I've no time for sleep, that's what the grave is for." He glanced at his watch. "We're out of time. Let me know what you want, and I'll do my best to get it for you."
"I need reports from Vice and Serious Crime regarding attacks on prostitutes, murders, and sexual assaults. There's always a trail, a progression. Maybe that's where this killer's trace will be found."
"How far back?"
"The last nine years: everything since Campbell."
"I'll get one of the lads on it." He flung some cash on the table. "I appreciate your help, Elizabeth."
"No appreciation necessary. For my own peace of mind, I'd like to see what you have and make sure that all the angles are covered."
She watched him leave: a tall, hulking man who somehow blended seamlessly with the crowd. Alone again, she flicked open her iPad and read Brendan's article. He was making all fingers point to Campbell, and she knew that was partly her fault. If only they knew where Campbell had really spent the past decade, but she wasn't going to tell.
Chapter Six
The idea to call Dr. Ken Williams hit Elizabeth as she walked to her apartment. A criminal psychologist for two decades, Williams had spent most of those years working in prisons across the United Kingdom, studying pathological behaviour and helping the police with their profiling.
He answered the phone on the fourth ring. She heard a kettle whistling and children bickering in the background. She tried to remember his children's names, but gave up when she couldn't even remember how many he had.
"Hello, stranger," she said.
“Elizabeth Ireland. This is a surprise. How have you been?"
"I'm good. Keeping busy.''
“Are you still stuck in the back end of nowhere?"
"Cork's a city, too."
"It's a big town at best. London's a city, and London is where you belong. I expected you to be home by now, begging to return to The Met."
"Not a hope in hell."
"Not a hope of you coming back, or not a hope of them letting you back in."
"Both."
"So what are you doing with yourself these days?"
"I'm waiting for you to drop the small talk so I can get to the point."
"As blunt as ever. Fire away. How can I help?"
"I want you to run something through your fancy profiling programme."
"Would that be the fancy profiling programme that isn't finished yet?"
"That's the one. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. There's been a murder."
"Get in line."
She continued, ignoring him. "Our latest nutter claims he's Ross Campbell aka Teardrop."
"I remember the case, but there's a serious backlog here, and I'm overworked and definitely underpaid."
"You sound stressed."
"I am stressed, which is why I don't need to add another case to my load. What makes you so sure I'll help you, anyway?"
Elizabeth smiled; he wouldn't have asked that question if he was planning on giving her the brush-off. "The prime suspect spent some time in London before returning to Ireland. We think he's Campbell's son."
"You think he's following in his daddy's footsteps?" Williams sounded incredulous.
"Someone's following in his footsteps, and his son is as good a person to start with as anyone. If the son really is the killer, you're best located to follow it up; he's been living in London until recently."
"What's the son's name?"
"Oscar Kelly. He goes by his mother's maiden name." She could hear him writing it down. Victory.
"Before I decide to take it on, let me ask you one question."
"Fire away."
"Is this the Murder Unit's prime suspect or yours?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'll tell you when you answer the question."
"I suppose he’s more a prime suspect to me than to them. Are you happy now that I've admitted it?"
"I wouldn't say I'm particularly happy, no; I'm well aware of the histo
ry between you and Campbell."
He didn't know the half of it.
"I'd really appreciate it if you would look into Oscar Kelly for me. The detectives here can pull up his criminal records from Scotland Yard, but that won't be much help if he's been behaving himself. There are unusual similarities in this case. I need to know if there have been any similar cases in London. Besides, it's a chance for you to tie up some loose ends of your own."
"Isn't this the point where you say that I owe you?"
"That was my next line."
"There's more?"
"I need a profile."
"You know how busy I am. I'm already working two cases for two different police forces. Another one rang this morning looking for assistance. My backlog is longer than your list of social inadequacies. Why don't you ask your old friend, Harold Preston?"
"Preston?" Now it was her turn to be surprised. Harold Preston had been the lead profiler on several cases when she worked at The Met. They'd been friends for years until the Teardrop case. He doubted her innocence when she was accused of planting evidence, and that had signalled the end of their friendship. It was years since she'd seen him.
"Is that supposed to be funny?" she asked. "Why the hell would I ask Harold Preston for anything?"
"He's in Cork. I assumed you knew."
"What's he doing in Cork?"
"He's been there a few weeks, I believe. The university invited him to be a guest lecturer at the Psychology Department."
"I can't ask him, not after everything that happened."
"It's entirely up to you, but I'm not doing it. I have learned to say no. I'll run Oscar Kelly through the system, but I'm not doing a profile. However, I'd be happy to have a word with Preston for you."
"He probably won't even speak to me. To be honest, I'm not sure I want to speak to him."
"I'm sure he'd like a chance to make amends. Life's too short to hold grudges."
"Fine, call him."
"Good. I'll let you know if the system turns up anything on Oscar Kelly."
"Thanks. I'll chat to you soon. Give my regards to Victoria and the children."
"Jennifer, actually, but it's the thought that counts."
Chapter Seven
The intercom buzzed, shattering the silence. A man's voice crackled over the line from seventeen floors below. "It's Detective Sergeant Greg Holland. The Chief told me to bring you some case files."
"Come on up." She buzzed him in. A few minutes later, he was outside her door, struggling under the weight of a large box. The latest recruit to the Murder Unit wasn't what she had been expecting. His curly brown hair needed cutting and his face was stubbled. He had thick fingers and broad shoulders. Solid was how she would describe him. He looked more like a plodding country policeman than a city detective, but she knew that appearances could be deceptive. She sometimes wondered what people concluded when they met her.
He lingered uncertainly at the door, glancing around the large apartment, openly appreciating the space. His gaze drifted to the huge window overlooking the city. He sighed as he placed the box on the table.
"Fancy a coffee?" she asked.
"I'd prefer tea. There's another box in the car, I won't be long."
Five minutes later, he reappeared with the second box. Gratefully, he took the tea she offered him. "I didn't see you last night at the river," she said.
"Night off."
"I didn't realise there was such a thing as a night off in a murder case."
"I was at the pub and left my phone at home. I had ten missed calls when I got back." He sipped his tea from the I Love London mug she'd given him. "Are you from London?" He gestured at the mug.
"I am indeed."
"What brought you to Cork, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I don't mind at all. Everyone asks."
She didn't elaborate, so he tried again. "I suppose you have family in Cork."
"My father's family is from Blarney. I spent my childhood summers there." She got up and flicked through a file. "Is this it?" she asked, changing the subject.
"That's the lot."
"How are you finding the Murder Unit?"
"It's a big change from Serious Crime, but I wasn't going anywhere there; I didn't get on with the boss. The Chief Super was looking for new blood, so I applied."
"Now he's got you hauling boxes for an interfering outsider."
"I won't always be the dogsbody; it'll only be until I find my feet in Murder. Besides, you're more than an interfering outsider; I hear you used to be high up in The Met."
"That was years ago, but I worked on the original Teardrop case, which is why you lot want my help." They couldn’t have stopped her.
"What are you doing with these files?" he asked. "Searching for clues?" She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.
"I'm looking for patterns and connections. It's a matter of sorting what's important from what's not."
"You don’t sound too hopeful."
"I'm just wondering where to start." She blinked the tiredness from her eyes and did her best to suppress a yawn. "What's the Chief got you doing?"
"I'm meeting him in twenty minutes to talk to the man who found the body."
"James Lawton?"
"That’s the man.''
"I thought he was already interviewed."
"He made a formal statement last night. He's a religious freak. Apparently, he hangs around the area trying to convince the girls to return to Jesus. One of the detectives recognised his name a few hours ago. The Chief wants to follow it up."
"Sounds interesting."
"Detective Delaney thinks Lawton gets a kick out of hanging around the red-light areas. I suppose he has a point; hanging around prostitutes is the next best thing to picking one up, cheaper too."
"You should get going,'' Elizabeth said. “You don't want to be late, and I should get cracking with this lot."
She poured herself another coffee and started going through the boxes. Slowly and methodically, page by page, she searched for any evidence that Amber Foley's killer had struck before. Premeditated murder was seldom the first act. She knew he was in there somewhere, refining his fantasy, rehearsing for Amber, awaiting his opportunity. Nonetheless, she started with the murder cases. She trawled through the files: dead women reduced to ghosts in the pages of a few case files, only remembered because Amber Foley had joined them in the darkness.
Night had fallen by the time she'd had enough. The streetlights twinkled across the city, while black rain clouds streaked the sky. She checked the time on her Rolex: the one piece of jewellery she could stand wearing. It was five o' clock. She wondered if Williams had spoken with Preston yet. She rang Williams in London again, but there was no answer. Then she grabbed her coat and headed out the door. If she hurried, she could make Preston's last lecture of the day. Her sensible side told her to wait until she'd heard from Williams, but she rarely paid much attention to sense.
Chapter Eight
University College Cork rose stoically above the traffic that flowed around its perimeter, oblivious to the noise and chaos of rush hour in the city. Elizabeth dashed through the tall gates and jogged over the bridge to the Boole Basement where Harold Preston was lecturing. It didn't take her long to find his lecture theatre but once outside, her nerve suddenly failed her.
She peered through the glass panels at him. He looked exactly as she remembered with the same distracted, slightly shabby aura and the same shock of thick white hair that he'd had since his early thirties. He wore a tweed jacket with patches on the sleeves, faded corduroys, a check shirt open at the neck, and a pair of scuffed, black Doc Marten boots. He looked like the quintessential nutty professor, but Elizabeth knew there was nothing nutty about Harold Preston; in fact, he was one of the sharpest people she had never known.
Preston glanced up from his notes as she entered unobtrusively and took a seat in the back row. He didn't register any surprise at seeing her. She wondered if Williams had already war
ned him, or maybe he had been expecting her to make contact. No one else registered her appearance; they were too engrossed in Preston's lecture.
"Offender profiling is a technique, not a science," Preston continued. "Profiling is an application of psychological techniques to the realm of criminology, and it's up to the investigators to decide how best to use the application of those principles in the solving of individual crimes."
"But what's the point in these so-called principles if they can't be relied on?" A student in the front row piped up.
"It's not as black and white as it seems. An offender may know the principles involved, but he won't be able to change his behaviour because of his compulsions. His actions are a ritualistic fantasy, which he wants to perfect. Satisfying his urges is more compelling than changing his behaviour."
"If he decided to change his actions, he could."
"Technically, he could change, but most killers are indulging the most primitive instinct: sex. Even if a killer wanted to disprove his profile, every contact leaves a physical and psychological trace. As profilers, we need to learn how to interpret that trace. No one can completely hide their true nature. We can change aspects, but how we behave has an inner logic that can be mapped."
The student muttered something, but she didn't seem convinced.
"Don't take my word for it, ask Detective Ireland in the back row." Preston nodded in Elizabeth's direction. Thirty heads turned simultaneously to stare at her.
"Former detective," she corrected him.
"Jane Tennison or Miss Marple?" A smartass in front of her laughed.
"I'm afraid I wasn't nearly as effective as either, which is why I left," she retaliated.
"Detective Ireland was the lead investigator on the original Teardrop case, just before the killer went missing. Apparently, he's up to his old tricks again."
"Do you think the police will catch him this time?" asked another student.
Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 3
