Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by Joanne Clancy

  "We don't need to know the details. Your marriage is not our concern. We're just trying to put together a timeline of Amanda's movements on the day she disappeared,'' said Holland.

  It was difficult to know if Purcell was listening. He continued gazing into the fire. Elizabeth caught Holland's eye and knew he had the same thought: this wasn't going to be easy.

  "What time did you arrive home?" Holland tried again.

  "About ten."

  Elizabeth watched him and knew he was the kind of man who preferred direct questions, straight to the point. He must have been difficult to live with. Getting straight to the point was hard, especially when most of the fun in life was the tangents.

  "I brought some wine home, a peace offering, I suppose. As soon as I stepped inside the hall, I knew the house was empty. I went through to the kitchen, she wasn't there, and her handbag was gone."

  "Did she leave a note?"

  "No."

  "What did you do?"

  "I made a sandwich, drank the wine, and watched television."

  "And then?"

  "I went to bed. The next morning I went to work, as usual."

  "Did you try calling her?"

  "I tried her mobile phone, I tried the law firm where she works, but she didn't turn up for work, and when I returned home she still wasn't back."

  "Is that when you called the police?"

  "Yes, I waited the required twenty-four hours before calling." He seemed proud of himself.

  "Weren't you worried about her?" Elizabeth couldn't help herself.

  Holland glared at her again.

  "Of course I was bloody worried about her! I was out of mind, but I didn't think anything had happened to her because she left me before." He went quiet. "She went to live with Colin, an old friend of mine, but she came back to me. Like I said, we were trying to patch things up."

  "When was the last time she left?"

  "Last spring."

  "Did you call your friend when you realised that Amanda was missing?"

  "I couldn't bring myself to ring him. I phoned her friends, but they hadn't heard from her. As for her colleagues..." He frowned.

  "Don't you like her colleagues?" Holland asked.

  "I wasn't part of that world. I couldn't share it with her. They made her dissatisfied."

  "Was she dissatisfied before she left?"

  "No more than usual."

  However, Elizabeth had the feeling that the usual dissatisfaction was probably too much for either of them to bear. "May I use your bathroom?" she asked, breaking the silence.

  She could see Purcell wrestling with how best to phrase a refusal. "Top of the stairs on the left," he said coldly.

  At the top of the stairs on the right, Elizabeth found what she was looking for: Amanda's study. The door was ajar. It was a cramped room with a desk, shelves, a laptop, and a printer. A tiny window looked onto the garden. Papers were strewn untidily across the desk. She wondered if Purcell had made the mess as he rifled through Amanda's papers.

  Carefully, she opened a drawer. Inside were a few files that Amanda had brought home from the office and some library books that were past their renewal date with a reminder letter thrown on top. Her diary lay beneath the clutter. She thumbed through it hopefully, but it was just a list of appointments, court hearings to attend, and recipes torn from magazines. There was nothing confessional about it, although she noticed the faint circling of several dates in pencil. She wondered if they were dates where Amanda was meeting a lover. When she closed the diary, she felt a grim finality, thinking it was possible that Amanda was the woman who had been found in the churchyard.

  She retraced her footsteps downstairs to the hall. Holland exited the living room with Purcell as she neared the last step. He looked at her suspiciously, knowing she'd been snooping.

  "We should get going," said Holland. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Purcell. We'll be in touch. Before we leave, can you think of anything that might help to identify Amanda?"

  "Would you like a photograph?" He looked confused, then alarmed. "Of course, I could give you her dentist's name."

  "We need something other than dental records." Holland didn't elaborate. "Does she have any birthmarks or old injuries?"

  "She didn't have any birthmarks." He shook his head before a shadow of memory appeared in his eyes. "About ten years ago, she fell off a ladder and had to wear a plaster on her wrist for a few months."

  A chill ran through Elizabeth as she remembered what Charles Kennedy had said about the victim having an old wrist injury. All the detectives had to do was cross-reference Amanda's medical records against the autopsy report, and they'd have their answer. Purcell gave them her doctor's contact details, and then unlocked the front door, not bothering to hide his relief at their departure.

  "Would you mind if we went out through the back garden?" Elizabeth asked.

  Holland looked almost as surprised as Purcell did.

  "The back?"

  "I hope you don't mind."

  "Go straight through," Purcell said in irritation. He followed them into the kitchen and unlocked the back door. Then he gave Holland a key. "You'll need to unlock the gate at the bottom of the garden, and then turn right to get back to the road. Drop the key in the letterbox when you've finished."

  Minutes later, Holland and Elizabeth were finally outside. The rain was beating down. "What was that about?" Holland asked, but she ignored him until they were away from the house. She had spotted something in the garden from the upstairs window, and she made her way along the path towards it, closely followed by Holland.

  "What do you think?" she asked.

  "It's a shed."

  "Let's have a look inside."

  Like everything else in the garden, the shed was immaculate. Some people lived in rougher conditions than Purcell provided for his lawnmower.

  "That's a big freezer," Elizabeth said.

  "You don't think..."

  She shrugged. "The garden is surrounded by high walls and trees, no one would notice if he carried his wife's body to the shed in the middle of the night and stored it in the freezer until he could get rid of it."

  "Why would he kill her?"

  "Because she didn't love him anymore, because she loved someone else, because she was going to leave him for good this time."

  "I don't believe it. If Amanda Purcell is in the morgue and he murdered her, then that probably means he murdered Amber Foley too. Where's the evidence?"

  "I'm only batting ideas around. There's no need for evidence at this stage. Line the suspects up, and eliminate them one by one until there's only one left; that's my method."

  "Maybe I'm being naive, but Purcell seemed sad that his wife was gone. I don't think he murdered her."

  "Did you notice the copy of Brendan Mahon's column stuffed under the chair in the living room?"

  "No."

  "I saw it. There was a little corner peeking out. He must have been reading it before we arrived, then tried to hide it: his guilty secret."

  "Reading a newspaper isn't a crime."

  "Why was he hiding it?"

  Holland didn't have a response.

  Elizabeth turned and glanced over her shoulder. Trevor Purcell was staring out the window at them. He didn't look away but continued watching, unsmiling, and completely still. Elizabeth stared back at him, wondering if it was him or the rain that was making her shiver.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Can I drop you somewhere?" Holland asked, once they were back in the car.

  Elizabeth peered out the windscreen at the dying day. "Would you drop me at the university? I've arranged to meet Professor Patrick Farrell there. He's a theologian. Preston recommended him; he might be able to explain the quotes that the killer's been leaving."

  "What time are you meeting?"

  "Five. You should step on it."

  Elizabeth settled back in her seat, closing her eyes to the roads that bristled with traffic, and focusing instead on the hypnotic sw
ish of the windscreen wipers. The doubts that were never far away began to torment her once more. Everyone had a role in the investigation except her. She was supposed to be the expert consultant, but she didn't even have enough power to attend a crime scene without prior permission. Maybe she'd be better off back at her apartment waiting for Frank to update her. Even Holland was more use than she was.

  She glanced sideways at Holland, unsure if she rated him as a detective. He was a plodder. He’d transferred to the Murder Unit from Serious Crime, but she couldn't figure out why he had transferred. He didn't have the energy or passion that was innate in most murder detectives. He investigated murder as if it were a traffic violation.

  However, even Holland would eventually earn his place on the team, whereas she could be out of there after this job: out of there to where? She was always unsettled, never knowing where she wanted to be. Some people instinctively knew where they belonged, like Frank. He had a place, a purpose; he fitted. She was loitering. The car heater made her sleepy. She wondered if Frank would leave with her, if she asked, if she explained to him that she had to move on. Could he leave his life behind for her? Would he? It wouldn't be fair to ask, but at that moment she desperately wanted to know.

  "We're here."

  She opened her eyes reluctantly. It took her a second to get her bearings and recognise the church where Holland had parked. They were outside The Honan Chapel, on the grounds of the university. The blue flashing lights of a squad car splashed the grey stone walls. A crowd had gathered. There were raised voices.

  Holland was out of the car by the time she had taken in her surroundings. She followed the blue flashes through the frozen crowds with a peculiar feeling, as if she was paddling underwater. "Police, let me through," she said. It was a lie, but it worked.

  Unreality enveloped her as she walked. All around were signs of normality: a Christmas tree towered brightly in the courtyard, while fairy lights twinkled on branches and windowsills. Some students wore Santa hats, and "Jingle Bells" blared from the student centre.

  She spotted Holland's shape imprinted on the darkness that flooded from behind a closed door. Two uniformed officers stood nearby. Holland peered inside.

  "No access," one of the officers said.

  "Holland," Elizabeth called.

  He turned around. "Let her through, she's with me."

  His answer irritated her, but the officer let her through. He had the pale, hollow-eyed expression of someone who had seen the body of a murdered person. She wondered if it was his first body. Some officers went through their entire career without seeing one, without being tainted. She had known officers who quit when they found the first body; they couldn't handle it, and didn't want to add any more. Others were unaffected, almost serene. Holland was one of the serene ones.

  She approached the door and recognised the distant, abstract expression of someone who had stepped outside himself to do what was required. The horror would strike later. She took a deep breath and looked into the dark. The woman lay on her back in a corner, arms flung wide, eyes closed, and a rope twisted around her neck. Dried blood stained the front of her dress. There was no visible wound, but the blood told its own story.

  "Who found her?" Elizabeth asked.

  "A student," replied one of the uniformed officers. She glanced at his name badge: D.S. Ivor Yeats. "We've taken her for a coffee," Yeats continued. "She's shaken. She opened the door about half an hour ago and saw her lying there. She contacted us immediately."

  "The body must have been here since last night. All those people roaming about would have made it impossible to bring her here during the day," said Elizabeth.

  "Maybe she was murdered here," said Holland.

  She sighed; exasperated that he hadn't noticed it. "Look at the blood, Holland. Look how much of it is on her, but there's no spatter on the floor or walls."

  He nodded, feeling stupid. "She wasn't strangled?"

  "It's post-mortem strangulation. Notice how tightly the ligature has been pulled, but there's no bulging of the eyes, and no protrusion of the tongue. The stab wounds killed her." She stepped closer.

  "Careful," warned Holland.

  "I won't touch anything. I just want to see. I need your flashlight."

  He passed her the flashlight without hesitation. She shone it on the woman's hands. "Notice the defensive wounds, where she tried to ward off the blows."

  "Like Teardrop's third victim, Caroline Marsh," said Holland with sudden insight.

  "Exactly like Caroline Marsh." She could see the open wound in her throat and the teardrop carved on her cheek. Everything was the same, except that Caroline had been covered with a blanket. She shone the light around the corridor. A crumpled blanket was in the corner. The student must have lifted it off, not realising what lay beneath. She was about to point it out to Holland when someone in the crowd caught her eye. "Marvellous, here comes trouble."

  Derek Delaney elbowed his way through the crowd. "I hope you didn't touch anything," he snapped.

  "The day I need lessons in crime scene preservation from you, Delaney, is the day I quit for good."

  "Don't let me stop you." He glanced into the dark where the body lay.

  "She's been stabbed."

  "Stabbed? Is that your expert opinion?" He sneered. "So now you're a pathologist as well as an expert consultant. How does The Met survive without you?"

  "Listen to me, Delaney," she hissed through gritted teeth. "I have no intention of spending the next few days massaging your sensitive little ego. I have more important things to do, and so do you."

  "Excuse me I'm sure," sneered Delaney. "You listen to me, Lizzie; I'm the detective around here, not the Chief's favourite bedwarmer."

  "Elizabeth," warned Holland before she could retaliate.

  She turned her head and saw the detectives from the Murder Unit pushing through the crowd. There was no sign of Frank. Officers were busy putting up the crime scene tape. She had no intention of having it out with Delaney in front of everyone.

  The detectives spread out, took control, and re-established the hierarchy. They assigned jobs to the other officers, anything to get them out of the way.

  "If it's okay with you, I'm going to talk to the girl who found the body," said Delaney, turning to Elizabeth. "You have a good evening."

  "I hope he never makes Chief," said Holland, once Delaney was out of earshot. "I'd apply for another transfer."

  "Back to Serious Crime?"

  "Anywhere: Serious Crime, Traffic Control, Dog Unit: anything but here."

  "He's hard work, no doubt about it," Elizabeth sighed.

  "He's great fun if you're one of the lads or one of his drinking buddies. It's the guys who go home to their wives and families once the job's done that he can't stand."

  "No women allowed."

  "Not if he can help it."

  She watched Frank weave his way through the crowd towards them, his head bent towards his mobile phone. Holland held up the crime scene tape for him as he ducked underneath. He moaned as he straightened up again, pulling his shoulders tight to dislodge the ache in his back.

  "He's not leaving much time between the killings," said Frank.

  "She must have been dead before the newspapers hit the stands," said Elizabeth. "She wasn't murdered here."

  "What about security?" asked Frank.

  "They finish at 11.30p.m.," replied Boland. "Besides, this area has been under renovation for the past few months."

  "Did he leave a note?"

  "I haven't seen one. I didn't want to touch anything, but if he's following Campbell's pattern, it will be inside her bra; that's where it was on Caroline Marsh," said Elizabeth.

  Frank took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I should go in."

  "I have to meet someone," Elizabeth said, suddenly remembering her appointment. She checked the time. "I'm late."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Professor Farrell?" said Elizabeth as she came through the library's revolving d
oors. A tall, well-dressed man rose to greet her from a chair in the foyer. "I'm sorry I'm late."

  "No apology necessary," he replied. She detected the faintest trace of a Kerry accent. "I insist you call me Pat."

  "Pat it is." She recognised him immediately from the photographs she'd seen online. The photographs didn't do him justice. He looked tanned and a little careworn, but there was no doubt that he was an attractive man.

  "Was traffic horrendous?" he asked.

  "You could say that. Actually, there's been another murder."

  "I'm sorry."

  "She was found about an hour ago. Thank you for waiting."

  "We can reschedule if this is a bad time for you."

  "This is as good a time as any. Let me get straight to the point. The killer is leaving religious messages at the scene, and I want to know if the messages contain any meanings other than the obvious."

  "That's where I come in?"

  "You're a theologian, an ex-priest, and one of the foremost scholars in the field." He didn't object to her assessment of his importance. "You're the best person to explain what we're dealing with. From what I hear, you and Campbell used to know each other."

  "I didn't know him well. We were at the seminary together for a year, but he dropped out and moved to London. I haven't heard from him in thirty years." He pointed towards the stairs. "Shall we begin?"

  She followed him to the top of the stairs, where he turned right into the Reading Room. The silence filled the room like water in a deep pool. It had the same stillness that all libraries possess: a quiet broken only by intermittent coughs and whispers, or the squeak of doors and chairs. It was almost empty, and no one glanced in their direction as they wove their way between the desks to the back, where he had been working. Books and papers were scattered across his desk.

  "May I see the quotations?" he asked.

  "This is the note we found on the second victim," she said, handing it to him.

  "Therefore be on the alert, remembering that night and day for a period of three years I did not cease to admonish each one with tears," he read aloud.