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

by Joanne Clancy

  She shivered as she stepped out of the warmth into the street, wondering how long it would take them to notice they were missing a mobile phone. She stifled a giggle, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Sometimes she worried at how easily she could turn to crime, but she didn’t have an alternative this time. She couldn't risk buying a phone that could be traced back to her nor could she risk being spotted on a shop's CCTV.

  She found a quiet spot and started texting. It was difficult with gloves, but fingerprints had gotten her into enough trouble before. It was time for Campbell to come home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elizabeth half-expected the police to be waiting for her when she arrived at her apartment, but there was no sign of them. She laughed, knowing if they were that clever, they'd have found the copycat killer already, and she wouldn't have been forced to do what she did. She stepped in the shower, turned on the water as hot as she could bear and washed off the bad aura of the day. Then she pulled on the first clothes that came to hand and padded barefoot into the kitchen, suddenly feeling hungry. The phone rang, but she let the machine pick up.

  "Elizabeth, are you there?" It was Frank. "Call me as soon as you're home, okay? It's important. I'll explain later."

  She missed him. It felt like forever since they'd had any real time alone. She sighed. It was longer than forever. It was another life.

  Williams was sipping a cup of tea and reading The Examiner when she arrived at the restaurant where they’d arranged to meet. "The newspapers love a murder, don't they?" he said, as she sat opposite him.

  "That's what happens when journalists make celebrities of serial killers. It becomes self-fulfilling."

  "You think they kill for the media coverage?"

  "How would I know?" she snapped. "To be honest, I couldn't care less. Sorry, I wish..."

  "What?"

  "I wish I was somewhere else, someone else."

  "It's understandable that it's getting to you," said Williams. "You need a holiday. When this case is done, you should come to London for a few weeks. You can stay with me."

  The waiter arrived, saving her from confessing that when the case was done, there'd be a strong chance that she'd be in prison.

  "No time for sightseeing?" she said as she sliced into a stuffed mushroom.

  "Not this trip, but Victoria and I have been here before. Her family is from West Cork, so we visit regularly."

  "Jennifer."

  "Just testing."

  "So what have you been up to this afternoon?"

  "I spent a few hours trying to find more information about Oscar Kelly, but the entire Station was buzzing with the news about Campbell's fingerprint. No one was interested in young Oscar."

  "They'll move on soon enough," she said. "As soon as they realise that the fingerprint was planted."

  "You seemed shocked about that revelation earlier."

  "Sorry for leaving you like that. I had to get out of there. We're running out of time, and I know the killer planted that fingerprint to distract us."

  "I'm not sure about the fingerprint either," Williams agreed. "It's a little too convenient, but I think it will take a miracle to persuade the team that it isn't Campbell."

  "Miracles happen."

  "In the end, I got Oscar’s photograph, I read his file, and visited Harold Preston at the university."

  "Did he show you the profile?"

  "It was all he talked about. This case is really getting to him."

  "Preston was always like that when he was working a case. He couldn't switch off."

  "Maybe you shouldn't have asked for his help."

  "You suggested it."

  "I know." It was his turn to look guilty. "I was up the walls with work, and I didn't want any more. I hope it's not too much for him."

  "The original Teardrop case was a decade ago. Surely he's over it by now."

  "Haven't you heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "Preston was suspended last spring, that's why he accepted the job at the university. Didn't you wonder what he was doing here?"

  "I didn't give it much thought. What happened?"

  "There were some allegations of sexual harassment."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "I'm only telling you what happened. I'm not saying I believe it." He held up his hands. "Preston quit."

  "Too right." They finished their starters in silence. "What did you think of his profile?" Elizabeth asked eventually.

  "I'd have reached most of the same conclusions." He shrugged.

  "Most, but not all?"

  "I think he may have missed something." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the profile. He flicked through the pages. "Here it is. Preston said that the killer is choosing similar places to leave the bodies as Campbell: a riverbank, a churchyard, and a university."

  "It's too risky for him to continue doing that," Elizabeth interrupted.

  "He won't leave any more bodies, but he might leave something else: books, flowers, photos."

  "No way." She shook her head. "The other sites aren't under constant surveillance, but patrols have been increased."

  "Maybe there's no risk," said Williams quietly.

  "It would be difficult to leave mementos without any risk of being scene, don't you think?"

  "Not if he left the mementos before he killed Amber Foley, and before he dumped the other body at the churchyard."

  "He couldn't do it once the police realised that he was copying Campbell, so he had to mark them in advance." Saying it aloud made it seem obvious. "Did you suggest this angle to Preston?"

  "I mentioned it, but he wasn't convinced. You should have the scene searched as soon as possible."

  "Let's do it now." She jumped to her feet. "You have a few hours until your flight leaves."

  He wavered.

  "Come on, Williams, where's your sense of adventure?"

  He sighed. "If I get arrested, I'm blaming you."

  "Blame me all you want," she grinned. "You never get the credit if you don't take the blame sometimes."

  ***

  "What are you doing here?" Elizabeth demanded as she came face to face with Holland outside the restaurant.

  "The Chief sent me to find you. He's been trying to call you, but there was no answer."

  "My mobile must have died."

  "The Chief said you might be here so he asked me to drop in on my way home."

  "If you'd arrived five minutes earlier, I would have bought you a drink," she said. "Anyway, this is Ken Williams."

  "Doctor Ken Williams." He reached out to shake Holland's hand. "A pleasure."

  "What was so urgent that Frank sent you to find me?" Elizabeth asked impatiently.

  "We think we've found Ross Campbell's body."

  "What?" Williams exclaimed.

  Elizabeth was relieved at his surprise; it saved her from having to pretend. "What happened?"

  "The killer sent a text from a stolen phone, which directed us to a body. We traced the number. It belongs to Tara Sheehy. She was in town earlier and hadn't even noticed that her phone was missing until an officer went round to her apartment to make sure she was okay. We thought she might have been the next victim, but she was fine."

  "Where was the body?" Elizabeth asked.

  "In the Galtee Mountains. I wasn't at the scene, but Forensics are there now. The body's badly decomposed."

  "Do they have any idea how he died?" asked Williams.

  "Looks like a single gunshot wound."

  "Oh well, that's the end of the fingerprint theory," said Elizabeth.

  "Assuming it’s Campbell," said Holland. "DNA results will take a while to come back, but there's a strong chance it's him," he sighed. "I really thought we were making progress at last."

  Elizabeth searched for a way to make him feel better but came up empty.

  "What about the knife?" Holland asked.

  "The killer's playing a game," Elizabeth said.

  "Buy why w
ould he try to convince us it's Campbell and go to all the trouble of using a knife on Orla Delaney, only to admit now that Campbell's dead?" Holland insisted. "None of this makes sense."

  "I dunno," said Elizabeth weakly.

  "That's why the Chief sent me to find you."

  "The killer murdered Campbell too?" Williams turned to Elizabeth. "That's an interesting twist to the profile. It's difficult to believe, but it does make the killer's relationship to the crime scenes all the more symbolic; now they're truly his."

  Holland looked blank, so Williams explained his theory. "In fact, we were about to drive out to one of the murder scenes."

  "I'll drive," Holland insisted. "Elizabeth's in no fit state to get behind a wheel."

  "I've only had a few," she protested.

  "Yeah, a few too many. Come on, my car's around the corner."

  A few minutes later, they joined the traffic. Rush hour was over, but plenty of Christmas shoppers thronged the streets. Elizabeth was glad when they crossed the river towards the south side into darkness, leaving the bright lights behind. They pulled up outside St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, and peered through the railing at the huge Gothic building set aloofly back from the road.

  "Is this it?" asked Williams.

  "This is it," Elizabeth replied. "Located on the south side of the river."

  "Similar location to St. George's in London, where Campbell killed his second victim, Marissa Stanbury."

  "Hell would be warmer," Holland said, shivering as he pulled up his collar.

  A few lights glimmered in the grounds of the cathedral, but the vast darkness between the cathedral and the road was striking.

  "Do you have a flashlight?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Hang on, it's in the boot."

  "There's a broken railing over there," Williams said. "We can climb through."

  They squeezed through the gap into the grounds. Elizabeth conjured up images of Marissa Stanbury's last moments as they crossed the grass in silence. She was only eighteen when she died and had been on the streets a few months. The other girls agreed that she was different; the job hadn't defeated her yet. She still believed she was only passing through, but Elizabeth knew they all started out believing that. Maybe that was why she had naively gone with Campbell. Marissa had died of multiple stab wounds. Elizabeth had been first at the scene. She looked at the grass and thought about the blood at St. George's Cathedral in London, which had spread out like wine spilled from a bottle. Campbell had severed an artery in her neck and the blood had spurted over a distance of eight feet.

  For the next twenty minutes, they searched the grounds in silence, stopping occasionally to call the others if they found something but all they discovered was litter: some discarded condoms, a few coins, and sweet wrappers. None of it had any meaning.

  "We're wasting our time," Elizabeth said eventually.

  Holland and Williams didn't protest. It was time to call it a night.

  Then she saw it.

  "Holland, give me the flashlight!" She shone the light on the trunk of an old oak tree that stood sentry in the middle of the grounds.

  Holland whistled.

  There, carved into the tree, was a single letter.

  Elizabeth turned to Williams. "You were right."

  "I wish I'd been wrong," he said quietly.

  "What does it mean?" Elizabeth asked, tracing the letter's outline on the tree.

  "Don't touch it," Holland said firmly.

  "What's your problem?"

  "We'll have to seal the area."

  "What's the rush? Forensics won't find anything here that we haven't already found."

  "Even so, I don't want to be blamed for contaminating evidence; that'd be a great start to my career in the Murder Unit.

  "We should go," Elizabeth said, turning to Williams. "Your plane will be leaving soon." She was in no mood to hang around waiting for Forensics, not least because it meant seeing Frank.

  They barely spoke on the short trip to the airport; they were too absorbed in their own thoughts. "Shall I wait with you?" she asked, as the taxi pulled up outside the departures terminal.

  "No, thanks, I'll go straight through." He stood at the entrance to the terminal, watching as she drove off.

  "Where to now, miss?" the taxi driver asked.

  She hesitated for a moment, before deciding to pay Charles Kennedy an unexpected visit. “Sunday’s Well, please.''

  Charles lived in a fine period property in one of the city's most exclusive residential areas. The house was set over three floors, and Charles had spent years refurbishing it to its former glory. It sat on an acre of landscaped gardens with stunning views overlooking the city. Security cameras bloomed on nearly every tree, while spiked iron gates warned off the inquisitive. At that time of night, it was a straight drive across the city to get there.

  The taxi pulled up outside the front gate, and Elizabeth climbed out. The snow had finally abated. Charles' car wasn't visible as she stepped through the open gates and walked up the drive to the front door. She rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Then she lifted the letterbox to peer inside, but there was nothing to see except an empty hall. She couldn't detect any lights, and she wondered if he was in bed. Quietly, she made her way around the side of the house.

  The house looked forlorn and the garden filled with shadows as she trudged across the grass to the coachhouse. She smeared a space on the grubby window to peer inside. There was no sign of his car. He was probably out on the town somewhere, in a familiar pub, trying to postpone coming home to a dark and empty house. She knew how the absence of one person could have such an effect on a place.

  She was about to leave when a flash of light illuminated the trees as headlights appeared at the end of the drive, dazzling her.

  "Charles."

  In shock, he dropped his bags on the ground.

  "It's only me. Elizabeth."

  "For Christ's sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" He was breathless, edgy. "Where the hell are you?"

  She stepped out of the shadows. "Over here."

  "I thought..." His voice trailed away. Nervously, he ran his fingers through his damp hair.

  "You thought I was the legendary Teardrop." She grinned.

  "I thought my number was up, that's for sure."

  "Sorry for lurking."

  "No harm done," he said, stooping to pick up his bags.

  "Let me help you."

  "I'm fine," he said hurriedly. She spotted a bottle of whiskey in one of the bags. "Frank's been trying to track you down all day to tell you what's been going on."

  "About Campbell? Holland told me everything."

  "Did he tell you about The Examiner?"

  "What about The Examiner?"

  "They've published another letter from the killer."

  "Why didn't Holland mention it?"

  "Maybe he assumed you knew."

  "There goes our head start."

  "It gets worse. Brendan Mahon got hold of the autopsy report and the quotes the killer has been leaving behind. He's published everything."

  "How did he get the information?"

  "He claims that someone contacted him this afternoon who wanted to expose the corruption and inefficiency of the Murder Unit."

  "And that clown fell for it. Did this shining light leave a name?"

  "Anonymous, of course.''

  "I don't suppose you have a copy of The Examiner?"

  "Don't insult me." He took out his key and opened the door at the side of the house, then led the way down a narrow hall into the kitchen. The house smelled musty, as if no one had lived there for years. Unwashed dishes were piled high in the sink, and empty whiskey bottles lined the counter-top. A pile of unopened letters sat on the table, mostly addressed to his wife.

  He put his bags down beside the sink, careful to hide the bottle underneath his briefcase, before pulling up a chair at the kitchen table beside Elizabeth. "Who am I fooling?" he said, smiling sadly. He went b
ack to the sink, rinsed two crystal tumblers, and reached into the bag for the bottle of whiskey. "Would you like one?" he asked, twisting the cap open, all pretence gone.

  "Please." She sighed; what was another drink after the day she'd had.

  "Have you identified the body in the mountains?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Not yet." He shook his head. "The body appears to be about the right age and height to be Campbell, but for now he remains officially unidentified, just like his predecessor in the churchyard."

  "Actually, that's why I'm here," Elizabeth said. "Yesterday, I met with Professor Patrick Farrell. He's a theologian, renowned in the field. He made a few interesting points, and I wanted to run them by you."

  "I can't wait," he said, refilling his glass.

  "Do you know anything about the Hebrew alphabet?" she asked.

  "A little," he said. “My grandmother was Jewish. I still remember some of what she taught me.''

  She proceeded to describe the symbol that was carved on the tree in the grounds of the cathedral.

  "It’s the letter Kaf," he said. "Just a minute." He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a book, which he laid flat on the table between them. "Kaf is the eleventh letter of the Aleph-Bet, having the numeric value of twenty. Kaf begins the word kavannah, which means spiritual focus and concentration. Kavannah is a key concept in Jewish spirituality that suggests you should rid your mind of all that is distracting and aim to envision yourself as standing directly before the divine Presence.''

  "What's he trying to tell us? This is so frustrating. I wish I could work it out. Preston thinks it's something so simple that we'll completely overlook it.

  "He could be right."

  Day Five

  Chapter Twenty

  “She had expensive taste,'' said Elizabeth as she flicked through the hangers of designer clothes in the dead woman's wardrobe. Two hours had passed since the body of Kyla Novak had been found.