“She was banking almost fifteen grand a month," said Frank. He stood by the window, looking out at the crowd below.
"You've already contacted her bank?" asked Elizabeth.
"No point waiting," he replied. "She was sending about five grand home a month to her mother in Belgrade. We don't know what her pimp cleared. She arrived in Cork from London about a year ago and was unknown to Immigration and Vice."
"Another invisible woman." Elizabeth sighed. It was a familiar story. Employment agencies throughout Eastern Europe advertised jobs in Ireland looking for childminders, waitresses, and hotel staff, but when the girls arrived--lured by the promise of money beyond what they could ever have hoped to earn at home--they were told that the money that had brought them to Ireland was a loan and they would have to pay it back. There was no other way except prostitution.
"We've contacted her landlord: Conor Angland."
"Does he own the strip club on the quay?"
"That's him."
"Wasn't he in trouble for tax evasion?"
"Last year Revenue hit him with a million euro tax bill and gave him two months to pay or go to prison. He paid. If you ask me, he got off easy; he hasn't paid tax for more than ten years. He's heavily involved in prostitution, but of course he denies it."
"And stripping."
"He's a real entrepreneur," Frank said. "The rent on this flat was paid through his personal bank account every month for the past two years. Another girl was here before Kyla."
"Do you have a name?"
"The neighbours said she called herself Fiona. We don't know what happened to her."
"Do you have cause for concern?" Elizabeth asked.
"Not yet. I'll be speaking with Angland this afternoon. Let's hope he'll be cooperative."
"Ask him about Orla Delaney, too. She was a stripper." She glanced over at the bed where the cleaner had discovered the body of the Serbian prostitute that morning. The indentation in the sheet where she'd lain was still visible. Elizabeth thought about Kyla’s parents in Serbia, and the friends who'd wished her well in her adventures. They'd probably envied her, entranced by the glamour of her departure and the lure of possibilities. She wondered what they would think when they learned the truth.
Kyla--or Marilyn, as she called herself--was naked, face down, with her hands tied behind her back when she was found. Her neck had post-mortem slash marks, and it looked as if she had been raped. A Bible quote was on the bed beside her: the men of her city shall stone her to death because she has committed an act of folly. The back of Kyla's head had been almost obliterated by the force of the rock that had been left on top of the typewritten note.
"Apart from the Bible quotation, everything about this murder is different," said Elizabeth. "Campbell never raped any of his victims. This is the first time restraints were used, and there's no hidden reference in how Kyla died to Campbell's killing of his fifth victim, Lilly Sykes. The copycat has stopped pretending, he's getting bolder. His real self is coming through, just as Preston predicted."
"I can't believe he took a shower," said Frank. "It's callous; first he killed her, and then he cleaned himself up in her shower. He's not even bothered about leaving traces of his hair in the plughole. I don't understand it."
"He doesn't expect to be caught."
"Maybe he doesn't care either way."
"I'd like to ask Preston about it, but he was snappy with me when I rang to let him know about the murder. He didn't want to come down to the scene or look at the photos. He was adamant that he'd agreed to provide a preliminary profile and that’s all: job done."
"That's his prerogative, I suppose," said Frank. "It's not like we're paying him.''
“At least Kyla was murdered indoors; we won't have to worry about the weather or anyone trampling through the scene,'' said Elizabeth. She closed the wardrobe doors and turned around, keeping her gaze averted from the bed and the blood on the walls. "Did the neighbours hear or see anything?"
"Holland and Foley are going door-to-door. There are thirty residents in this block but most claim they didn't see or hear anything."
"Most?"
"Holland spoke to someone interesting who lives on this floor. I'll tell you about it later."
"Okay. Was there anyone strange hanging around the area last night?"
"We spoke to the caretaker, but he didn't see or hear anything either. Who knows, maybe it's someone who lives here or who visits often."
"Someone familiar who wouldn't be noticed."
"Like Angland."
"Or a regular client," said Elizabeth.
"I wouldn't mind getting a warrant to search Angland's place just to see what turns up." Elizabeth followed him from the bedroom into a small living room, where officers were dusting for prints. "You were missed yesterday," he said as they watched them work. She avoided his gaze; this was the first time she'd seen him since sending the text about Campbell. "If this is too much for you, just let me know."
"I’m grand, honestly."
"Maybe it's bringing back too many bad memories."
"It's not that," she said slowly. "I needed to get away. I felt overwhelmed yesterday, but I'm fine now." She forced an unconvincing smile. "Besides, I doubt anyone missed me."
"I missed you."
As if she didn't feel bad enough.
"At least we know it's the copycat killer, not Campbell," Frank continued. "But McGovern is refusing to make it official until we have a conclusive I.D. on the body."
"He would." She rolled her eyes. "He hates admitting he's wrong."
Frank shrugged. "Maybe he's right to be cautious. The easiest way to clear it up would be for Campbell's son to offer a DNA sample so we can check it against his father's DNA, but he's refusing. He's even found himself a solicitor to hide behind."
"Why does he need a solicitor? He's not an official suspect yet."
"He's saying he doesn't trust the police because we framed his father, and he refuses to let us frame him."
"It sounds like he has something to hide."
"Everyone has something to hide," said Frank.
Elizabeth could feel the paranoia hammering inside her head. "What next?" she asked, changing the subject.
"It's time to get back to work. I read Ken Williams' report. If Oscar's photo is recognised by any of the women who were attacked in London, we'll have to look more closely at his alibi. If he’s the killer, it would certainly explain how Campbell's knife reappeared."
"It wasn't the same knife that was used to kill Orla Delaney?"
He shook his head. "No, my contacts at The Met confirmed that it didn't come from their old evidence stores. Holland's enquiring about what happened to Campbell's belongings when they were auctioned. By the way, that was good thinking about the mementos at the crime scenes."
"You can thank Williams for that. Has anything turned up?"
"Not yet, but the searches are continuing. Right now, this flat and Kyla Novak are what matters."
"How did the killer get in?"
"There was no sign of a break-in."
"She knew him."
"It looks likely. There were two wine glasses on the kitchen table."
"How did she find her clients?"
"Adverts, mainly. Here." He handed her a glossy magazine inside an evidence bag. She'd seen it on the shop shelves, and vaguely remembered some controversy on the radio about the adverts it carried. Kyla's advert was near the back with a mobile phone number to arrange "a date".
"Is that Kyla's personal number?" Elizabeth asked.
"No. Vice can't prove it, but they think it's one of the lines that Angland runs. Kyla's services were advertised under the same number in some of the local adult magazines too. She had a personal number, but I haven't seen it in any of the adverts so far. Holland's going through her calls, but the killer won't have been that daft."
"You never know," said Elizabeth. "We might get lucky."
Chapter Twenty-One
Angels and Devil
s Gentleman's Club was located in a converted warehouse on the quays. The neon sign outside was switched off during the day, while at night, it blazed like a year-round Christmas decoration, beckoning the desperate and the lonely. The club was closed for business until after dark, but the door was wedged open with an empty crate when Elizabeth and Frank arrived.
Inside, no one was around. The reception area looked like the foyer of a cheap hotel with its fake flowers, pot plants and black leather seats. Angels and Devils was woven in scarlet writing on the black carpet.
"Anyone home?" Frank shouted into the silence.
"Can I help you?"
They jumped and turned to see a bouncer squeezing through the door behind them.
"We'd like to speak with Conor Angland," replied Frank.
"Mr. Angland's not here."
"Why's his car parked outside? I'm assuming you don't drive a Jaguar."
The bouncer didn't flinch. "Do you have an appointment?"
"I don't need an appointment." Frank flashed his badge. "I'd appreciate it if you'd pick up the phone and tell Mr. Angland that Detective Chief Superintendent Frank Murphy would like a word."
The bouncer glanced at the badge and shrugged in defeat. He picked up the phone and growled into it. Moments later, he replaced the receiver. "Follow me."
They followed him into the club where mirrors lined the walls instead of windows, and their footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. It was a place where daylight or fresh air never entered. A few members of staff were busy clearing up the remains of another late night. They looked up curiously as Elizabeth and Frank weaved their way among the tables and stages embellished with brass poles.
Angland's office was at the back of the club, hidden among the rooms used for private dances. The bouncer rapped on the closed door.
"Enter!"
Angland was reading the newspaper as Frank and Elizabeth walked in. "One second," he said, raising a finger in the air, not bothering to look up.
"No rush," said Frank. "It's just a murder inquiry."
Angland's head snapped up, and he jumped to his feet, feigning embarrassment. "Sorry. I was expecting someone else. You must be Detective Murphy."
"Detective Chief Superintendent Murphy." Frank drew himself up to his full six feet four inches.
Elizabeth looked Angland up and down, not bothering to conceal her contempt. He wore a tailored suit, silk tie, and gold, diamond-encrusted cufflinks. The dazzling white of his smile almost blinded her. His voice took her by surprise; it was educated and refined. Clearly, Angland hadn't come from the wrong side of the tracks; he'd chosen to be a sleaze, which made him even more despicable.
"Would you like some tea or coffee? I'll have Max bring us something."
Elizabeth almost choked on his fake charm.
"We'd like to ask you about Kyla Novak," said Frank, getting straight to the point.
Angland looked at him blankly.
“You might remember her as Marilyn,'' Frank explained.
Angland's wide smile quickly faded. "Dreadful news. I was fond of her. Everyone was. We're all shocked at what happened." He started gathering his papers together.
"How did you find out about her death?"
"An officer came to my house this morning and told me. He asked if I'd identify the body."
"Did you?" asked Frank, already knowing the answer.
"No," he admitted. "I told him to ask one of my girls. It would have been too upsetting for me." He shoved the papers into a drawer and locked it. "The girls knew her better than me."
"But you paid the rent on her flat," said Elizabeth.
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "She needed a place to stay. I offered her the flat. Simple."
"Do you regularly provide places to stay for your employees?"
"Sometimes."
"How kind of you," said Elizabeth.
"I try to help when I can."
"Did you help Orla Delaney?" asked Frank.
"Who?" Angland frowned.
"Orla Delaney, the woman whose body was found two days ago at the university. Haven't you seen the news?"
"I've been busy."
"Too busy to spare a thought for a woman who once worked for you?"
"She worked for me briefly, but she was a mess. Her life was falling apart."
"Unlike Kyla?"
"I liked Marilyn...Kyla. She was an amazing dancer." He waved his manicured hands in a gesture of regret.
"How much did she earn a night working here?"
"About four hundred euro a night."
"How many nights a week did she work?"
"Five, sometimes six."
"Interesting. I'm not an accountant, but that makes about ten grand a month. Would you be surprised to know that she was banking more than fifteen grand a month?"
Elizabeth watched Angland's expression as his busy mind did the calculations. His face twitched in irritation. She saw his capacity for rage and watched him control it.
"How do you think she made the extra money?" asked Frank.
"Maybe she had a milk round."
"Any chance she was using your flat for prostitution?" asked Frank, ignoring his sarcasm.
"How would I know?"
"You weren't taking a percentage of her earnings in exchange for the flat and arranging her clients?"
"I'm not a pimp," he replied indignantly. He was good at feigning innocence, sitting there with his hands folded as if he was praying.
"Let’s get to the point," said Frank. "I don't give a damn about what happens in this club, or about your magazine adverts; that's between you and Vice. My biggest concern is the murder of a woman by a serial killer who will strike again within days if he's not caught. Nothing you say will go any further than this room, so can you tell me if you were aware of Kyla Novak's activities as a prostitute?"
"I was not."
"You didn't arrange clients for her?"
"Never."
"Would you be willing to provide your mobile phone records?"
"I would be happy to provide any information that might help you find the killer, but the truth is that I don't know who killed her."
"Did you ever sleep with her?" asked Frank.
"No." He shook his head, annoyed.
"She didn't pay the rent by sleeping with you?"
"I've never even been to her flat."
"Are you sure about that?" asked Frank. "Because if any witnesses come forward claiming that they heard Kyla arguing with a man matching your description, it won't bode well for you."
"Okay, I might have been at the flat a few months ago, but nothing happened between us."
"I hope your memory is clearer when it comes to your movements last night, because either Kyla Novak's killer let himself in with a key, or she let him in because she knew him, and you fit both categories. You're an intelligent chap. I'm sure you understand that lying won't be good for you."
"I'm not a liar." Like all the best liars, at that moment it was almost as if he believed it.
***
"You’re an intelligent chap," repeated Frank as he and Elizabeth crossed the road to the car. "The lies I have to tell."
"Flattery usually works better than threats with a man like Angland," said Elizabeth.
"Bribery works best of all, but I don't have anything to bribe him with." He stood by the driver's door, rummaging in his coat pocket for the keys. "What did you think of him?"
"Shady. He's the worst type of villain: the type who masquerades as a respectable businessman."
Frank unlocked the door and they climbed in. They watched the entrance to Angels and Devils for a while. Elizabeth conjured up an image of Kyla Novak arriving there for the first time, thousands of miles from home, into the shark-like clutches of Conor Angland.
"Maybe he chooses them here."
Before she could say another word, the police radio crackled. Frank grabbed it. "Murphy."
"It's Sergeant Holland, sir."
"Holland. What is it?"
"We've been going through Kyla Novak's mobile phone records, Chief. The same number has appeared almost a hundred times in the last few months. Some days there were as many as ten calls. We got a match through records. Would you like to know who it is, sir?"
Frank sighed loudly. "Who is it, Sergeant?"
"Sorry, sir, I wasn't sure if you were alone. It's Brendan Mahon."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elizabeth watched Brendan Mahon through the glass of the interrogation room. He was slumped in a chair, exhausted and unshaven, twitching and fidgeting as his mind made panicked leaps. Frank sat opposite him, slowly turning the pages of his notebook, as if Brendan wasn't even there. A uniformed officer stood guard by the door. The tick of the clock and the rustling of the pages were the only sounds in the room.
Elizabeth sat impatiently on the wrong side of the glass between Foley and Holland, waiting for Frank to start. She knew that he was making Brendan sweat, but he was making her sweat too. "Where's his solicitor?" she asked, as another minute dragged by.
"He hasn't requested one," replied Holland. "We read him his rights, but he said he didn't want a solicitor."
"I'm amazed; I was sure he'd be the type to hide behind his rights at the first sign of trouble."
"He probably thinks he can talk his way out of it," said Foley, taking a bite of his sandwich. Elizabeth averted her eyes; her stomach could barely handle coffee.
"Maybe he thinks not asking for a solicitor makes him seem more innocent," said Holland.
Elizabeth watched Brendan. He didn't look as if he had any plan. She breathed a sigh of relief when Frank finally put down his notebook and fixed Brendan with a friendly smile.
Conor Angland wasn't the only shark.
"Help me out, Brendan," said Frank. "Help yourself out: tell me the truth about your relationship with Kyla Novak."
"I didn't have a relationship with her," insisted Brendan. "I saw her a few times, that's all."
"For sex?"
"Of course for sex. She was a prostitute, what do you think I paid her for?"
"How often did you pay for her services?"
Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 11
