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

by Joanne Clancy

  "A few times."

  "Brendan." Frank sighed. "You know why we've brought you in; your number came up on Kyla's phone records almost a hundred times in the last seven months."

  "Okay, I was seeing her a few times a week: Tuesdays and Saturdays mostly."

  "Always at her flat?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she ever see you at your place?"

  Brendan shook his head.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure. How could I forget?"

  "I don't know how many prostitutes you have sex with. Maybe it's easier to stop remembering the details."

  "There was no one else."

  "Only Kyla?"

  "Correct."

  "We'll be searching your house and lifting prints. If Kyla was there, we'll find out." He paused, giving Brendan a chance to salvage the situation, but he stayed silent. "We'll find the others, if there are any."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Brendan asked, looking alarmed.

  "It doesn't mean anything if you didn't have any prostitutes at your place." His eyes slid to his notebook for a moment. "Did you have sex with Orla Delaney or Fiona Burke?"

  "How are they involved?"

  "Forget about them, forget I even mentioned them. You never slept with them, so it doesn't matter."

  "No I didn't."

  "Did you ever pay them for professional services?"

  "No."

  Frank gave him a look, as if he pitied his stupidity. "Tell me how you first met Kyla."

  "A friend gave me her number. He recommended her."

  "We'll need his name."

  Brendan hesitated. "I wouldn't like to get him into trouble."

  "You're the one in trouble, Brendan. I wouldn't waste my energy worrying about anyone else."

  "All I’ll say is that he knew my situation. He was just being friendly."

  Frank leaned back in his chair. "What exactly was your situation?"

  "My wife and I separated."

  "Is this the wife you married last year?"

  "Are you going to start interrogating me about my marriage problems now?"

  "I'm interested in why your wife left you after less than a year of marriage. Maybe it's relevant to the investigation."

  "I suppose you think I was violent."

  "I'm not thinking anything."

  "I know what you're playing at. You're trying to paint me as a wife-beater who started taking out my temper on prostitutes before escalating to murder."

  "But you don't have anything to worry about because that's not what happened, is it? Apart from the fact that you were seeing prostitutes."

  "It wasn't like that."

  "It never is." Frank sighed wearily. "How long did you say you'd been seeing her? Six months, was it?"

  "Six, maybe seven."

  "It's seven now, is it? Did you start seeing Kyla before your wife left you? Is that why she left?"

  "You should ask her."

  "I will. When was the last time you saw her?"

  "My wife or Marilyn...Kyla?"

  "Both."

  "I saw my wife last week to finalise some things. We had dinner."

  "Any chance of reconciliation?"

  "No."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. When did you last see Kyla?"

  Brendan hesitated. He hadn't been told about the eyewitness yet. Frank was saving that surprise. "I can't recall."

  "A week, two weeks, a few days?"

  "I said..."

  "Yeah, you don't recall." Frank raised his eyebrows. "You're not making this easy, Brendan. I'm dragging every detail out of you, and it doesn't look good."

  "I've got nothing to hide."

  "Do you think the jury will agree?"

  "Don't start that crap with me!" Brendan slammed his fist on the desk. It was the first time he'd raised his voice. "Don't even mention a jury. I'm not going down for this. I didn't kill Kyla or anyone else. I cared about her."

  "You cared about her?" repeated Frank incredulously. "Like Romeo and Juliet?"

  "I cared about her. She was kind to me. I would never have hurt her."

  Holland snorted beside Elizabeth, making her jump. She knew it wouldn't have been unusual if Brendan had fallen for Kyla. He had probably convinced himself that it was real affection, conveniently ignoring the mesmeric power of his money.

  "If you cared about Kyla so much, why didn't you see her more than twice a week?" Frank continued.

  "Twice a week was all I could afford," Brendan sighed, defeated.

  "Was she expensive?"

  "She wasn't some dirty street-walker, if that's what you're suggesting."

  "Do you have something against street-walkers?"

  "I don't have anything against anyone, but she was different. I loved her."

  "You loved her." Frank scratched his head and looked sceptical. "How did you feel about her sleeping with other men for money?"

  Brendan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I wasn't happy about it. I asked her to move in with me. I asked her to quit."

  "I thought you were broke."

  "I have plans."

  "Did you tell her about your plans?"

  "I tried."

  "What did she say?"

  There was a long pause.

  "Brendan?"

  "She laughed."

  Frank laughed too. "I can imagine. Did she make you angry?"

  "Stop playing games. I wasn't angry, I was sad. I wished it were different. She was better than that."

  "Let me guess: you wanted to take her away from that life."

  "I did actually."

  "That’s admirable. We've obviously completely misunderstood you. You're a hero. Brendan Mahon: crime reporter by day, saviour of fallen women by night."

  "It's easy to mock."

  "I'm not mocking, but I don't understand why, if you loved her, you can't remember the last time you saw her."

  Brendan studied his fingernails.

  "Are you okay, Brendan?"

  "I'm thirsty."

  "Sergeant, can we get some water, please?" The uniformed officer went to the water cooler and filled a plastic cup. He set it on the table beside Brendan, but he didn't touch it.

  "We don't need you to tell us when you last saw Kyla," Frank continued. "We already know. We have a witness who claims you were there last night."

  "You're lying." His face went pale.

  "You don't have to say anything. Kyla's phone records clearly show that you had some sort of an obsession with her. Add in the fingerprints and the witness who saw you arrive, and I'd say we nearly have enough to charge you."

  "I was there last night, but I didn't kill her. I phoned her to tell her about my pay rise for my work on the Teardrop case. I wanted to celebrate."

  "Celebrate," Frank repeated.

  "Yes, celebrate.''

  "How did she react?"

  "At first, she said no. She said she'd cancelled all her appointments because she didn't want to see anyone."

  "Did she mention why?"

  "No. She must have read the killer's letter in the paper and realised that she was a potential target."

  "She was comfortable enough with you to let you in."

  Silence.

  "How was she when you got there?"

  "Nervous. She kept asking about Teardrop, and if the police were close to catching him. She asked about the other victims too."

  "It's understandable that she was concerned. So you went around, opened a bottle of wine..."

  "We didn't have wine. I shagged her and left."

  "You shagged her? That's rather disrespectful of your beloved, isn't it?"

  "I didn't kill her. I didn't even know her real name until this morning. She called herself Marilyn. When I got a phone call this morning saying that another body had been found, I went to the building, but I still thought it was someone else. She never told me her real name."

  "You two had an amazing relationship." Frank smirked. "Someone knew her real name.
"

  "I didn't kill her. How many times do I have to tell you? Someone must have visited her after I left. You should be looking for him instead of harassing me. I know she wasn't killed until after eleven, and I was gone by ten. Check the CCTV at her building if you don't believe me."

  "There isn't any CCTV at her building, so it's impossible for us to check exactly when you left, but you probably knew that." Frank raised his hand to silence Brendan's protests. "Tell me, if you didn't kill Kyla, how do you know her time of death? I didn't mention what time she died."

  "I have my sources."

  "Do these sources have names?"

  "I can't reveal their names. I need to respect their confidentiality. If I reveal my sources' names, my career's over. People need to know they can trust me."

  "What will happen to your career if you're charged with murder?"

  "I'm not revealing my sources, Chief Superintendent. It's a matter of principle."

  Before Frank could continue, there was a knock at the door of the interrogation room and Derek Delaney walked in. He smiled his lopsided grin at Brendan as he bent to whisper in Frank's ear. Frank sighed and looked uncertainly at Brendan, as if he was about to break some bad news.

  "When Forensics lifted the body of Amber Foley, they found a beer bottle underneath her. It was a Heineken bottle, just like the bottles in Kyla's refrigerator. We checked it for fingerprints. Guess whose prints they match?"

  Elizabeth inhaled sharply at Frank's risky tactic. Brendan's immediate response suggested that Frank had blown it.

  "That's impossible! How could you have found my prints at the scene? I was never there. I didn't kill Amber Foley. I'd never even heard of her before the murder."

  "Like you didn't kill Kyla?"

  "Yes! Exactly like that." He pushed his chair back noisily and stood up, but he quickly sat down again when Delaney stepped towards him. “You’re setting me up.''

  "Why would we set you up?" Frank asked.

  "Someone's setting me up! I won't let you do this to me. I can't believe I was stupid enough to think that if I explained to you what happened you'd see I couldn't...I didn't..."

  "You can still explain."

  It was too late.

  "I want a solicitor."

  "If you bring in a solicitor, I won't be able to help you."

  "I want a solicitor. Now."

  ***

  "I blew it in there," said Frank as he stood beside Elizabeth at the coffee vending machine.

  "Don't be too hard on yourself. It was worth a try. It's not your fault that pulling a fast one on him about the bottle backfired."

  "What do you mean? It’s true. Brendan's fingerprints match the prints on the bottle."

  Elizabeth could hardly take in what she was hearing. "Why didn't they show up before? The staff at The Examiner gave their fingerprints to Holland to check against the first letter."

  "No one thought of matching the prints with the bottle until now. That's what Delaney came to tell me. We took the prints from The Examiner's staff to see if we could isolate the killer's prints on the envelope, not to get a match with the bottle."

  "I can't believe it. I could have sworn that Brendan didn't believe it either.''

  "I couldn't tell if he was shocked because he realised he'd left incriminating evidence behind when he killed Amber Foley, or because he couldn't figure out how his fingerprints had ended up there when he was nowhere near the place."

  "It's starting to make sense," said Elizabeth thoughtfully. "He's obsessed with Campbell; his articles are front page news; and the split with his wife is a classic stressor, enough to send him over the edge."

  "You don't sound convinced."

  "That's the problem."

  "I was hoping you could convince me that I had the right man," said Frank, heading back to the interrogation room.

  Elizabeth's phone rang as she watched him walk away. She didn't recognise the number that flashed up. Reporters had been calling her for days, but something stopped her sending it straight to voicemail.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jacques' Bistro wasn't Elizabeth's type of place, and from the glare the waiter gave her when she walked in, he agreed. "Madam is waiting for you," he said when she gave him the name.

  "Thanks, monsieur.'' She treated him to her iciest stare, knowing he was no more French than she was. He led the way towards an arched window at the far end of the half-empty room, where a table had been set for two, and a woman was already seated.

  Amanda Purcell looked good for someone who was supposed to be dead. She hadn't changed much in the decade since they’d last met. She'd always been attractive, well-groomed, and poised, but now she looked happy and relaxed. Her skin glowed with health, as if she'd just stepped off the plane from a two-week holiday in the sun. She looked much younger than her forty-five years.

  "I was relieved to hear your voice," said Elizabeth when the waiter left to get their drinks.

  "I'm sorry I have put you to such trouble,'' said Amanda. “If I'd known that Trevor was going to be so dramatic, I'd have contacted you sooner."

  "He was worried."

  "I told him I was leaving him a hundred times. That last night, after yet another argument, I couldn't have been any clearer."

  "You didn't take any of your belongings."

  "I didn't want anything from my old life. He's welcome to my things. I went straight to Colin's house and left everything behind. We've just returned from Italy. Colin has a holiday home there."

  Elizabeth suppressed a sigh at the time they'd wasted searching for her. "What about your papers and books?" she asked, as the waiter filled their wine glasses.

  "I've put it all behind me. I want a fresh start, a new beginning."

  "What will you do?" Elizabeth sipped her wine.

  "Colin is involved in the art world. There's a place for me in the business. I need to get away from Cork, from my job, from the same old boring routine."

  "From Trevor."

  "Especially from Trevor. He's held me back for years."

  "Why did you go back to him?"

  "I felt sorry for him. I suppose I finally ran out of pity."

  "Is this where you say you gave him the best years of your life?"

  Amanda raised her eyebrows, surprised at Elizabeth's directness. "The best years of my life are ahead of me, and I refuse to let Trevor ruin them. Colin and I came back to sell his house, and then we're returning to Italy."

  "Far away from Trevor."

  "Exactly." She smiled a little too brightly.

  Elizabeth glanced at the menu and chose something at random; she had lost her appetite. "How did you find out that the police were looking for you?"

  "We arrived in Cork this morning. The answering machine was flooded with messages from friends, reporters, and colleagues wondering what had happened to me. I called the police immediately. I think they were irritated that I was alive. They made me feel as if I'd been wasting their time."

  "You can't blame them for thinking the body in the churchyard was you. First, Campbell's back in the news, then a woman's body is found, and you're on the missing list. Even I thought it was you. Everything pointed to you, even the fact that you had a fractured wrist."

  "Too many creepy coincidences." Amanda shuddered. "I'd rather not think about it. I just want to get everything sorted out so I can leave again. Maybe I'm being selfish, but I don't even want to think about that poor woman, whoever she is. Are you any closer to finding out?"

  "Not really, no." Elizabeth put out a hand to stop her refilling her glass. She'd drunk too much over the past few days. "May I ask you something?"

  "Sure, go ahead."

  "What did you think when you heard that someone was claiming to be Ross Campbell?"

  Amanda inhaled deeply. "I was scared. It seems plausible that he would come back for me."

  "Why would he want to kill you?"

  "Why would he want to kill anyone?" She gazed out at the courtyard. The wind h
ad picked up, and the air was alive with the last of the dancing leaves. At the far end of the courtyard, a woman struggled with an umbrella. "I wouldn't have been shocked if he had tried to murder me. He accused me of tipping off the police when he was arrested in London."

  "You never mentioned it."

  "It didn't seem fair to mention it. He was out of jail, the police had admitted to planting evidence against him, and he insisted he was innocent."

  "Tell me about the doubts you had back then."

  "Where do I begin? We started seeing each other a few months before he was arrested. He was obsessed with the investigation into London's latest serial killer. He insisted on silence whenever the news came on, and he saved all the newspaper reports. He even took me to the crime scenes. I told him I didn't like it, but he just laughed at me. He thought it was funny."

  "Why didn't you tell the police?"

  "Looking back, I don't understand why I didn't say anything, but I suppose I felt stupid. It seemed ridiculous that I was having an affair with a serial killer."

  "So you said nothing."

  "Don't think I haven't felt guilty about my silence. There were times when I wished I'd been braver; I might have saved some of those poor women."

  "Fear stops too many people doing what they should," said Elizabeth.

  "Ross wrote to me when he was in jail. He swore he was innocent and asked if I'd wait for him. When I didn't reply, he wrote and said he blamed me for his arrest. In his last letter, he swore he'd punish me for what I'd done."

  "Meaning he'd kill you?" asked Elizabeth.

  "What else did he mean?"

  "Did you tell Trevor about the letters?"

  "Trevor made it clear that he didn't want to hear Ross Campbell's name. He switched off the television if his name was mentioned on the news."

  "Did Trevor show any interest in the murders?"

  "No; his only interest was the stock market prices."

  "What did you do about Campbell's letters?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I asked the prison to stop sending them, and I never received another one. I was petrified when his trial collapsed, and he was a free man again. I knew the police were convinced that he was the killer. I didn't know what to believe. I told Trevor about Ross' threats, but he wasn't impressed. I said I wanted to move. He told me to stop being melodramatic."