by L. J. Ross
“Come in,” he said, holding the door open. “They’re waiting for you in the living room.”
Colm was surrounded by five other people when they stepped inside, one of whom was Maggie, who looked exhausted but relieved to see them. Another was Father Walsh, who wore a perennial look of acceptance. There was a family liaison officer Connor had appointed to stay with Colm and his family; Colm’s daughter, Lisa; and the fifth was a person Gregory had never seen before.
Father and daughter were seated on the sofa, their hands clasped tightly together. The old man’s skin had an unhealthy grey pallor and his eyes had the unfocused look of one suffering from extreme shock, while his daughter’s face had been ravaged by tears.
“Mr McArdle?” Niall stepped into the room and perched himself on the edge of one of the remaining chairs, while Gregory remained standing just inside the doorway.
When he made no response, Colm’s daughter rubbed a gentle hand over his arm to stir him.
“Dad? The inspector’s here. Maggie’s boy—Niall?”
Colm blinked, trying to focus.
“Niall?”
“That’s right, Mr McArdle,” he replied. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Gregory had spoken to many police officers and detectives over the years, and none of them relished this moment, which was surely the worst part of their job. He knew the feeling, from times when he had been required to call the families of patients who passed away, and did not envy Niall his task.
“Where’s Aideen?” Colm asked. “Where’s my Deenie?”
“In a higher place,” Father Walsh said quietly. “A better place.”
Unaccountably, Gregory felt a surge of anger, which he swiftly repressed.
“We’re looking after her body, Colm. We’ll take good care of her,” Niall said. “Now, what’s this I hear, about you not wanting to go to hospital for a check-up?”
The fifth man was apparently a doctor, and he leaned forward to reiterate his advice.
“You’ve had a terrible shock,” he said. “I’d like to keep you under observation, just for tonight, and tomorrow morning we could re-assess.”
Colm nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a puppet, but it was clear he wasn’t listening.
“I told her I’d be home early,” he said, robotically. “I told Aideen that.”
“You weren’t to know this would happen,” his daughter whispered. “There’s no way you could have stopped this.”
“I broke my promise,” he continued, and his hands began to tremble. “I should have been there with her. I should have—”
“This isn’t your fault,” Maggie said, in a voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, Colm. We’re all so dreadfully sorry.”
“Every Friday I was gone,” he muttered. “Why did I do it? Why did I ever leave her, even for a minute?”
“It was normal, Da,” his daughter said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“They could have had me,” he whispered, and tears began to leak from his eyes. “Why didn’t they come for me instead?”
Gregory’s heart ached because he knew that, if Colm had been there, Aideen’s killer wouldn’t have followed through with their plan. Nor would they have taken him, instead; whoever had set up Aideen’s macabre tea party was seeking a fairy tale mother, or grandmother—not a father.
“She was the prettiest girl in all of Mayo,” Colm whispered, and began to shake, his body suddenly convulsing back against the sofa.
“He’s in shock,” the doctor said, rushing forward. “Clear some space!”
They fell silent, watching as he helped Colm onto his back and instructed his daughter to elevate his legs to increase blood flow. They kept their distance while he worked, checking heart rate and pulse, all the while speaking to Colm in a calm tone that seemed to have been patented by doctors the world over.
But then, the tone changed.
“Call an ambulance,” the doctor ordered. “He’s going into cardiac arrest.”
* * *
Colm McArdle passed away before the ambulance arrived, in the arms of his daughter and in the presence of his priest, who administered the last rites.
News spread quickly that fresh tragedy had befallen the town, and it didn’t take long for the vultures to descend. Men and women with white, camera-ready smiles stayed late into the night and returned before dawn, circling around an already crippled town, ready to snatch whatever scraps they could find.
“Haven’t they got homes to go to?” Connor muttered, from his position beside the window in the Major Incident Room.
It was shortly after six o’clock, and the town was awakening to find another pillar of its community murdered. Canvassing of the local area had begun the night before, with sleepy-eyed guards going door to door, taking statements from Aideen’s neighbours and the people she had called friends.
Many of them had seen Colm heading out for a dose of his Friday night medicine at O’Feeney’s, but none had seen a stranger loitering outside, or a madman roving the streets, because it was as Gregory had already predicted: the person they sought was invisible. Claire and Aideen’s killer breathed the same air as the rest of the community; they ate and drank, walked and talked like everybody else.
Just then, the outer door opened. Gregory looked up from where he’d been poring over a stack of mail and transcripts of telephone calls the Garda had received since Claire Kelly’s death, each from some poor, desperate soul claiming to have been the one to kill her. Pitiable they may be, but their ‘confessions’ were brazenly inaccurate and bore no resemblance to the crime, so he set them aside as the Mayor entered the incident room carrying a plastic shopping bag.
Maggie was dressed all in black and her face was drawn into tight lines of anger which, to Gregory’s surprise, seemed to be directed towards him.
“Have you seen this?” She set the plastic bag on top of a desk and lifted it upside down so that several daily newspapers fell out, hot off the press.
Gregory reached across to turn one of them around, and frowned when he read the headline:
“PROFILER CALLED IN AS BUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN.”
A photograph, taken outside the McArdle house the previous night, captured him with his hand raised in what appeared to be an aggressive stance. Beside that image was an old, grainy photograph of the man who had been falsely imprisoned three years earlier, following a long-running investigation into the murders of male sex workers in London’s Soho district. He skim-read the article, which was a re-hashing of the tabloid view following that case, and a thinly-veiled suggestion that his presence in Ballyfinny was little more than a cynical ploy to rebuild his reputation as a leading profiler, trading off the grief that was rife in that small town.
“What’s the matter, Ma?” Niall asked, and crossed the room to see for himself.
Gregory passed him the newspaper with a steady hand, and faced Maggie with eyes that were like chips of green ice.
“Do you really believe that self-interest was my motivation in coming here?” he asked. “That I’d be so ambitious, so narcissistic, as to put my own reputation ahead of the wellbeing of people whose lives have been ruined—ahead of those that have been taken?”
Maggie realised quickly that she had spoken in haste.
“Alex—”
Gregory merely shook his head. If she was going to hurl accusations, he’d damn well exercise his right of reply.
“My work as a psychologist is the most important part of my life. Much more important to me than profiling killers. Do you think I like it?” he asked. “Do you think I like having their shadows crawling around my head at night, or images of the dead permanently imprinted on my mind?”
He lifted a hand and pointed towards her sons, who had the grace to look abashed.
“I don’t do this for kicks,” he said, with some disgust. “I do it for the same reason you do: to prevent further loss of life, and to bring some sense of justice to those who remain. I do it on m
y own time, unpaid, because I believe I can make some sort of difference. If there’s even the smallest doubt in your mind concerning my reasons for being here, I can be on the first plane back to London.”
The Mayor reached for the e-cigarette she kept inside her jacket pocket and took a long, healing puff of the minty fluid.
“Well, hell. There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist,” she muttered, and shuffled her feet. “Look, I don’t often say this, so I’ll do it quick.”
“Say what?” he prompted.
“I’m sorry, Alex. That’s what.”
“I bet that hurt,” Niall remarked, and his brother laughed.
“Not as much as your ear will, when I clip it,” Maggie warned him.
“I mean it,” Alex said quietly. “If I’m trespassing here, I have my own work to go back to—”
“You’re not,” she said. “It’s been a bad few weeks, and last night was the worst, by far. My phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning with journalists looking for a sound bite, town councillors and whatnot asking for progress updates and complaining about the press coverage. I don’t have anything to tell them, and I guess it got on top of me.”
She turned to look at her sons.
“I heard rumblings from a few of them about calling in the NBCI to take charge of the investigation,” she said. “Patience is wearing thin.”
“Hold a press conference,” Gregory suggested. “Be a leader and show them you’ve got it covered. Send a message to the killer that you’re redoubling your efforts, and leaving no stone unturned.”
“How do you think they’ll respond to that?” Connor wondered.
Gregory thought of the killer’s behaviour, so far, and of their quiet comings and goings.
“I think it’ll force them to exercise caution, or go underground, for the time being,” he said. “They’ll have the next person in mind, or will likely be looking around for them, but it might force them to stay their hand until things cool down a bit. At the very least, that buys you some time to get the DNA results back from the lab.”
Niall nodded his agreement.
“It makes good sense,” he said. “I want us to keep ahead of the press. Let’s give them something proactive, rather than leaving them to print yesterday’s news.”
Maggie nodded.
“I’ll set it up,” she said.
CHAPTER 26
While Maggie Byrne fought political fires, the Garda set up an urgent briefing.
The station house in Ballyfinny was too small to accommodate all the personnel required to attend and the larger station in Castlebar was a forty-minute drive away, so they decided to commandeer one of the conference suites at the Ballyfinny Castle Hotel, which was by far the grandest setting for a murder briefing Gregory had ever had the fortune—or misfortune—to attend.
After a quick shower and change, he took up a position near the door.
“Habit of yours?” Connor asked, coming to stand beside him.
“What do you mean?”
“You like to be near the door,” the other man said, giving a light shrug. “You plannin’ to make a quick getaway?”
Gregory looked away, feeling slightly unnerved.
He’d grown so used to making behavioural observations, it came as a shock to be on the receiving end. Until now, nobody else had noticed the little quirk he’d developed over the years, especially as it was only a small thing and easy for most people to overlook.
Not for the eagle-eyed man standing next to him, it would seem.
“Ever been trapped in a room with one of the inmates?” Connor asked, as Garda staff swarmed into the conference area and settled themselves on gold-painted chairs normally reserved for wedding banquets.
“We don’t call them inmates, but, yes, I have,” Gregory replied, and thought of Cathy Jones.
“Touch that door handle, and I’ll let go,” she’d said, whilst balancing herself on the extreme edge of a chair, her fingers tucked beneath a noose she’d fashioned from torn bedsheets.
It had taken ninety minutes to talk her out of it, he recalled, and when he’d finally left the room, he’d vomited until there was nothing but acid left in his stomach. Acid, and the burning shame of knowing that a part of him had wanted her to die. Even while he’d talked her out of it, employing every trick he knew to keep her alive, the deepest, darkest part of his heart had hoped his efforts would fail.
Connor watched some indefinable emotion pass across Gregory’s face, and decided not to press it.
“Briefing’s about to start,” he said, and left to join his brother at the front of the room.
Casting his eye around, Gregory could see officers from all tiers of the Garda hierarchy, as well as various people he guessed were support staff or members of the forensics team. At the last minute, an attractive, statuesque woman with a sleek blonde bob flashed her warrant card and slipped into the back of the room. Precautions had been taken to ensure no errant reporters found their way inside, and all personnel were required to show their badge before the doors were closed.
Niall clapped his hands and waited while conversation died down.
“I want to thank you all for turning out,” he said. “It’s a hell of a way to spend your weekend.”
There were a few murmurs of assent.
“You’re here because there’s a killer amongst us,” he said. “Worse than anything we’ve seen in a good long while—not just here, but in the whole of Ireland. There’s no political or gang-related motivation that we’ve found, nor does there seem to be a sexual motivation, but we can’t be sure on either count because the killer leaves nothing of themselves behind. No blood, no fingerprints, no DNA that we’ve been able to use.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“Contrary to what the press have started calling him, the ‘Butcher’ isn’t really a butcher at all. It’s our view that the murders of Claire Kelly and her unborn child, and of Aideen McArdle were perpetrated by the same person. It’s also our view that this person planned the murders, probably weeks or months in advance, and executed their plans with precision. There was little or no blood found, either at the scene or on the victims’ bodies, which were cleaned with a careful eye for detail after the killer dealt one immobilising blow to the head, followed by a single knife wound to the heart. These were no frenzy attacks, they were premeditated crimes.”
One of the officers raised a hand.
“Is there any connection between the victims?” she asked.
“Aside from being resident in the same town, where they were casual acquaintances but shared no immediate family or friends, they were both female, both married homemakers and both mothers.”
“Have you ruled out a copycat?” another one asked, and Niall shook his head.
“It’s too early to rule anything out,” he said, but it’s looking very unlikely that Aideen McArdle’s murder was committed by a copycat—the MO is much too similar. That said, we’ll wait to hear back from the lab to see what they find in the way of forensic evidence, and take things from there.”
“You said nothing useful was recovered from the Kelly house,” one of the sergeants from Castlebar put in. “If that’s the case, what do you hope to recover from the McArdle house?”
“Anything would be welcome,” Niall admitted. “But, you’re right. If it’s the same person, I don’t expect we’ll recover much. Not only will they employ the same methods as before, they’ll refine them so our job will be made even harder.”
“How do we catch them, then?” one officer asked. “How do we catch them, if we have no leads?”
Niall glanced towards Gregory.
“We’ve been working with a criminal profiler, as you might have heard. Doctor Gregory has a lot of experience in that area, and has come up with a profile of the sort of person we’re looking for, to help us to narrow down a pool of suspects. Initially, we thought we were looking for an outsider, but it’s clear that detailed knowledge of the vi
ctims and the local area would have been necessary. Coming to terms with that has already helped us to refocus.”
To Gregory’s dismay, Niall then turned and beckoned him forward.
“I’d like to ask Doctor Gregory to come forward and explain some of the key elements of his profile, so you can all have a better understanding of what we’re dealing with, here. Doctor?”
Fifty heads turned to look at him, and Gregory knew when he was beaten.
* * *
“What you have to understand is, ‘serial’ or ‘signature’ killers are like you and me.”
As Gregory might have predicted, that sent a few feathers ruffling around the room.
He held up a hand, calling for order.
“What I mean is, the person committing these murders is a hunter, just like us. We’re hunting them, and they’re hunting the people they see as ‘prey’. We’re trying to understand them and their motivations so we can bring them in, and they’re trying all the while to understand their victims’ lives, so they can come up with the most efficient way to kill them. It’s two sides of a coin.”
“But why pick Claire or Aideen?” one person asked. “Why them, and not someone else in the town?”
Gregory tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and wondered where he’d picked up that particular habit.
Certainly not from his father, who would never be caught dead wearing jeans.
“These victims ticked the right boxes for the killer,” he replied. “Their homes were suitably isolated, so the killer could move freely without being rushed. They were vulnerable; either as an expectant mother or as an older person who was less able to run away, or because of their own tendency towards introversion.”
“Speak English, Doc!” one of the support staff called out, sending a ripple of laughter around the room.
Gregory flashed a quick smile and tried again.
“I mean to say, they were shy. Less likely to put up a fight.”
“So, he likes the vulnerable ones,” Connor said. “How does that help us find him?”