by L. J. Ross
“How the killer behaves mirrors their personality,” he said. “In the case of Claire Kelly, their choice of location and timing indicates that they were risk-adverse. They knew she’d be alone for several hours and the chances of discovery or interruption would be low. Likewise, in Aideen’s case, they knew she was likely to be alone for several hours, but they couldn’t be sure. There was always an outside chance that Colm would break with tradition and come back early. The location was also a little riskier, being closer to the centre of town. That tells me the killer had grown in confidence, whilst still demonstrating a fundamental aversion to risk-taking. Factor in the nature of the crime and the lack of ultra-violence, and you begin to build up a picture of a killer who’s submissive, careful, and just a little cowardly.”
“Cowardly?” Connor gave a funny half-laugh. “It takes some guts to pull off what this guy’s done, doesn’t it?”
“Not really,” Gregory replied. “In this case, the killer feels compelled to kill these women. It may go against their basic personality, which is probably non-violent and non-confrontational. The killer hasn’t conducted a mass shooting, or held the town to ransom—at least, not in the traditional sense. They sneak around and, if they were ever interrupted, would be more likely to run than to stand and fight.”
“You said they feel ‘compelled’. What exactly do you mean by that?”
This last question came from the blonde woman at the back of the room. When some of the other officers heard it, Gregory noticed they sat up a little straighter in their chairs.
Apparently, the boss was on site.
“I mean that, by killing these women, the offender has reached a stage where their real life and their fantasy life have merged. In their real life, they’re the easy-going, unthreatening character I’ve described; albeit they might have sought a position of relative power in their professional life, to compensate for a lack of it in their personal one. This overriding feeling of repression, or a lack of personal power or autonomy, probably developed in childhood. To deal with it, our killer built up a powerful fantasy world in which they imagined things being very different. That fantasy world has slipped over into reality, and they were no longer able to separate the two.”
He paused, thinking of the crime scenes with their teddy bears and tea sets.
“I think we have a killer who wants to be a child again,” he said quietly. “They covet the ‘perfect’ childhood and, in particular, the ‘perfect’ mother. Perhaps because they had neither, at least in their own perception of things.”
“And so, they’re killing these other women because they happen to be mothers out of—what?” she asked. “Jealousy, or spite?”
Gregory shook his head.
“I don’t believe it was either. Looking at the killer’s treatment of the bodies and the time spent arranging things, I believe our killer liked them—maybe even loved these women, enough to crave spending time with them and to create a fantasy scenario where they were the child. The only way they felt they could do that was by killing them.”
There were more murmurs around the room as the Garda tried to wrap their heads around the idea of one person being capable of living two different ‘realities’.
“Why now?” Niall asked. “If this all started when they were a kid, why have they only just started killing?”
Gregory shook his head.
“I’ve said before that I think the killer may have tried their hand in other, smaller ways; experimenting with violence,” he said. “However, I believe it’s possible that some recent traumatic event might have triggered the change, and now they’re escalating.”
“Because they’ve killed twice, now?” Connor enquired.
“Yes, but also looking at the location of the murders. Usually, a first murder or rape is committed further away from where a killer is based, although still within the catchment of what you could call their ‘comfort zone’. They still know the area, but they don’t like to shit on their own doorstep.”
There were a couple of snorts.
“The Kelly house is located on the outermost edge of town, near the lough. The McArdle house is located on the other side of town, but closer to the centre. It’s still reasonably isolated, being the last house at the end of the street, but it’s not as far out as the first location.”
“You think he’s moving closer to home?” Connor asked.
“Possibly. Remember, I’m talking about what is usually the case; that doesn’t mean it is always the case. Usually, a killer grows in confidence and starts to look for targets a little closer to where they live because they’re more familiar with the area and its locale, the likely times they’ll be seen, and so forth. It also allows them to slip out more regularly to stalk their intended target, without having to travel miles for the privilege.”
He met Connor’s eye.
“The threat of a Garda investigation hasn’t deterred this killer. They’ve killed again, and more boldly this time, even knowing they’re under scrutiny. Not only are they escalating, they’re enjoying their first real taste of power, and power can be very addictive.”
“We’ve already compiled a list of men and women who have no alibi for the time Claire Kelly was killed,” Niall said. “We’ve narrowed that list into segments covering those who were free regularly on Saturday mornings; those who live within a half-mile radius of her home; those who knew or worked with her, and those who have any pops on their record, no matter how small. We’ve come up with a short-list of names of those who feature on three or more segmented lists.”
Gregory nodded. It was good, solid police work, and exactly what they needed.
“If you can do the same for Aideen McArdle, we can see if there’s any crossover between the two.”
“Already started,” Niall said.
Gregory smiled, but it was not because the Garda were taking positive steps in their investigation. It was because, for the first time since he’d met him, Niall Byrne bore the look of a man in command of the situation, and himself.
He only hoped it would last.
CHAPTER 27
Maggie arranged the press conference for noon.
It was to be held outside the Town Hall, which doubled up as the public library, the job centre, the citizen’s advice bureau and general hub for any other public service you cared to mention. It also occupied a plum position overlooking the town square, right opposite O’Feeney’s.
The founding fathers of Ballyfinny had obviously known that running the town was thirsty work.
Now, the small square held a crowd of locals and out-of-town reporters, who were jockeying for position at the foot of the stairs outside the Hall to see who could secure the best view while the Mayor made her address. Odds were even between the camera crews and parents wielding buggies; one could catch the back of your head, but the other could hobble you at the ankles.
Gregory had changed into a suit for the occasion—the only one he’d bothered to bring with him—and had encouraged the Garda to be in full dress uniform. It was important to send out a message of authority, not only to allay the fears of the wider local community, but to remind anybody else who might be watching that this was no game. As with Claire’s funeral, offenders were often drawn to the media coverage surrounding their crimes, so there was a good chance her killer would either come to the press conference or watch it on the local news. On one level, they were probably following the coverage of their case because the idea of being important was exciting to them and, like Dorian Grey, they were enthralled by their own image, such as it was. It also gave them an opportunity to relive their crimes.
On another level, it was just good common sense.
At precisely twelve o’clock, Maggie and Niall took up their positions in front of the cameras, while Gregory stood at the back, next to Connor. He’d politely refused their request for him to make a speech; he was done with those, and it was best that any messages were conveyed by the town’s own elected representative, who commanded res
pect.
“Thank you all for coming…”
Maggie was no longer a mother, or a grandmother, but a stateswoman. With a subtle shift in attitude and demeanour, her voice rang out across the square, striking a perfect note of candour and condolence. The killer had succeeded in dehumanizing the women they’d killed, and it was important to rehumanise them, so they would experience guilt for their crimes. For that reason, Gregory asked Maggie to mention Claire, Aideen and Colm frequently by name, and to speak of their family’s devastation. They needed to remind the killer that their victims were not inanimate objects, but living, breathing human beings with hearts and souls. Only then might they begin to feel some remorse.
“To Claire, Aideen and Colm’s families, I want to offer you our sincerest condolences, not only on behalf of myself and my family, but on behalf of our entire community…”
Gregory listened and watched the crowd, scrutinizing their faces and their reactions. Even if the population of Ballyfinny wasn’t already over ninety per cent ‘White Irish’, he would still have predicted the killer to be of the same ethnicity as his victims, both of whom fell into that ethnic category. Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t help very much, given the demographic.
“To their killer, I want to tell you that we’re onto you,” Maggie was saying. “We know why you killed Claire and Aideen, and we know you may be feeling overwhelmed by what you’ve done. Both myself and the Garda understand that you want to do the right thing. Come and turn yourself in, and put an end to the suffering…”
In Gregory’s experience, most killers knew when their behaviour was ‘wrong’. With certain exceptions, all of his patients back at Southmoor knew and understood the difference between ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ but they chose to disregard that knowledge in the heat of the moment, or while they were planning to commit an offence. It was a matter of reminding them of this basic truth, so they would not feel compelled or driven to kill again.
So easy to talk about, but significantly harder to do.
Standing there on the side-lines, he was reminded of one of his earliest sessions with Cathy Jones. Back then, he’d believed what all clinicians like to believe, when they’re new to a case. Namely, that the patient hadn’t received the right treatment or the right therapy before. Fundamentally, it was an arrogant assumption to make, and he’d learned the error of his ways almost immediately.
“I don’t know why I’m here, Doctor. They think I hurt my children but, I swear to you, I didn’t…”
He could remember the earnest tone to her voice, the tears she’d shed, and had realised something very important.
No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Cathy Jones would never change, because she’d internalised the alternative fantasy world she’d created to justify her own actions. There were disorders he could name, syndromes he could ascribe, but it boiled down to something very simple.
She believed her own lies.
The crowd had begun to clap, and he raised his hands to join them.
* * *
The Ballyfinny Ladies’ Circle met every Saturday afternoon at Molly’s Tea Room, where they discussed the various happenings that week over endless rounds of Earl Grey and carrot cake. Some brought their knitting needles while others brought tiny, handbag-sized dogs that slept on their laps while their owners chewed the fat.
“I can hardly believe it,” one of them was saying, between delicate bites. “I saw Aideen just yesterday morning, at the Post Office.”
“And my Terence was over at O’Feeney’s with Colm, just last night,” another one whispered. “To think, the man died of his terrible, broken heart…”
“It was a heart attack, Mary,” another one said, irritably. “Nobody dies of a ‘broken heart’.”
“I declare they do,” Mary replied, setting her cup back down on its saucer with a clatter of china. “There was never a man alive who loved his wife more than Colm loved Aideen. It’s little wonder his heart couldn’t stand the pain of losing her.”
There was a flutter of hands against heaving bosoms, before the chatter started up again.
Molly listened to them from behind the counter as she rang up sales and moved between tables, collecting empty plates and dishing out fresh ones. As proprietor of the tea room since it opened back in the eighties, she knew every face in town and welcomed all of them, whether she enjoyed their company or not. The Ladies Circle were harmless enough on their own but, put them together and you had a simmering pot, ready to boil over.
“I tell you, it’s the state of the world today. The in-tur-net and whatnot, driving people to murder each other…”
Molly heaved a long-suffering sigh and grabbed a notepad, before making her way to the table in the corner, beside the window.
“Hello, again!” she said, with a smile. “What’ll it be?”
She took down the order, exchanged a few words of polite conversation and then busied herself putting scones on plates beside small ramekins of jam and cream. Behind her, the Ladies Circle talked of murder and of how they’d know who was responsible, as soon as they saw them. It would be as plain as the nose on their face.
Molly turned up the radio, partly to drown out their voices, but mostly to catch the local news report.
“The Mayor of Ballyfinny gave a statement to the press, earlier today, in which she made a personal appeal to the Butcher to hand themselves in…”
The person seated by the window smiled, and sipped their tea quietly.
CHAPTER 28
While Connor continued to oversee the forensic operation at the McArdle house, Alex accompanied Niall as he went about the business of re-interviewing the suspects who, by process of elimination, had found themselves at the top of his list of suspects. Unfortunately, first on that list was Tom Reilly, the school headmaster. Given all that Emma had confessed to him the night before, Gregory fervently wished he hadn’t agreed to give her more time to build up the courage to tell her husband about her affair.
He glanced across at Niall’s hard profile and wondered if she’d told him already.
Would it show?
Reilly lived in a comfortable, period property in the centre of town, not far from the school gates. There were two luxury cars parked on the driveway outside, and Niall let out a long whistle.
“Education pays,” he said. “Or, his wife does. Kate Reilly has her own interior decorating company. Does over all the fancy properties hereabouts and is paid a pretty penny, so I’m told.”
Gregory nodded towards the house.
“How come he made it onto your list?”
Niall ticked the reasons off his fingers.
“First, he knew Claire both personally and professionally, which means he would have known her routines. Second, it’s less than half a mile between here and the Kelly house. The pathway runs right along past the school—and the McArdle house in the other direction. Third, he has a couple of pops for assault and disorderly behaviour, back when he was at university doing his teacher training. It’s old, but you said to note down any past misdemeanours.”
I did say that, Gregory thought.
“Fourth, the bloke has no alibi for the time Claire died. If you believe he was out jogging, you’ll believe anything.”
“It might be true,” Gregory argued, and made a mental note to speak to Emma at the earliest opportunity. He could not continue to be party to a lie, no matter how well-intentioned.
“Aye, well. Let’s see where he says he was last night,” Niall said. “Perhaps he’ll tell us he was out jogging then, too.”
They made their way to the front door, which featured a stained-glass motif in the shape of a prancing horse.
Niall pulled an expressive face, which immediately transformed back into serious lines when the door swung open.
“Afternoon, Mrs Reilly. Is Tom at home?”
Kate was a very attractive woman, by many standards. Petite, slim and with a shining cap of blonde hair, she appeared in the doorway like a ra
y of sunshine, and had a smile to match.
“He is, yes. Is anything the matter?”
Niall shook his head.
“Not at all. We’re just taking a turn around the town, checking some facts here and there. All strictly routine. Mind if we come in, darlin’?”
Kate led them inside and along a polished hallway to an enormous sunroom that looked as though it belonged on the centrefold of the latest Homes and Gardens magazine. There, they found Tom sprawled across an L-shaped sofa playing Candy Crush on his smartphone.
“Where are the kids?” she asked, with false brightness. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on them?”
“They’re playing upstairs,” he said, and his eyes flicked nervously between the two other men in the room. “Hello, inspector. And Doctor Gregory, isn’t it? What brings you here?”
“We wondered if we could have a few minutes of your time,” Niall said. “Sorry to interrupt you, on a Saturday an’ all.”
“No trouble,” the other replied, and dragged himself upright. “Ah, why don’t we sit in the snug? Can I get you a coffee or something?”
“We’re fine, Tom—thanks all the same.”
As they left the room, Gregory looked up to find Kate Reilly watching their progress, her eyes hooded and unreadable.
* * *
The ‘snug’ was an equally pristine feat of interior design, so much so they declined to sit on either of its immaculate, buttery leather sofas, in case they left a dent in the cushions.
“Don’t know why I bother coming in here,” Tom grumbled. “Can’t so much as fart, without her knowing about it.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Niall said. “Listen, Tom—I’ve a few questions I need to ask you, and I’m going to ask them under caution.”
Reilly’s smile faded.
“Under caution? What is this, Niall? Am I under arrest?”
“No, you’re not under arrest, but we’ve two dead women on our hands, Tom. I’ve got a job to do.”
Tom looked at Gregory, who was leaning against the wall nearest the door.