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

by Joanne Clancy

  Before Elizabeth could reply, the bell rang, signalling the end of the lecture. She sighed with relief. Preston shoved his notes into his battered leather briefcase as the students filed out. "I have a meeting," he said without looking at her.

  "I'll walk with you. This won't take long."

  He shrugged in resignation.

  "I was surprised to discover you were in town," she said as they set off along the corridor.

  "It's a small world." He nodded at a few students as they passed. He was already well known in the few weeks he'd been in Cork.

  "You should have called," Elizabeth said.

  "Why?"

  "We could have had dinner."

  "For old times' sake?"

  "I suppose."

  "We lived a few streets away from each other in London for years and never had dinner. I tried calling you then, but you weren't interested. Why would I contact you now?"

  "You're not still annoyed about everything that happened?"

  "I'm not annoyed. I'm over it. The fact that you refused to speak to me changed our relationship. You wouldn't even give me a chance to explain. Let's just keep this professional."

  "I'd like a profile of the man who murdered Amber Foley."

  Silence.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "I heard you, loud and clear." He stopped walking and stared down at her. His frown lines were deeper than she remembered. "If you need a profile, you should ask a profiler."

  "That's why I'm talking to you."

  "Correction: I'm an ex-profiler, just like you're an ex-detective. I stopped profiling a few years ago."

  "You worked on an abduction case for The Met last year. I read about it in the newspapers. A woman was taken in broad daylight from Heathrow Airport."

  "If you know so much about the case, you should know that it failed."

  "Your profile was an eighty per cent match for the killer."

  "The woman's dead. I failed."

  "Your profile was spot-on. It's not your job to save the dead."

  Preston climbed the stairs and walked into the courtyard. "You didn't think so in the Teardrop case."

  That threw her for a moment. "I never said you should have caught Campbell. Everyone on the case was overworked. You were under pressure. You missed things. Everyone did."

  "There were clear signals that, if spotted in time, could have prevented other deaths; you made that clear in the tribunal."

  "I had to be honest."

  "You didn't have to be so brutal."

  "Nor did you."

  He had no answer to that.

  "Let's change the subject," she said.

  "Look, I don't do profiles any more. Find someone else to help you."

  "There isn't anyone else."

  "There's Ken Williams."

  "I already asked him. He won't do it."

  "I wasn't even your first choice." He laughed wryly.

  She ignored the jibe. "Will you at least have a look at our files, and see if anything hits you? That's all I ask."

  "Our files? I thought you'd quit detective work."

  She sighed and turned to walk away.

  "I'll have a look at what you've got," he called after her. She turned back. "Send the files over."

  "Come to the crime team meeting tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up beforehand, and afterwards we can drive to the scene."

  He nodded.

  "Thanks, Harold. I won't forget this."

  "I'll make sure you don't. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting."

  Chapter Nine

  "Is it true?"

  Elizabeth jumped and swung around to find Brendan Mahon hovering behind her. "I should have you arrested for stalking." She was at her local supermarket, looking for something quick and easy for dinner. "Are you following me?" She grabbed a limp salad and shoved it in her basket.

  "Don't flatter yourself, love. You don't own the place. Is it true? Have they found another body?"

  "We'll have to wait and see."

  "Fuck you."

  "In your dreams."

  "I already know they found another body. The killer called the radio station. I can't believe he didn't contact me even though we printed his letter like he asked."

  "Maybe he's seeing other crime reporters behind your back."

  "I'm only doing my job."

  She brushed past, trying to ignore him.

  "I have a deadline tomorrow. Can you at least give me a name?"

  "No, I can't." She swore under her breath as her phone rang. It was Frank. She backed away from Brendan before answering, but he saw something in her eyes when she turned around a few minutes later.

  "Bad news?"

  "No comment."

  She shoved her groceries in a recyclable bag and headed home. Her mind was a few miles away, in a churchyard, where the unidentified body of the latest victim had been discovered. Ross Campbell had murdered his second victim at a churchyard. It was the same pattern, and she had ignored it because it seemed too obvious.

  Frank called her as soon as he arrived at the scene. “The victim was placed in a corner of the churchyard, near an ivy-covered wall. She was killed elsewhere, some weeks previously, but Kennedy can’t estimate when she died, or how, because she was decapitated. Her hands and feet have also been removed.''

  “Do you think there’s a symbolic significance to this? It certainly wasn't Campbell's M.O.,'' said Elizabeth.

  “He left a typewritten note inside the victim’s underwear: Therefore be on the alert, remembering that night and day for a period of three years I did not cease to admonish each one with tears. Sick bastard.''

  “We’ll discuss it more at dinner tonight,'' she said as she arrived home.

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.''

  Elizabeth flung her shopping bags on the kitchen counter and immediately washed her hands. She felt stained. Then she opened a bottle of red wine and downed a glass before promptly pouring another. She flung a lasagne in the oven and sank onto the couch. Closing her eyes, she wondered what the dead women would have been doing. She wanted to imagine them having normal lives, knowing that she wanted it for herself, but normality was no good to them anymore. She got up and opened the balcony door, letting the sharp air slap her in the face.

  The rest of the evening made for painful reading as she ploughed through the incident reports. Month after month, there was the same forgotten story: women were robbed, raped, beaten, or stalked.

  The most recent report was from a week ago, concerning the rape of a prostitute near where Amber Foley's body had been found. The victim, Darcy Timmons, wouldn't have reported the rape, except she was so badly beaten that a friend had taken her to the hospital where the nurses had called the police.

  Darcy hadn't been robbed, which made the attack even more disturbing; rape of a prostitute was usually followed by the robbery of whatever money she'd earned. Most attackers derived a sick pleasure from the humiliation. Her attacker told her that he knew where she lived and would kill her if she spoke to the police. She hadn't been able to provide a description because it was too dark, but Elizabeth wondered if the woman's brain was too foggy from her last fix.

  She made a note to find out who was dealing with Darcy's case. Rape wasn't part of Campbell's pattern, but neither was dismemberment, and that hadn't stopped the copycat killer. He claimed to know where Darcy Timmons lived. Whoever sent the letter said he'd been watching Amber Foley too. It wasn't much to go on, but Elizabeth refused to ignore any other connections, however implausible.

  She looked again at the boxes of files that Detective Holland had dropped off earlier. She wasn't even halfway through them. The bizarre catalogue of human malevolence seemed endless.

  At 10p.m., Frank buzzed. A pang of guilt stabbed at Elizabeth that she hadn't given him a key. She always meant to, but something stopped her. A key would have meant something, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready. Frank never asked. Wearily, he shrugged off his coat, and threw it on
the back of a chair. "Something smells good."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I'll have some of that first," he said, taking the glass of wine from her hand. "Not bad. What is it?"

  "I think it might be wine."

  He raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I meant."

  "It's wine, it's red, that's about all I know. I only got it because it was calling my name at the checkout and my resistances were down after bumping into that idiot, Brendan Moran."

  "Bad day?"

  "You can say that again. How was yours?"

  "Worse. Let's talk about it over dinner. Would you mind if I grabbed a quick shower?"

  Briefly, she wondered if his asking for permission was a reproach, but she wasn't in the mood for an argument. "Help yourself to towels," she said. He smiled and took the wine into the bathroom.

  She sat on the balcony and gazed out over the city. Rain fell softly, blurring the streetlights. Traffic whined quietly far below. Sometimes sitting there made her think of London, and the differences, and then she'd feel homesick, remembering how long it had been since she’d been home.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Frank said.

  Her eyes snapped open. She had dozed off and hadn't heard him come up behind her and put his arms around her. "I must have nodded off." She yawned. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

  "This is delicious," Frank said. He was used to eating food on the go and seldom noticed what he ate.

  "Tesco's finest," she grinned.

  He smiled back at her and continued eating. She waited until dessert before asking about the latest body, even though waiting wasn't one of her strong points.

  "I wondered how long it would take you to ask."

  "Any confirmation yet on how she died?"

  "The body was removed two hours ago. Forensics wanted to be certain that they didn't disturb anything. Kennedy's performing the autopsy tomorrow morning. I'll be there after the team meeting."

  "Did anyone see her being dumped?"

  "A few drunks claimed they heard a car pulling up at 3a.m., but it was too dark to see anyone."

  "That’s a few hours after Amber was killed."

  "He probably had the body in the boot of his car when he picked Amber up. He drove to the river, killed Amber, then on to the churchyard."

  "Risky."

  "It's only the drunks' evidence that puts it at 3a.m., not the most reliable sources. He might have dumped her there earlier. The car may not be connected."

  "If she was dropped at 3a.m., that puts the guy who found Amber in the clear."

  "Don't talk to me about James Lawton."

  "Did you speak to him today?"

  "How do you know about that?"

  "Holland mentioned that you were meeting him."

  "Yeah, I spoke to him. He's a creepy guy. He admitted knowing who Amber was, but claims he never talked to her, and he insists that he didn't know it was her when he reported finding the body. For now, we'll have to take his word for it."

  "Eighty per cent of victims know their attacker."

  "Twenty per cent don't," Frank pointed out. She couldn't argue with that.

  "Have you tracked down Oscar Kelly?"

  "More bad news on that front," Frank replied. "Oscar has an alibi, about ten of them. He was drinking in a pub near his flat all night."

  "Maybe he's lying."

  "It'll be easy enough to verify."

  "I have a bad feeling about him," Elizabeth said, suddenly feeling nauseous. Oscar had been perfect. He had made sense, but if he had an alibi, then they she was right back at square one.

  "You haven't asked about the autopsy on Amber Foley." Frank interrupted her miserable thoughts as she refilled his glass.

  "I wasn't sure that you were ready to discuss it yet. I always found it difficult."

  "It still gets to me. I don't know how Kennedy does what he does all day, every day. He doesn't bat an eyelid."

  "Kennedy's not a bad old soul. I knew a medical examiner in London who used to put his lunch on the mortuary slab so that he didn't have to stop working to eat."

  "That's twisted."

  "Aren't we all a bit twisted?" She sipped her wine. "Any surprises from the autopsy?"

  "Not really. It was straightforward enough: a textbook strangulation according to Kennedy. He seemed impressed. He said he was going to keep the photos to show in his lectures."

  "Was anything found on the ligature?"

  "Kennedy lifted some fibres from inside the wound."

  "Blue fibres?" She guessed before he said it. Campbell used blue garden string too. He even had some in the boot of his car when he was arrested. His lawyer had tried to have it discounted as evidence on the grounds that Campbell was a keen gardener.

  "The hyoid bone was broken."

  "Interesting," Elizabeth said. "A broken hyoid bone in the throat is associated with manual strangulation. The killer used more force than was required. Only two of Campbell's victims had a broken hyoid bone. Were there any knots on the ligature?"

  "No. It was crossed over at the back, but there weren't any knots."

  "Just like Campbell. Were there any other injuries?"

  "There were some bruises on her neck where she tried to pull the rope away, and scratches. We took scrapings from under her nails, but I'm sure they'll trace back to the victim." He paused. "This is rather uncivilised conversation for the dinner table. Would you like more wine?"

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  "That's not like you. I think I'll have another glass."

  And that wasn't like Frank.

  "Any tampering with the body?" she asked.

  "There wasn't any evidence of sexual assault, but we'll have to wait for the lab results to confirm. Kennedy seemed confident that they'd be negative. He also said that whoever killed Amber had killed before; it was too neat for a beginner."

  "It's not his job to make those sorts of judgements. It doesn't take a rocket scientist and years of training to kill an eight-stone addict and get it right."

  "He was offering his opinion, that's all, just like you."

  "What about Forensics?"

  "They'll send the results to me as soon as possible, but they're short-staffed at the moment. I wish McGovern would get a move on and approve their new facilities."

  "It takes time. You'll get there in the end."

  "Like you did with Campbell?" He avoided her eye.

  "He's not involved with what's happening now." It was her turn to avoid his eye.

  "Isn't he? That's not what they think at headquarters. Foley, Hayes, and the Commissioner all think it’s Campbell."

  "What's McGovern said?"

  "He phoned me earlier wanting to know how I was getting on. He mentioned Campbell several times."

  "But there are differences. Look at the condition of the body that you discovered this afternoon: hands, feet and head missing. It's not Campbell's M.O. Besides, Cork isn't London; Campbell couldn't wander around here for long without being recognised. We have to do whatever it takes to make McGovern and everyone else believe that it doesn't add up."

  He didn't reply, so she took the opportunity to take the plates through to the kitchen. They had lost their appetites. His voice, quiet now, followed her across the room. "There was something else."

  She placed the dishes in the sink and turned around. "Yes?"

  He swirled the wine in his glass, not looking at her. "There was a symbol drawn on the sole of Amber Foley's foot. They discovered it when they removed her shoes to send them for analysis. Initially, they assumed it was a tattoo, but it was drawn on her skin in pen."

  "What was the symbol?"

  "It's difficult to explain. Hang on a second. I made a copy." He got up and walked unsteadily to the couch where he'd left his coat. It took him a few minutes to search the pockets before he finally found what he needed. He passed the scrap of crumpled paper to her. She unfolded the drawing and pictured it on the dry, dead parchment of Amber Foley's foot. "What is it?"

&
nbsp; "It's the letter Gimel: the third letter in the Hebrew alphabet."

  "How do you know?"

  "I'm only repeating what the wise Charles Kennedy told me. Because the letter Gimel is the third letter in the alphabet, it has the numerical value of three. In mystical teachings, three represents stability."

  "Surely this will persuade the Commissioner that Campbell isn’t the killer. He may have left a few Bible quotes, but nothing like this. I wonder how The Examiner will explain these symbols if they're still insisting that it's Teardrop."

  "Let's hope good old Brendan doesn't find out, at least not for a few days," said Frank, draining his glass. "We need a chance to work out what's going on."

  "Maybe I can help."

  "Let me guess, you've been taking night classes in Hebrew."

  "It's reassuring that too much wine hasn't affected your sarcasm levels. I called Ken Williams today, the profiler."

  "I hear he's working on a new serial offender database for Scotland Yard."

  "Yes, among other things. I asked him to run the details of Amber Foley's murder through the system to see what turned up. I know Campbell's son was in London until a few months ago, so you never know what he might find. He emailed the search forms to me this afternoon, but I wanted to check the details with you first."

  "The initial crime scene and autopsy reports are in my briefcase. Help yourself."

  "I asked him to draw up a preliminary profile too."

  "I don't know if he should," said Frank. "McGovern isn't the greatest believer in profiling. As far as he's concerned, it would be like bringing in a psychic to help with the investigation."

  "Williams refused to do it. He passed me on to Harold Preston instead. Preston will be in Cork for the next few months; he’s guest lecturing at the university."

  Frank let out a long, low whistle. "Do you think he'll talk to you?"

  "He already has, and he's agreed to help. Don't look so shocked; no one can hold a grudge forever. I told him to come along to the crime team meeting tomorrow morning. I'll take him to the scene afterwards, if that's alright with you.''

  "I get the feeling we're going to need all the help we can get." He reached for the bottle again, but knocked it over. Red wine spilled across the white tablecloth. "Sorry."

  "Don't worry about it." She stuck a few paper towels in the puddle.