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

by Joanne Clancy

  Despondency hung heavy in the air as Frank handed out the tasks for the day. The first forty-eight hours after a body was found were the most important, and their time was almost up.

  ***

  As they headed downstairs, they met Preston coming up in the other direction with Charles Kennedy. "Look who I found hanging around outside," Kennedy joked. "I thought it best to drag him in for questioning."

  "Dr. Preston, I presume?" Frank extended his hand. "Elizabeth has told me all about you. We really appreciate any help you can give us; we’re a little short on leads at the moment."

  "It's early days," Preston said, nodding a curt greeting at Elizabeth.

  "Where do you come in?" Kennedy asked.

  "Sometimes, my job is to point out the obvious. Detectives have a tendency to make investigations unnecessarily complex. Most murders happen for primitive reasons: rage, lust, or the desire to be heard. Sometimes the greatest mistake is believing that there's any big mystery involved. However, I won't be giving my profile until I've seen all the evidence."

  "I understand, but time is against us," said Frank.

  "I appreciate that. I'm sure this morning will be helpful. The reports that Elizabeth sent to me last night were intriguing, but I need to see the crime scenes for myself."

  "I'd like to accompany you and see first-hand how a profiler works," said Charles. "We don't have much need for profilers around here. Cork is still a quiet, sleepy place as far as murder is concerned."

  "Not that sleepy anymore," said Preston.

  "I suppose things have livened up recently."

  "Remind me, Charles, why are you here?" asked Frank.

  "I was just dropping off the autopsy report on the latest victim."

  "Oh? We were actually on our way over to see you."

  "I presumed you knew," Charles continued, appalled. "Assistant Commissioner McGovern called me yesterday and insisted that the report be on his desk early this morning. I tried to explain that you were due at the autopsy, but he told me to go ahead. I'm sorry, Frank. If I'd realised you didn't know about it, I'd have called you."

  "Don't worry, Charles," Frank sighed. "It's not your fault. Clearly, this is McGovern's way of putting me in my place, reminding me that he's in charge. Is that the report?" He nodded at the file that Charles had tucked under his arm.

  "It sure is." Charles handed the file to him.

  "On the upside, at least I get the results quicker this way." Frank quickly thumbed through the pages. "What's this? I thought cause of death was due to strangulation."

  "The damage caused to the neck by the decapitation made it difficult to state conclusively that it was strangulation, but there were none of the usual indications of strangulation that I'd expect to find in the internal organs. However, there were severe abrasions and bruises, as well as numerous fractures, which are consistent with a sustained assault."

  "What weapon was used?"

  "I couldn't find anything that suggested a weapon was used. It looks like a beating. The outline of a shoe was imprinted on the skin of the lower back."

  Frank turned back to the report. "Is there a time of death?"

  "She was murdered twelve days, eleven hours and...'' Charles glanced dramatically at his watch. “Twenty-three minutes ago."

  "Should I take that as a no?"

  "You know I think estimating time of death is as much about guesswork as science, but if I must give you an educated guess, then a few weeks is my best offer."

  "So where has she been all this time?"

  "In a freezer, I would presume from the preserved condition of the remains."

  "She was in her fifties?" Holland suddenly piped up. He'd been reading the report over Frank's shoulder. He reddened and looked like a schoolboy who'd been caught cheating in an exam.

  "Having taken all provisos into account, I would estimate early to mid-fifties. She wouldn't have made the hockey team anymore, but she was in good physical condition for her age. Why are you so surprised?"

  "When I heard that she was older than the first victim, I didn't think she was that old. Not that mid-fifties is old, just getting on for a prostitute,'' replied Holland.

  "Why are you assuming she was a prostitute?" asked Frank.

  "Didn't Campbell, I mean, the letter-writer, say he was going to murder a prostitute?"

  "That doesn't mean we should believe him," snapped Frank.

  "Sorry, I just assumed."

  "Never assume anything. You'd be amazed at how many prostitutes are over fifty. I once arrested a woman who was seventy." He snapped the report shut, but didn't hand it back to Charles. "I'll pass this on to McGovern. We need to have a little chat." He turned to Holland. "I'd like you to dig out the missing persons files. I want this woman's name. She must be in our files somewhere. According to the autopsy report, she had an old fracture of the right wrist and had never had children. Hopefully, that will help narrow your search."

  "I'll get right on it," said Holland.

  "I think I'll tag along with Elizabeth and Harold," said Charles. "If that's okay?"

  "It would be a pleasure," Elizabeth smiled. "Let's get going."

  ***

  Charles insisted that they travel in his car. Elizabeth sat in the back. She was a tense passenger, who only had faith in her own driving. Traffic was a nightmare in the city-centre, backed up all along the quays. Charles tuned the radio to Classic FM and hummed along, tapping the wheel in time to the music. Elizabeth settled back in her seat and thought about Ross Campbell's death. Her secret made her feel cheap.

  An officer was guarding the scene of Amber Foley's death when they arrived. He seemed bored and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "She was found over there," he pointed, as they stepped under the tape. "The indentation where she fell is still visible in the ground."

  Elizabeth pulled her hood up against the sleet that had started falling. Preston wasn't wearing a coat. She wondered if that was deliberate, if he wanted to feel the cold like Amber Foley had felt it on the night she died; she had only been wearing a thin coat that hadn’t even covered the hem of her skirt, much less her exposed legs.

  The crime scene had a strange aura. Its gruesome mystery had been stripped away. Everything that had brought it to attention was gone, everything that had marked it out as different was erased, and yet it was still separate from the world. It was too inconsequential a place to have had so much attention. Elizabeth knew that when the investigators were gone and the scene left to nature again, that the dark, tormented spirit would attach itself to whatever came out of hiding.

  Preston's job was to see beneath the veil of insignificance in order to capture the pivotal moment that had dislodged the equilibrium of the place. Somehow, he was expected to live that moment again. However, what he felt when he walked a scene was his secret. Elizabeth watched him pause occasionally and close his eyes, glancing back at the road and down at the river, but that was about as dramatic as it got. He was inscrutable. The sleet streaked his glasses, but he didn't bother wiping them clean.

  "What's he doing?" whispered Charles.

  "He's trying to get a sense of what happened here."

  "I could tell him what happened here. I saw the evidence when Amber Foley was laid out on the table in front of me, and it's something I won't be forgetting soon."

  "You know what happened to Amber Foley, but you don't know why, or what it felt like to kill her," she explained. "That's why Preston's here. He needs to understand what it was like for the killer that night."

  "And he can see all that by frowning and walking around?"

  "You're too scientific and practical. Unfortunately, there's no formula that reveals what it means to find a teardrop carved on a dead woman's face, but he's expected to find the answers."

  Charles looked sceptical.

  "I used to think that profiling was nonsense too, but I was missing the point,'' she continued. “In the end, it doesn't matter what anyone thinks of it; it's another piece of the puzz
le. Frank can decide where the piece fits once Preston finishes cutting it out." She watched Preston kneel where Amber Foley had lain. The indentation in the grass was like a shadow or a cursed mark.

  Charles reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a hip flask. He fumbled with his gloves as he unscrewed it and took a sip. "Central heating, my dear," he grinned at Elizabeth's surprised expression. "I need some help at my age."

  "You're not that old."

  "I feel old...'' He trailed off.

  "Have you heard from your wife?" Elizabeth asked, changing the subject.

  "She left a message on my answering machine last night, but I was out at another crime scene. I considered returning her call, but we would have probably ended up arguing again, and I couldn't deal with it."

  "She knows you can't help doing what you do, but she's feeling neglected, which is understandable."

  "Do you get annoyed when Frank isn't there because he's working?"

  "It's different with us; I know what he has to deal with."

  "It doesn't make it any easier."

  "Actually, it does make it easier; at least it does for me. What does your wife do?"

  "She's a librarian. I know it’s difficult for her to understand, but don't you think two weeks is a long time to stay angry with me?"

  "Charles, she'll be back. I believe it."

  "No, she won't." He looked her straight in the eye as he said it, and she knew he was right. For the first time, she noticed how weary he looked. She had a vision of him getting older, alone, drinking whiskey from a hip flask and telling anyone who'd listen that it was for the cold. He smiled as she struggled to find some consoling words.

  "You know what I say, Charles?" She felt bitter at the world for his loneliness. "Fuck her.''

  "Fuck her," he repeated half-heartedly. The words sounded so peculiar coming from him that they burst out laughing.

  They looked around nervously, remembering where they were. Preston was walking towards them. He didn't bother asking them why they were laughing; he hadn't even noticed. He was distracted, affected by the scene. He shivered, sensing the evil that lingered. Behind him, cold, silver light shone on the river. Traffic hummed in the distance. He'd shut everything out, and now it was slowly returning. He looked as if he had woken from sleep, and wasn't certain about where he was.

  "Are you alright?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I'm fine, just thinking."

  "That's why you're here," Charles piped up. "Let's hear your thoughts."

  "I was thinking that it's about time I got a different job."

  "Join the club," said Charles and Elizabeth in unison.

  Chapter Twelve

  Holland’s desk was covered in files, each with the word "Missing" stamped in red. The remains of a sandwich lay on a plate beside a cup of cold coffee, while three dirty cups perched precariously at the edge of the table.

  "How are you getting on?" Elizabeth asked, pulling up a chair.

  His head snapped up. "You made me jump."

  "That's probably the coffee." She moved the cups and picked up a file. "Have you found anything?"

  "I'm getting there, slowly. The sooner McGovern gets the funding to computerise the archives, the better. It's like the Stone Age around here. There are hundreds of files. Officially, they're not all missing persons; sometimes it's a husband who's gone out drinking and who eventually turns up when he's sober, or teenage children who've run away for a few nights. Someone calls in and reports a missing person, the officer on duty opens a file, but no one bothers to update it when the person turns up, so it's stored in records for years until something like this drags it up again."

  Elizabeth surveyed the files. There were about forty in all. Some were stacked neatly at the far end of the desk against the wall; another pile stood beside it; but most were spread out, waiting to be read. "It's looks like a nightmare."

  "I'm sick of trying to find out the status of each file. At least I was able to discount all the men, children, and everyone under forty or over mid-fifties; for once Kennedy was specific about the age range. That leaves about forty files. Some women have been missing for more than a year, and Kennedy said this woman died less than a month ago."

  "Maybe someone was holding her somewhere," said Elizabeth. She closed her eyes and shook her head, not wanting to think about that option. "Where should I start?"

  He pointed at the files piled at the end of the desk against the wall. "Start with the smaller pile; they're a closer match. I still have to go through this lot." He waved a hand at the files spread out on the desk.

  For the next hour, they sat reading the remaining files. A melancholy silence enveloped them, broken only by the rustling of the pages. Each file, once read, was added to the tall pile if it was useless and to the smaller pile if either of them believed it warranted further investigation.

  Elizabeth was saddened at how easy it was for someone to disappear from a city, and how easy it was for the real to become shadow. She looked at the photos scattered across the desk, wondering how many of the missing wanted to disappear.

  Finally, they were left with a tragically meagre pile of six women, which possibly contained the name of the woman whose body had been discovered in the churchyard.

  "I think we should call it a day," said Holland, when he caught her looking at him.

  "I think you're right." She reached out to pick up the larger pile, but she fumbled and its contents toppled off the desk. "Crap."

  "Don't worry about it," Holland said, kneeling to pick up the files.

  Elizabeth noticed a name on one of the covers. She flicked through it, her hands shaking. "I think we missed something."

  He leaned over to see what she was reading. "Amanda Purcell. I remember her, but I think she was outside the age range."

  "Barely," Elizabeth said. "She's thirty-nine. Her husband reported her missing three weeks ago, which fits with what Kennedy said. Apparently, he arrived home from work one evening, and she was gone. There was no note and no sign of a disturbance. He contact the police the following morning. An officer interviewed him and contacted friends and colleagues but found nothing."

  "I suppose we should add her to the list." He didn't sound convinced, but Elizabeth had a feeling. She didn't need to match Amanda Purcell up point for point with Charles Kennedy's autopsy report to know that she needed more investigation. "Actually, I think I know her. If it's the woman I'm thinking of, she worked in the same office as Campbell in London."

  "No way," said Holland.

  "It gets better," Elizabeth continued. "She was Campbell's lover in the months leading up to his arrest."

  "Now she's missing. That's some coincidence."

  "Too much of a coincidence for my liking," said Elizabeth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Amanda's dead, isn't she?" said Trevor Purcell as soon as he opened the door to Elizabeth and Holland. They hadn't even had a chance to ring the doorbell. "I know she's dead. I knew it the moment you called."

  He ushered them into the hall. It had been less than an hour since Holland had called and asked if he'd see them. He had eagerly agreed, and now they were following him into his Victorian house on the tree-lined south of the city. The house was bright with colour and life. Elizabeth knew they were Amanda's colours and Amanda's life because her husband was the opposite. She hadn't met him when they'd been living in London; Amanda made sure that he was out before she agreed to speak with her, but he was exactly as she described. There wasn't a button out of place on his cardigan, nor a stray hair on his face, and his tie was perfectly knotted.

  "Why do you think Amanda's dead?" asked Holland as they stood awkwardly at the end of the hall.

  "Why would you be here if she wasn't dead? Is she the body they found?"

  "The woman who was found yesterday has not been identified yet. Your wife's name was on a list of missing persons. We're going through the list to eliminate people."

  Purcell led them through to the living room. It
was a large room, running from the front to the back of the house, where an arched window framed trees and other houses. Books filled the shelves beside the fireplace. The roaring fire kept the place toasty-warm.

  "I know you," said Purcell. "You were investigating the Teardrop case when I lived in London."

  "Good memory." Elizabeth nodded.

  "It's difficult to forget the man who was sleeping with my wife." He gazed out the window. "Do you think he came to Ireland to kill her?"

  "No, I don't."

  "How are you so sure?"

  "There's no evidence to suggest that your wife is dead."

  Holland flashed a warning look at her. He hadn't been sure about bringing her along in the first place. She had no business questioning Trevor Purcell about his wife's disappearance, and he had only agreed to let her tag along on the condition that she left the talking to him. She smiled apologetically at Holland.

  Purcell seemed oblivious that anything was wrong between them. "Why are you here?"

  "I know it seems strange," said Holland.

  Purcell didn't reply, he just gazed into the fire. Elizabeth stood and looked at the photographs that lined the mantelpiece. "May I?" she asked. He shrugged. She picked up a framed photo of Amanda. It had been taken at the office Christmas party where she'd worked alongside Campbell ten years ago. She was a pretty woman, too vibrant for the almost lifeless Trevor Purcell.

  "When did you realise she was missing?" Holland asked.

  "It was about three weeks ago. I'd been working all day. I'm head bookkeeper at a construction company." He sighed. "Amanda and I were having problems; we had plans to go out that night to try patching things up, but I had to cancel because of a work deadline. She wasn't impressed. We argued and ended up shouting insults at each other. She hung up the phone."