"Did you hear from Campbell when he was released?"
"He phoned me at work once, a few weeks after he got out. He wanted to meet, he said he wanted to explain, that he was sorry for his letters, and that he never meant the nasty things he said."
"What did you say?" asked Elizabeth.
"I told him I didn't want to see him, and I asked him why he had insisted on taking me to the crime scenes."
"What was his answer?"
"He said he was obsessed by the murders because he knew who had committed them."
"Did he say who he suspected?"
Amanda hesitated, as if she'd revealed too much. "Ross said a lot of things. I don't want to give them credence by repeating them now. He was a good liar."
"Just because you tell me what he said doesn't mean I'll believe him."
"He said he thought the killer was his son, Oscar." Her words came out in a rush, as if she couldn't believe what she was saying. "He was probably trying to blame his own son for what he'd done."
Elizabeth couldn't speak. A terrible possibility hammered in her head. "What did you say?"
"I told him to leave me alone. I told him that I never wanted to see or hear from him again. Shortly afterwards, he vanished."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Back in the safety of her apartment, Elizabeth lay on the couch. One thought kept going around and around in her head: Ross Campbell wasn't Teardrop; it was his son. She'd killed the wrong man. As she lay there, she tried to remember the dates of the first killings. Jessica Wright was killed in November; Marissa Stanbury shortly before Christmas; Caroline Marsh in mid-January; then a gap of six months before the final two murders.
Where had the killer been during those months? Had he stopped killing out of fear, or for fear of being caught, only for his compulsions to overwhelm him again? When Campbell was charged for two of the murders, her questions had stopped. She had too many demands on her time and too many other cases to handle. She'd caught the killer, so there was no need to bother with the fine details.
Now she couldn't help wondering if the original theory had been correct: maybe the killer had stopped because he was out of action for some reason. Maybe he had been somewhere that he had nothing to do except nurse his fantasies and let them fester until he could finally unleash them upon his last victims: Kim Lawrence and Lilly Sykes.
She sat bolt upright. Campbell's son had been imprisoned once for burglary, but she couldn't remember when. She dug out the files from her safe. Oscar Kelly spent four months behind bars around the same time that the killings had stopped. The room started to spin. She closed her eyes and cursed her stupidity. She had been so sure that Campbell was the killer that she hadn't even considered Oscar. Now, Oscar Kelly's name stared at her from her notebook like an accusation. Suddenly, everything made sense: the dates, the forensic traces, everything.
She'd killed Campbell in self-defence. He was going to kill her that night, not because he feared she would expose him as the killer, but because he feared she was about to expose his son. She closed her eyes and saw him coming at her. She remembered the flash of the gun. She'd done the right thing, or it would have been her buried in a shallow grave for the past decade. But her reasoning didn't make her feel any better.
She couldn't understand why Campbell had wanted to take Amanda to the crime scenes if his only interest was in protecting his son. Witnesses had described seeing a man of Campbell's age and build. Why would the killings have stopped for almost a decade? She shook her head as her thoughts raced on. Maybe father and son had killed together; maybe they needed each other's encouragement to fulfill their fantasies. Without his father’s encouragement, maybe Oscar couldn’t continue alone, until now. The more she thought about it, the more her theory made sense.
On the night that she'd killed him, a car's headlights had swept through the forest. Perhaps Oscar had been waiting in a stolen car to take his father home after he'd killed her, which would explain how Campbell had gotten to the forest that night while his car remained parked outside his house. Detectives had never managed to trace his movements that night. No taxi drivers came forward; and no bus driver recognised his face. Eventually, she'd assumed that he had hitchhiked or made his way there on foot from the nearby train station. Now, she realised that it was more likely that Oscar had driven him and waited out of sight.
She couldn't understand why Oscar had never come after her, or anonymously tipped off the police about what she'd done. After all, she wasn't the most difficult target to find if he wanted revenge. There were too many coincidences to be ignored: the car, Oscar's prison stretch at the same time that the original killings stopped, his time in London when Ken Williams told her more women had been attacked, and the return of the teardrop motif.
She got straight on the phone to Williams.
"Dr. Williams is out of the country," his secretary advised.
"He came to see me in Cork, but he should be back by now," Elizabeth explained.
"I don't know who he visited."
"Do you have a contact number for him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Is there anyone else I can speak to?"
"No."
"Do you ever wonder how you manage to keep your job?" asked Elizabeth.
"I don't like your attitude," retorted the secretary.
"I don't like that you're an imbecile, but we're both going to have to live with that, aren't we?"
The line went dead.
Next up was Scotland Yard. Inspector Andrew Goldsmith was the name that Williams had given her. "Ken has told me all about you," said Goldsmith.
"Is that so?" She tried not to sound too impatient, but her words tumbled out. "Do you know where Dr. Williams is, Inspector? I need to speak with him urgently."
"I should think you'd have a better idea where he is than me," he replied.
"Why's that?"
"Ken called me last night to say that he was extending his stay in Cork." He paused, not knowing what else to say. "Did he not tell you?"
"There must have been a misunderstanding," she faltered. She ended the call and stood by the balcony staring out at the grey sky. A chill crept through her, as she wondered why Williams hadn't told her that he wasn't going home.
Eventually, she phoned the airport and asked to be put through to the British Airways desk. She explained about the investigation and dropped a few names without admitting that she didn't have the authority to delve into Williams' personal details. "It's important," she added.
"One moment, please. I'll see what I can find."
Elizabeth heard the rattle of long nails on a keyboard in the background and a tannoy announcing the last call for a flight to Amsterdam.
"What flight did you say he was on?"
Elizabeth gave her the flight number. "It was scheduled to depart at 9p.m. last night."
"I have it. Can you confirm his full name?"
"Dr. Ken Williams."
"There was no one on the flight with that name."
"Would you mind trying the day before?"
More typing.
"I’m afraid there’s nothing else."
"Does it say when he was due to return?"
"It was a one-way ticket."
"A one-way ticket?" Elizabeth repeated incredulously.
"That's correct."
"Would you do something for me?"
"I'll certainly try."
"Can you check if Dr. Williams was booked on any flight out of Cork last night?"
"It'll take a while."
"I'll give you my number. Call me when you're done, please."
Elizabeth hung up. Nothing made sense. Why did Williams want her to believe that he had left the city? She didn't want to suspect him of anything sinister, but it was hard to think of a reason for his lies. Twenty minutes later, the airline representative phoned back. "Dr. Williams doesn't appear on the lists for any flights leaving Cork last night."
Chapter Twenty-Five
A contact in Probation gave Elizabeth Oscar Kelly's address. He lived in a crumbling Victorian terrace on the outskirts of the city, where most of the houses in the area had been converted into flats.
Elizabeth parked at the end of the street, away from the house. She had no doubt that he'd remember her. The incessant rain made the dark afternoon even darker as it hammered on the roof of her car. The curtains were drawn, and there was no sign of Christmas in the windows. Impatiently, she watched and waited, unsure if Oscar was even home.
Then she saw him. He appeared at the door of the house, just as the rain started to ease. He must have been waiting for it to stop. He wore a thin coat, and he had the hunched, secretive stance of a man who had spent his life waiting for the hand on his shoulder to tell him that he was caught.
She watched him shuffle down the steps of the house onto the street. Then she opened the door of the car, jumped out, and closed it gently behind her. The traffic rumbled by as Oscar stepped to the kerb to flag down a passing bus. She watched him hop on and waited until it drove off before turning around and retracing her steps back towards his house. She pulled on her gloves and hoped that she hadn't forgotten her breaking and entering skills.
The front door was ajar. She hesitated. It was too easy, almost as if Oscar was trying to lure her inside, but she pushed the door open anyway.
Closed it.
Steadied her breathing.
She stood at the end of a narrow corridor with two doors on the left, both shut. Behind the doors she heard hammering and the sound of daytime television.
Probation had told her that Oscar's flat was on the third floor. She hurried up the creaking stairs. The carpet was worn and sticky underfoot. A foul smell hung in the air, and the wallpaper curled with damp. She paused outside his door, making sure no one was around. Then she took out her credit card, slipped the lock, and waited for the click. Easy as that, she was in. Gently, she shut the door behind her and listened for any noise. All was quiet.
She turned to inspect Oscar's den. It was immediately obvious that no one else was home; the silence was too intense, the air too stagnant. There wasn't much to the place: an open plan living room, a kitchenette along the back wall with dirty dishes piled high in the sink, leftover takeaway wrapped in greasy paper, and a lingering stink of fish. An armchair and a battered couch stood by the window. A television and computer were the only valuable items in the place. Stolen? Definitely.
Two doors led off from the main room: one into a tiny bathroom and the other into a cramped bedroom.
She stopped.
Religious pictures, cut from newspapers and magazines, were pasted all over the bedroom walls. A filthy mattress lay on the floor. The room looked exactly as Williams had described the rapist’s room in London. A small pile of porn magazines was beside the mattress. Elizabeth shuddered, grateful for her gloves. Among the magazines was a copy of The Examiner open at the page with the letter from the killer. A Bible was shoved under the grubby pillow with an inscription: To my beloved son, Oscar. Love Dad. A photograph of his late mother fell from the pages. She was the image of Teardrop's first victim, Jessica Wright.
Back in the living room, Elizabeth noticed the DVDs on the carpet beside the television. She switched on the television, muted the sound and slipped a DVD into the player. Porn. She fast-forwarded impatiently, not sure of what she was looking for, but it ended with no surprises. She switched it off and crept back to the door, preparing to leave.
Three floors below, the front door slammed. She checked her watch. It couldn't be Oscar. He hadn't been gone more than half an hour. Panicked, she pressed her ear to the door and listened. Someone was climbing the stairs. She hurried back to the kitchenette and pulled a knife from the drawer. The footsteps were getting closer. Her heart pounded. The footsteps were outside the door, but they carried on upstairs to the flat overhead. She heard a door click, a muffled cough, and then silence.
She waited a few minutes before opening the door. Relief; no one was there. She shut the door gently behind her and slipped downstairs. A moment later, she was outside, shaking and sweating. As she reached into her pocket for her car keys, her fingers touched the sharp edge of the knife that she’d forgotten to replace.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The lights were off in Frank's office when Elizabeth popped her head round the door. She thought he’d already left, but he was sitting in the dark, his chair facing the window.
"You're late," he said, catching sight of her reflection in the glass.
"Sorry. Delaney kept me longer than I expected." She didn't bother telling him that she'd bumped into Brendan Mahon on the walk to the Station.
"Delaney took your statement?" He was surprised, knowing how much they disliked each other.
"He insisted. He wanted a full rundown on what I know about Campbell. I tried telling him that it won't help catch the killer, but he didn't listen. That man is beyond obnoxious."
"Would you like me to have a word with him?"
"Delaney doesn't bother me. I've dealt with enough of his type in the past. Never mind him, why are you sitting here in the dark?''
"Facing facts."
"Like what?"
"Facts like we'll never catch the killer. Another day's over, another day wasted. We released Brendan; it turns out he has an alibi."
"Did he reveal his source in the end?"
"It appears that Brendan and Detective Hayes are drinking buddies. They had a few beers together last night after Brendan left Kyla's flat. Hayes came forward and told me that he was with Brendan from about ten. The time on the autopsy report puts him in the clear anyway. Hayes is suspended, pending an inquiry, so we're a man down."
"For what it's worth, I thought it was too convenient that Brendan was the killer. I mean, that beer bottle was obviously planted, but the killer isn't stupid; he knew it wasn't going to fool anyone for long. I’d like to know why he chose Brendan as his outlet to the world, only to set him up, unless he's building him up for something other than stardom."
"We're getting nowhere fast." Frank rubbed his tired eyes. "Four women are dead. We're running out of time."
Elizabeth didn't know what to say. Her biggest fear was that the killer's template would be completely changed by the discovery of what everyone assumed was Campbell's body. In his letter, the killer had written that he'd disappear after the fifth death, but what if being free of Campbell's shadow gave him new energy, what if this was the start, how many more victims would there be?
"It's too dark in here," she said, breaking the despondency that was creeping over her. She switched on the light. Outside vanished. She caught sight of a folder on the desk. "What's this?"
Frank blinked against the light. "It's a list of what Forensics found at Campbell's last two crime scenes. Have a look."
She scanned the list of everyday items that had been painstakingly logged. Nothing had any relevance to the investigation. "I've had enough of this crap," she said, flinging the report on the desk. "We're chasing shadows."
"Yeah, it seems everything is going in circles," Frank agreed.
A loud knock on the door made them jump. "Sorry to interrupt, Chief," said Detective Foley. "But Surveillance just sent this over." He handed Frank a large envelope. Elizabeth looked at it curiously. "They said it was urgent."
Frank waited until Foley closed the door behind him before opening the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out several photos. Elizabeth couldn't see the pictures, but she saw his expression change. "Frank, what is it?"
He slid the photographs across the desk to her. She stopped cold. The first photo showed her walking down the street towards Oscar's flat. In the second, she was slipping through the front door. The others showed her hurrying outside and down the steps half an hour later. She was framed by the curve of the car window through which the surveillance team had taken the shots. She hadn't even noticed them in the street.
"I can explain."
"I hope so," was all Frank sa
id.
Day Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elizabeth felt wired from too much coffee and not enough sleep. Every time she dozed off, another nightmare assaulted her. The nightmares were multiplying like viruses. She didn't need to close her eyes any more to see Campbell as he had been a decade ago, melting out of the shadows and materialising in front of her. Smiling. Mocking.
She hadn't told Frank about the knife she'd taken from Oscar's kitchen, and she certainly hadn't told him that she'd thrown it in the river. He was upset enough at her about the break-in.
She padded into the kitchen. It was early morning, and she was exhausted from another sleepless night. She opened the curtains to let the grey light in and gazed out at the sea. The view was the one redeeming feature of the house and the only reason that Frank had bought it. He loved walking along the shore on the rare occasion when he was home with no claims on his time. The house was shabby and in need of repair, but his busy life left little time for DIY. All he wanted was somewhere he could close the door on the world, knowing there was hot water in the tank and food in the freezer.
He hardly ever saw his neighbours. Elizabeth doubted they even knew who he was. They probably assumed that he was a businessman, out before dawn, and back after dark.
She listened to him moving about upstairs, and went to put the kettle on, before popping some bread in the toaster and switching on the radio. Christmas music blared. She quickly switched it off. Almost immediately, the doorbell rang. Journalists had been hounding Frank all week. Her instinct was to ignore it.
"Elizabeth, will you get that?" Frank called from upstairs.
Irritably, she went to the door.
A young man stood outside wearing leathers and a helmet with the visor pushed up. At least he wasn't a reporter. She signed for the letter and closed the door before the courier had even turned away.
Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 13