WHYTE LIES

by KC Acton

  “Plunkett and I didn’t even question him under caution,” said Byrne. “We explained that we weren’t accusing him of anything.”

  “This just gets better and better.” Faith closed her eyes, wishing the whole case would go away.

  “Some of the locals who knew him said he was always getting into fights in the pub. He drank too much, which wasn’t a good mix because of the medication he was on for his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense that a tough guy like him would get so upset about an interview with the police. I don’t understand it,” said Faith. “It’s abrupt and illogical.”

  “Unless he killed the Gleesons and couldn’t live with the guilt,” said Byrne.

  “But he doesn’t admit to killing anyone in his note,” said Faith. “He mentioned the Gleesons, but he specifically said that he killed himself because he thought we were accusing him of being the killer. Nowhere did he write that he did it.”

  “He fits the profile,” said Reilly. “He was experienced enough to use a gun callously and efficiently, and he knew the area. He was also suffering from PTSD; maybe he had a psychotic break. He fits the profile perfectly.”

  “Too perfectly,” said Faith. “There’s something wrong here. After all the false leads we’ve had, suddenly everything is perfectly tied up. It can’t be that easy. It’s never that easy. There’s a common denominator here that we’re not seeing.”

  31

  Faith sat on the balcony, drinking black coffee and gazing at the autumnal landscape’s rich array of colours. Her thoughts drifted to the two little Gleeson girls. Her heart ached for them. Christmas was just around the corner — their first Christmas without their parents. Their lives had been turned upside down; now they were living in witness protection with their grandparents. The girls would have new friends, new teachers, new bedrooms in a new house, and new clothes and toys to replace what they’d had to leave behind. She wondered if the girls still believed in Santa after all they’d been through.

  The girls’ security was of paramount importance. Until the killer was caught, they would be vulnerable. Faith wondered if the girls had found some peace, some happiness, and some way of living in the world without their beloved parents. From experience, she knew that starting a new life was their best chance at happiness; their old life was over.

  Lucy had done her best to give Faith as much information as she could about that fateful day, but Faith didn’t want to risk disrupting her rehabilitation by pushing her too far. Lucy was their only witness, but nothing she saw at the scene had been helpful. All she could remember was a shadow — a shadow that would haunt the two sisters until he was caught and brought to justice.

  32

  “Once I saw a cat walk by. I watched the cat. I caught the cat. I killed the cat.” Her father’s chant rang in her ears.

  “Once I saw a man walk by. I watched the man. I caught the man. I killed the man.”

  “Once I saw a girl walk by…Sing it with me, Faith, sing it.” Her father’s face grew red. He grabbed her by the throat.

  “No, Daddy, no!” Faith’s scream woke her from her nightmare. She sat bolt upright in bed, sweating and gasping for breath. She stared into the darkness, desperate for her eyes to adjust. Trembling, she got out of bed and padded to the kitchen, grateful for the coolness of the tiles underfoot. She looked out across the moonlit lake, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

  “It was just a dream,” she said aloud. Even after all those years, she was amazed that her nightmares could still transport her back to the past. It was a lifetime ago, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday since she’d been that scared little girl, alone in the dark, with no one to turn to.

  33

  The first time he’d seen her, she was alone. He was sitting outside his favourite haunt, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking crap with the locals, who were a little in awe of him. He enjoyed toying with them; they’d believe anything he said.

  However, he was paying more attention to the woman on her own. He watched her wandering from shop to shop, taking her time. It was difficult not to get up and follow her, hover close to her and smell the perfume on her bare skin. She’d be worth the wait.

  He watched her withdraw a wad of cash from the bank machine before loading her bags into the basket in front of her bicycle. Excitement coursed through him at the flash of her smooth, tanned thigh. Her thin top clung to her curves as tendrils of dark hair caressed her face. He liked a woman with a bit of meat on her bones; he’d make sure to take his time with her.

  He had watched her comings and goings since she arrived in Killarney, and after a few subtle enquiries, discovered that she was staying alone at the cottage overlooking Mahony’s Point. No one would get in his way there.

  He checked the weather forecast on his iPad and smiled; the forecast was bright, clear skies, and a full moon that would light his path.

  There was something carefree about the woman; she had a ready smile for everyone as she strolled along the street like she had all the time in the world. Local gossips told him her name was Isabelle; she was an actress, and she rented the cottage every autumn. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed her sooner. He couldn’t wait to break her.

  34

  The first frost of the season sharpened the night air as he stopped on the brow of the hill, surveying the surrounding countryside from his elevated vantage point. Moonlight illuminated the distant shape of Isabelle’s cottage. The thought of her consumed him with desire. He checked his watch: 3 a.m. It was time. He merged into the shadowy landscape as the all-powerful thrill of conquest fired him up. Nothing moved in the countryside around him. He was an animal on the hunt.

  One kilometre later, he arrived. He stayed close to the wall as he edged his way around the house. He covered his hand with his sleeve before trying the back door. It opened easily. He smirked at her trusting nature. Coming from New York, she was usually security-conscious, but here in the backwaters of Ireland, she believed the stories about people leaving their doors unlocked. She’d have to learn the truth the hard way.

  He took off his shoes before going inside. A bottle of red wine was on the kitchen table. There was only one glass; she was alone, just as he expected.

  He crept along the moonlit hall, surprisingly light-footed for a man of his size. Up the stone stairs he went, holding his breath, ready to pounce. He already knew where she slept; her bedroom was through the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. Her bedroom door was open. He paused to look at her as she slept. Her chest rose and fell gently. Her thick lashes fanned her full cheeks. A thin sheet covered her naked body. She looked serene in the half-light, waiting for him, ripe for the taking. He could have stayed there all night, watching her, but he didn’t have time for that. He crept towards the bed. Gently, he lifted the sheet and slipped in beside her. She sighed, her breath soft against his face. He cupped her breast. She groaned and stirred against him.

  “Rory?” she whispered, reaching for him.

  “No.”

  Her eyes flew open. “What do you want?” she cried, struggling to escape.

  “You.” A rush of pleasure and power surged through him. The weight of his body crushed her as he silenced her screams with his mouth.

  35

  A sickening sight met the detectives when they arrived at the crime scene. The naked body of Isabelle English lay face up near the cliff edge. Lacerations covered both her arms, and her hands were ripped to shreds, while a halo of blood soaked into the ground around her head.

  Faith gazed at her lying there, past all pain at last. “He hunted her down like an animal. Then he killed her execution-style with a single bullet to the head,” she said.

  “Do you think it’s the same killer who murdered the Gleesons?” asked Byrne.

  “It looks that way, but this killing was for pleasure.” Faith dreaded to think what Isabelle English had endured during her final hours. “I’m going back
to the cottage.”

  Faith walked into the kitchen and noted the two crystal glasses and empty bottle of red wine on the table. She picked up the framed photo of a dark-haired woman leaning into the arms of a man standing behind her.

  “You two could be sisters,” said Byrne, peering over her shoulder.

  Faith shuddered. “I don’t have a sister.”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry, boss,” said Plunkett, following close behind them. “It looks like they were having a good evening before it all went wrong. Lovers’ tiff?”

  “Perhaps, or that’s what he wants us to believe.” Faith wasn’t convinced.

  She climbed the stairs and surveyed the carnage in the bedroom. The sheets were twisted and stained in blood. A pervading sense of evil lingered. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what had taken place. She saw him mercilessly punching Isabelle with his clenched fists. Her heart pounded as she imagined the woman’s terror. She walked back downstairs, past the short hall, and out into the garden. Then she noticed the gap in the barbed wire fence. In her desperation to escape, Isabelle had torn at it with her bare hands, which explained the deep wounds on her skin.

  Faith imagined Isabelle stumbling through the field, desperate for help, fighting for her life. He would have followed close behind as she struggled to keep her balance. Isabelle would have known her efforts were pointless, and there was no hope of rescue. She was alone with a monster. He would have enjoyed the hunt, the chase, knowing there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. At the edge of the field was the sheer drop into the Atlantic Ocean far below. Faith was surprised that he hadn’t pushed her over. Clearly, he wanted her to be found. She wondered if he was showing off, gloating, telling Faith that he was smarter than she was, that she’d never catch him. That was his first mistake.

  Faith stood at the edge of the field, picturing Isabelle in her final moments. She would have begged for mercy as she covered her head with her hands and fell at his feet. The nearest house was two kilometres away; there were no witnesses to hear her final screams.

  “What have you done?” whispered Faith. She glanced back at the cottage, already certain that he had left nothing incriminating behind. “Get forensics up here,” she ordered Byrne. “Tell them to check if there are any traces of his blood in the field or on the barbed wire.” Deep down, she knew there wouldn’t be, but part of her lived in hope.

  36

  The brutal murders of Isabelle English and the Gleesons sent shock waves through Killarney. The tight-knit community prided themselves on their hospitality and delighted in making visitors feel welcome. The murders were a personal affront to their reputation, and a betrayal of the trust that guests had placed in them and their town. Doors, which had always been on the latch, were shut and bolted. People retreated into themselves, not knowing who to trust.

  Journalists and paparazzi descended on Killarney. The town, which had always been associated with beauty, generosity, and hospitality, was portrayed as a wild, savage place where innocent people weren’t safe, and where a crazed serial killer hid among them.

  A tangled web of rumour and intrigue emerged. Neighbours eyed each other suspiciously, wondering what the other was hiding, as the murder investigation uncovered secrets that were better left forgotten.

  A poisonous atmosphere permeated the town in the aftermath of the murders. Faith was well aware that the stain of the murders would blot the countryside for as long as the killer roamed free and remained unpunished. The unsolved murders and the presumption that the killer was local made it impossible for the community to grieve. They would not have the small comfort afforded by justice and retribution until he was caught. The fact that he was out there, somewhere, only exacerbated their pain.

  Music no longer flowed from the pubs. Idle banter and chit-chat dissipated. Darkness pervaded the town, and the condemnation within the silence was deafening.

  37

  “That’s not my Isabelle,” whispered Peter English. His brown eyes were bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep. His short, white hair stood on end, uncombed. He and his wife had caught an overnight flight from New York to Shannon, and then driven the hundred miles to Killarney. “That’s not my daughter. It can’t be her.” The shattered remains on the cold morgue table bore little resemblance to his beautiful girl.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Faith. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Molly English clung to her husband and wept. He rested his head on her short blonde curls.

  “I want you to find the bastard who did this,” said Peter.

  “I’ll find him,” promised Faith. “Whatever it takes, I’ll get him.”

  ***

  Faith stormed into the incident room and slammed her bag on Reilly’s desk. He almost jumped out of his skin. Silence descended on the team as they turned to see what was wrong. “Would someone like to explain to me why Isabelle English’s family had to learn about her murder on the fucking news? I’ve just had another ear-bashing from the Super. She’s not impressed, and quite frankly, neither am I.”

  Reilly flushed as he stammered an explanation. Faith was intimidating at the best of times, and downright scary when she was in a full-on rage. She towered over him, her blue eyes blazing.

  “I informed our American counterparts of Isabelle’s murder, but they hadn’t spoken to her family by the time a news bulletin reported her death,” stuttered Reilly. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Her poor mother tried calling us here at the Station, but the officer she spoke with said he didn’t have the authority to confirm the name of the deceased. She’d been dead almost twelve hours at that stage. Who was the moron who said he didn’t have the authority?”

  “That would be me, boss,” said Reilly. He looked like he was about to pass out.

  “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “I…um…this is my first murder case, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why didn’t you ask one of the others?”

  “I…”

  “It’s done now,” she said, relenting. “Use your head in future, Reilly, okay?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Another murder, that’s all we need,” said Faith, turning her attention back to the rest of the team. “The press is having a field day with the fact that we have a serial killer on the loose and we’re still no closer to finding him. As if this bloody case isn’t difficult enough, now we have another body thrown into the mix.” She pinned Isabelle’s photo to the whiteboard, along with photos of Peter and Molly English.

  The team exchanged glances as Faith continued to rant. Their boss’s moods were legendary, and no one wanted to be in the firing line when she got going. “What’s the story with Isabelle’s boyfriend — Rory Fitzpatrick?” Faith demanded, hands on her hips. “Has anyone managed to track him down?”

  Plunkett cleared his throat. “Mr Fitzpatrick said he didn’t want to see her body. He prefers to remember her as the beautiful woman he knew and loved. He said, ‘I don’t want her mutilated face to obliterate my memories of her smiles’.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Faith. “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he? Does he fancy himself as a poet?”

  “Actually, boss, he’s a writer,” said Plunkett.

  Faith silenced him with a glare. “So he gets to live with ‘the memories of her smiles’, while he leaves her poor, unfortunate parents to handle everything. Charming. How long were they together?”

  “Three years,” Plunkett replied, checking his notes to be sure. “He claims he was going to ask her to marry him on her birthday next month.”

  “Good for him,” said Faith. “Find out where he was on the night she died.”

  “He says he was at home in New York, boss.”

  “That’s what he says. Look into it. What was Isabelle doing in Killarney alone if they were so in love? Surely, it would have been a romantic holiday together, unless she travelled across the ocean to get away from him.” She stuck a pin in Rory’s face as she
attached his photo to the whiteboard. She studied his round, smirking face with his black floppy hair hanging into his grey eyes. “I don’t like the look of him.”

  38

  Nothing in Rita’s life had prepared her for this. Her mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Outside, the sun shone, but inside was utter horror.

  Why had she suggested it? Because she was a weak, jealous drunk paralysed by her own inadequacies. Now she was an accomplice in his sick game.

  She’d agreed to it in a moment of drunken madness, never thinking he’d follow through. She was afraid of him, wondering if she’d be next. He’d been obsessed with Isabelle English, ever since she’d arrived in Killarney. Jealousy had clouded her brain.

  He talked about her all the time. Soon, she realised that it was more than a passing flirtation in his mind; his interest in her was sinister. When he was at work, she checked his computer and found hundreds of images of the actress.

  She was afraid of where his mind was taking him. Now, there was no way out, and she was stuck in this living nightmare with him. She should have left him years ago, escaped when she’d had the chance, but fear dominated her life, and he’d convinced her that she was nothing without him.

  The night he killed Isabelle, he returned to their house shortly before dawn. He stood in the middle of their bedroom, a shadowy figure in the moonlight. She pretended to be asleep, praying he’d leave her in peace. Her heart pounded as she listened to his every movement, wondering what he would do to her.