WHYTE LIES

by KC Acton

  A small stone cross and a bouquet of wild flowers lay at the place where Isabelle had been found. Faith stopped to look out across the fields and the town far below. The killer was out there somewhere, not too far away. She could feel it in her bones.

  41

  Rory Fitzpatrick arrived at the station at 2 p.m. He was a short, apologetic man in his late forties, who had aged since the photographs that Faith had seen of him at Isabelle’s cottage.

  “Thanks for meeting with us,” said Faith, leading him to one of the interview rooms.

  “It was the least I could do. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it here sooner.”

  “You missed the funeral.” Faith cringed at her accusatory tone.

  “I don’t attend funerals, not since I lost my parents.”

  “I see. So what brings you here now?”

  “I wanted to see where Isabelle died.”

  “Have a seat,” said Faith. “Do you mind if Detective Sergeant Byrne sits in?”

  “I thought this was an informal interview?” He frowned.

  “It is. Can I get you anything: tea, coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Let’s get this over with. My plane leaves tonight, so I need to be at the airport in a few hours.” He glanced at his watch.

  “How have you been?” asked Faith.

  “Not great. My pain won’t end until the killer is caught,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. He coughed in an effort to compose himself. “I don’t understand how there can be a complete absence of DNA evidence. It’s incredible that not one spot of the killer’s flesh or blood has been found.”

  “Luck was on his side,” said Byrne.

  “Do you think it’s possible that there has been no progress because such a high profile case would damage Killarney’s image and consequently the tourist trade?” he asked. “It’s something we’ve discussed as a possibility because we can think of no other obvious logical reason.”

  “I haven’t heard that theory,” said Faith, taken aback by his cynicism. “I think greater damage has been done because the killer is still at large. If the area is unsafe, with a maniac lurking, waiting for the opportunity to strike again, then the notion that Killarney is a place where justice is in short supply must be uppermost in everyone’s minds.”

  Rory shrugged.

  “When did you first meet Isabelle?” asked Faith.

  “We met on set; I wrote the play, she was the lead actress.” He smiled at the memory.

  “When did you become romantically involved?”

  “I was divorcing my wife when I met Isabelle. She refused to go out with me until it was finalised. She didn’t want to be known as my mistress. When the divorce came through, I sent her a copy of the paperwork, and the rest is history.”

  Faith took copious notes as Rory spoke. Isabelle would have been almost fifteen years younger than him when they met; a young actress, trying to make it. It would have been tempting to fall for his charm and power. She couldn’t help admiring her principles.

  “Isabelle was independent and careful to keep a professional distance from me, because whatever she achieved, she wanted to prove she could do it on her own talent, not her connections.”

  “How was your relationship in the weeks before she died?”

  “We had our issues, like most people. We separated briefly last year, but we worked it out. Isabelle had a habit of disappearing if she wasn’t happy, usually to Killarney. It was her safe place. We had our disagreements, but we always made up in the end.”

  “Was this last trip to Killarney one of those times when she wanted to disappear?”

  “No, she wanted to be alone. She never invited me to the cottage. This is my first time being in Killarney. She idealised love, which could be demanding.” He sighed. “She loved the intimacy of a relationship, but she also delighted in escapism. It was a constant pull between the two for her. She had a life that most people can only dream of, but she also longed for a simple life. She wasn’t enamoured of the glitz and glamour that accompanied her lifestyle, and I think that the wild remoteness of Killarney fulfilled a need in her.”

  “Do you think she was having an affair?”

  “No way; she wasn’t like that. She was easily disappointed, but she’d never run off with someone else.”

  “How did you feel about her staying alone in Killarney?”

  “I wasn’t keen on it, but what could I do? She believed that she had the strength to deal with whatever situation transpired. She never considered the possibility that she might be under threat. I often worried about her. However, once she had her mind made up, there was no point in trying to talk her out of it. She had no sense of danger. She loved Killarney; the wild beauty and isolation held a great appeal for her, and she loved the people who she had no reason not to trust. Maybe it was her lack of vulnerability that made her perfect prey for the killer.”

  He stopped to drink some water before continuing. “The rumours about our relationship being in trouble before she died are untrue.”

  “Where did the rumour begin?” asked Faith.

  “How should I know?” His face flushed. “I suppose stories of a troubled relationship support the general belief that the partner is the prime suspect. False rumours successfully deflect attention from the real killer. Who knows, maybe the killer started the rumours.” He smiled wryly.

  “Whoever he is,” said Faith.

  “That’s for you to find out.”

  “I spoke with her parents and they claim that Isabelle wanted company on her last stay in Killarney. Did she ask you to go?” asked Faith.

  He folded his arms. “Yes, that surprised me too. She’d never asked me to accompany her before, but I was working.”

  “Couldn’t you have worked at the cottage?” Faith wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

  “I like to work at home, in my study. It’s difficult to switch focus in a new place.”

  “Do you think she was worried about anything?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  “You were the last person to talk to her,” said Faith. “How was she on the phone?”

  “We had a relaxed chat,” he recalled. “I phoned her to say goodnight. There didn’t seem to be anything on her mind, or any indication that she felt under threat.” He wiped his dry eyes with a tissue before continuing. “I never imagined something like this would happen to me.” He sniffed. “Isabelle once said that we must not cry about the dead, instead we must think of them; I think of her often.”

  42

  Faith sat at her desk, struggling to get her head around the mountain of paperwork in front of her. Something told her that the answer to finding the killer was somewhere in the information which lay before her, if only she knew where to look.

  Every investigation followed a pattern, with meticulously drawn-up procedures, and she knew well that any slippage on her, or her team’s part, any carelessness in acquiring or handling evidence, could result in a case being lost on a technicality. She had at her disposal the expertise of forensic scientists and psychological profilers, but sometimes, a lucky break was what was most needed, and she prayed for such a break now. Random killings were the most difficult to solve, and now she had three to investigate with no obvious link between the victims and the killer. There was no outraged husband, battered wife, rejected lover, or known enemy on who suspicion would automatically fall.

  She went right back to the beginning of the case file on Isabelle English and the detailed account of her movements from the time she arrived at Shannon Airport to the discovery of her body. Footage from the security cameras at Shannon Airport established that Isabelle had disembarked alone from the direct JFK to Shannon flight and had set off on her own for Killarney in her hired car. Sightings of Isabelle in Killarney and the surrounding area over the following days, and statements from the people she had visited, confirmed the fact that she had been unaccompanied.

  Descriptions of Isabelle, provided by those who knew her,
told of a pleasant, chatty woman who always had a friendly word and a smile for everyone. No one could point a finger at anyone living locally who would have had a motive for killing her. There didn’t seem to be anyone with whom she had had the sort of relationship that would hint at an intimate rendezvous at the cottage.

  Faith scanned the log of every telephone call made to and from the cottage during the period of Isabelle’s stay. There was nothing unusual: calls to and from her caretaker, a local tradesman, her parents, and her boyfriend. Interviews with those to whom she had spoken confirmed the legitimate purpose of each telephone call.

  Checks with the car-hire company established the recorded mileage on her car at the time she had collected it at Shannon Airport. The additional mileage clocked up corresponded with the various trips around the locality that she had undertaken.

  They knew nothing of what had happened at the cottage from the moment Isabelle spoke with her boyfriend to the moment her body was found. The lights were switched off in the house. There was no sign of forced entry, so how did the killer get in? Had Isabelle opened the door to her killer? Was he someone she knew? Had someone followed her from New York? They had checked passenger lists for ferries and flights into and out of Ireland on the relevant dates, but they didn’t reveal anyone who could be connected to the case.

  A Dutch tourist had reported that he met a man in a pub shortly after Isabelle’s murder, who had discussed details of the murder with them. The man spoke about the killing in such detail that the tourist felt uneasy. He reported it to the police, but they hadn’t been able to find the man in question.

  With the help of forensic psychology reports, Faith put together a chilling profile of the person capable of committing such a murder. Isabelle’s killer was a sadistic beast with psychotic tendencies, and perverted sexual urges, but that didn’t explain why he had killed the Gleesons.

  She studied the post-mortem reports and photographs, the manner and ferocity of the attacks, and the position of the bodies; in crimes involving rape, the body itself was a crime scene. The possible connection between the location and the perpetrator also had to be considered.

  The state of the body could reveal a lot about an attacker, and give an insight into whether the killing was random, or rehearsed through fantasy and stalking. If the victim had put up a spirited struggle, the strength of the attacker and the age bracket he was likely to fall into could be assessed from the physique of the victim and the injuries received, which put Isabelle’s attacker somewhere between early thirties and late forties. There were few killers in that category who had not previously had some brush with police authorities, but every one of Faith’s searches had drawn a blank.

  The ultimate glory for a killer was having their victims at their utter mercy: captive and frightened, while he was in complete control. The more the victim begged for mercy, the greater was their sense of control.

  Faith read the profile again, although she already knew it by heart: The killer has a paranoid orientation towards the world, he is suspicious and distrustful of others, believes that everyone discriminates against him and doesn’t understand him. He is quick to sense slight, insult, and may misinterpret well-meaning communications. He craves friendship and understanding, but he is reluctant to confide in others; when he does, he expects to be misunderstood, or even betrayed.

  He finds it difficult to separate a real situation from his own mental projections. For the most part, his rage in the past would have been directed at authority figures and would have led to violence. When turned towards himself, his anger would have precipitated ideas of suicide.

  The inappropriate force of his anger and his lack of ability to control or channel it reflect a primary weakness of personality structure. Despite the violence in his life, he sees himself as inferior and inadequate, particularly concerning women. The murders would have been triggered by a period of increasing tension and disorganisation in the killer’s life.

  Profilers in Isabelle English’s case believed that her killer was probably both attracted and repelled by strong and successful women. He would have a deviant urge to control, torture, or murder his victim. He was a risk-taker, and risk was part of the arousal process for him.

  From an early age, the type of person who murdered Isabelle would have possessed an extraordinary sex drive, and during his formative years that drive would have been fuelled mainly by fantasy, and aided by pornography. Eventually, the time would come when he would attempt to translate his fantasies into reality, and he would look for a situation that would bring them to life. That moment spelt extreme danger for the woman he had become fixated on, but it still didn’t explain to Faith why he had killed the Gleesons.

  “This guy is insane,” said Faith, flinging the paperwork on the table, just as Dr Nicholas Morgan entered her office.

  “Who’s insane?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

  “Have you heard of knocking?” Faith was not amused.

  “Sorry.” He stepped outside and knocked loudly on the door.

  “Get in here.” She couldn’t help laughing.

  “So who’ve you driven insane now?” he teased.

  “I can’t work the killer out.”

  “I can tell you he’s not insane,” said Dr Morgan. “His desire for dominance, subjugation, the infliction of pain and death is the ultimate indulgence of his need for power, and is a calculated wickedness. Gratification comes from the fear and terror he arouses in his victim. Power and control are his driving forces. The perpetrator does not have these in his own life, but he wants to impose them on someone else in order to boost his self-esteem. This ‘control freak’ operates a regime of total obedience at home with his family. If his instructions are not followed to the letter, he is liable to fly into a rage, both in private and in public. The least sign of opposition is greeted by an irrational reaction. There is no debate allowed; he must get his way at all costs. Everything is black and white, and everything he does, however appalling, is correct in his mind. This type of person will demand and operate total sexual freedom outside the home, but will throttle his partner if she so much as glances at another man. The urge is one of continual dominance. Inextricably attached to dominance is sex. This type of personality is motivated primarily by his desire for recognition, even if that is rape or murder. The crime produces a sense of pride and self-worth. Many such killers revel in the notoriety that their cases bring, and many boast about their crimes in and out of prison.”

  “If that’s correct, why hasn’t our killer made himself known?” asked Faith.

  “Because he’s enjoying the thrill of the chase too much,” said Dr Crowley.

  “Why did he destroy Isabelle’s face?” asked Faith. “Hadn’t he tortured her enough?”

  “Destroying Isabelle’s face was an act designed to depersonalise her, to deprive her of her female persona, and to rob her of any sense of identity, even in death. Another typical characteristic of this type of killer is their ability to implicate other people in their crimes and convince those people that they are equally guilty. Usually, women are the target for this role in the killer’s drama, and such people are made to feel intimidated and threatened. Although Isabelle’s killer disposed of the murder weapon, his clothes would still have been soaked in blood. It would have been difficult to disguise. Something had to have been overlooked somewhere. Someone knows what he has done.”

  43

  Darkness was Rita’s constant companion; not even sleep provided relief. No such small mercy could she find in her living hell, not since the death of Isabelle English.

  Rita was broken, a prisoner of her own guilt. She wanted to tear her flesh, to forget, through physical pain, her mental torture, but she knew that the consequences lay ahead of her. The chapters of her sorry life replayed on an endless loop in her head as she tried to figure out what had caused her unravelling.

  Why had she stayed so long with a man who abused her? In the end, he had left her. Why had she needed him s
o desperately? Why was she still so willing to lie and cover up for his terrible deeds?

  She’d learned the hard way that being born under a good star did not necessarily lead to a happy life; her path had led to perdition. The rattling shackles of memory, and all that might have been, incarcerated her. She continued to deny and lie for a murderer, living in constant fear of discovery, knowing that she had the power to make it right, but she was too paralysed to do anything. “One day,” she promised herself. “One day I’ll tell.” It was the only small comfort she had left.

  She gazed at the ocean outside her window; its vastness called to her with the promise of comfort. She closed her eyes and saw the dead woman walking towards her. Isabelle held out the silver bracelet to her and gently fastened it on her wrist. It was time to tell the truth.

  44

  Faith sat bolt upright in bed, jolted awake by jumbled images and intersecting paths of thought, which was nothing new for her, just part of the subconscious stress that came with her job. Sometimes, a revealing nugget released in sleep helped her. She lay awake, staring into the darkness, as the web of her dream unfolded.

  In her dream, she had stopped to look into a river. Dark shadows of fish moved through the submerged reeds. They parted like the curtains on the stage of a theatre and revealed a kaleidoscope of colour, and in the middle a woman’s face. The woman’s eyes were wide open as she moved towards the surface. Her tears mingled with the water as her hands emerged in a pleading embrace.