Chapter Eight
Elizabeth spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in her apartment, trying to make sense of the fragments of rumour, fact, and conjecture that surrounded Natalie Doyle's death. She had no idea where to begin. The police firmly believed that her death was not connected to the Shooter case, and there was no evidence to suggest otherwise. However, neither she nor Lucas was convinced that she took her own life.
Elizabeth studied the catalogue of Natalie's latest exhibition and replayed her conversation with Natalie, trying to glean some meaning from her words. The most important part of any investigation was to strip away the noise and listen to what was really going on.
She focused on the details and background: the facts that filled the gaps between the real meaning, and it didn't take her long to realise that she didn't know much.
By the time she tidied away her notes, it was after midnight, and the full moon glittered brightly on the dark waters of the River Lee. Elizabeth thought about Frank and wondered if he was still at the Station. She hadn't heard from him since she'd told him about the exhibition. She didn't feel like sleeping, so she jumped in the Range Rover and drove to his house, deciding that if the lights were off, she'd drive on by.
The coast road to Frank's house was moon-bright. The houses in the soulless estate where he lived were identical, huddled together against the world, but the views made it worthwhile. Frank's lights were on when she pulled into his cul-de-sac. However, Detective Mike Foley's car was already parked outside.
Mike and Frank were good friends. There were none of the tensions and stand-offs between them that he faced from other detectives in the Murder Unit, notably Detective Delaney. Foley was older than Frank and didn't feel threatened like some of the others. Even so, Frank would have to compromise himself by talking business in front of her, and that wouldn't look good if it got back to the Assistant Commissioner.
She reversed out of the cul-de-sac and parked at the side of the road where it was darkest. She switched on the radio and waited. Frank Sinatra was singing, and it made her melancholy. Sometimes she felt that she had to make an appointment to see him. Then again, that was mostly her own fault; Frank often suggested getting a place together, but she constantly avoided making the commitment, not because she had any doubts about their relationship; it was something more indefinable that that. She'd always preferred to live alone and couldn't imagine sharing a home with someone, or maybe she was avoiding making a commitment to Cork City, even as the years merged into each other.
Buying a house with Frank would make her less of an outsider, which was how she had felt since moving to Ireland, and how she preferred it.
Frank insisted that a house was just a house, that she was making too much of it. Deep down, she knew he was right. They'd even gone as far as looking for somewhere, but she always found an excuse why each place wasn't good enough: it was too far from the city, there was nowhere for her to work, or the street was too quiet. She couldn't imagine living anywhere other than her apartment. The thought of different views, sounds and coordinates wrecked her head.
Eventually, Frank had let it drop, although Elizabeth couldn't help noticing the brochures from estate agents that were stuffed under the sofa or shoved among household bills. Sometimes, she really despised herself.
A loud blast of a car alarm made her jump. She glanced out the window to see Mike Foley and another man she didn't recognise walking to the car. The younger man was in his early thirties and handsome in a Tom Hardy kind of way. They'd been at Frank's house for a briefing. Frank was standing at the front door, seeing them off.
Elizabeth shrunk down in the driver's seat, trying to make herself inconspicuous as they drove past. She followed their headlights in the wing mirror as they headed back towards the city. As soon as the road was clear, she switched on the engine and pulled into Frank's drive. He answered the doorbell immediately. "Have you forgotten something?" He stopped short when he saw her standing there. "Elizabeth."
"Hi, Frank."
"I thought you were Mike."
"Yeah, I know. I saw him drive off. Who was the young guy?"
"That was Peter O' Flynn. He's the latest addition to the team."
She followed Frank into the kitchen. Files were scattered across the table, three mugs half-filled with cold tea and an empty packet of chocolate digestives: all the signs of an evening's work.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"I'm not hungry, thanks. Don't worry about me."
"Someone has to."
"You should be worried about yourself; you look wrecked."
"You should see the state of Mike. He's spending every hour on the Shooter case, as well as the other cases we need to deal with. He's been on the go since five this morning. This afternoon, McGovern hauled everyone into a meeting to discuss one of his ridiculous brainwaves about a gun amnesty. Of course, he expects us to do all the research for him, as if we don't already have enough to do."
"What's a gun amnesty?"
"It's where criminals can hand in their weapons without fear of being DNA-tested."
"What's behind it?"
"There's a rumour that the Commissioner is retiring. McGovern wants to up his chances of getting the job."
"He doesn't deserve the job."
"I couldn't care less if he deserves it or not; I want him out of my space."
"Would you apply to be Assistant Commissioner if he's promoted?"
"I wouldn't get it. McGovern can't stand me. To be honest, I don't think I'd want it; too much politics. Anyway, enough shop talk. What brings you to see me at this late hour, not that I'm objecting?"
"I miss your face."
He grinned. "Fancy a cuppa."
"Sounds good." She pulled up a chair and sat down at the table, tugging off her stubborn boots. "A gun amnesty would be the perfect way for the Shooter to dispose of his weapon, no questions asked, and no forensic or ballistic tests."
"I've already considered that," he said. "I'll be testing every gun that comes in, whether McGovern likes it or not. We've had few enough breaks on the case without letting a possible lead go just because he wants a promotion."
"This is why the Shooter wouldn't risk disposing of the gun that way. He'd probably suspect that the amnesty was deliberately set up to catch him. Oh, these bloody boots!"
"Let me." He knelt down in front of her and pulled the boots off, placing them side by side. She was reminded of Natalie's boots perched at the edge of the cliff. "Have you made any progress on connecting Natalie to the Shooter? he asked.
"Nope. You're probably right about the paintings' locations not being significant, but I'm going to keep working on it until I find out what's niggling at me, so consider yourself warned."
He smiled, but didn't pursue it. "What does Lucas think?"
"It's difficult to work out what Lucas thinks. He's a hard man to read."
"Like someone else I know."
"Maybe that's why I can't help liking him, though I know he's not being completely honest with me."
"You like him?"
"Maybe like is too strong a word. Let's just say that I recognise a kindred spirit. All he needs is some time to open up. He doesn't think his sister killed herself. He doesn't care what the autopsy report says."
"Families of suicide victims find it difficult to accept that their loved ones killed themselves," Frank said. "They see it as a rejection. Every emotion spills out: anger, disbelief, denial."
Elizabeth looked away, focusing instead on stirring sugar into her tea. Frank didn't know that she'd spent years blaming herself for what happened to her brother.
"Don't let feeling sorry for Lucas allow you to be pulled into something that you'd be better off staying out of," continued Frank.
"I can't help feeling sorry for him. He's completely lost without his sister. He doesn't know what to do or what to think. I understand how he feels."
"He's been annoying me all day, calling and asking when I was going to
release Natalie's body. He's been calling Foley, too. Does he think we're going to lose the body? I don't understand him; he's convinced his sister was murdered, but he can't get the body back fast enough."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that the body wasn't my jurisdiction, which is true; only the coroner can release it."
"When?"
"Soon, I'd say. There's no reason to hold it now that the death cert's been completed. It's usually a matter of procedure after the autopsy as long as there's no ongoing police enquiry. He could be waiting months for the inquest. It wouldn't make sense to keep the body until then. He'll have Natalie back soon, and I hope that's the last I hear from him. I'm trying to let Delaney handle him."
"As if Lucas doesn't have enough problems." She rolled her eyes at the mention of Delaney's name.
"Anything that keeps him off my back is good enough for me." Frank smiled and put his hand on hers. "I'm glad you called over. It's good to see you."
She leaned across and kissed him.
The shrill ringing of Frank's phone rudely interrupted them. He swore under his breath before answering. "Yes...okay...I'll be right there."
"Is that what I think it is?" she asked.
He nodded. "The Shooter has struck again. This time, there are two dead."
***
Elizabeth lay in Frank's bed, channel-surfing, until she came across a shot of a street somewhere in Cork and a live relay from the scene of the latest murders. The night sky was neon bright with flashing lights. A caption ran across the bottom of the television screen: Two victims shot dead. Is it the Shooter?
She turned up the sound to hear the latest update. Reporters at the scene said that the first victim had been walking home from a pub and had stopped in a shop doorway to relieve himself. He was shot once in the back from a distance of approximately ten feet. The television lights picked up the arc of the blood spatter on the shop door before the police had a chance to put up the screens and herd people away.
Another body lay close by. She wore black stiletto boots and a short, red cocktail dress. Beside her lay a small bag with a house key, a few coins and a cloakroom ticket from a nightclub in the city. It seemed she was killed because she had inadvertently walked on to the scene as the Shooter was aiming at his first victim. The initial shots had missed her; the first shattered a nearby window, while the second hit a wall. He was running to catch her when he fired the third shot; it had hit her in the hip and knocked her as she tried to get away. The following shots were delivered at close range as she lay on the ground, looking up at him. He placed the gun against her forehead before pulling the trigger.
Elizabeth watched the City Pathologist arriving just ahead of the van from the mortuary. She recognised the familiar faces of the Murder Unit as they walked grimly past the crime-scene tape, followed closely by the photographer, Tim Hewson. There was no sign of Delaney.
She saw a reporter trying to catch Frank for a quote as he arrived at the scene less than an hour after getting the call. She smiled as he brushed past the reporter as if he didn't exist before disappearing into the darkness behind the screen. It was odd to see him out there while she lay in his bed, his pillow behind her head, and the musky smell of him lingering in the room.
Several bystanders claimed to have seen a man running along the quays, although their descriptions of him differed considerably. Someone even said they'd seen a woman fleeing the scene. Another had heard a scream, but he couldn't remember when exactly. One man claimed that the killer had knocked him to the ground and that he had a scar on his face.
Elizabeth wondered why the witnesses weren't being isolated and their statements taken before they had an opportunity to contaminate their memories with whatever fantasies they picked up on the frenzied night air.
The television maintained a rolling banner of news along the bottom of the screen: Is anyone in Cork City safe? When will the Shooter strike again? It was amazing that anyone managed to stay sane in the days following the tragedy with such sensationalism. People in the city had stayed relatively calm since the shootings had started, but the murders had been spaced out enough that any risk of panic had had time to subside. However, the more victims, the less chance there was of retaining the collective calm.
Wearily, she switched off the television. The sound of a passing car and the faint echo of the sea replaced the chatter of the news stations. Her thoughts wandered to Natalie Doyle. From what she could remember, the location of the latest shootings didn't feature in any of her paintings. Did that mean that Frank was correct in dismissing Natalie's paintings as simply coincidental? Had her call been nothing more than a self-dramatisation with nothing more to do with the Shooter than Shane's death?
As she lay there alone in Frank's bed, she realised that she didn't want her part in the investigation to end. She still longed for her own crime scenes, her own investigations; otherwise, she was nothing, nothing at all.
Chapter Nine
Hannah Moynihan's art gallery was located in Kinsale, a picture-postcard town located on the coast about twenty kilometres from Cork City and famous for its restaurants and sailing. Elizabeth hadn't bothered making an appointment to see Hannah; she didn't want to give her the chance of refusing to speak with her.
The art gallery was located in an old building, overlooking the harbour. The front had been removed and replaced with glass, so that all four floors were exposed. The walls were painted a stark white and the floor was solid oak. A woman sat behind a long, glass desk, talking on the phone. It could only be Hannah Moynihan; she sat there like lady of all she surveyed. She wore a heavy fur coat, which swamped her petite frame, and her red hair was piled high on her head in a gravity-defying beehive.
Elizabeth tried the door, but it was locked. Then she knocked. Hannah glanced up and was about to ignore her when a flash of recognition crossed her face. She pressed a button below her desk to open the door. By the time Elizabeth had closed the door behind her, Hannah had returned to her phone conversation.
Elizabeth studied the paintings on the walls while she waited for Hannah to finish. The paintings were disturbing nudes, mostly female, in various poses of dismemberment. They made her appreciate Natalie's work even more.
"What do you think?" The whisper in her ear made her turn swiftly. Hannah was standing right at her shoulder. She hadn't heard her approach, which on the oak floor was quite an achievement. She glanced at her feet and noticed that she was barefoot.
"I prefer art that looks a little less like a courtroom exhibit. Who's the artist?"
"The artist prefers to remain anonymous."
"I can understand why."
"Do you find the work sinister?" Hannah seemed surprised, as if a woman with blood pouring from her wrists was completely normal. "It's daring. I suppose some people find it intimidating." She cocked her head quizzically and peered at Elizabeth over the black frames of her horn-rimmed glasses. Her green eyes glittered. "Not everyone understands art."
"It amuses me how artists blame negative reactions to their work on the hang-ups of their audience. It never occurs to them that their work really is bizarre."
"I wouldn't call it bizarre." Hannah smirked. "I think the artist was trying to challenge society's preconceptions about femininity and violence. It's meant to be disturbing. The audience is supposed to question why they feel disturbed or threatened. Maybe their reactions to these paintings will teach them something about themselves. There's another exhibition upstairs, if you'd prefer."
"Thanks, but I think I'll pass. If this is what you put on the ground floor, I shudder to think about what's upstairs. Anyway, I'm here to see you. My name is..."
"Elizabeth Ireland. Lucas has told me all about you."
"Did he describe me in such detail that you recognised me at the door?"
"He mentioned that you'd probably call around. Have a seat, unless you'd prefer to go out for coffee."
"You don't minding closing the gallery?"
"I don't feel the need to keep refreshments here when there's a perfectly pleasant coffee shop around the corner. Besides, my assistant is upstairs, and viewing is strictly by appointment."
She slipped her feet into her shoes and they headed outside. "I expected you sooner." She sounded disappointed. "Lucas said you were interested in Natalie's death. Her passing was such a tragedy. She was so gifted."
Elizabeth stayed silent.
"Lucas is an exceptional man, too," Hannah continued. "He's a gifted photographer. It's difficult for him without her. They were close."
"So he says."
"It's hard to imagine them apart. A future without Natalie must seem intolerable to him."
"Has he said that?"
"He doesn't need to."
They ordered their drinks at the coffee shop. While they waited, Elizabeth looked around at all the people drifting through the main street.
"I think it would be best if you stayed away from him. You shouldn't keep getting his hopes up that there's more to Natalie's death than meets the eye," said Hannah.
"She called me." Elizabeth didn't like her condescending tone. "She told me that someone was trying to kill her. Maybe it's easy for you to shrug off something like that, but I can't. For your information, I haven't been getting his hopes up; Lucas doesn't believe that his sister killed herself. He wants me to keep investigating."
"That's not what I gathered."
"What did you gather?"
"Lucas said that you've been bothering him."
"Bothering him? That's insane."
"You're bothering me right now. Why is it insane to think that you've been bothering him too?"
"How exactly am I bothering you?"
"Asking questions."
"I don't consider asking questions to be bothersome. Don't you want to know how Natalie died?"
"I already know how she died. She killed herself. The police told me exactly how it happened. The detective in charge of the case told Lucas everything. At first, he couldn't accept it, but I spoke to him this morning on the phone and he said that he was ready to put his initial doubts about her death behind him."
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