Insincere

by Joanne Clancy

  "Natalie Doyle was a fantasist who got a kick out of wasting people's time," declared Frank. "End of story."

  "There's no need to get annoyed about it," said Elizabeth.

  He was quiet for a moment. "What if she didn't have an alibi for the first murder, how would you rate her as a suspect?"

  "Artists don't usually become killers," replied Williams.

  "Why not?"

  "Because murder is mostly a crime of self-esteem. Someone who kills repeatedly is killing because their self-image is so indistinct that killing is the only way they can achieve any sense of self. Admittedly, it's a false and twisted sense of self, but it fulfills their need, until the next time. Artists don't need to kill in order to express their desires; they disperse their energies through their art."

  "Sounds like a sweeping generalisation to me," said Elizabeth.

  "No group is collectively immune from the impulses that make a serial killer," continued Williams. "Every rule has its exceptions. Natalie could have been the killer as well as anyone. In fact, there are features of her work that suggest she could have been a killer."

  "Like what?" asked Frank.

  "Some of her paintings are dissociative. She seemed to see people as a faceless mass, not as individuals. The Shooter, whoever he or she may be, isn't choosing specific targets, which is why it's proving difficult to catch him. Usually there's a link between a killer and their chosen victim that reveals something about the killer, but the Shooter seems to be killing indiscriminately across a wide spectrum of society."

  "Like a paid assassin?" suggested Elizabeth.

  "No, quite the opposite; a paid assassin only kills the people he's paid to kill. The Shooter genuinely hates the people he kills, but for nothing in particular. He hates their very existence. His rage is controlled, which is shown by the fact that he prefers to take only one shot."

  Frank sighed. "I wish Natalie Doyle had been the killer. At least it would mean it was over, but nothing's ever that simple.

  ***

  Elizabeth made her way back to her apartment alone. Williams took a taxi back to his hotel. Frank had declined her invitation for a nightcap. They tiptoed around each other, both trying to avoid the subject of Natalie Doyle's death. He wished she'd let the whole thing go, and she wished he'd try to see that Natalie's death was connected in some imperceptible way to the Shooter case.

  The streets were quieter than usual by the time they left the restaurant. The latest murder had had that effect on the city: everyone was waiting in fear.

  The door to the foyer was unlocked when she arrived back at her apartment building. Steve, the caretaker, was nowhere in sight. The lift was out of order, according to the note pinned to the door. She sighed at the thought of having to drag herself upstairs to the penthouse.

  As soon as she reached the door to her apartment, she realised that something was wrong. The air crackled with tension. Something was disturbed. Tentatively, she removed her key from her bag and slipped it into the lock, but the door was already open, just like the door downstairs.

  On reflex, she reached for her gun, before realising that she didn't carry one anymore. No one except the Shooter carried a gun in Cork. She contemplated leaving and returning with backup, but that wasn't her style.

  She pushed the door until it swung wide open. The livingroom was in shadow as far as the glass doors to the balcony, which were also open. She took a step inside and reached for the light switch.

  Havoc leapt out at her as light flooded the room. An armchair lay on its side, the upholstery ripped apart; papers fluttered in the wind from the open balcony doors; books were scattered all over the floor; and a painting had been pulled from the wall and knifed. Even the kitchen cupboards had been searched: jars were smashed on the tiles and bottles broken. The bedroom was in a similar state. Her clothes were flung across the carpet and the mattress was slashed.

  A bottle of perfume was smashed on the bathroom floor. The shower curtain had been ripped off its hooks, while the sink was full of toiletries that been pulled from the cabinet.

  What had the burglar wanted?

  Elizabeth had always been wary of inviting people to her apartment. It had taken her months before she trusted Frank enough to allow him inside, which was why she had resented Lucas Doyle showing up on her doorstep uninvited. She needed her own space. Knowing that a stranger had rifled through her possessions and invaded her world was her worst nightmare. She felt violated and she berated herself for not having taken more precautions.

  Her only consolation was that she kept so few personal possessions that she almost had a ready-made barrier against intruders. There were no photo albums, letters, or journals to pry into. Not for the first time she was glad she always travelled light: less chance of getting hurt.

  She closed the balcony doors and put the armchair back in its place, while trying to convince herself that it had probably been druggies looking for money, or just a random, opportunistic burglary. People were always being burgled, especially in the city-centre, but deep down, she knew that someone had been looking for something.

  While she had been following Hannah Moynihan, someone had been stalking her, and that realisation was as irritating as it was unnerving; she hated anyone having an advantage over her.

  As she contemplated the mess, she noticed something that she hadn't seen before. Something was attached to the hook where her painting had been. At first she thought it was a note, but on inspection, she realised it was a similar photo to the one she'd found hidden among Natalie's files. It was a photo of Elizabeth, taken that morning at the cemetery as she wandered among the gravestones. She was frowning, as usual. Frank said she needed to smile more, but hers was a face designed to look sad.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "What's this?" Elizabeth shoved the restraining order at Calvin Cusack. She'd waited hours for him in the car park of his exclusive office building, knowing that she wouldn't have a hope of getting past security. Calvin Cusack was a solicitor who was in it for the money. He couldn't care less if his clients were guilty or innocent.

  She watched as he finally arrived and hauled himself out of his Bentley. He was short and fat, and reminded her of the little Buddha paperweight she kept on her desk. He was the type of man for whom intelligence or justice could never bring as much satisfaction as deviousness or beating the system.

  "Elizabeth Ireland. Is that a bad attitude or are you displeased to see me?" He flashed his fake smile at her.

  "Spare me the banter, Cusack. We need to talk."

  "Make an appointment. I'm a busy man."

  "What the hell is this?" she repeated, waving the document in front of his face.

  "I'll do you for assault if you're not careful," he snarled, taking a step back. "Get out of my way."

  "I'll get out of your way when you explain why I received this on behalf of Hannah Moynihan, warning me to stay away from her."

  "It's right there in black and white: she wants you to stay away from her. She wants you to stop harassing her."

  "I haven't been harassing her or anyone else."

  "Whatever you say, Elizabeth. I'm sure you have your reasons for sticking your nose into her business; you always do. I'm sure it's not you who's been calling her and hanging up in the middle of the night. Of course, you didn't break into her gallery and ransack the place a few nights ago, and it's definitely not you who's been sending her magazine photos with her face cut out. I'm sure you haven't been hanging around her house either."

  "Don't you think I have better ways to spend my time?"

  "Hmmm, let me think." He paused. "No."

  "You can't accuse me of harassing Hannah Moynihan just because she says I am. Where's the evidence?"

  "She claims you were at Natalie Doyle's funeral yesterday."

  "Her brother invited me."

  "Do you have the invitation to prove it?"

  "Somewhere."

  "Well, Ms. Moynihan says you weren't invited, that you gatecras
hed."

  "She's lying."

  "Is she lying about you cornering Lucas Doyle in the church and trying to convince him to hire you to look into his sister's death?"

  "This is getting more surreal by the second. He's already asked me to look into her death."

  "My client also says this isn't the first time you've bothered her. Apparently, you've been pressuring her to hand over some of Ms. Doyle's personal effects."

  "I went to her gallery last week. She told me about Natalie's belongings. I didn't know anything about them until she volunteered the information. I asked if I could see them; she said no, which I accepted." Elizabeth thought it best to leave out the part about following her to the bus station.

  "Ms. Moynihan said you made some vague threats about what might happen to her if she didn't hand over the items. Does that sound familiar?"

  "I didn't threaten her, and I certainly never prank-called her, or sent defaced pictures to her."

  "All you have to do is stay away from her, and that will be the end of the matter."

  "I think the Shooter shot the wrong solicitor." She couldn't resist.

  "Oh dear. Am I not your type?" he asked.

  "You're not even my species."

  ***

  "Can you believe the cheek of Calvin Cusack telling me to stay away from Hannah Moynihan? I'm not a stalker."

  "You know what Cusack's like," said Frank dismissively, barely glancing up from his computer. "He gets a kick out of annoying people."

  "Doesn't he irritate you?"

  "Of course he irritates me, but I let it go. He's not worth the aggravation. Back off on Moynihan, like Cusack advised, and that'll be the end of it."

  "Back off? I was only talking to her."

  "Okay, I'll rephrase it: forget about her."

  "I can't forget about her. Hannah Moynihan is involved in this case."

  "How is she involved?"

  "As you know, the Criminal Assets Bureau has been investigating her for years. I know they don't have anything on her, but they obviously don't think she's clean. She has art shipped in and out of the country every week. Who knows what she's hiding?"

  "Are you saying that Hannah is the Shooter?"

  "Why not?" She shrugged.

  Frank pushed himself away from his computer and leaned back in his chair, giving her his full attention. "Don't be ridiculous. She has rock-solid alibis for most of the killings. I know you think I don't know what I'm doing..."

  "I never said that."

  He raised a hand to silence her. "I've checked her shipments over the past year, and she's clean. Sorry to disappoint you."

  Elizabeth suddenly felt ashamed. She looked away. Frank was under enough pressure without her questioning his every move. Maybe he had made some bad decisions about the case, but the only people who never made a bad decision were those who never bothered making any.

  He had to follow the facts; he couldn't chase after his instincts like her. However, ashamed or not, she wasn't ready to let it drop; the burglary at her apartment was reason enough to keep going. "How did Natalie get a gun?"

  "Elizabeth." Frank sighed. "I'm going to tell you something that I really shouldn't be telling you. Hannah gave the gun to Natalie."

  "How do you know?"

  "A few weeks before she died, Natalie told Hannah that she felt she was in danger. She was scared. She begged Hannah for a gun so she could protect herself."

  "And Hannah gave it to her?"

  "She was reluctant, but Natalie was a good friend, not to mention one of her most valuable artists. Hannah never imagined that Natalie would shoot herself. She assumed that a gun would help to put Natalie's mind at ease. When she killed herself, Hannah went straight to McGovern and told him about the gun."

  "And her good old buddy McGovern made sure it was covered up; how convenient." Elizabeth was disgusted.

  "What was the point in pursuing it?" asked Frank. "It wouldn't have brought Natalie back, and it wouldn't have been in the public interest to prosecute Hannah for a simple error."

  "Now you sound like McGovern."

  "Don't get narky with me, Elizabeth. I'm not in the mood. I have better things to do with my time than pursue Hannah Moynihan on minor charges. I'm trying to run a murder enquiry. I've been here since seven this morning going through the list of suspects. The press is demanding answers; the families of the victims are demanding answers; and the Commissioner's demanding miracles. The last thing I need is you making unreasonable demands."

  "Doesn't the fact that Natalie wanted a gun prove that her life was in danger, that she wasn't suicidal?" Elizabeth asked.

  "No, it doesn't prove anything of the sort; I don't have any evidence that she was being threatened. How many more times must we go over this? Just because she told you that someone was trying to kill her doesn't make it so."

  "She told Hannah too."

  "Now Hannah's a witness? A minute ago, she was your prime suspect! Make up your mind, woman."

  "Don't you raise your voice at me, buddy!" She flushed with temper.

  "Maybe Natalie only told Hannah that she was afraid so that she would give her a gun to kill herself. The fact that she told Dr. Brennan that she was the Shooter proves that we can't believe a word she said. You're chasing shadows."

  Elizabeth was too tired to argue. She didn't know what to believe anymore. She considered telling Frank about the break-in, but that would only be something else to worry him. "Why didn't you tell me about the gun?"

  "I just did."

  "You should have told me sooner, when I was running around like an idiot."

  "If it had gone any further, I would have told you."

  "I don't understand why you're so adamant that Natalie killed herself."

  "She doesn't deserve to have people running after her, acting out her drama posthumously. I get enough of that emotional manipulation from my father."

  "Has something happened?"

  "The usual crap. He was on the phone this morning telling me how he has nothing to live for anymore, that I'm never there for him, and how lonely it is being old."

  "He can't expect you to live your life around him."

  "It doesn't stop him hinting that he might leave the exhaust running in the garage one night, or jump off a cliff somewhere."

  "Did you try talking to him?"

  "It's his life. I'm not going to beg him; that's all he want me to do: get involved in a big negotiation with him so that he feels important. He's trying to manipulate me into feeling guilty, when I have nothing to feel guilty about. I can't do any more for him than I'm already doing, just like there's nothing more you can do for Natalie. It's not your fault that she died."

  "I know," she said quietly. Just as she knew that her brother's death wasn't her fault either.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elizabeth went to see Detective Foley in Archives and Records, which was located in the basement of the Station. She was in mood to go home to an empty apartment.

  "I was about to call you." He smiled up at her from the only desk in the room.

  "Have you something for me?" She shivered; basements always gave her the creeps.

  "It looks that way."

  Hannah's cryptic comment about Natalie once sharing a house with a killer had intrigued her. Maybe that was where she'd find a lead. She'd asked Foley to dig up a list of the places that Natalie had lived, but she hadn't expected him to have it done so quickly.

  Elizabeth had lost count of all the places she'd lived: from a string of grotty student flats in London to a freezing winter spent in Edinburgh in a house where the ice was the only thing that stopped it falling down completely. She had wandered aimlessly through most of her twenties, and she often wondered where she would have ended up if she hadn't joined the police.

  Natalie's life had been less nomadic. Apart from a few summers spent in France, she'd lived most of her life in Cork.

  Foley had found two persons of interest. The first was Sebastian Daly, who had
been Natalie's boyfriend when she was studying at Art College. They'd lived together for three years and split up shortly after they graduated. He was killed in a car accident the year after they broke up.

  The second person was Finn Spillane, also an artist, but nowhere near as successful as Natalie. Foley hadn't found any listing of exhibitions of his work. They'd lived together for a few months. He had worked for various magazines for a while, surviving mostly on the jobs that Natalie rejected and passed on to him. Now he was married and owned a shop that sold photographic equipment in Kinsale.

  "Finn Spillane didn't attend the funeral," said Foley. "I checked the list of mourners who attended."

  "Unless he was there under a different name," said Elizabeth, thoughtfully.

  So far, all roads in the investigation led to Kinsale, starting from the moment that Natalie had lured her out there on her last night. Had she been trying to tell her that the place was somehow significant? Had she wanted to show her something?

  "I found something else, too," said Foley, interrupting her thoughts.

  He handed her the file that he'd uncovered in the archives. A fourteen-year-old girl by the name of Polly Heaney had gone missing from her house in Kinsale one hot July around the same time that the Doyles were living there. Two days later, a dog was seen digging at the bottom of the girl's garden. Polly had been raped and strangled.

  "And this happened just around the corner from the Doyles' house?" asked Elizabeth.

  Foley nodded.

  "Was anyone caught?"

  "Kyle Whelan, a paedophile who'd recently finished a prison sentence, lived a few doors away from Polly. He confessed to killing her, but retracted his confession the day before he was due in court. He's protested his innocence ever since.

  "What about Polly's family? Do they still live in the area?"

  "Both parents are dead. Her father died of cancer a few years before Polly was killed, her mother died in a mental institution last year, and her brothers ended up in care."