Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment. She'd seen the fallout of senseless murders too many times. "What does this have to do with Natalie Doyle? Did she suspect that Whelan was innocent, that someone else was the killer?"
"Maybe that's what she meant about sharing a house with a killer, but there's only one member of that household still alive, apart from her brother."
"I'll give you one guess where I'm going next."
"Where?"
"To pay Finn Spillane a visit."
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth decided to take the bus to Kinsale; she wasn't in the mood to drive. She found a seat by the window, and sat back for the journey, staring out the grubby window, ignoring the other passengers. She needed to think, and she hated starting conversations with strangers because when they heard her accent they usually wanted to know more about her--where she was from and what she was doing in Ireland. Even she didn't really know the answer to the last question. She could never understand why people were interested in her life when it wasn't particularly interesting to her.
The bus crawled through the bumper-to-bumper traffic of the city until finally, it reached the outskirts, and the sea came into sight in the distance, lapping at the edges of the land. The metallic light was uninviting on the grey water when she disembarked and made her way along the harbour road. She walked some distance before she realised that she had no idea where she was headed; she'd been remembering the last time she'd been there: the night that Natalie had died. She shook her head, willing herself to focus, and checked the address that she'd typed into her iPad. Then she followed the map up the hill, past the narrow lanes towards Finn Spillane's place.
Spillane Photography read the sign outside the door. In the window sat a range of cameras in front of several family portraits. A bell chimed when she pushed the door open and stepped inside. A petite, pretty woman sat behind the counter. Elizabeth presumed she was Mrs. Spillane. Her smile quickly disappeared when she realised that Elizabeth wasn't there to buy anything. "Wait here. I'll go and get Finn."
A few minutes later, she returned with Finn. He was tall and silver-haired. He wore a white shirt over blue jeans. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"I'm Elizabeth Ireland. I'd like to talk to you about Natalie Doyle."
"I have nothing to say about her." There wasn't a hint of emotion in his voice.
"You know she died last week."
"That has nothing to do with me. We lost contact years ago."
"Don't you care what happened to her?"
"Actually, no, I don't. Why should I?"
"You were friends once."
"That was a long time ago." His eyes shifted. He glanced over his shoulder as a customer arrived at the shop. "Come through to the back. We can talk there."
Elizabeth followed him through a doorway at the back of the shop and along a narrow stone corridor to another door that led into the garden with panoramic views across the harbour. He'd been reading when she arrived. A cup of tea sat on the table beside a book. He didn't invite her to sit down.
"Stunning view," she said.
"I like it. It's the only thing that keeps me in this godforsaken place." He stopped, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry; I've forgotten your name."
"Elizabeth Ireland."
"Well, Elizabeth, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't want to get involved in anything to do with Natalie Doyle. She's not a part of my past that I care to revisit."
"I don't want to bother you," Elizabeth said. "It's just that Natalie's brother asked me to find out why she killed herself. I discovered that you two were friends, that you shared a house together here in Kinsale years ago."
"I haven't seen Natalie in almost a decade."
"Why didn't you stay in touch?"
"She stayed in touch with me, if you can call it that."
"How?"
He laughed bitterly. "For years after I left Natalie's inner circle, catalogues of her latest exhibitions; newspaper cuttings about her success; and photos of her meeting various people at functions were sent to me."
"Did Natalie send them?"
"That was her style. She enjoyed humiliating me and reminding me that I didn't have her talent or her success. She liked putting people down, which is why she sent me all her crap. She was trying to destroy my confidence. Even when I self-published a book of my photographs, she sent me a copy of a bad review that appeared in one of the photography journals, just in case I hadn't seen it."
"Did you ever confront her?"
"There wouldn't have been any point. Natalie enjoyed playing games. She enjoyed being cruel. If she'd known she was getting to me, she would have gotten worse. It was better to ignore her and hope she got bored."
"Did she stop?"
"Not completely. She sent messages to me occasionally. I stopped opening her packages eventually."
"Is that why you didn't attend her funeral?"
"What makes you think I was invited?"
"Were you?"
"Yes," he admitted. "I didn't bother replying."
"You didn't want to speak to Lucas?"
"No. I haven't seen him in years, either. Look, Natalie and I are ancient history. We were together long before I met my wife."
"Were you and Natalie lovers?"
"Isn't that what you were implying?"
"No," she replied honestly. "I thought she was Sebastian Daly's girlfriend."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, she was Sebastian's girlfriend, and mine, and who knows how many others'. She'd have moved us all into the house if there'd been enough room, had us wait our turn. I think she slept with almost every man connected to the art scene back in those days, including her own brother. Oh dear, is that news to you?"
"You sound bitter."
"It didn't end well between Natalie and me. I was in love with her. I wanted her for myself. I had to leave before she drove me as crazy as Sebastian." He gazed out across the water, frowning, as if he didn't like what he was remembering. "I still don't understand what any of this has to do with what happened to Natalie. She killed herself, didn't she? I don't know why, and I don't care."
"Lucas thinks she was murdered."
He laughed. "He would think that. Lucas always had a flair for the melodramatic, just like his sister. I suppose he thinks I killed her, does he?"
"He never mentioned you."
"Really?"
"Not a word."
He looked disappointed. "So where did you find my name?"
"I was looking into Natalie's past, and your name came up. You lived together for a while."
"Correction: we shared a house. Sebastian and Lucas lived there too. Is this about that insane story she used to tell?"
"What story?"
"The story about one of us being a killer. Lucas liked his stories too. I learned to stop believing them after a while. If anyone was a killer, it was Natalie or Lucas."
"Do you remember Polly Heaney?" asked Elizabeth.
"Who?"
"She was a teenage girl who lived near you. She was murdered."
He nodded. "I remember. Some paedophile went to jail for it."
"He claims he's innocent."
"Don't they all?"
"That's true enough."
"I don't know what lies and stories Lucas has been telling you, and I don't care. I left all that behind a long time ago. My shop, my wife, and our daughter are my life now. Nothing else matters to me."
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth reached into her bag for her mobile phone and suddenly sensed that she was being watched. She glanced up and found herself looking straight into the eyes of a man in the far corner of the restaurant. He had been reading a newspaper, his hand was poised over a page as if he'd begun to turn it and then forgotten what he was doing. He was so surprised at being caught that for a second he didn't even look away, and when he eventually did, another furtive glance quickly followed.
He was average height and wore a tailored grey suit. His hair w
as neatly cut. A briefcase stood by his feet, and his coat was draped over the chair behind him. He maintained a fixed expression, as if he was desperate not to give anything away and was counting down the minutes until he could leave. Moments later, he finished his drink, picked up his briefcase and paid. The waitress took the folded note he gave her, while Elizabeth waited for his next glance.
He didn't look at Elizabeth again, not even on his way out as he passed her table. He simply opened the door and left. She went to the window and watched him as he retreated down the street. She waited for him to glance over his shoulder. Just as he was about to disappear out of sight, he looked back. Their eyes met. Then he was gone, and she knew that their encounter had been significant.
"What are you doing by the window?" asked Williams, as he shrugged off his coat and clapped his hands together for warmth. "Did you miss me that much?"
"Some guy was watching me," she replied.
"Watching isn't a crime. Isn't a man allowed to look at a beautiful woman anymore?"
"He wasn't watching me like that."
"What sort of watching do you mean?"
"I'm not sure." For once, she wasn't just saying it to deter further questions. She wouldn't have thought there was anything strange about him if her apartment hadn't been burgled.
"Do you have any idea who he is?"
"I've never seen him before."
"Where's Frank?" asked Williams.
"There's been a break-in at the morgue," replied Elizabeth. She couldn't help wondering if it was related to the break-in at her apartment. "Apparently, the place is in a right state; autopsy reports are scattered everywhere. The pathologist's having a meltdown. Frank had to go and make sure nothing important was missing."
"Drug addicts looking for their next fix, no doubt," said Williams. "How long will he be?"
"It could be all night from what he said."
"A table for three it is then," said Williams. "Here's Adam."
"I'm so sorry I'm late," said Adam Brennan, pulling up a chair. "Traffic was a nightmare." Doctor Adam Brennan was tall and distinguished-looking with thick black hair. His clothes were expensive but understated. He was the type of man who knew how to dress while making it look as if he never gave it much thought, whereas Elizabeth just threw on the first thing that came to hand.
What with Frank not being there and Brennan looking as if he'd just walked off a film set, it took Elizabeth a while to relax. Until then, she let Williams do all the work; he was good at putting people at ease; it came from spending so much time in the company of psychos.
She studied the menu and idly listened to their psycho-babble. The awkwardness eased once they'd ordered, and Brennan turned out to be pleasant company.
"So Lucas has you investigating his sister's death," he said, turning to her.
"I wouldn't put it like that exactly. I have my own reasons for looking into it."
"I'm intrigued."
"That makes two of us." She glanced at Williams, wondering if he had told Brennan about her brother. Shane was the last person she wanted to discuss. "I don't have much else to do with my time at the moment."
"Has life been dull since you left The Met?"
"It was the only thing I was any good at. Sometimes, I wish I'd just taken a year off, then gone back. There's no hope of them ever taking me back now, especially after suing them. I've well and truly burned those bridges."
"Is that a habit of yours?"
"Burning bridges? Sure, that's me, every single time, but I don't give it much thought, and it's not something I'm in the mood to discuss with a shrink."
"Elizabeth disapproves of therapy," interrupted Williams.
"I think it's self-indulgent," she admitted. "Don't you ever get tired of listening to other people's problems?"
"It's not all bad." Brennan smiled. "It can even be rewarding."
"Yeah, the money's good," said Williams. "I'd be loaded too if I spent my time listening to wealthy narcissists and their personal dramas, instead of slaving away at The Met. Most of your patients have more money than sense."
"Careful," said Elizabeth. "You're starting to sound like me."
"You're a disgrace to your profession," teased Brennan. "It's not as if you've been starving all these years, Ken, not judging by your waistline anyway."
"We'd all look like you if we had the money for special diets and personal trainers," he retaliated good-naturedly.
"Do you mind if I ask you ask something?" asked Elizabeth.
"Go ahead."
"Who came to you first: Lucas or Natalie?"
"Lucas. I knew him years ago when I lived in Kinsale."
"Are you from Kinsale?"
"Not originally, my mother was from Spain. We moved to Ireland when I was a teenager. We lived around the corner from the Doyles. I moved away years before I started seeing him professionally. He was coming to see me a year before Natalie even set foot inside the door. It took her months to relax and open up."
"Did Lucas persuade her to come?"
"I got that impression. He's a firm believer in psychoanalysis. He reads all the right books and asks all the right questions. He keeps me on my toes."
"He sounds like hard work."
"Harder than some patients. He's highly intelligent, much more so than Natalie. Maybe I shouldn't say that. Natalie was creative, intuitive, and good at lateral thinking. Lucas is more single-minded and deeply intellectual."
"Because they were so close, would that make it more difficult for Lucas to accept that Natalie had killed herself? Would it make him angry and bitter enough to look for someone to blame?" asked Elizabeth.
"Not bad," said Williams, clapping. "You should be a therapist."
"It's a fascinating theory," said Brennan.
"But you can't disclose client details. I understand." She said the words, but she didn't mean them. "Do you think that Lucas would ever kill himself?"
"I doubt it. He doesn't have the usual traits. He's resilient; then again, one never knows for sure. I could see that Natalie was fragile and close to the edge, but I was shocked when it happened."
"Is that why you visited Max? Were you looking for answers?"
He sipped his drink before replying. "I saw Natalie for an hour twice a week. What did I really know about her? To understand what happened, I needed to talk to the people who spent their lives with her, who knew what books she was reading, what films she enjoyed, what jokes made her laugh. Who would know her better than the person she was sleeping with?"
"Like Lucas?"
He smiled. "There you go again."
"Don't you shrinks ever swap stories about your patients?"
"Just with other therapists; it's the only way to keep the craziness in-house." He and Williams laughed together like the old friends they were. Elizabeth felt excluded, as she did when she was with Frank's circle. Sometimes she felt she didn't belong anywhere. She was always on the outside looking in.
"Did you tell Lucas that his sister confessed to being the Shooter?" she asked.
"Williams! I can't believe you told her."
"Sorry." Williams looked sheepish.
"So much for professional ethics. Elizabeth isn't the only one who could do with a few reminders. Don't even attempt to defend yourself."
"I told Elizabeth and Frank in good faith; they wanted to know what happened."
"Secrets can be corrosive," said Brennan quietly. "To be honest, it's a relief not having to keep Natalie's secrets any longer. Did Williams mention that I did some investigating and discovered that Natalie couldn't have been the Shooter?"
"He mentioned it. Did you tell her that you knew it couldn't have been her?"
"No. She must have had her reasons for saying it. I was worried that it would have been counter-productive to push her. I thought it best to let her talk about it when she was ready, but she never brought it up again."
"Did she ever confess to anything else?"
"No, why would she?"
&
nbsp; "Maybe someone who made false accusations against herself would be more likely to make several fabricated confessions."
"Not in Natalie's case."
"I suppose one set of murders is more than enough for anyone," said Williams.
"Are you sure you didn't tell Lucas about her confession?"
"Absolutely not, but he did tell me that she was obsessed by the shootings. She had at least two alibis that I could discover. Lucas told me that Natalie was out of the country at the time of the first shooting. In the end, I decided that her obsession was a sign of something else other than guilt. You've seen her work: the dislocation and the portrayal of people as an undifferentiated mass. The Shooter would see people in the same way.
"Perhaps Natalie sensed a philosophical connection with him and wanted to explore it. Maybe she wanted to know why she expressed her alienation artistically while the Shooter turned to killing. Then again, maybe she was interested because the case was on the news so much."
"Do you believe that?"
"Part of me thinks she knew something, but I didn't give her the opportunity to tell me about it. My detachment must have seemed like disinterest to her. I let her down."
"Lucas thinks he let her down too."
Chapter Nineteen
In the taxi, on the way back to her apartment, Elizabeth rang Frank. She hadn't heard from him since he called to say he couldn't make it to dinner. The phone rang several times before he answered.
"Are you finished yet?" she asked.
"Elizabeth, is that you?" asked Foley. "I've been trying to reach you. I thought you might want to know."
Her blood froze at the edge of panic in his voice. "Where's Frank? What happened? Tell me."
"Haven't you heard? The Shooter's shot again."
"Where's Frank?"
"He's at the hospital."
"Which hospital?"
"Cork University Hospital. Elizabeth..."
Impatiently, she hung up. There was no time to talk. She had to get to Frank, fast. The taxi broke through the lights, and she arrived at the hospital in record time. Vehicles lined up nose-to-tail along the road leading to the front door. She flung some cash at the driver and jumped out. If anything happened to Frank...
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