Insincere

by Joanne Clancy

  All she could think about was how she'd told him that morning that he was beginning to sound like McGovern. She'd wanted to hurt him, and she had, now it seemed so childish. Police cars ranged about, blue lights flashing like a reassuring pulse, but her only thought was to get inside and get to Frank.

  She was almost at the front door when someone grabbed her sleeve. She swung around angrily to shake off whoever it was, when she came face to face with Peter O' Flynn, the Murder Unit's new recruit.

  "Hey, darling. What's the rush? Elizabeth, isn't it? That's not an Irish accent," said O' Flynn. "Where are you from?"

  "London."

  "London, England, or London, Ontario?"

  "Am I supposed to be impressed?" she asked. "Can't you tell by my accent?"

  "Just teasing. I've seen you before."

  "Really?"

  "The other night, sitting in the Range Rover near the Chief's place."

  "You're an observant chap, so much for me being inconspicuous."

  "So they say, darling."

  Darling? She decided to let it go. She wasn't sure what to think of Peter O' Flynn. He wasn't shy. She didn't mind forward people; it just took her a while to get used to them. Frank had said O' Flynn was a good detective, and that was all that mattered to her.

  "I need to see Frank."

  "The Chief's upstairs." He looked puzzled.

  "I know," she snapped. "That's why I'm here. Foley told me what happened."

  "Did you think...?" He trailed off.

  "Is he okay?"

  "He's talking to someone, that's all. Did you think something had happened to him?"

  "Foley said something about the Shooter. I didn't give him a chance to explain."

  "Come on, you need to sit down. I'll tell you everything."

  He led her towards a bench near the entrance. She felt giddy with relief.

  "The Chief's upstairs with Foley," O' Flynn explained, keeping an eye on the hospital entrance in case he was needed. "They brought the victim in about an hour ago. He was shot near the quays this evening. He was on his way to the train station when a figure in black stood close behind him and shot him."

  "Was it the Shooter?"

  "It looks like it."

  "Why is everyone here? Why aren't you at the scene?"

  "He survived."

  "He's alive?"

  "Yeah, he's going to be fine."

  "Who is he?"

  "His name's Barry. He's married; he insisted that the paramedics call his wife and tell her that he wouldn't be home for dinner."

  "The things people think of. How did he make it to the hospital, let alone survive, if he was shot at close range?"

  "He was shot in the shoulder," said O' Flynn.

  "He didn't mean to kill him," said Elizabeth. "He wouldn't have missed at that range. He wanted him to survive."

  "That's why the Chief's interviewing him now. He wants to find out as much as he can about the attack."

  Elizabeth looked up at the hospital windows, which were all lit up. Frank was behind one of them. Five minutes ago, she'd thought he was dead. Now, she envied him; hearing everything second hand was no substitute for being on the inside. She stood up and turned her back to the hospital. "What makes you think it was the Shooter this time?" she asked.

  "The MO's all pointing towards him."

  "If it was the Shooter, that's the first time he's touched one of the victims," she said thoughtfully. "Was Barry wearing a coat? There might be something on it."

  "His coat's been bagged and taken away by Forensics, but by the time the paramedics and doctors were finished with him he'd been pawed over by several hands. If you ask me, forensics will be useless."

  "It's something."

  O' Flynn stared at the steps of the hospital. A small group of police barred the way against a young man in a white coat who was trying to reach the front door. His hands were raised. Angry voices drifted towards Elizabeth and O' Flynn.

  "I'm a doctor. I received an urgent call asking me to come in," the young man insisted.

  "Do you usually bring a camera to work?" asked one of the officers.

  "One of the nurses is leaving today. She asked me to take a few photos."

  "Looks like the paparazzi have found out about the latest victim," said O' Flynn. "I should go sort it out. Are you okay on your own, darling?"

  "I'll be grand." She'd be even better if he stopped calling her darling. She watched as he ran to the scuffle, before turning her back on it, uninterested. The circus was taking over, but she didn't feel like watching the show.

  She felt exhausted. All she wanted was a few sleeping pills and to slip into a dark, dreamless oblivion. Recently, her dreams were full of dark water, a church, and drowning. She watched the ambulances come and go. The world didn't stop for one victim.

  Relief flooded through her when the front door opened and Frank emerged. He paused briefly at the top of the steps, savouring the air the way he did on her balcony after a long day, composing himself.

  She found it difficult not to laugh at the sheer pleasure of seeing him alive and well. It was all she could do not to run to him. She could still taste the sick feeling of dread when she thought he was lying dead or dying. She couldn't even begin to imagine Frank dead, whereas she often imagined herself being dead. The world without her didn't seem that different, didn't seem so terrible, but a world without him...

  Frank looked up and caught sight of her waiting. He smiled as he walked towards her, away from the other detectives. "Hi," he said quietly, which said it all.

  "Did you get anything out of him?"

  "He can't remember much," said Frank. "He had his back turned to the Shooter. We're trying to find out if he remembers any details, but he's not sure if it was a man or a woman, young or old."

  "Maybe something will come to him," she said, trying to be reassuring.

  He wasn't listening. He was looking across the road towards the crowd of onlookers who had gathered at the first sight of the police.

  "What is it?"

  "I'm not sure."

  She followed his gaze, but it was too dark to see anything. "Did you see something?"

  "I think I just saw Lucas Doyle in the crowd."

  Chapter Twenty

  Elizabeth approached the prison gates with a vague feeling of dread. A guard frisked her when she gave her name to make sure she wasn't bringing any contraband for Kyle Whelan, although the only drug she'd be interested in giving someone like him was cyanide. Then she was led into the building and along several corridors until she was shown into a small, windowless room. It wasn't the usual visitors' room; there was only a table and two chairs.

  "If you need anything, press the button under the table," said the guard before leaving. "Only press it if you really need to; you're not supposed to be here."

  Foley had taken her to one side shortly before she left the hospital and given her the name and number of his contact at the prison who could get her a visit with Kyle Whelan. It would only be half an hour, but half an hour was better than nothing.

  It seemed ages before the door opened and Kyle Whelan stepped in. The guard sat him down on the chair in front of Elizabeth.

  Kyle Whelan was a skinny, shifty little man, with scrawny fingers and a thin-lipped mouth studded with rotten teeth. He scratched the scrags of stubble on his chin. His lank hair clung to his head. His skin was blotchy and he kept licking his lips with his lizard-like tongue.

  The sight of him repelled her, and she struggled to hide it. She'd encountered worse than him, but there was something particularly revolting and rotten about him. The stench of evil emanated from him.

  He looked her up and down, but his lechery was half-hearted; she was too old for him--about twenty-five years too old. "What do you want?" he asked eventually.

  No small talk, which suited Elizabeth perfectly.

  "I want to talk about Polly Heaney. Do you remember her?"

  "Yeah, I remember her. I killed her, didn
't I?" Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  Elizabeth kept her face impassive, knowing that any hint of disapproval would shut him down. She had to befriend him and slide under his defences; that was the only way to get answers.

  She'd always been terrible at hiding her feelings. He felt her hostility, but it didn't bother him. She guessed that it had been a long time since anyone had visited him. He wanted to see where it would lead, what he could get out of it, so he wasn't going to shut down too soon. "I don't think you killed her."

  "That's the only reason I agreed to meet you."

  "What did you do the day Polly died?"

  "I was in bed most of the day because of the medication I was taking. I got up around three, had a bite to eat, and went back to bed. The next thing I knew, the police were knocking on the door and some detective looking for a promotion was shoving me around. He was convinced that I'd murdered the little girl."

  "Did you?"

  "I think I'd remember if I killed someone."

  "You mentioned you were on medication."

  "I wasn't out of my head. I've never hurt a child."

  "Apart from raping them?" Elizabeth couldn't help herself. The words escaped before she could stop them.

  He cringed. "That's your word."

  "What would you call it?"

  He paused. "I loved those children and they loved me. You wouldn't understand."

  "Let's stop wasting each other's time," said Elizabeth. "I want to know who you think killed Polly."

  "I know who did it."

  "Really?"

  "It was one of those artists who lived in the house around the corner."

  "What makes you so sure it was one of them?"

  "Natalie told me."

  "She told you?"

  "She wrote me a letter soon after I was convicted. She said she knew I was innocent."

  "How did you know Natalie?"

  "I moved to her neighbourhood when I was released from prison. When the neighbours found out who I was, they gave me some grief. They said I was lowering the tone of the area. Natalie brought me food and books. She believed that everyone has the right to a second chance."

  Elizabeth thought she was going to be sick. She couldn't understand how anyone could be naiive enough to believe that crap about redemption and second chances. For monsters like Kyle Whelan, a second chance was an opportunity to hurt more children. "Did you tell her about your stash of child porn?"

  "It never came up in our conversations." He smirked. "Anyway, I thought you were on my side."

  "Just because I don't think you killed Polly, doesn't mean that I have to pretend I don't know about everything else you did. No wonder the police thought you were guilty; you had no alibi and a sexual interest in children. You can't expect everyone to be as understanding as Natalie. Did she ever visit you here?"

  "Yes."

  "What did she say?"

  "She said she knew for a fact that someone in the house where she lived had killed Polly and that she wanted to help prove my innocence. She was gathering information, and she said as soon as she had enough evidence she'd bring it to the police. She'd already told them what she believed, but they weren't interested. She said she had money and that she was going to hire people to find out what really happened."

  "She didn't care that you were a menace to society?"

  "She cared that I was innocent. She contacted me a few times to say she was getting close, and then she suddenly stopped."

  "Why do you think she stopped?"

  "I'd say the police or the real killer warned her off."

  "Natalie's dead."

  "So I heard," he said dismissively.

  "You don't care?"

  "She promised she'd help me, and then she dumped me, can you blame me for not caring? She shot herself. Big deal. I wish I'd been the one who killed her. Karma got her in the end."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Elizabeth's thoughts grew progressively darker as she drove across the city. She couldn't care less about keeping someone like Kyle Whelan behind bars for something he hadn't done but not if that meant keeping Polly Heaney's killer on the outside. She decided to give Foley a call: anything to help banish her dark thoughts.

  A woman answered the phone. "Elizabeth who?" she asked. She didn't sound happy to hear Elizabeth's voice.

  "I'd like to speak to Foley, just for a few minutes."

  "Hang on." She sighed loudly. "It's a woman," she hissed as she handed the phone to Foley.

  "This is Foley." He sounded puzzled.

  "It's me, Elizabeth."

  The line was muffled as he covered the mouthpiece and whispered: "It's not a woman, it's Elizabeth Ireland."

  "Thanks a lot," Elizabeth said when he came back on the line. "Who's that anyway?"

  "Claire. Who did you think it was?"

  "Are you two living together now?"

  "Yeah but not for long by the looks of it."

  "She doesn't have to worry about me; I'm not even a woman."

  "Sorry about that. You know what I mean. Did you see Kyle Whelan?"

  "That's why I'm calling. Did you know that Natalie and Lucas were on speaking terms with him?"

  "I don't know about Lucas, but you're wrong about Natalie. She was interviewed as part of the investigation into Polly Heaney's murder, and she said nothing about her suspicions."

  "Why does everything have to be so complicated?" Elizabeth sighed. "Did you dig out the files?"

  "There's nothing in the case files or interview notes about Natalie mentioning anything about Whelan. In fact, she denied even knowing him."

  "She definitely knew him, according to Whelan."

  "You can't believe a word he says."

  "What was the point of him lying?"

  "To make his case for wrongful conviction look stronger and to make you feel sorry for him?"

  "What about the other people in the house: Finn Spillane? Sebastian Daly? Did they mention anything at the time about knowing Whelan?"

  "Finn Spillane wasn't available for interview at the time, and when he was available, Whelan had been charged. Sebastian Daly's only statement was to confirm Natalie Doyle's story that they were together at the time of the murder."

  "So if Daly killed the girl, Natalie may have covered up for him?"

  No reply.

  "Foley, can you hear me?" The signal was dead, snarled up in the traffic. Elizabeth leaned on her horn and joined the cacophony.

  An hour later, she finally arrived home. The light on her answer machine flashed red: four new messages. The first was Frank checking how it had gone with Whelan. Next was Ken Williams, saying he'd decided to stay in town for a few more days. Then came Adam Brennan saying how much he'd enjoyed dinner and that they should do it again sometime. The last message was from Max Redmond. He sounded panicked.

  ***

  "I feel like such a fool now," Max apologised, stepping back to let Elizabeth past. The livingroom was dark and shadowy. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. There was no need to come around. I'm grand."

  "Why are your curtains drawn?"

  "I felt I was being watched. It's probably paranoia, but after the letter this morning, I'm not sure about anything." He handed her the envelope. "I didn't know who else to call, and you said I could call if there was anything strange."

  "Don't worry about it." She patted his arm. "I'm glad you called."

  There was just one word on the envelope: Max.

  "It must have been dropped through the letterbox while I was out. The postman had already been this morning. I went out to buy tea. When I got back it was here." He gulped. "Someone was watching me."

  The envelope was crumpled and ripped at the top. Elizabeth opened it and pulled out a photo of Max dressed as he was now. The only difference was that his face in the photo was slashed.

  "It must have been taken from across the road at the coffee shop."

  "How long were you gone?"

  "Barely ten minutes. The shop's just at
the end of the road."

  "Did you notice anything as you walked home?"

  "I wasn't paying attention, but I don't think there was nothing out of the ordinary."

  "No strangers? No cars?"

  "It's a busy road. People come and go all the time. I wouldn't have noticed anyone even if I had been looking."

  She put the photo back in the envelope and tried to hand it to him, but he moved away. "I don't want it. Keep it."

  "I'll pass it on to the police if you like."

  "I'd rather you didn't."

  "They should be told."

  "Who's doing this?" he asked. "What do they want from me?"

  "I don't know. Hannah Moynihan was sent a similar one."

  "Was her face slashed too?"

  "I didn't see the photo, but I was told it was defaced. She thought I sent it to her."

  "Why on earth would you do that?"

  "Why would anyone?"

  He was thoughtful for a minute. His face relaxed. "It's almost a relief to know that other people have been getting them too. I thought it was only me."

  She didn't tell him that she'd gotten a photo too. Natalie, Hannah, Max and herself: a pattern was emerging. Initially, she'd assumed it was something to do with the Shooter because of Natalie's obsession, but now she couldn't help wondering if it was something else entirely, something much closer.

  "I should call Lucas," she said without thinking. "He hasn't been returning my calls or opening the door when I call around. Maybe he's gotten a photo too.

  Max bristled beside her. "Lucas Doyle?" he said scornfully.

  "I know you two don't see eye to eye, but he should know what's going on."

  "Maybe he already knows."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Hasn't it crossed your mind that Lucas could be behind all of this? He's the only person I know who hates me enough, who would want me to suffer."

  Elizabeth remembered that Frank thought he had glimpsed Lucas in the crowd at the hospital the previous night.

  "Excuse me," she said. "I need to make a quick call." She stepped outside and dialled Hannah Moynihan's number. "Hannah, I need to know who took those sadomasochistic photos you have in your gallery."