Insincere

by Joanne Clancy

  The stranger dashed through one housing estate after another, hoping to lose her in the maze. She ran as fast as she could, able to see him more clearly in the streetlights. Her heart pounded with the effort of negotiating the streets and hills.

  She found herself in an area of abandoned houses: the so-called ghost estates of the economic recession. Frightened trees and watching windows surrounded her. He was there, somewhere. There was no way out, unless he'd entered one of the houses. Maybe he lived there. Alone. He was probably waiting for a chance to double-back and escape, or lure her further into danger.

  A chill ran through her as she remembered what he'd done to Delaney. The only way out of danger was through it. She tried to steady her breath as she crept slowly around the perimetre of the estate, peering through the gaps in the boarded-up windows at the rubble and syringes inside.

  There was no movement.

  Nothing.

  She jumped as a bird flew out of a shattered window. She watched it circle against the stars before it disappeared. Silence descended. She glanced back at the house and knew he was in there.

  Retracing her steps, she noticed that one of the boards was loose. She pushed it to one side and climbed through the gap, wishing she had a flashlight. It was filthy inside. She stood in the hall, brushing the cobwebs and dirt off her coat.

  She wasn't alone. Someone was sitting on the stairs in front of her. She'd walked straight into his trap.

  He didn't move. His head rested on the bannister. The knife dangled from his hand, stained with Delaney's blood. "I'm not going to kill you," he said.

  "That makes a change. I thought you enjoyed killing people."

  "I've already killed too many people." He started to laugh. He met her gaze. He didn't look like a killer.

  She didn't know what to do. She thought about distracting him, trying to get to him before he realised what she was doing, but she couldn't take the chance; one wrong move and she'd be finished.

  The noises of the city were dull and distant beyond the boarded-up house. She felt like a trapped insect, slowly running out of air, out of time. The police sirens were far away. She was on her own.

  As she watched him, she could see the same uncertainty in his eyes. The next moment it was gone. He stood up and walked towards her. She had nowhere to run.

  He stopped two feet in front of her and lifted the knife. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Elizabeth Ireland," he said. "I'm genuinely sorry for trying to shoot you."

  Then he turned the knife around and ripped it across his throat.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The house looked like any of the other white-washed houses in the street, apart from the yellow crime scene tape across the gate, where a police officer stood guard.

  "What does McGovern say about my being here?" Elizabeth asked as they parked outside the house.

  "What McGovern doesn't know won't hurt him," Frank replied. "You were the one who caught the guy. You have more right than anyone to see where he lived."

  The house was devoid of any personality, as if it's only purpose was to maintain a pretence of normality for Russell Lennon to hide behind. The rooms were bare. One chair stood in the kitchen. Everything was minimal: one cup, one plate, a handful of cutlery. Empty bookshelves lined the livingroom walls. There was no television or radio.

  They climbed the stairs to the first floor, which was just as empty. Lennon's bedroom was at the back of the house. Frank opened the curtains. The room shrank painfully from the glaring light, which revealed a single bed, and a rail on which hung five identical suits, shirts and ties.

  There was the same absence of anything personal, apart from one photograph. Elizabeth picked it up. It was old and curling at the edges, the colours faded. A woman and three young children were smiling at the camera. "His family?" she suggested.

  "That's what I thought," agreed Frank. "The only other things we've found are a suitcase, a passport, and a few hundred euro."

  "In case he needed to leave quickly?"

  "So it would seem. What do you think of the house?"

  "It's almost perfect. Williams said that the Shooter would be orderly, but where are the newspaper cuttings and mementoes connecting him to the murders?"

  "Maybe he was careful to make sure there was nothing connecting him to the murders if he was ever caught. Then again, maybe he stashed the mementoes away safely elsewhere."

  "In a lock-up or a rented room so that his house remained untainted."

  "It's possible. He may have destroyed everything as he went along. The neighbours said he was often burnt things outside, but they don't know if the burnings coincided with the murders. Everything that was found in the ashes has been taken away for analysis."

  "Is there anything solid to implicate Russell Lennon in the Shooter case?"

  "Nothing. We're still looking, but I'm not hopeful."

  "What did the neighbours think of him?" asked Elizabeth as they walked outside. She was glad of the fresh air after the suffocating atmosphere that permeated the empty house.

  "He was a private person. The neighbours never saw any visitors. He didn't speak to anyone. They described him as eccentric, but harmless. He never caused any trouble."

  "No family?"

  "We didn't find any cards, photos, phone numbers, or addresses. There are no obvious traces of hair or fibres on the furniture. He was a loner, completely self-sufficient. They said the same about him at work."

  "Did anyone notice anything suspicious about him?"

  "Why would they? They didn't know how he lived. To his work colleagues, he was quiet and aloof. He seems to have had a talent for not being noticed, which is why we can't find out any more about him other than what he was willing to let us find."

  "Did Russell Lennon even exist?"

  "Officially he never existed," said Frank. "It seems he erased all traces of his real identity and took refuge in an adopted persona. It would be much simpler if he had been a professional hitman."

  "It doesn't feel like the home of the Shooter," said Elizabeth.

  "That's why I wanted you to see it. I wanted to make sure that it wasn't my paranoia making me believe that this isn't over yet."

  "Maybe we're both paranoid."

  Frank shrugged. "The fingerprint that Forensics lifted from the dropped gun doesn't belong to Lennon. I got the results this morning."

  "He could have worn gloves."

  "I've sent the prints to be run through the system for a match. I'll get the results soon enough."

  "Well, whoever Russell Lennon really was, this isn't the house of a man with nothing to hide. Besides, he confessed to killing Natalie Doyle."

  "That doesn't mean he's the Shooter. The only connection between the Shooter and Natalie Doyle is her interest in the case. McGovern insists that there's nothing to investigate in her death."

  "Even though Lennon told me he killed her?"

  "McGovern says you may have misheard."

  "So that's it. We have to let it go."

  "We have to bide our time. McGovern will eventually realise that there are too many loose ends to sign off on the case, which is when we can explore the Natalie Doyle angle."

  "Are you finally agreeing with me about Natalie Doyle's death?"

  "It needs to be looked into more, that's all I'm saying." He paused. "You can't blame me for not understanding why you wouldn't let it go, especially when you never told me about your brother."

  "Ken Williams is a dead man when I get a hold of him."

  "Williams cares about you. He told me because he wanted me to understand why this case matters so much to you."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "Lock the door behind you," Hannah said.

  Elizabeth stepped inside the gallery and locked the door. Hannah sat behind her desk, looking apprehensive. Russell Lennon's death had been the best of all possible outcomes for Hannah, so Elizabeth couldn't understand why she looked so worried. Elizabeth glanced at the walls and noticed that t
he sadomasochistic paintings had been removed.

  Hannah gestured at the chair in front of her desk. "Please, take a seat. Tell me, is it the Shooter? They're saying it's him in the newspapers."

  "It must be true if the newspapers are saying it."

  "Are they sure it's really him?"

  "It'll take time to know for certain."

  "Time." She didn't try to hide her irritation. "I want to know it's over. I can't handle any more calls."

  "Your name will be kept out of it, don't worry," said Elizabeth, suddenly feeling sorry for her. "I took care of it, as promised. There shouldn't be any more calls." But Elizabeth was only telling her what she wanted to hear so she could get what she wanted. "Can I see the photos and the diary?"

  "Why do you still want to see them?"

  "Russell Lennon confessed to killing Natalie. He tried to kill me too, and I want to know why. Maybe Natalie's photos will shed some light on the situation."

  Hannah sighed. "I wish I'd taken those bloody photos and burned them when I had the chance. You can have them. You've more than earned them."

  She unlocked a drawer in her desk and took out the locker key, handing it to Elizabeth.

  "Tell me," Elizabeth said. "Who was the anonymous artist?"

  "It was a collaboration between Lucas and Natalie." She sounded almost sorrowful.

  It was the last answer that Elizabeth had expected. Part of her thought that Hannah had done them herself. "I don't blame them for wanting to keep it a secret; I wouldn't want anyone knowing either." Elizabeth got up to leave.

  Hannah waited until she was at the door before speaking. "Elizabeth."

  Elizabeth turned around.

  "I hope you find what you're looking."

  ***

  Elizabeth's hands trembled as she fitted the key in the lock. She opened the door and for a moment didn't expect to find anything inside. She was wrong. A black leather bag was waiting for her. She grabbed it and carried it to the closest bench.

  She unzipped the bag and reached inside, taking out the first photo. It was a photo like the one she'd found among Natalie's papers and the one dropped through Max Redmond's letterbox, but it was no ordinary photo, nor were the others that she lifted out; each was a photo of the Shooter's victims.

  She glanced around, making sure that no one was watching. A young girl sat at the other end of the bench, watching her curiously. Elizabeth wasn't sure if she'd seen anything and immediately felt guilty for taking such a risk. Hurriedly, she flung the photos back inside the bag and headed outside, relieved to be engulfed by the crowd again.

  She made her way to a quiet coffee shop, grabbed a coffee, and ran upstairs to a deserted corner. After checking that no one was around, she tipped the contents of the bag onto the table. Then she sifted through the photos one by one.

  There were more photos of dead people, and even more of the living. There was a photo of Hannah, chatting to someone in the gallery. There was another of Max coming out of his apartment. There was one of Finn Spillane emerging from his shop and another of his wife taken through the shop window, unaware that they were being watched. There was a photo of Dr. Brennan in the doorway of the cinema, fastening his coat.

  Most of the photos were of people captured as they waited for something or someone. She didn't recognise most of the people. She studied the photos, bewildered, wondering if Natalie had taken them or if they were some sort of an artistic response to the murders. Maybe the Shooter had taken them. Perhaps Natalie had discovered the photos and realised what they meant.

  She rummaged in the corners of the bag, checking if she'd missed anything. Deep inside was a notebook, zipped inside a pocket: Natalie's diary. She shoved the photos into the bag and opened the diary. It soon became obvious that Natalie had had an obsession not only with the Shooter murders, but with the murder of Polly Heaney too.

  Newspaper and magazine clippings about Polly's murder were stapled to the diary. Natalie had saved every detail on the girl's death. Page by sorry page, the entire sad story of Polly Heaney's life and death had been recreated. She wondered if Polly's death and the Shooter killings were somehow connected.

  Elizabeth decided to call Frank. She told him about the photos in the locker. He was on his way to the Station for another press conference, where he planned to release a photo of Lennon, in the hope that someone might know who he really was. "If Lennon is the Shooter, this might explain why there are no mementoes of the murders in his house; Natalie had them."

  "Not so fast," said Frank. "We've taken a closer look at Lennon's passport; there's a stamp for the date of the first murder showing that Lennon was out of the country on business at the time."

  "No way, that can't be right."

  "According to his passport, he was in Paris that night."

  "So it looks like the Shooter is still out there somewhere." She sighed. "Why would Lennon kill himself if he was innocent? Why did he try to kill Delaney? None of it makes any sense."

  "Maybe he was covering up for someone else," interrupted Frank, sensing her despondency. "We need to find the people in the photos. You can help me."

  "Let me know what you want."

  "Drop the photos at the Station. Foley's there. I'll let him know what you've found. Then you should follow up with Dr. Brennan. He might be able to provide some insight on whoever took the photos."

  When the call ended, she realised that she'd forgotten to tell him about Natalie's diary. Absently, she opened it and noticed that the first two pages were stuck together. Gently, she prised them apart. Inside was a detailed drawing, scrawled in pen.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elizabeth pushed open the gate and walked down the narrow path towards the rocks. A flight of rough-hewn stone steps with a rusty railing led down the cliffs to the popular swimming spot. The wind whipped off the sea, too chilly for summer, and not vicious enough for winter.

  A few people glanced at her curiously. She looked lost, unsure where to find Adam Brennan. His secretary had told her that he often went swimming when he had a free afternoon. Rocks fringed the sea. People sat around chatting, but the sea swallowed their words.

  "Have you seen Adam Brennan?" She decided to approach an elderly couple standing near the shore.

  "He's out there," said the woman. She pointed towards the grey water, where Elizabeth could just make out a head bobbing in the distance. She considered shouting to him, but the wind would only have snatched her words away, dashing them against the rocks. Instead, she waited and watched.

  Brennan was a strong swimmer. The waves rose up around him, briefly hiding him from view.

  "It's rough out there," Elizabeth said.

  "This is mild," the old woman chuckled.

  Eventually, Brennan made his way back to shore. Elizabeth waved as he got nearer. He smiled and waved back, but his smile quickly faded when he recognised her. "Elizabeth? Why are you here? Is everything okay?"

  "I need to talk to you."

  "Let me get dressed. I'll just be a few minutes."

  "Okay, I'll be in the car park."

  "I'll see you there shortly."

  Elizabeth sat in her car, keeping watch. The elderly couple walked past, then a man she hadn't noticed but who must have been down by the rocks because that was the only way in or out. There was no sign of Brennan.

  Eventually, she climbed out and headed back along the path. She was reaching out to open the gate when Brennan suddenly appeared. The sea was dark behind him.

  "Sorry for keeping you waiting," he said. "I couldn't find my shoes."

  "No need to explain."

  "The water must have been freezing," she said.

  "You get used to it. The initial shock is the worst; after that, it gets easier. Swimming takes my mind off things. I can't stop thinking about Lucas."

  "I know what you mean. Anyway, let's get inside. The heating's on."

  "Did Natalie ever take your photo?" she asked as soon as they were seated.

  "No. I would
n't have allowed it. I was her therapist. It wouldn't have been right."

  "I don't mean posing for her, I mean like a snapshot in the street."

  "I don't think so." He sounded hesitant. "I'm sure I would have remembered. Why do you want to know?"

  "Did anyone ever take your photo in the doorway of the cinema?"

  "How do you know about that?"

  "I've seen the photo. Natalie had a copy."

  "That can't be right. Someone called me last year and told me they were doing a series of photos of people who lived in Cork City, but weren't originally from Cork. He said he was going to use them in an exhibition. Apparently, there some well-known people involved. I was flattered."

  "Did you agree to be part of it?"

  "Not initially. The caller refused to say who he was. He said it was part of the mystery. I just had to be at the cinema at an agreed date and time. He said one shot was all it would take."

  "One shot," Elizabeth repeated the words.

  "I agreed. I was intrigued. I went there at the arranged time, but he didn't show up."

  "Did you ever hear from him again?"

  "No." He looked puzzled. "And you're telling me that my photo was taken?"

  "It was among a collection of photos that Natalie had hidden in a locker at the bus station."

  "How did Natalie get it?"

  "Maybe she was the photographer."

  "Absolutely not. I spoke with a man."

  "Maybe she had someone call on her behalf."

  "Why would she do that?"

  "I don't know. There were many similar photos. Either Natalie took the photo of you, or she knew who did, which is why it's so important that you try to remember anything significant about the man who contacted you."

  "He wouldn't tell me his name. I know it sounds ridiculous to go to a meeting with someone you don't know, but I was curious. I've never felt that I belonged in Cork City. I liked the idea of finally being connected, even if it was via other strangers. You probably think I'm daft."