Insincere

by Joanne Clancy

  "I'm not going to judge you; I went to a church in the middle of the night to meet a stranger."

  "Natalie was a stranger in the city too," said Brennan thoughtfully. "Maybe she was told to go to the church, where her photo was taken. Maybe the shooter contacted her."

  "All along we've assumed that Natalie stumbled upon the Shooter's identity, but maybe he chose her."

  "I don't know," said Brennan. "I only wish I could help."

  "Will you think about the caller when you get home?" asked Elizabeth.

  "I won't be able to think about anything else."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  "Someone was here looking for you," said Steve, the building manager, when Elizabeth arrived home.

  "Male or female?"

  "Male."

  "Did he leave his name?"

  "No."

  "A number?"

  "Nope."

  "A message?"

  "No."

  Elizabeth felt her temper rising. Talking to him was like pulling teeth. "Can you describe him?"

  "Tall, in his fifties, English accent."

  It had to be Williams. She decided to give him a call.

  "I was looking for gifts for Jennifer and the children," he explained when she finally caught up with him at the department store.

  "Are you heading back to London?"

  "Soon," he said. "I can't stay here forever."

  "I'll miss you." She meant it. "You won't find gifts in the menswear department."

  "I realise that," he looked at her disparagingly. "I need a new shirt and some clean underwear. I didn't expect to be here this long."

  "Too much information." Elizabeth wrinkled up her nose.

  As they walked around the rails, choosing clothes, Williams filled her in on what the Murder Unit had been up to that day. They'd managed to track down most of the people in Natalie's photos. Everyone had a similar story to Dr. Brennan, and no one had a clue who the mysterious caller had been.

  "Could it really have been Russell Lennon?" asked Elizabeth, holding a shirt up against Williams, before deciding it wasn't his colour.

  "Whoever took the photographs wanted to shoot the subjects as a trophy. He wanted them to be part of his collection. He was thinking like the Shooter: one shot per victim."

  "There's a big difference between shooting with a camera and shooting with a gun."

  "I realise that; what I mean it that you take something from someone when you take their photo."

  Elizabeth thought of how vulnerable the people in Natalie's photos had looked. "The only problem is that Lennon didn't have a camera; at least, none was found at his house. If he didn't take the photos, who did?"

  "That, my dear, is the question."

  It was dark when they finally headed outside. "Would you like to join me for dinner?" Elizabeth asked. "Nothing fancy, just a pizza back at the apartment."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Elizabeth!"

  "Frank?" He pulled up beside them and wound down the window.

  "Is everything alright?" asked Williams.

  "Max Redmond is dead," said Frank. "Get in."

  They'd barely shut the car door when Frank pulled back into the line of traffic. "Max was found half an hour ago," Frank explained, his words tumbling out. "We don't know how long he's been dead. O' Flynn is at the scene. Whoever killed him fired several shots at point-blank range. Most of his face is blown away."

  "Where's the scene?" asked Elizabeth.

  "Hannah's gallery. He was lying behind her desk. A photo of his body was pinned to the door. A passerby noticed the photo and called the police when she realised what it was."

  "Where are we going?" asked Elizabeth as they drove past the gallery. "Aren't we heading in the wrong direction?"

  "We're going to Hannah's house. The gallery wasn't broken into. The killer locked up on the way out."

  "Do you think Hannah killed him?"

  "I don't know, but she knows more than she's letting on. We only have her word that she didn't look at the photos in the locker. I want to talk to her before she has the chance to concoct an elaborate story."

  Hannah's house was on a private road overlooking the sea. Iron gates and ivy-clad walls surrounded the house. Flames lit up the sky as firefighters struggled to fight the blaze. Frank pulled to a halt and jumped out. He waved his badge at the firefighters who tried to stop him getting past the gates. Williams and Elizabeth trailed after him.

  The air was rancid with black smoke. The pressure from the flames had blown out the windows. Inside was a warzone. Water arced from hoses into the shattered building. Elizabeth could taste the flames in her throat. It was too late.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "That's where they found the body," said Frank, pointing at the hearth.

  They were standing in the ashes of Hannah Moynihan's house. The stench of smoke was overwhelming. Glass crunched underfoot as firefighters came and went around them. Elizabeth sensed the flames around her, even though they had been extinguished for hours.

  Frank handed her a photo. It showed a fireplace with a mirror above it. Hannah stood in front of the fire, smiling. "Where did you find this?"

  "A magazine photographer took it last year as part of a stately homes series." He handed the others to her.

  "What will happen to the house now?" she asked.

  "It'll probably be knocked and turned into apartments. This is prime real estate."

  "What happened to Hannah?"

  "There wasn't much left of her by the time the fire was extinguished. She was unrecognisable. Samples have been sent for DNA testing. It looks like her body was the seat of the blaze. She had been doused with petrol and set alight. The whole house was doused."

  "Was she alive?"

  "No, Elmes confirmed that there were ante-mortem wounds to the head and no evidence of soot deposits in her airways."

  "Was there anyone else in the house?"

  "The housekeeper, Mags, left hours before the fire broke out. That's her car out front. She was here yesterday when Hannah returned from the gallery. Apparently, Hannah went straight to her study and didn't emerge until dinnertime. They had a few glasses of wine together. Mags took a taxi home. According to her, Hannah was expecting a visitor."

  "Did she know who?"

  "Hannah didn't say."

  "How is Mags?"

  "Upset."

  "Does Mags have any idea who might have killed Hannah?"

  "No idea."

  "No one saw the visitor arriving?"

  "No. I can't get my head around it," said Frank. He kicked impatiently at a small pile of ashes. He glanced at his watch. "I'm supposed to be at the hospital visiting Delaney and meeting his family."

  "Delaney has a family?"

  "You should head over there and find out for yourself."

  "No thanks, I'll pass. I'm sure I'm the last person Delaney wants to see. He probably blames me for what happened to him."

  "Delaney's in the hospital and McGovern's shrieking around the Station like a banshee. He thought the Shooter case was closed, and now this happens. He wants answers."

  "Doesn't everyone."

  "This time it's different; it's personal. Hannah was a friend. He wants blood."

  "Mine, probably," said Elizabeth.

  "Probably."

  She almost laughed until she realised that he was serious. "McGovern thinks I killed Hannah? What's my motive supposed to be?"

  "McGovern hates you, which is the only motive he needs. He also hasn't forgotten that Hannah threatened to take out a restraining order against you."

  "Not that again." She rolled her eyes.

  "He's already said that you could have gotten from the coast to Hannah's house in time to set the fire."

  "How does he know I was at the coast?"

  He shrugged.

  "It's a public place. Someone must have seen you."

  "When the fire was lit, I was shopping with Williams in town. You picked us up."

>   "Are you looking for an alibi?"

  "It looks like I need one, especially if McGovern is after me."

  "Don't worry, I'm sure we can work something out, but be warned; I strike a hard bargain."

  "Hilarious."

  Detective Mike Foley approached them as they walked into what remained of the hall.

  "Have you found anything?" asked Frank.

  "We've had some possible IDs on Russell Lennon. Three separate callers claim that the man in the photo is Enda Heaney."

  "Polly Heaney's brother?" asked Elizabeth.

  "The girl who was murdered years ago?" said Frank.

  "The same girl who lived near the Doyles," said Elizabeth. "Foley tried to trace the family, but he didn't have much luck."

  "More complications." Frank sighed.

  "Who did the IDs come from?" asked Elizabeth.

  Foley checked his notebook. "One came from a woman who used to live in the house opposite the Heaneys. She said she'd recognise Enda anywhere. Another came from an old man who remembers going into the shop where Enda used to work at the weekends when he was a student. He said that Enda was a polite young man."

  "That's changed."

  "The third call came from a woman who says she used to date him."

  "That sounds more promising," said Frank.

  "Well, they were teenagers when they went out," said Foley. "It was a long time ago."

  "What's her name?" asked Elizabeth.

  "Spillane," said Foley.

  "Spillane?"

  "Yes, Spillane. Roberta." He consulted his notebook again. "Do you know her?"

  "Is she married to Finn Spillane who used to share a house with the Doyles before they fell out? Finn provided Lucas with an alibi for the time of Polly's murder. He also dated Natalie for a while."

  "Small world," said Foley. "Roberta and Enda only dated for a few months. He was nineteen when they broke up. She was seventeen. He moved away, and she never saw him again until this morning when his face was on the front page of the newspaper.

  "Apparently, Roberta and Polly were school friends. Roberta said that Lucas and Enda were like brothers; they were always together, until Polly's death. She believes that Lucas killed Polly."

  A shiver ran through Elizabeth as she remembered what she'd seen in Natalie's diary: a pencil sketch of a girl in a coffin at the bottom of a garden. The most disturbing part about the drawing was that the girl was buried alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  "How can you think that Lucas Doyle killed Polly Heaney?" asked Frank. He wasn't impressed by Elizabeth's theory.

  "There's no need to jump down my throat," said Elizabeth.

  It was early evening. They were sitting in a pub, catching up. Music blared, but for once Elizabeth didn't mind; at least it meant that no one could eavesdrop. Telling Frank what she thought was difficult enough without having an audience too.

  "What else does the sketch at the start of Natalie's diary mean?" she asked. "Polly was buried at the bottom of the garden. Why else did Natalie save the newspaper clippings on her death? She knew her brother was the killer. It also explains the sadomasochistic paintings of women in Hannah's gallery and why the Doyles wanted to remain anonymous.

  "Natalie told Hannah Moynihan that she used to share a house with a murderer. She said the same thing to Finn Spillane. Natalie even visited Kyle Whelan in prison and told him that she knew he was innocent. She must have been guilt-ridden about what her brother had done and for her own part in covering up for him."

  "Or maybe she liked playing with people's minds," said Frank. "Didn't Williams say that artists don't become killers?"

  "He said there aren't many examples of artists becoming killers."

  "I read the reports on Polly's murder," said Frank. "I saw the photos of what was done to her. No one could have done those things and continued living a normal life."

  "Were the Doyles living a normal life? I think that people who produce extremely violent images are reproducing some dark place deep inside. Maybe Lucas was channelling his killer instinct into the paintings."

  "Surely by indulging his urges, even if it was only via his paintings, he was risking accentuating those urges to a point where he couldn't control them anymore. Anyway, all of this is just conjecture."

  "It's not conjecture," said Elizabeth.

  "So where's the proof? Besides, he's dead now anyway. It's not like we have to stop a killer."

  This was the part that Elizabeth had been dreading. "But what if Natalie is still alive?"

  Frank looked at her as if she was mad.

  "I didn't see her face that night at the church," Elizabeth insisted. "It could have been anyone. Does Elmes know what Natalie looked like? How could anyone say that the woman pulled from the water that night was Natalie Doyle? Half her face was blown away."

  "Why would she pretend to be dead?"

  "Because she needed to disappear."

  "Why?"

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Because Natalie Doyle is the Shooter."

  The blaring music filled the long silence that followed. "Are you out of your mind?" he asked eventually.

  "Why is it so unbelievable?" Elizabeth insisted. "Natalie had a nervous breakdown last year. She knew her brother killed Polly Heaney. She had the pictures of some of the crime scenes on the wall of her latest exhibition, and she even told Dr. Brennan that she was the Shooter."

  Frank didn't look convinced. "Lucas identified the body in the water as his sister."

  "He must have been in on it. Besides, if he killed Polly Heaney, he wouldn't have had much of a choice. Lucas told me that he and Natalie were two parts of the same person."

  "But if the plan was to convince the world that Natalie was dead, why did Lucas insist that you investigate her death? We thought it was death by suicide. Why would they take the chance of you uncovering the truth?"

  "Maybe he enjoyed playing with fire."

  "Who was the body at the church that night? How did they make a murder look like a suicide? Didn't Dr. Brennan say that Natalie had been out of the city at the time of the first murder?"

  "Only because that's what Lucas told Dr. Brennan."

  "How is all this connected to Enda Heaney? If Natalie Doyle was the Shooter, why did Enda confess?"

  "I don't have all the answers," said Elizabeth. "There are questions that need looking into. Remember the break-in at the morgue. Maybe it was Natalie Doyle looking for her autopsy report so that she could destroy it in case any suspicions ever arose about her supposed death."

  "Stop," said Frank. "You're doing my head in!" He closed his eyes.

  "Get an exhumation order on the body in Natalie's grave," said Elizabeth. "That'll give us some answers."

  "How am I supposed to get an exhumation order? No judge in his right mind will let me start digging up bodies based on some ludicrous theories."

  "Get the autopsy X-rays from Elmes. Check them against her medical files."

  "Fine." He sighed. "I'll get O' Flynn to look into it. I'm not saying that I believe you. In fact, I think it's borderline insane, and I'm even more insane to be listening."

  "We'll see."

  "We will indeed. In the meantime, you and I are going to pay Finn Spillane a visit."

  "Why?"

  "If you're correct and Lucas Doyle really did kill Polly Heaney, I want to know why Spillane gave him an alibi."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Elizabeth followed Frank along the cliff path and down the stone steps that led to the shore. Frank stopped a little ahead of her.

  "Is everything okay?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I can see them," he replied. They were near the bottom of the steps. The island swept down at their feet towards a beach below, where bubbles of white froth licked the land. "What's that?" For a moment, she felt panicked until her eyes adjusted and she saw that it was only a small campfire further up on the beach.

  "Let's go," whispered Frank. It was eerily quiet; the only sound was fro
m a boat as it moved, almost invisible in the dark water.

  The details became clearer as they drew closer: a tent was pitched on the level sand between rocks; two rucksacks were piled nearby; the fire was burning low. There was no sign of the Spillanes.

  The sand felt cold beneath the soles of their shoes as they walked towards the tent. It felt even colder when they saw a shape lying still beside the fire.

  Finn Spillane.

  Elizabeth shone a flashlight on to his pale face. They both jumped when he let out a startled mumble and threw his hands over his face to shield his eyes from the light. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Take it easy," said Frank. "It's the police."

  Spillane sat up and rubbed his face. "I must have dozed off." He looked over his shoulder and squinted into the blackness. The fire cast a golden glow across the sand while in the distance, hundreds of lights stabbed the dark coast.

  "Where's your wife?" asked Frank.

  "She went to get some driftwood for the fire. Why are you here? How did you know where we were?"

  "Your neighbour told us you'd be here. I want to talk to you about Natalie Doyle."

  "Not this again. How many times must we go over this? Natalie is dead."

  "So is Polly Heaney."

  "What does Polly have to do with any of this?" snapped Finn. "I told your girlfriend there all about it." He pointed at Elizabeth.

  "You didn't tell me you'd given Lucas Doyle an alibi for the night Polly was murdered," said Elizabeth.

  "Didn't I?"

  "Stop playing games," snapped Frank. "We're not going to charge you with anything. We need to know if he really was with you that night."

  Spillane stood up and threw some heather on the fire. It blazed instantly. "I don't understand," said Spillane, gazing into the flames. "I thought you were after Enda Heaney. My wife already called the police and told them everything she knows about Enda. What does this have to do with Natalie? She's dead."

  "Are you certain she's dead?" asked Elizabeth.

  He frowned in confusion. "She was buried; that's usually a sign that someone's dead."