WHYTE LIES (15 page)

Faith sat at her desk, struggling to get her head around the mountain of paperwork in front of her. Something told her that the answer to finding the killer was somewhere in the information which lay before her, if only she knew where to look.

Every investigation followed a pattern, with meticulously drawn-up procedures, and she knew well that any slippage on her, or her team’s part, any carelessness in acquiring or handling evidence, could result in a case being lost on a technicality. She had at her disposal the expertise of forensic scientists and psychological profilers, but sometimes, a lucky break was what was most needed, and she prayed for such a break now. Random killings were the most difficult to solve,
and now she had three to investigate with no obvious link between the victims and the killer. There was no outraged husband, battered wife, rejected lover, or known enemy on who suspicion would automatically fall.

She went right back to the beginning of the case file on Isabelle English and the detailed account of her movements from the time she arrived at Shannon Airport to the discovery of her body. Footage from the security cameras at Shannon Airport established that Isabelle had disembarked alone from the direct JFK to Shannon flight and had set off on her own for Killarney in her hired car. Sightings of Isabelle in Killarney and the surrounding area over the following days, and statements from the people she had visited, confirmed the fact that she had been unaccompanied.

Descriptions of Isabelle, provided by those who knew her, told of a pleasant, chatty woman who always had a friendly word and a smile for everyone. No one could point a finger at anyone living locally who would have had a motive for killing her. There didn’t seem to be anyone with whom she had had the sort of relationship that would hint at an intimate rendezvous at the cottage.

Faith scanned the log of every telephone call made to and from the cottage during the period of Isabelle’s stay. There was nothing unusual: calls to and from her caretaker, a local tradesman, her parents, and her boyfriend. Interviews with those to whom she had spoken confirmed the legitimate purpose of each telephone call.

Checks with the car-hire company established the recorded mileage on her car at the time she had collected it at Shannon Airport. The additional mileage clocked up corresponded with the various trips around the locality that she had undertaken.

They knew nothing of what had happened at the cottage from the moment Isabelle spoke with her boyfriend to the moment her body was found. The lights were switched off in the house. There was no sign of forced entry, so how did the killer get in? Had Isabelle opened the door to her killer? Was he someone she knew? Had someone followed her from New York? They had checked passenger lists for ferries and flights into and out of Ireland on the relevant dates, but they didn’t reveal anyone who could be connected to the case.

A Dutch tourist had reported that he met a man in a pub shortly after Isabelle’s murder, who had discussed details of the murder with them. The man spoke about the killing in such detail that the tourist felt uneasy. He reported it to the police, but they hadn’t been able to find the man in question.

With the help of forensic psychology reports, Faith put together a chilling profile of the person capable of committing such a murder. Isabelle’s killer was a sadistic beast with psychotic tendencies, and perverted sexual urges, but that didn’t explain why he had killed the Gleesons.

She studied the post-mortem reports and photographs, the manner and ferocity of the attacks, and the position of the bodies; in crimes involving rape, the body itself was a crime scene. The possible connection between the location and the perpetrator also had to be considered.

The state of the body could reveal a lot about an attacker, and give an insight into whether the killing was random, or rehearsed through fantasy and stalking. If the victim had put up a spirited struggle, the strength of the attacker and the age bracket he was likely to fall into could be assessed from the physique of the victim and the injuries received, which put Isabelle’s attacker somewhere between early thirties and late forties. There were few killers in that category who had not previously had some brush with police authorities, but every one of Faith’s searches had drawn a blank.

The ultimate glory for a killer was having their victims at their utter mercy: captive and frightened, while he was in complete control. The more the victim begged for mercy, the greater was their sense of control.

Faith read the profile again, although she already knew it by heart: The killer has a paranoid orientation towards the world, he is suspicious and distrustful of others, believes that everyone discriminates against him and doesn’t understand him. He is quick to sense slight, insult, and may misinterpret well-meaning communications. He craves friendship and understanding, but he is reluctant to confide in others; when he does, he expects to be misunderstood, or even betrayed.

He finds it difficult to separate a real situation from his own mental projections. For the most part, his rage in the past would have been directed at authority figures and would have led to violence. When turned towards himself, his anger would have precipitated ideas of suicide.

The inappropriate force of his anger and his lack of ability to control or channel it reflect a primary weakness of personality structure. Despite the violence in his life, he sees himself as inferior and inadequate, particularly concerning women. The murders would have been triggered by a period of increasing tension and disorganisation in the killer’s life.

Profilers in Isabelle English’s case believed that her killer was probably both attracted and repelled by strong and successful women. He would have a deviant urge to control, torture, or murder his victim. He was a risk-taker, and risk was part of the arousal process for him.

From an early age, the type of person who murdered Isabelle would have possessed an extraordinary sex drive, and during his formative years that drive would have been fuelled mainly by fantasy, and aided by pornography. Eventually, the time would come when he would attempt to translate his fantasies into reality, and he would look for a situation that would bring them to life. That moment spelt extreme danger for the woman he had become fixated on, but it still didn’t explain to Faith why he had killed the Gleesons.

“This guy is insane,” said Faith, flinging the paperwork on the table, just as Dr Nicholas Morgan entered her office.

“Who’s insane?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

“Have you heard of knocking?”
Faith was not amused.

“Sorry.” He stepped outside and knocked loudly on the door.

“Get in here.” She couldn’t help laughing.

“So who’ve you driven insane now?” he teased.

“I can’t work the killer out.”

“I can tell you he’s not insane,” said Dr Morgan. “His desire for dominance, subjugation, the infliction of pain and death is the ultimate indulgence of his need for power, and is a calculated wickedness. Gratification comes from the fear and terror he arouses in his victim. Power and control are his driving forces. The perpetrator does not have these in his own life, but he wants to impose them on someone else in order to boost his self-esteem. This ‘control freak’ operates a regime of total obedience at home with his family. If his instructions are not followed to the letter, he is liable to fly into a rage, both in private and in public. The least sign of opposition is greeted by an irrational reaction. There is no debate allowed; he must get his way at all costs. Everything is black and white, and everything he does, however appalling, is correct in his mind. This type of person will demand and operate total sexual freedom outside the home, but will throttle his partner if she so much as glances at another man. The urge is one of continual dominance. Inextricably attached to dominance is sex. This type of personality is motivated primarily by his desire for recognition, even if that is rape or murder. The crime produces a sense of pride and self-worth. Many such killers revel in the notoriety that their cases bring, and many boast about their crimes in and out of prison.”

“If that’s correct, why hasn’t our killer made himself known?” asked Faith.

“Because he’s enjoying the thrill of the chase too much,” said Dr Crowley.

“Why did he destroy Isabelle’s face?” asked Faith. “Hadn’t he tortured her enough?”

“Destroying Isabelle’s face was an act designed to depersonalise her, to deprive her of her female persona, and to rob her of any sense of identity, even in death. Another typical characteristic of this type of killer is their ability to implicate other people in their crimes and convince those people that they are equally guilty. Usually, women are the target for this role in the killer’s drama, and such people are made to feel intimidated and threatened. Although Isabelle’s killer disposed of the murder weapon, his clothes would still have been soaked in blood. It would have been difficult to disguise. Something had to have been overlooked somewhere. Someone knows what he has done.”

Darkness was Rita’s constant companion; not even sleep provided relief. No such small mercy could she find in her living hell, not since the death of Isabelle English.

Rita was broken, a prisoner of her own guilt. She wanted to tear her flesh, to forget, through physical pain, her mental torture, but she knew that the consequences lay ahead of her. The chapters of her sorry life replayed on an endless loop in her head as she tried to figure out what had caused her unravelling.

Why had she stayed so long with a man who abused her? In the end, he had left her. Why had she needed him so desperately? Why was she still so willing to lie and cover up for his terrible deeds?

She’d learned the hard way that being born under a good star did not necessarily lead to a happy life; her path had led to perdition. The rattling shackles of memory, and all that might have been, incarcerated her. She continued to deny and lie for a murderer, living in constant fear of discovery, knowing that she had the power to make it right, but she was too paralysed to do anything. “One day,” she promised herself. “One day I’ll tell.” It was the only small comfort she had left.

She gazed at the ocean outside her window; its vastness called to her with the promise of comfort. She closed her eyes and saw the dead woman walking towards her. Isabelle held out the silver bracelet to her and gently fastened it on her wrist. It was time to tell the truth.

Faith sat bolt upright in bed, jolted awake by jumbled images and intersecting paths of thought, which was nothing new for her, just part of the subconscious stress that came with her job. Sometimes, a revealing nugget released in sleep helped her. She lay awake, staring into the darkness, as the web of her dream unfolded.

In her dream, she had stopped to look into a river. Dark shadows of fish moved through the submerged reeds. They parted like the curtains on the stage of a theatre and revealed a kaleidoscope of colour, and in the middle a woman’s face. The woman’s eyes were wide open as she moved towards the surface. Her tears mingled with the water as her hands emerged in a pleading embrace.

Faith was transfixed by fear. If she reached out, she would be drawn to a watery grave with the woman. She turned away and ran until she came to a bridge. The silence was deafening as she crossed the bridge; the river made no sound as it rushed beneath her to the open sea. In the distance, she could see the expanse of water with not a ship, a small boat, or a seagull in sight.

The toll of a church bell broke the silence as a black hearse appeared. Slowly, the funeral procession approached, followed by women with veils covering their faces. The undertaker got of the hearse. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and he wore a butcher’s apron, covered in blood.

Then Faith saw the coffin which, like the windows of the hearse, was made of transparent glass. The corpse was a woman with long black hair like her own. As the hearse drew near, the woman’s eyes opened. She turned towards Faith, her hands outstretched. It was Isabelle English.

Faith recoiled. Splashes of blood from the undertaker’s apron dripped on her hands. She felt herself being dragged into an eternal void, and with all her strength, she resisted. The church bell rang louder as she felt the ice-cold grip of Isabelle’s dead hands. Before it was too late, Faith jolted awake, knowing that nothing in her subconscious could match the horrors of reality.

Faith opened the curtains against the shattered webs of her nightmare. Sunlight flooded the room as the expanse of the sparkling lake stretched towards the infinity of the horizon. She wandered into her study and checked her diary. A woman had called her the previous day, requesting an urgent meeting. She had insisted they meet alone. Faith had agreed, but now she was beginning to regret her decision, wondering if her nightmare was a premonition?

Faith reckoned that Rita was in her mid-forties, and had seen better days, which was emphasised by her over-enthusiastic application of makeup, and clothes that would have better suited someone at least a decade younger. However, the story that came from her blood-red lips was shocking. Faith found it difficult to keep up with her; it was as if she was rushing to get the words out before something prompted her to stop.

“I’m guilty of not coming forward sooner,” she said. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done.”

“You’re here now,” said Faith, “that’s all that matters, but I have to advise you that any criminal behaviour found on your part will not be beyond the appropriate punishment.”

Rita hesitated, digesting her words. “I’ll take my chances.”

She told Faith about the drunken conversation she’d had with her husband, when they’d discussed killing Isabelle. “It was my drunken jealousy talking,” she explained. “We bumped into her one day in town, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. I never thought he’d kill her.”

“There was nothing you could have done. You didn’t kill Isabelle. You had no control over the forces of his mind.” Faith wondered what choices Rita had made that had led her to become involved with a monster. She paused before asking the most important question. “Do you have any proof to corroborate your story?”

The colour drained from Rita’s face as she placed the silver charm bracelet on the table. Faith picked it up and turned it over. On the clasp was an inscription:
To Isabelle, Love always, Rory.
“Where did you get this?”

“My husband gave it to me.”