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  "Understandably; I found his sister's body. I suppose I should talk to him." She sensed his resistance to the suggestion. "You don't want me to go."

  "I don't want you getting involved."

  "I'm already involved."

  ***

  As soon as Frank left, Elizabeth showered and changed before joining the city crowds. She felt her mood lift as she made her way through town towards the Doyles' house. Expensive apartments and boutique shops lined the busy street where they lived.

  The Doyles' house was difficult to find. She had to check the address on her iPad several times before finding the right door. It was a tall, narrow house and looked like a place that someone would come to hide away.

  Elizabeth pressed the buzzer. No answer. She buzzed again. Still no answer. She sighed, wishing she hadn't come. Then she turned around to leave and stopped dead in her tracks.

  A man stood watching her. His face was pale and his arms were folded across his narrow chest.

  Chapter Four

  "Come in." Lucas Doyle brushed past Elizabeth to the front door. He fumbled with the key in the lock, before eventually pushing open the door and stepping inside to a wide hall with a stairs at the far end. He hurried up the stairs, taking off his coat and hat as he went, and flinging them over the banister. Hesitantly, Elizabeth followed him.

  The livingroom was a wide-open space at the top of the stairs with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Blackrock marina. There was little furniture apart from a couch, a few chairs, and a long oak table scattered with books and sketches. A single plain calendar covered with notes hung on the wall behind the table, but there were no photographs or anything personal on display.

  "Would you like a drink?" asked Lucas brightly. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

  "Whatever you're having is fine, thanks."

  He nodded and pottered about in the kitchen. "Have a seat," he said over his shoulder.

  She sat, but felt awkward, wondering if she should say how sorry she was for his loss. She'd never been good at saying the right thing at the right time. "How did you find out?" she asked clumsily instead, as he handed her a mug.

  "About Natalie?" He sat in a chair opposite her.

  She nodded.

  "There was a knock on the door at seven. I left it for Natalie to answer; she's an early riser. She likes the morning. Besides, I wasn't home until after midnight. The knocking continued until I eventually got up to answer it. It was a police officer. He told me." He laughed. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm laughing, but I suppose there's nothing so dark that it can't be laughed at, don't you think?"

  "It's an interesting philosophy," Elizabeth conceded.

  "I wouldn't call it a philosophy," he said with a shrug. "Natalie didn't even mention that she was going out. I didn't leave until after nine and she was still at home then.

  "The Chief Superintendent told me she died quickly," said Lucas, saving Elizabeth from wondering what to say next. "At least that's some comfort," he said. "I'd hate to think she suffered. But I don't understand why you were there."

  "Did the police not tell you?"

  "They were vague about it. They mentioned something about her calling you."

  "Natalie wanted to talk to me. She said that someone was trying to kill her." Saying the words aloud made her realise how ludicrous it sounded.

  "Natalie said the same thing to me weeks ago," he admitted quietly. "I told her that she had nothing to worry about. I thought she was being melodramatic, especially with all the shootings recently. Imagine my shock when the police appeared at my door to tell me she's dead."

  "It seems she was telling the truth."

  "I didn't believe her." He closed his eyes.

  "Did your sister have any enemies?" asked Elizabeth.

  He shook his head, but his face was unreadable. "One moment; I'll be right back." When he reappeared, he handed a file to her.

  Elizabeth opened it. Inside were newspaper clippings dating back to December when the killings began. She read the stark headlines. In each clipping, the name of the street where the victim had died had been circled in blue ink. There were psychological profiles of the killer taken from a magazine, which speculated that the killer was a professional assassin who had lost his mind and was now killing for pleasure instead of money.

  "Have you shown this to the police?" Elizabeth asked.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "They didn't ask." He looked puzzled. "Should I show it to them?"

  "Why are you showing them to me?"

  "Natalie was consumed by the killings. She bought every newspaper that featured the Shooter. She was never interested in the news or crime until this. I couldn't understand her obsession."

  "How did you feel about it?"

  "I was worried for her. Natalie was a fragile soul. I worried that she was pushing herself too much, working long hours. She was an insomniac. I feared she might be on the verge of another breakdown. I thought it best to ignore her obsession. But I think she knew something and that's why she was killed."

  "Did she ever say that she had information about what was happening?"

  "No."

  "Would she have told someone else?"

  "I doubt it; Natalie didn't know many people."

  "She must have had friends or lovers. Maybe I could talk to them."

  "There was no one."

  "Not even a boyfriend?"

  "We had each other," Lucas insisted flatly. "That's why I don't understand why she contacted you. You didn't know each other. Maybe you weren't even speaking with Natalie."

  "I suppose I don't know for certain. Someone, calling themselves Natalie Doyle, phoned my apartment last night. I went to the church as the caller asked. She didn't turn up. I was annoyed. I thought she'd been wasting my time. I was about to leave when I found her.

  "I had no reason to doubt it was her who called me. Do you have a tape of her voice?"

  He shook his head, and she wasn't sure if it was because he didn't have a tape or because he didn't want her to hear it.

  "What makes you think that it wasn't your sister who called me?" she asked carefully.

  "I don't understand why she didn't tell me she was meeting you."

  "Maybe she wanted to keep it to herself."

  "Listen." He put his glass down and spoke deliberately. "I've already told you that Natalie didn't keep anything to herself. She didn't have a secret life. I did everything for her. I made all the arrangements. I handled the finances. I made the deals. I took care of everything. She was nothing without me."

  "You'll have to show the police the newspaper cuttings," Elizabeth said, changing the subject.

  "I can't face them again. Identifying Natalie's body was bad enough. I had to tell myself it wasn't her, that she was gone, that it was only a body, a shell." He paused. "Would you take the cuttings to the police? I don't want them here anymore."

  "If that's what you want."

  "Please."

  As she gathered the newspaper cuttings together, something slipped from between the sheets and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up. It was a photograph showing the church in Kinsale. It was taken from some distance away, but it was possible to make out a person standing in front of the church's door.

  "What's that?" Lucas asked.

  She handed the photograph to him. "Did Natalie take this?"

  "She couldn't have taken it. It's difficult to be sure because it's so far away, but it looks like her in the photo."

  Chapter Five

  Elizabeth took a slice of cold pizza and a cup of tea on to her balcony that overlooked the city. She saw taxis pulling up outside the hotels and restaurants and watched people standing around outside studying menus in the early evening sunshine. Everything looked toy-like from seventeen floors above.

  She opened her iPad and searched for information on Natalie Doyle. She discovered that Natalie had been born in Paris, which explained the slight accent. Her father was Irish and her mo
ther French. In looks, Natalie and Lucas had taken after different parents: dark and light.

  Both parents had died in a helicopter crash when Natalie was eleven and Lucas was nine. Their paternal grandmother became their guardian. She had promptly bundled them off to boarding school. Natalie won a scholarship to study art at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin. Her work had been exhibited internationally and she'd won many awards.

  It seemed like another world to Elizabeth. She'd never been interested in art or had the patience to decipher the hidden meaning; life was too short. But her cynicism dissolved instantly when she saw Natalie's work.

  They were mostly street scenes and were cities she thought she'd known well until then: Cork, Dublin, London, and Paris. The familiar places were unrecognisable, almost sinister, and the people who inhabited the paintings were ghostlike.

  She studied the images so long that the afternoon faded into night, but no matter how often she studied the paintings, she always saw something different. Their intensity made Natalie's death seem even more unreal.

  Chapter Six

  Natalie Doyle's death was front-page news in all the papers. Elizabeth was relieved that she hadn't been mentioned. The press had seized the opportunity to repeat the more gratuitous details about the Shooter's earlier killings, while each killing brought the sense of dread closer.

  The Examiner reported that Natalie had been hospitalised the previous year after being assaulted and robbed while she was working. Apparently, Natalie had a habit of wandering the streets late at night, taking photos for her paintings. She was hit on the head, and suffered a fractured skull and severe concussion. Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if someone had had a vendetta against her.

  Elizabeth couldn't help seeing the city through Natalie's eyes as she joined the early morning rush. The paintings had dug themselves into her consciousness: jostling, crazy, intolerable. She hurried through the crowds, already late for her breakfast meeting with the Murder Unit's crime scene photographer, Tim Hewson.

  "Is that what you call breakfast?" Elizabeth asked, as she shrugged off her jacket and took a seat opposite Tim.

  "What else would you call it?" Tim asked.

  "An arrestable offence, but don't let me put you off."

  "Don't worry, you haven't," he said, taking another bite.

  "Frank should see what you eat before he judges my diet." She averted her eyes from the slaughterhouse on his plate.

  "Trust me, if you saw what I have to photograph every day, the prospect of a bout of food poisoning wouldn't put you off."

  "Fair point." She waved at the waitress for a coffee.

  Like all crime scene photographers, Tim spent his days surrounded by images, which, if they were found in the possession of anyone else, would be considered grounds for immediate arrest or committal to a secure institution. He constantly threatened to leave it all behind to photograph landscapes and weddings, but she didn't believe him. He was driven by a determination to track down the criminals as fierce as that of any detective. He was also very good at what he did, which was why she wanted to talk to him.

  "I know that look," he said, pausing in between mouthfuls.

  "What look?"

  "The look that says you want something from me. It's okay, you can admit it; you want my body, don't you?"

  "I'll leave that pleasure to another lucky lady."

  "No chance there. My love life is non-existent."

  "What is it with the Murder Unit and women? Foley's divorced. Delaney will never keep a woman unless he builds a cage for her in his cellar, which I wouldn't put past him."

  "Actually, Foley has new girlfriend," said Tim. "I've promised to their wedding photos."

  "If the relationship lasts that long."

  "So if you don't want my body, what do you want?" Tim asked.

  "I have a photograph of someone. I want to find out who it is, but I don't know how."

  "Ask the photographer."

  "I don't know who took the photo. I think they might be dead."

  "That's a problem alright. Does this have anything to do with the illustrious Natalie Doyle?"

  "Did you know her?"

  "I know her work." Tim shrugged. "I suppose it's not bad if you like that sort of thing."

  "I suppose one photographer isn't going to praise another's work."

  "She was known more for her paintings. She just dabbled in photography," said Tim.

  Elizabeth removed the photograph from her pocket and handed it across the table to him. He wiped his greasy hand on his jeans before taking it from her.

  "I could probably do something with this," he said. "I'll scan it and mess about with the focus and the light."

  "I don't need a lesson on your professional techniques, Tim, thanks all the same. Just tell me if you can do it or not?"

  "Of course I can do it. This may not be the London Metropolitan Police, but we can access modern technology too. We even have electricity when Frank remembers to put up the lightning rod at the back of the Station."

  She smiled. "I suppose I asked for that."

  "Are you doing anything right now?"

  "Not really."

  "I'll sneak you into my lab and lock the door. That'll get the secretary gossiping about me for once. I'll see what I can do with your photo. Are you up for it?"

  "After you, big boy. I'm all yours."

  ***

  "Apparently, the trick is to blow up the photograph as far as it will go without losing the focus," Elizabeth told Frank.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Tim Hewson."

  "You've been speaking to my crime scene photographer?"

  "He didn't mind." Elizabeth shrugged. "I have no idea how he did it. You know technology and me. There's not a hope I'd get into The Met these days with the technology requirements."

  "Do you miss it?"

  "Every single day." She gazed at the naked trees below Frank's office. Watery sunshine highlighted the edge of the window.

  "Where's that coffee I ordered?" Frank asked, glancing impatiently at his watch. "There's less chance of it appearing than the Assistant Commissioner." He picked up the printout that Tim had given Elizabeth. "It looks like Natalie," he said, peering at it.

  "I'd bet money it's her, but I've always been a gambler."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means that someone may have been following her and that she knew it."

  "Not necessarily."

  "What if the Shooter took it?"

  "It wasn't the Shooter."

  "How can you be certain?" She couldn't understand why he was resistant to the possible link, especially after all the frustration he'd experienced on the investigation to date.

  "Have a look at this." He slid a folder across the desk to her. "It arrived this morning. It's the autopsy report."

  Elizabeth scanned the pages. She read aloud the only part that mattered: "Death by self-inflicted gunshot wound." She couldn't believe it. According to Dr. Kingsley Elmes, the new city pathologist, the only possible verdict was that Natalie had placed the gun to her eye and pulled the trigger herself.

  The angles were correct for a self-inflicted wound. She had residue on her hands. There were no defence injuries or marks consistent with a struggle. She had a small, shallow cut on the back of her hand, and some post-mortem tearing to the skin where she had struck the jagged rocks. Her blood was also more than double the recommended alcohol limit when she died.

  "Dutch courage?" Elizabeth asked, pointing at the report.

  Frank shrugged. "It seems that way."

  "It doesn't make any sense. She told me that someone was trying to kill her. Her brother showed me her newspaper clippings on the Shooter. He asked me to give them to you. I don't believe she killed herself. There has to be a mistake."

  "There's no mistake. Elmes knows what he's doing."

  "Did Natalie leave a note?"

  "Not everyone leaves a note."

  "None of this makes an
y sense. The bullet went through her eye. Suicides don't shoot themselves in the eye. It's usually the temple or the forehead, not the eye."

  "There are exceptions to every statistic. Besides, you can't say there's something suspicious about Natalie's death and then ignore the fact that the Shooter has never shot anyone through the eye. He always shoots from behind. The gun was placed directly against the skin before being fired. If the Shooter was able to get that close to Natalie, would she have put up a fight?"

  "You never said anything about finding a gun."

  He looked uncomfortable. "We didn't find a gun. Delaney thinks it may have sprung from her hand when she fired the bullet and ended up in the sea. I've sent out the divers to investigate the water near where she was found."

  "Technically, you have no evidence that Natalie even had a gun?"

  "We have evidence that she fired a gun, and that the bullet passed through her eye socket and part of her brain, ending up embedded in her skull."

  "What type of gun was used?" She sighed with frustration and flicked impatiently through the notes, searching for a verdict.

  "We haven't been able to make an exact identification yet. It looks like an old pistol."

  "Are you going to leave it at that?"

  "What else can I do? I'm a murder investigator. This is a suicide. The team is searching for the gun. There's no evidence to suggest that foul play occurred. I can't investigate every suicide that happens in the city."

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  "Elizabeth, I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to pursue this, but there's nothing here that suggests murder. Besides, I spoke with Natalie's psychiatrist earlier."

  "And?"

  "He said that she was suffering from clinical depression. She had a breakdown last year."

  "I know; her brother told me."

  "Dr. Brennan said that he wasn't surprised that she committed suicide. Her life was complicated. Lucas' too."

  "What does he know about Lucas?"

  "Brennan is Lucas' therapist."

  "That's a little too close for comfort, don't you think?"