Insincere Read online

  "Brennan didn't say much," Frank continued, ignoring her sarcasm. "He's been worried about Natalie for a while. She often mentioned the church. She lived near it as a child. Apparently, she saw it as something permanent and reliable in her life after her parents died. Brennan said she often went there when she was troubled."

  "I know that suicides often go back to places that mean something to them when they decide it's time to die," said Elizabeth. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality."

  "There's no need for pettiness. If he hadn't given me the details, you'd be complaining about that."

  "Fair point," she conceded. "But where did Natalie get the gun?"

  "Anyone can get a gun if they know where to look. The firearms unit is looking into it. I'll let you know if they find anything. Anyway, I've got to get on with the Shooter enquiry. He's probably out there right now, watching his next victim. He's probably laughing at us. Three dead bodies are bad enough without adding a fourth, especially when we only have her nutty brother's conviction to go on."

  "Is that Brennan's professional diagnosis: that Lucas Doyle is nutty?"

  "Those weren't his exact words, but that was the general gist."

  "I'm not letting it go; there are too many coincidences: Natalie's interest in the Shooter and her call to me. I believe she was trying to tell me something. The fact that she was shot through the eye is symbolic; like she was being punished for something she shouldn't have seen."

  "From your experience, you should appreciate how difficult it is to stage a murder to look like suicide," said Frank.

  "Did no one hear the gun go off?" she asked, ignoring him.

  "No, but it's a quiet village. They're not like us; if most people hear a gunshot, they'd probably think it was a car backfiring."

  "Any witnesses?"

  "A few. It doesn't matter if there were a hundred people on the pier that night; there's no evidence that Natalie Doyle's death was anything other than a straightforward suicide."

  "What did the witnesses see?" she persisted.

  "You."

  "How did they describe me?"

  "Tall, brunette, foreign-looking, couldn't stand still. I'd recognise that description anywhere." He grinned at her.

  "They didn't mention the stunningly attractive and sexy part?" She grinned back.

  "It was too dark."

  "If Natalie did kill herself, why did she bother with the elaborate pretence of making everyone think she was murdered? Why did she tell me that someone wanted to kill her?"

  "Who knows what was going on in her head? Maybe she wanted a dramatic ending. Maybe an ordinary death didn't appeal to her. Maybe she wanted to be the centre of attention even when she was gone, keep everyone guessing, and who better to rope in than you: a former Met detective and front-page consultant to the Murder Unit. Maybe she wanted an audience or maybe she was going to take you along for the ride."

  "Don't be ridiculous! You think she wanted to shoot me?"

  "It's possible."

  "It's absurd."

  "You have no idea what's absurd and what isn't. You don't know anything about Natalie Doyle or what was going on in her head. You have no clue what she was capable of doing. You need to let this go. I mean it," he said firmly. "You said you were going to talk to Lucas and not get involved, and now you're upset that Natalie wasn't murdered, after all. I'm worried about where this will lead. I don't want you dragged into something."

  "I'm not going to be dragged into anything. I'm just curious." She gave the autopsy report back to him. "You know me: I need to know what happened. Natalie arranged to meet me, but when I got there, she was dead. It means something."

  "What she said didn't necessarily mean anything. Life doesn't always make sense; you know that better than anyone. Sometimes we never find out what's really going on. You have to clock it up to experience and accept that you'll never get all the answers."

  "I've never been able to accept that. It's not in my nature."

  Chapter Seven

  "Not everyone leaves a note." Elizabeth replayed Frank's words in her head. He was right about that, she thought as she left the Station and strolled back to the Crawford Art Gallery through the never-ending crowds. Her brother hadn't left a note. Shane got up one morning, didn't even bother dressing, walked to the bridge near his house, and jumped.

  With every passing year, she found it more difficult to remember him, and she had nothing to remind her. She didn't keep photographs or mementoes from her past, since most of the time the past was something she'd rather forget. She never imagined that she'd need a photo to remember Shane; she always assumed he'd be there.

  No one understood why he killed himself, and what made it more heartbreaking was that no one except her cared about finding out. She'd never gotten along with the rest of her family. She had a sister who was so consumed with her own self-importance that she had lost all contact with reality years ago. Shane was the baby of the family. He looked up to Elizabeth and didn't judge her like the rest of them did.

  Shane had been married two years when he died, and she knew it had been difficult. His wife flirted with every man she met, and he found out later that she'd been sleeping with his best friend. Elizabeth could only imagine the mind games his wife had played during their marriage, but no matter how she tried to convince him to leave, within those two years he lost all sense of himself. The brother she had known disappeared before her eyes, as his wife stole every part of him. In the end, the bridge must have seemed like his only salvation.

  Elizabeth hadn't told Frank about Shane. He knew she had a sister, because she sent her a birthday card every year, but she wasn't able to tell him about Shane. She'd never believed the theory that talking about an issue made it easier. Only one person knew about her dead brother, and that was Dr. Ken Williams, a criminal psychologist, who worked for the London Met and who had helped the Murder Unit on the Tear Drop case. She considered him one of her closest friends, not that she had many friends.

  Elizabeth couldn't let someone else die and never find out why. She was convinced that Shane's wife had insinuated the idea of suicide into his head and pushed him subtly towards it. His wife was as guilty of his death as if she had pushed him off the bridge herself, but no one would listen to Elizabeth. Everyone preferred to see his suicide as a symptom of his internal fragility instead of the crime that Elizabeth knew it was. She wished she could remember something about her brother that would erase the image of him leaving the house in his pyjamas and walking so willingly to his death.

  Now it was happening all over again with Natalie Doyle. She couldn't let history repeat itself.

  Elizabeth wondered if the art gallery had closed down the exhibition of Natalie's latest work out of respect, before remembering that death was good for business. She wandered inside and heard Natalie's name whispered repeatedly. Death often generated instant celebrity. She followed the others down a long corridor to the exhibition area.

  Immediately, Natalie's vision immersed her. The cityscapes were unsettling and had such an eerie emptiness that she felt lost, lonely, and abandoned just looking at them. They had a tranquility that captured the solitude and loneliness that existed even within a crowded city.

  The paintings were of Cork City. All signs of life seemed to have been removed until she peered closer and noticed the glimpse of a face staring from a rain-streaked window, or a shadow elongated by the weak afternoon sun, or a reflection shattered on the surface of a puddle. They were portraits of people on the edge of being seen, as if they were being watched or were watching Natalie. Elizabeth wondered if that was how Natalie had felt in her last months: observed, shadowed.

  As she looked closer at the paintings, she noticed something unusual: three of the paintings were situated on the same streets where the Shooter's three victims had died. Maybe there was nothing particularly remarkable about the locations; after all, Natalie had been obsessed by the killings, but the problem was that the exhibition had opened on Chris
tmas Eve: before the Shooter had killed his first victim.

  Elizabeth stared at the paintings, trying to make sure that she was correct. She pulled out her mobile phone and called Lucas.

  "If you're calling to give me the results of my sister's autopsy, don't bother; Detective Delaney called about twenty minutes ago to let me know that it was death by suicide."

  "I don't think it was suicide."

  There was a long pause. "We need to talk."

  ***

  The door was off the latch when Elizabeth arrived at the Doyles' house. "Hello. Is anyone home?" She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  "Come up," Lucas called. "Grab the post while you're there, please."

  A scrap of paper lay on the floor beside the letters. It was folded neatly, and Elizabeth guessed that it had recently been pushed through the letterbox. She picked it up and quickly unfolded it: "Lucas, call me urgently. Max."

  She heard a movement overhead and guiltily shoved the note in among the letters before climbing the stairs to the first floor. "Going somewhere?" The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to remind herself that she had no right to ask questions. Lucas was pacing back and forth to a suitcase that was open in the middle of the floor, neatly placing clothes inside. He wore sunglasses, even though there was little sunshine.

  He hesitated for a minute. "I'm going away for a while. Reporters have been constantly bothering me since Natalie's death. The phone hasn't stopped ringing. Some of them even offered me money." His face creased with distaste. "Did you not see them outside?"

  "No one was there," she replied.

  "Really?" He sounded disappointed. He crossed the room and peered out the window at the lane below. "They've gone, for now." He looked perplexed.

  Elizabeth wondered if Natalie's death had made him a little paranoid, but she couldn't help wondering why he had left the door ajar if reporters were hounding him. "You should speak to the Chief Superintendent. He could organise someone to watch the house and keep the reporters at bay." She knew that Frank wouldn't be impressed at her offer; the Murder Unit was stretched enough without offering protection from the paparazzi.

  Lucas shook his head. "I'd prefer to deal with it myself." She glimpsed the steel lurking behind his controlled facade. "Anyway, having the police lurking around would almost be as bad as the press." He returned to his packing. She noticed that he was taking considerably more than she'd have expected for a short break, but she understood that it was difficult being in the house after what had happened to his sister. He needed to escape. She had felt the same after Shane's death.

  "Are you going far?" she asked.

  "I'm going to a hotel in Kerry where I'm booked in under a false name. I hope that no one will bother me there. I need to rest, and I can't do that here."

  "The police might need to speak with you, so I wouldn't go too far."

  "Who are you really?" he asked. "You said yesterday that you're not part of the police."

  "I'm not."

  "You certainly talk like you are. Why are you even asking all these questions about Natalie?"

  "I'm not with the Murder Unit, but I used to be a detective with the London Metropolitan Police, and I'm close to Frank Murphy, the Chief Superintendent. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I'd like to know what happened to Natalie, and I'd like to find out why she called me."

  "The detectives have already what happened." He sighed disparagingly.

  "Do you think Natalie killed herself?"

  "Of course not. Why would she? She wouldn't have thrown away her life and her gift for nothing. She wouldn't have left me alone. She didn't own a gun, and she wouldn't have known how to use it even if she had managed to get her hands on one. The whole situation is absurd."

  "The autopsy report states that she had gunshot residue on her hands," Elizabeth said.

  "I'm not an expert. All I know is that my sister wouldn't have killed herself. No way. You don't think she did either."

  "I suppose I'm playing devil's advocate," she said, cautiously, knowing that she was treading on dangerous ground. "The other day, you mentioned that Natalie wasn't sleeping and that she was working too hard."

  "She always worked too hard. She suffered a breakdown last year."

  "Was this after she was assaulted?"

  "How do you know about that?"

  "It was mentioned in the obituary, but there was nothing written about her suffering a breakdown. I just assumed."

  "She didn't want people knowing. The assault affected her badly. She started suffering from migraines and fell into a deep depression. I almost lost her. We felt we should keep it secret."

  "We?"

  "Hannah Moynihan and I. She's a good friend of ours. She's heartbroken by Natalie's death. She owns a gallery in Kinsale. She handled the sale of most of Natalie's work. Hannah and I decided that the best thing was to take Natalie away somewhere until she recovered. We didn't want people talking. We went to France. We were there for about six months. It was difficult for a while, but slowly she started to improve enough that we felt it was safe for her to come home."

  "When was this?"

  "Last September. We found her a new doctor, who changed her medication. Natalie was better than she'd been for years. She opened her new exhibition, but soon afterwards, the shootings began, and she became obsessed. It seemed that all our hard work was being undone.

  "She told me that since she'd started feeling better, her creative urge was waning. She said she was seeing things differently and didn't want to paint anymore."

  "Never?"

  "She said it had been a burden to her for years. The Christmas exhibition was going to be her last."

  "Maybe someone else thought so too," Elizabeth said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Have you seen the paintings?"

  "Of course. Natalie never let me see her work before it was exhibited; she thought it was bad luck. Hannah accompanied us to the official opening on Christmas Eve."

  "Do you know that the paintings are set in the same locations as the Shooter killed his victims?" asked Elizabeth.

  He took a small bottle of tablets from his pocket and popped two into his mouth. "You must be mistaken."

  "The question we need to answer is why Natalie was obsessed by the Shooter's killings. What was it about those particular murders that drew her towards them? Maybe she was worried because she realised that the locations of the shootings were the same locations as her paintings."

  "Are you saying that the Shooter went to the exhibition, saw the paintings, and purposely killed those people in the same places? Why would he do that?"

  "I have no idea, but it's the only answer that makes any sense and explains why Natalie was so obsessed. Did she mention it to you?"

  "No." He shook his head in bewilderment.

  "You never noticed the connection?"

  "Natalie's paintings made everything seem alien. You could be looking at your own house and not recognise it."

  "The Shooter obviously recognised where they were set."

  Lucas resumed his packing, keeping busy while he thought. "Did you mention this to the police?"

  "I told the Chief Superintendent."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he'd get someone to have a look."

  "But?"

  "But he said that even if the Shooter chose his locations based on Natalie's paintings, that it only explained why she was obsessed, not who the Shooter is, and that's all the Chief Superintendent cares about. He also said that it added to the argument that Natalie committed suicide; maybe she felt responsible in some way because the Shooter was using her paintings as a template."

  "How many times must I repeat myself? Natalie did not kill herself. Do the police not care that a killer is being inspired by my sister's work?"

  "As far as the detectives are concerned, it's a public exhibition. Hundreds of people have been through the gallery since Christmas Eve. The Shooter could have been any on
e of them, that's assuming it isn't a coincidence."

  "You're not convinced."

  "I've never believed in coincidences," she continued. "Isn't it possible that Natalie tried to find out who was using her paintings and why? Maybe she discovered something so important that the Shooter had to eliminate the threat. Maybe the hunter started to feel hunted. Although that doesn't explain why he went to all the trouble of staging such an elaborate crime scene, or how he managed to leave no trace of what he'd done."

  She sighed and ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. "Can you remember anything that suggested that Natalie was being stalked or harassed in any way? It may not have been anything dramatic. Were there any unexplained phone calls or letters? Was anyone hanging around the street recently?"

  He suddenly went pale. "There was something, actually. We were burgled about a month ago. We were in London when it happened. The bathroom window was forced open, there wasn't much missing: a few hundred euro, some jewellery. I didn't think much of it at the time; several houses in the area have been burgled."

  "Was anything else taken?"

  "Natalie mentioned that her diary and a few photos were missing."

  "Was it the Shooter? Was he searching for evidence of what Natalie knew about him?"

  "More to the point, did he find it?" Lucas interrupted.

  "Did you report the burglary?"

  "Yes, but the police rarely catch anyone. We changed the locks, and tried to forget about it. I had the feeling that Natalie knew more about it than she was letting on, but I never even suspected that it had anything to do with the Shooter.

  "Since our parents passed away, we've only had each other. I should have listened to her. I'll never forgive myself for doubting her, but I can't believe she shut me out."

  "She probably wanted to protect you from whatever danger she was involved in."

  "I didn't need protecting. If she was in trouble, I would have wanted to share her burden."

  "Even if it led to your death?"

  "Even then; at least we'd be together."