‘A bit of a risk using locals?’
‘We’ll only use them to get a bearing on possible tracks. If necessary, we’ll keep it to one local with two armed officers. Our killer may be crazy, but she hasn’t yet used firearms.’
‘Still?’
‘O’Connor, I don’t need to remind you, I’m the one in charge.’
‘Grand so.’ Opening the car door, Adam said to Kate, ‘It seems I’m your guide.’
It didn’t take them long to reach the house. Although similar to a farmhouse in design, it was taller and narrower, looking more like a townhouse than something you’d see in the countryside. The chipped windowpanes were painted a murky grey, against what had once been bright, whitewashed walls. Two detectives were positioned at the front of the house. One stood beside Edgar Regan’s car, the other at the front door. Kate assumed the third detective was stationed at the rear.
‘Are you okay?’ Adam asked, handing her the protective gloves and booties.
‘Yes, I’m fine. You go on.’
‘The guys here will make sure no one gets in.’
‘Stop worrying. It’s an empty house.’
‘Okay, but don’t take any chances.’
Once inside, Kate tried to familiarise herself with the surroundings. Thankfully, the guys had turned on all the lights. Despite her bravado, she wouldn’t have fancied going through the place with a torch. She could see the burning embers in the grate, two sleeping bags and blankets on the floor. An opened door led to the kitchen.
Lynch had wanted her to look in one of the bedrooms, so she climbed the stairs. It was impossible to walk through the house and not imagine Sandra Connolly and her grandparents living in it. If walls could talk, she thought, as she stepped onto the landing. The house had not been lived in for some time, and was completely at odds with the opulent surroundings the killer had chosen for her victims.
There were three doors off the landing. One led to a small bathroom, in which the sink and bath were full of mildew. There was a large bedroom at the front, but Lynch had mentioned the one at the rear.
With her gloved hand, she opened the door, immediately seeing the artwork spread out on the bed, but it was the photographs pinned to the walls that drew her attention. All in black-and-white, the multiple images of Sandra Connolly stared back at her, one after another, reproduced in mirrors, windows or other reflective objects. The use of shadow was extraordinary, and her facial expressions, although varied, were distant and unhinged. Kate stepped into the room, and realised the photographs were reflected against a large mirror on the side wall and a smaller one angled in the corner. Over and over, the images were multiplied.
One set of photographs in particular caught Kate’s attention. They were Polaroid snapshots, depicting a young girl. In one, the girl looked into a window of this house, the sun splintering her reflection, and in another, her body threw a large shadow across flattened ground.
Kate walked over to the bed, finding dozens of paintings on canvas. Some were similar to those she had seen in Barry Lyons’s place, segmented, cubed and projecting the subject matter from different perspectives. Others showed almost childlike fantasy images, a red cloak flying through a darkened wood, two young children holding hands, with what looked like breadcrumbs beneath their feet. ‘Grimms’ fairy tales,’ she muttered. Hadn’t Barry Lyons mention Sandra’s obsession with them? The more paintings Kate studied, the more aware she became that the artist was developing her talent, but also drifting further into black fantasy. There were depictions of the devil, with ‘XV’ stamped on his forehead, and at the bottom of each a Bible, seeping blood over a baby’s face. There were sketches too, again depicting Tarot images; others showed contorted faces without eyes, all layered with numbers, varying sizes and contrary angles, and each with the constant use of shadow. The biblical references, the Tarot, the fairy tales, the contorted faces all pointed to an alternative world, an alternative self, a dark, shadowy escape from reality, but every one mapped out, numbered, re-created, controlled and endlessly duplicated.
I
I STARE AT Edgar’s dead body, his facial skin sinking into his bones. He is already taking on the appearance of the black skeleton of the Death card. It was tricky engraving the number thirteen, in roman numerals, on his forehead, but I’m glad I did it. Soon the sun will rise and I can start afresh.