He was looking at her with more interest now. ‘Keep going.’
‘We’ve already looked at the idea that Amelia’s killing was different, and certainly the burial area was, as was the speed with which he made his move. If she was a loose end, then in his eyes Amelia could have been less worthy, almost of a lower status. That, in turn, means Caroline was elevated, more deserving.’
‘He sure has a funny way of showing it.’
‘Listen, O’Connor, if that crucifix was left on her neck, he wanted it there. And that’s not all, look at the type.’
‘A cheap replica, something you would pick up for a euro.’
‘Yes, but a replica of what?’
‘A silver cross?’
‘It’s a corpus crucifix, with the body of Christ on it.’
‘So?’
‘So supposing he gave it to her, the type was specific to him for a reason. But the only way we can be sure it’s part of his signature is …’
‘Yeah?’
‘… is if there’s another victim.’
‘Your report, Kate.’
‘What about it?’
‘“Likelihood of repeat killing – HIGH”?’
‘Not something both of us didn’t already know,’ she said quietly.
‘I know that, but it looks much bloody worse seeing it there in black and white. Listen, I’m not sure about the cross thing, but I’ll run with it. Nothing has come up on any of the databases to do with the ribbons, so we might as well see where this takes us. Gunning’s pushing the enquiries via Interpol, at Nolan’s request, not mine, I might add. He’s a smarmy bastard, Gunning – says nothing when he knows he’s fucked up, and is like a bleeding beacon when it goes his way. Either way, maybe this will shake something more from the mix.’
‘I want to talk to Jessica again,’ Kate said. ‘You said yourself, she’s holding something back.’
‘Right, but it will have to be tomorrow. By the way, we’ve had some good news from the canal site. Hanley’s got us another boot cast, same size, same markings. It’s as common as muck, but it’s a connection.’
‘Anything on the book yet?’
‘Yeah, he’s pulled some prints, nothing matching on AFIS, though. If our man has a previous history in burglary, he’s keeping it very secret.’
‘Okay. I better go. It’s late. See you tomorrow, O’Connor.’ She stood up.
‘Do you want me to drive you back?’
‘No, thanks, I’m fine. The fresh air will do me good.’
Walking towards Mervin Road, the streets grew quieter the nearer Kate got to home. Crossing at the traffic lights on the corner, she passed a jogger coming the other way. She had seen him a number of times before while she was out running. He raised his hand in acknowledgement. She smiled back, glad she wasn’t the only person pushing herself hard on a Saturday evening.
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital,
Dr Samuel Ebbs’ office
AFTER HIS LAST CONSULTATION WITH ELLIE, DR EBBS had many things to reflect on, not least of which was whether Ellie Brady had spoken the truth, or the truth as she believed it.
It would seem reasonable to assume that, after the fire, she had withdrawn into a kind of protective shell, not out of self-preservation from prosecution but out of necessity for survival. The fact that Ellie had been incapable of showing her true emotions could have been responsible, in part, for blame being laid at her door. That possibility was one of the main reasons the file had unsettled him to begin with. There seemed to be very little doubt about her guilt; everyone, including her husband, had believed and accepted that she was guilty.
Nevertheless, if she truly believed in this mystery man who had befriended Amy, why had she accepted the blame so readily? He knew logic and depression by nature didn’t go hand in hand, but if what Ellie had told him was true, the past fifteen years had been stolen from her. It took a certain calibre of person to maintain a silence for that length of time, and to remain as steadfast in their thinking as Ellie had.
However Ellie Brady had arrived at the set of circumstances that resulted in her daughter’s death, there was no denying she had paid a heavy price.
The writing in the copybook had triggered something, perhaps feelings locked away for a very long time. The sedatives he gave her were strong, but necessary. The right balance was critical, one wrong move and he could end up undoing any progress made. There were never any guarantees, of course; grief always kept its own time.