Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Read online

  TEAR DROP

  Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series, Book 1

  Joanne Clancy

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Joanne Clancy

  The moral right of Joanne Clancy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN: 978-1515187998

  Contents

  Book Description

  Day One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Day Two

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Day Three

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day Four

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Day Five

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Day Six

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Day Seven

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

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  Note from Joanne

  About the Author

  Books by Joanne Clancy

  Book Description

  The crimes of the past echo in the present...

  Ross Campbell vanished almost a decade ago, and since then nothing has been heard from the serial killer known as Teardrop...until now.

  An Irish newspaper receives a chilling letter claiming to be from Campbell, which promises a new reign of terror.

  As death stalks the dark streets of Cork City, it soon becomes clear to the police and the media that a serial killer is on the loose.

  Elizabeth Ireland, a former detective with The Metropolitan Police, was the lead investigator on the original case when Campbell vanished. However, only she believes that Campbell didn’t send the letter.

  She embarks upon a frightening psychological journey to uncover the killer's identity, where she's pulled into a lethal game in which the killer sets the rules and waits for her next move.

  With the crimes of the past echoing in the present, can she find the killer before he comes for her?

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  Details can be found at the end of TEAR DROP.

  Day One

  Chapter One

  The cold rain fell relentlessly, shrouding Cork City in its misty veil. Elizabeth Ireland sat by the window of her favourite coffee shop, where the smell of fresh scones and strong coffee cocooned her from the encroaching winter. The place was quiet and rundown but it was the one place in the city that cherished silence as much as she did.

  Elizabeth scanned BBC London's website for any news from home. She glanced up as the door chimed and watched the man violently shake off the rain. A moment before their eyes met, she averted her gaze, knowing he was looking for her; Brendan Mahon didn't have the intelligence or subtlety to feign an accidental meeting. She ignored him, hoping that he'd take the hint and leave her in peace, instead he headed straight for her table.

  "Good morning, Elizabeth," he said, revealing a smile that didn't reach his hazel eyes.

  "Morning," she said curtly. She watched him run his fingers through his dirty blond hair, in a way that someone with a cruel sense of humour must have told him was attractive.

  "It's a day for the ducks," he said.

  She shrugged and turned back to her iPad.

  Brendan Mahon was a journalist with The Examiner, one of Ireland's leading newspapers. When his editor couldn't find anyone with anything more incisive to say, Brendan was handy to fill a column or two. Elizabeth had never liked him, and she had no problem making her feelings known.

  "May I join you?" he asked.

  "No.'' She sighed at his predictability.

  He laughed and pulled up a chair anyway. It amazed her how he always took her blatant rudeness for sarcasm. He placed a brown envelope on the table between them. She didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at it. If he wanted something from her, he’d have to ask.

  "Would you like anything?" he asked instead.

  "I've been coming here most mornings for the past nine years, Brendan. I think I can order for myself."

  "What did you have to eat?" he asked, ignoring her brusque tone. He picked up the menu, and she closed her iPad, already missing her lost solitude.

  "Same again, please, Nora," Elizabeth said to the waitress.

  "I haven't seen you in here before," Nora smiled down at him.

  "This is Brendan, a reporter from The Examiner.''

  Nora's tired eyes lit up. "A reporter? How exciting."

  Brendan leaned back in his chair and basked in the unexpected attention.

  "He'll have an Americano and a scone, please," Elizabeth interrupted, not in the mood for flirting at that hour of the morning.

  "Coming right up." Nora scurried away.

  "Let's skip the niceties and get straight to the point, shall we? What can I do for you, Brendan?"

  "I need your help."

  "What sort of help?"

  "I have a story."

  "It must be big news if you're talking to me."

  "It's big."

  She glanced at the envelope that sat tantalisingly between them, and silently cursed for showing an interest. "Spit it out!" she snapped.

  "A letter was delivered to my office."

  "For you?"

  "Yes, for me; it happens, occasionally. It arrived a few days ago. Only my editor and I know about it. We want to publish it, but first we want to check the facts."

  "And you'd like me to check them out?"

  "Yes, if you're interested." He smirked.

  "So I'd be a consultant?"

  "You'd be our expert. You'd write a few background and follow-up pieces with your impressions and opinions. You'd be paid, of course."

  "Of course you'd bloody well pay me. I won't write for your rag for less than twenty grand."

  "Don't be daft." He sat bolt upright. "That's crazy money."

  "Okay, fifteen, but that's my final offer."

  "My editor's a reasonable man. He'll be more than happy to offer you a fair deal."

  "Okay," she said, relenting. "I'm interested but why me? I'm sure I wasn't top of your list." She averted her gaze from the sight of him stuffing a scone into his mouth as if it had been days since he'd last eaten, then again, maybe it had
been days; he was certainly looking skinner than usual.

  "Someone you used to know sent the letter." Time stood still. She knew what he was about to say. The name chimed in her head before his lips formed the words. "Ross Campbell aka Teardrop." She glanced out the window at the rain and the dark streets, longing to close her eyes and make Brendan disappear. "Did you hear me?" He searched her face that had turned pale beneath her tan.

  "I heard you." She gulped her coffee, willing her face to return to normal. She looked at him over her cup, but he didn't seem to realise that anything was wrong. For once, she was grateful for his stupidity.

  "Do you remember him?" he asked.

  "Of course I remember him. How could I forget?"

  Nine years previously, she had arrested Ross Campbell on suspicion of the murder of five women in London. The killer had carved a teardrop on the victims’ faces and left a note with quotes from the Bible on their bodies, shoved inside their underwear or grazing their skin in a final, vicious act of intimacy.

  Campbell was picked up in one of London's notorious red light districts. Licence plate checks proved that he'd been in the area on the nights when two victims had disappeared, DNA evidence linked him to their deaths.

  Predictably, he protested his innocence, hounding newspapers and some influential acquaintances with his plight, but he was charged with the murders. However, the prosecution's case against him collapsed when Elizabeth was falsely accused of planting DNA evidence to secure a conviction.

  When she won her case for defamation against The Met, she decided to retire to Ireland, where she had spent many happy childhood summers. Shortly afterwards, Campbell vanished, and no one had heard from the killer known as Teardrop, until now.

  "Ross Campbell is dead," she said, realising that the silence had gone on too long.

  "Vanished isn't the same as dead," Brendan replied.

  "Nobody's seen or heard from him in almost a decade. People like Campbell are noticed, whatever they do; they can't help it. Someone somewhere would have seen him."

  "Maybe not. I've read about serial killers lying dormant for years."

  "Trust me, serial killers can't stop killing."

  "Not according to the letter." He pushed the envelope towards her. “Apparently, he's alive and well."

  "Does it explain why he's suddenly reappeared?"

  "He wants to set the record straight."

  "Why did he contact you?"

  He looked at her indignantly. Elizabeth stifled a smile. She knew all about the book on serial killers that Brendan had recently written, but she wanted to see him squirm. The book was mostly sensation and an insight into Brendan's uninspired mind. "He wants to correct some facts in my book and he wants us to publish his letter."

  She burst out laughing. "Are you seriously planning on having a serial killer write a column in your newspaper? Maybe he should take over the problem page. I know: he could be your new resident agony uncle."

  "Keep it down," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at Nora who was busy behind the counter. "We need to keep this quiet for now."

  "I suppose it's good publicity for your book." She gazed out the window at the city that was slowly coming to life. The first of the early-morning commuters were venturing out. "What else is in the letter?"

  "He says he'll kill again."

  "Any details?"

  "He gave a name."

  "Does he say when or where?"

  "Not really. The letter's vague, but he says it will happen in Cork."

  "Have you taken the letter to the police?"

  "Not yet. It could be a hoax. Don't look at me like I'm some moron. This is a good story. We'll pass it on to the police when we're ready."

  "How do I fit into your little plan?"

  "We'd like you to read the letter and tell us if it's genuine. You know Campbell."

  "I knew him: past tense."

  "Okay, you knew him. Sorry. You knew him better than most. Read the letter and tell us if it's him, that's all we want to know." He paused, waiting for her reply, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Besides, his use of "we" and "us" was starting to irritate her. Clearly, he was getting too friendly with "the powers that be", as he liked to call them. If it meant so much to him, she'd make him beg.

  "Please, Elizabeth. Will you read it?"

  "I'll think about it, that's all I'm promising. Call me later."

  "It'll be worth your while. This is front-page news. There'll be big money in it for all of us."

  "I thought you weren't sure about printing it yet."

  "Well, you know how it goes."

  She knew.

  "I have to go." She stood up and pulled on her black parka. She was tall and striking. Her dark looks, which she'd inherited from her Italian mother, made her exotic among the mostly pale-skinned, freckled Irish. Her nose was slightly crooked from a childhood accident, and there was an edginess about her, like a bird about to swoop on its prey.

  "Don't forget the letter.'' He picked it up reverently. “Promise you won't show it to anyone?"

  "Of course I won't show it to anyone." She reached for the envelope in irritation.

  "Promise me?"

  "I promise. Give me the bloody envelope."

  He handed it to her solemnly, and she grabbed it, stuffing it unceremoniously into her cavernous bag. She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and went outside into the rain, leaving Brendan to pay.

  She sensed him watching as she forced herself not to run. There were only a few more steps before she turned the corner, out of sight. No one believed that Campbell was dead because only she knew the truth. Campbell had haunted her from the last moment she had seen him. He wasn't coming back. He was dead, and she knew it because she'd killed him herself.

  Chapter Two

  The shrill ringing of her mobile phone made Elizabeth jump. Reluctantly, she pulled it from her pocket, checking the number before answering. "Frank," she said. "Did you read it?"

  Detective Chief Superintendent Frank Murphy was head of the Murder Unit. He was also the first person she'd befriended on moving to Cork.

  Elizabeth had scanned the letter and emailed it to Frank as soon as she'd finished reading the neatly typed pages. Then she'd hurried home to her apartment on the seventeenth floor of The Elysian Tower, desperate to be somewhere safe, away from prying eyes. She paced up and down on the balcony outside her living room, for once oblivious to the panoramic views across the city and the Japanese-inspired gardens below. She didn't feel an iota of guilt about breaking her promise to Brendan; a promise to him was more like a convenient lie. He would have done the same to her in a heartbeat.

  "Who gave you the letter?" Frank asked, ignoring her question.

  "Brendan Mahon."

  "The reporter?"

  "You could call him that, I suppose."

  He laughed, knowing how she felt about him.

  "He wants me to verify the details and write a few articles on the killer."

  "So he's planning on publishing it?"

  "Yeah, he's publishing it. He's trying to pretend that he needs my input, but that's only to give it a ring of authenticity."

  "He’d print anything as long as he can pretend it's in the public interest."

  "I think he even fools himself sometimes."

  "Do you think the letter is genuine?"

  "The letter's not from Campbell."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I’m sure. Campbell's dead."

  "I thought he was missing."

  "I know the letter isn't from Campbell. I spent enough time chasing and studying him to know what he was like."

  "It sounds a lot like that letter he wrote to The London Mail protesting his innocence. It's written in the same pedantic style."

  "How could you possibly remember?" she asked. "That was nine years ago."

  "The case interested me, what can I say? A photographic memory helps too."

  "The letter is not from Campbell. For o
ne thing, he admits his guilt in the letter; Campbell was not the confessing type, nor did he feel any need to explain his actions."

  "Fair enough, so who do you think wrote it?"

  "It could have been anyone." She leaned against the balcony railing and watched the traffic far below. "There's no shortage of cranks that could have gotten ideas from Brendan's book and that so-called crime column of his." She shivered. "Campbell had a son. Oscar. I wouldn't put it past him to have written the letter. Campbell raised him alone when his wife died. I interviewed him shortly before Campbell went missing. Oscar made it clear that he thought the murdered women got what they deserved."

  "Charming."

  "Like father like son."

  "Where's the boy now?"

  "Last I heard he'd moved to Dublin; his mother was from Dublin. He took her name: Kelly. He hung around the city for a while spending his father's money. Campbell sold up and gave everything to Oscar just before he vanished."

  "Almost like he knew he wasn't going to be around for much longer."

  Elizabeth rubbed her tired eyes. "Oscar returned to London when he'd spent everything, but that was a few years ago."

  "It might be worth looking into where he is now."

  "I'd check out Campbell's defence solicitor, too. Do you remember him?"

  "How could I forget? He was quite the character."

  "Quick tongue, quick mind, and a little too quick in the ethics department."

  "For all we know, the letter could have been written by Brendan as a PR stunt. He's another one who's quick and easy on the ethics front."

  "The publicity would certainly work wonders for his book sales."

  "He was more nervous than usual this morning when he cornered me at breakfast. Then again, he's always nervous around me."

  Frank laughed, and she couldn't help smiling as she pictured his dimples and the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. "You have that effect on people."

  "Not enough to scare him away for long, unfortunately," she said. "Anyway, he loves himself too much to print a letter that might hold his precious book up to public ridicule. If he really knew about the mistakes in his book, why would he have included them in his column?"