WHYTE LIES (14 page)

Faith parked her Jeep at the bottom of the lane and walked the short distance to the holiday cottage. In the few days they had been staying there, Isabelle’s parents had erected an electronic gate around the house to keep intruders and prying eyes at bay.

The whitewashed cottage with the thatched roof was perched near the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A converted farmhouse, it sat naturally in its rural surroundings, unlike many of the other holiday homes dotted along the peninsula.

The gate swung open as she approached. Peter English stood on the porch waiting for her. He looked older than his sixty-five years; Faith knew it would take a man of great fortitude to overcome the cruel hand that fate had dealt him.

He was a prominent broadcaster, and she often watched reruns of his late-night chat show. She admired his quick wit and ironic observations. On television, he’d always seemed like a powerhouse of a man, but now he was a shell of his former self. She followed him into the living room where his wife sat staring blankly out the window.

“Hello, Mrs English.” Faith hovered in the doorway.

Molly English jumped at the sound of Faith’s voice behind her. “Hello,” she said, standing up. “Please, come in. Has there been any news?”

“No news yet,” said Faith. “This isn’t a formal visit. I wanted to see how you were both doing.”

“That’s kind,” said Peter.

“Isabelle’s murder is all over the newspapers,” said Molly. “I can’t switch on the radio without hearing something about it.”

“Her death has had a lot of publicity because of her background and connections,” said Faith.

“I feel sorry for the locals,” said Molly. “Reporters are hounding them for a story. I suppose it’s understandable that they’re hanging around, what with everyone saying that the killer’s from the area.”

“We don’t know that,” said Faith.

“It’s ironic that Isabelle loved Ireland, and yet it was in her adopted country that fate dealt her such a terrible hand,” said Peter.

“None of this is Ireland’s fault,” insisted Molly. “This cottage and the Killarney people brought her so much peace and happiness. She fell in love with the place the moment she saw it.” She smiled wistfully. “It was her sanctuary away from the public eye. Nobody knew her here. She could take a break from Isabelle the actress, and just be herself.”

“Being here is our way of honouring her memory.” Peter sighed.

“Was she trying to escape something in her life?” asked Faith tentatively.

“No way!” Peter was adamant. “Isabelle never ran away from anything or anyone. She was a fighter. She came here to rest, never to run away.”

Faith glanced at the mantelpiece that had several framed photos of Isabelle. A candle glowed in the centre. Peter followed her gaze. Faith sensed their desperate need to remember their daughter as she had been. The photographs were a touching record of Isabelle’s journey through the different stages of her life, accompanied by the family she loved.

A photograph, tinted gold by the evening sun captured Molly as a young woman, on holiday with her daughter. She and Isabelle were sitting on a promenade wall with the blue sea stretching towards a headland in the background. Four-year-old Isabelle’s smile was angelic. It was a perfect moment; although it was frozen in time, its impact was even more poignant now.

Faith imagined how it would feel to look at the photographs of her own daughter. The thought of anything so horrific happening to her baby made her ache for the child she had never known. The hot sword of revenge burned in her heart.

“Isabelle talks to me at night in my dreams,” whispered Molly as she gazed at her daughter’s photo.

“She didn’t deserve to die like that,” said Faith. “No one does.”

“As much as we want to be here, it hurts because this is where Isabelle’s life ended,” said Peter.

“Maybe your presence in the town will encourage someone to come forward with information,” said Faith.

“Hopefully. I want you to know that we’re grateful for everything you’re doing,” said Molly, squeezing Faith’s hand.

“I wish I could do more.” Being with Isabelle’s parents made her determined to treat their daughter as more than just a victim. “What brought Isabelle to Killarney this time?”

“She was exhausted,” said Molly. “She was the lead actress in a play on Broadway all summer, and she wanted a break away. I think she invited a few friends to come to Killarney with her, but it was a last minute decision, and everyone had plans. We would have come, but we had booked a cruise. I wish she’d given us some notice. I feel so guilty. She’d still be alive if we’d been with her.” Angrily, she wiped her tears away. “When she needed us most, we weren’t there.”

Faith knew how cruel hindsight could be. “None of this is your fault.”

“I think she knew she was going to die,” said Molly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Peter, rolling his eyes.

“What makes you think she knew?” asked Faith.

“There was something in her voice when she last spoke to me. I could sense it.”

“You must excuse my wife, she’s always been superstitious.”

“Don’t talk over me, Peter! Just because you don’t believe in certain things, doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

“What sort of things?” asked Faith.

“I know she hated getting older, she always said it felt like her life was on fast-forward.”

“She was hardly getting older,” said Peter. “She wasn’t even thirty-five. If that God you pray to had taken care of our daughter the night she died, she’d still be here today.”

“It’s not God’s fault.”

“Who else is to blame? I suppose you think Isabelle is up there in heaven now too, do you?”

“I believe that, yes.” She looked away.

“After everything that’s happened?”

“It’s better than believing in nothing, like you.” She got up and left the room, tears streaming down her face.

Faith didn’t know where to look. Eventually, her gaze alighted on the crucifix and religious statues in the corner. The devil that had preyed on their daughter had reduced them to nothing.

“I’m sorry.” Peter put his head in his hands. “We’re going around in circles blaming each other. Neither one of us knows what to do with our grief.”

Faith nodded, knowing what he meant. “Was it unusual for Isabelle to invite people to stay here?”

“It was out of character; she preferred being alone here. She spent most of her life surrounded by people, so she treasured any time on her own. Looking back, I wonder if she was worried about something.

“I’ve never liked this bloody house. I had an ominous feeling the first time I saw it. It’s too isolated up here on its own at the edge of the world, but Isabelle loved it here, and there was no changing her mind once she had her heart set on something.” He held her gaze for a moment. “You remind me of her,” he said.

“Would you mind if I look around her bedroom?” asked Faith, feeling unnerved.

“Of course. I’m sure you remember the way.”

Faith took the short stairs two at a time and turned into Isabelle’s bedroom. The last time she’d been there, the room was packed with forensics investigating the crime scene. Now, with order restored, it was difficult to believe that something so heinous had happened there. It looked like Isabelle would be back at any minute. A fresh duvet lay on the bed. Lilies sat in the vase by the window next to several white candles. A silk bathrobe hung on the hook behind the door. The bedside locker was stacked high with the latest bestsellers.

The simplicity of the house surprised her; she’d expected a hotshot actress to live in ostentatious luxury, but Isabelle had stayed true to the traditional design. The soul of the house’s former existence was still very much alive. She could understand the appeal of such a remote spot for someone who wanted to escape.

As Faith gazed out the window at the rough waves pounding the shore far below, she felt overwhelmed by Isabelle’s presence. The light scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. She shivered as she thought about Isabelle’s last night in that room.

Faith headed back downstairs, and through the rear door that led outside to the rugged, untamed countryside — the ideal killing ground. She imagined the killer chasing Isabelle into the back garden which was wild and overgrown. She retraced Isabelle’s footsteps across the rocky, uneven earth, through the nettles and barbed wire. Too many obstacles would have hampered her escape. She didn’t have a chance.

A small stone cross and a bouquet of wild flowers lay at the place where Isabelle had been found. Faith stopped to look out across the fields and the town far below. The killer was out there somewhere, not too far away. She could feel it in her bones.

Rory Fitzpatrick arrived at the station at 2 p.m. He was a short, apologetic man in his late forties, who had aged since the photographs that Faith had seen of him at Isabelle’s cottage.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” said Faith, leading him to one of the interview rooms.

“It was the least I could do. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it here sooner.”

“You missed the funeral.” Faith cringed at her accusatory tone.

“I don’t attend funerals, not since I lost my parents.”

“I see. So what brings you here now?”

“I wanted to see where Isabelle died.”

“Have a seat,” said Faith. “Do you mind if Detective Sergeant Byrne sits in?”

“I thought this was an informal interview?” He frowned.

“It is. Can I get you anything: tea, coffee?”

“No, thanks. Let’s get this over with. My plane leaves tonight, so I need to be at the airport in a few hours.” He glanced at his watch.

“How have you been?” asked Faith.

“Not great. My pain won’t end until the killer is caught,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. He coughed in an effort to compose himself. “I don’t understand how there can be a complete absence of DNA evidence. It’s incredible that not one spot of the killer’s flesh or blood has been found.”

“Luck was on his side,” said Byrne.

“Do you think it’s possible that there has been no progress because such a high profile case would damage Killarney’s image and consequently the tourist trade?” he asked. “It’s something we’ve discussed as a possibility because we can think of no other obvious logical reason.”

“I haven’t heard that theory,” said Faith, taken aback by his cynicism. “I think greater damage has been done because the killer is still at large. If the area is unsafe, with a maniac lurking, waiting for the opportunity to strike again, then the notion that Killarney is a place where justice is in short supply must be uppermost in everyone’s minds.”

Rory shrugged.

“When did you first meet Isabelle?” asked Faith.

“We met on set; I wrote the play, she was the lead actress.” He smiled at the memory.

“When did you become romantically involved?”

“I was divorcing my wife when I met Isabelle. She refused to go out with me until it was finalised. She didn’t want to be known as my mistress. When the divorce came through, I sent her a copy of the paperwork, and the rest is history.”

Faith took copious notes as Rory spoke. Isabelle would have been almost fifteen years younger than him when they met; a young actress, trying to make it. It would have been tempting to fall for his charm and power. She couldn’t help admiring her principles.

“Isabelle was independent and careful to keep a professional distance from me, because whatever she achieved, she wanted to prove she could do it on her own talent, not her connections.”

“How was your relationship in the weeks before she died?”

“We had our issues, like most people. We separated briefly last year, but we worked it out. Isabelle had a habit of disappearing if she wasn’t happy, usually to Killarney. It was her safe place. We had our disagreements, but we always made up in the end.”

“Was this last trip to Killarney one of those times when she wanted to disappear?”

“No, she wanted to be alone. She never invited me to the cottage. This is my first time being in Killarney. She idealised love, which could be demanding.” He sighed. “She loved the intimacy of a relationship, but she also delighted in escapism. It was a constant pull between the two for her. She had a life that most people can only dream of, but she also longed for a simple life. She wasn’t enamoured of the glitz and glamour that accompanied her lifestyle, and I think that the wild remoteness of Killarney fulfilled a need in her.”

“Do you think she was having an affair?”

“No way; she wasn’t like that. She was easily disappointed, but she’d never run off with someone else.”

“How did you feel about her staying alone in Killarney?”

“I wasn’t keen on it, but what could I do? She believed that she had the strength to deal with whatever situation transpired. She never considered the possibility that she might be under threat. I often worried about her. However, once she had her mind made up, there was no point in trying to talk her out of it. She had no sense of danger. She loved Killarney; the wild beauty and isolation held a great appeal for her, and she loved the people who she had no reason not to trust. Maybe it was her lack of vulnerability that made her perfect prey for the killer.”

He stopped to drink some water before continuing. “The rumours about our relationship being in trouble before she died are untrue.”

“Where did the rumour begin?” asked Faith.

“How should I know?” His face flushed. “I suppose stories of a troubled relationship support the general belief that the partner is the prime suspect. False rumours successfully deflect attention from the real killer. Who knows, maybe the killer started the rumours.” He smiled wryly.

“Whoever he is,” said Faith.

“That’s for you to find out.”

“I spoke with her parents and they claim that Isabelle wanted company on her last stay in Killarney. Did she ask you to go?” asked Faith.

He folded his arms. “Yes,
that surprised me too. She’d never asked me to accompany her before, but I was working.”

“Couldn’t you have worked at the cottage?” Faith wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

“I like to work at home, in my study. It’s difficult to switch focus in a new place.”

“Do you think she was worried about anything?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“You were the last person to talk to her,” said Faith. “How was she on the phone?”

“We had a relaxed chat,” he recalled. “I phoned her to say goodnight. There didn’t seem to be anything on her mind, or any indication that she felt under threat.” He wiped his dry eyes with a tissue before continuing. “I never imagined something like this would happen to me.” He sniffed. “Isabelle once said that we must not cry about the dead, instead we must think of them; I think of her often.”