Back at the station, Reilly tried to put aside her concerns about Chris’s state of mind, and refocus on the investigation. She read through Webb’s file again, focusing this time on the details of his victim.
Reilly tried to imagine the horror for a 17-year-old girl, attacked, raped, beaten ...
Shaking these distracting thoughts from her mind, she forced herself to read on. Amanda Harrington was a secondary school student and lived in a well-to-do area of South Dublin. She focused in on the family details. The girl’s parents were listed as Sally and David Harrington. The mother worked as a teacher, the father was an architect and she had one older brother.
The obvious conclusion was that someone close to this girl had to be responsible for these murders. But who? Who was picking off one by one those they believed were collectively responsible for this miscarriage of justice? Was it the mother, father ... close relative or boyfriend, even?
Reilly ran her hand through her hair, and tapped her pen on the edge of the table. She looked at the names again – they could probably eliminate the mother, as it would have been necessary for someone strong to control and manipulate the bodies into the scenarios the killer had set up. And although anything was possible, she doubted that a woman would have been able to do it.
What about the father or brother then? Architecture seemed like a mild-mannered profession, but God only knew the kind of things grief could drive a person to. Reilly made a short annotation beside David Harrington’s name.
The brother was a possibility too, but he was only a few years older than Amanda, now in his early twenties, and again someone strong and very capable had been responsible for the level of expertise and planning that went into the murders. Then again, a college kid might well be very familiar with Dante’s Inferno. It was worth checking out.
For now, Reilly supposed the simplest thing to do was to talk to the parents. There was a phone number in the file ...
She dialled and immediately got an automated message: ‘We’re sorry, but the number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.’
Dead end. So what now? Reilly looked at the address again: the Harrington residence was in Sandymount, only a few miles from here. She could be there within fifteen minutes.
She was tired of waiting around, tired of sitting in her office poring over all that evidence that was getting them nowhere ...
She grabbed her handbag, pulled her coat off the back of the chair and headed for the door.
A few minutes later, she was driving past impressive Georgian houses, their bay windows bright with Christmas trees and fairy lights, her windscreen wipers slapping out a rhythm against the driving icy rain.
She found the Harrington house just off Sandmount Square, and parking her car, stepped out into the rain.
The bright lights of a Christmas tree filled the front window of the tidy house. Reilly scurried up to the front door, the rain cold on her face, and rang the bell. She listened as it echoed through the house, the ringing soon replaced by the sound of footsteps.
Reilly was dreading this conversation – asking grieving parents to recall the one thing they would have been trying their utmost to forget.
The door opened. A middle-aged woman looked at Reilly with interest. She had short highlighted hair, and wore jeans and an elegant cashmere sweater. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
Reilly briefly showed her ID. ‘Hi. I’m investigator Steel with the GFU. I’m looking for Mrs Harrington?’
The woman’s face showed a look of surprise. ‘I’m sorry. The Harringtons don’t live here anymore.’
Reilly’s was immediately disappointed. ‘Oh, they’ve moved. Any idea of their new address?’
‘Sydney actually.’ The woman looked out at the biting rain. ‘Do you want to come inside? It’s pretty nasty out there.’
Reilly nodded, eager to get out of the rain. ‘Much appreciated. Thank you.’
The woman led her in through the narrow hall and into a warm living room – a fire crackled in the hearth, and the Christmas tree sat prettily in the bay window. She offered Reilly her hand. ‘I’m Sarah – Sarah Miller.’
‘Reilly Steel, pleased to meet you.’
Sarah perched on a chair beside the fire, and indicated for Reilly to sit in one on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’
Reilly shook the rain from her hair, slipped her coat off and draped it over the back of the chair. ‘Thank you.’ She sat, and looked across at Sarah. ‘You knew the Harringtons then?’
‘Yes, we lived nearby. Everyone in the village knew them ...’ Her face fell. ‘But after what happened with their daughter ...’ She left the remaining words unspoken.
Reilly helped her out. ‘The family decided to move?’
Sarah nodded. ‘They couldn’t get away quick enough and I don’t blame them.’ She looked up, met Reilly’s probing gaze. ‘This might be Dublin but Sandymount has always had a village feel to it, a community, if you like. And while that’s wonderful most of time, when something terrible happens, something like Amanda’s death ... well, it affects everyone. David and Sally would have been reminded of it each and every day, every time one of us said hello, or how are you doing ...’
‘So it was common knowledge that she took her own life?’
‘Sadly, yes. Nobody knew why, of course, at least not at first ... Such a terrible thing, and for someone so young.’
‘Dr Jennings, Amanda’s GP, did he practice locally?’
Sarah frowned. ‘Not in this area, I don’t think. I’ve never heard of him, although now that you say it, the name does sound familiar. Wait a second,’ she said, as realization dawned. ‘Do you mean the doctor that was in all the papers? The one who was ...’ Her face paled. ‘But what does that have to do with Amanda?’
Side-stepping an answer, Reilly quickly changed the subject. ‘And do you ever hear from the Harringtons now?’
Sarah stood up, and lifted a festive card off the mantelpiece. ‘Just a Christmas card once a year.’ She handed it to Reilly.
Reilly looked inside, though it seemed somehow impolite, like spying on someone. The card read: ‘Merry Christmas – hope you’re very happy in our house. Love, David Sally and Luke.’ She looked at the handwriting – it was elegant, but completely different from the writing on the package they’d received with the DVD.
Sarah smiled. ‘They wrote that last year, too, as though they’re going to come back some day, and despite the fact we bought the house from them.’ She sighed.
‘Do they ever visit?’
‘No. It’s been almost two years since they left, and I’ve never heard anything about them having the slightest wish to come back, even for a visit. Too many painful memories, I’d imagine.’
Too many painful memories, Reilly echoed.
A rape/suicide incident like this created painful memories for so many people, not just the family.
But who would have been so badly affected by such memories that they would feel compelled to take the law into their own hands – and in such a destructive and elaborate way?
Having thanked Sarah Miller for her time, Reilly drove slowly back through the showers to the GFU building. Visibility was poor, and not just from the rain - it was one of those dark winter days when it never truly seems to get light, when the sun never rises, never sets, just slopes along, low to the horizon, hidden behind a wall of thick gray cloud.
Once again, almost every aspect of this case was proving to be elusive. Even when they got a break, thought they’d made some progress – they were still going round in circles.
With Ricky Webb now free from prison (ironically the one place where he’d be safe from the killer) – the clock was ticking.
And Reilly guessed they were fast running out of time.