“Fuck me,” Baz murmurs through his hand.
We’re all captivated. With horror. With shock. Nausea is churning in my stomach. Heart thumps in my ears. There are dots shooting across my vision. I blink.
Baz turns suddenly. I must look pale because he presses his lips and asks, “You okay, Chief?”
No one could guess how much effort it takes for me to smile. “Time of death is no longer a mystery,” I say.
Baz nods. “Sunday, 30 October. After Eleanor. Makes the window of opportunity pretty tight. To get the body in the fire, all the way to Clontarf. If, indeed, they had to travel.”
The room in the video had blue walls. A bedroom. The decor seemed a little dated. Quaint. The killer hadn’t bothered to hide the design of the duvet cover, a dark blue floral swirl on a white background. There was clear plastic sheeting spread over bed and carpet.
Amy remained silent as she climbed onto the bed. There was an edge to her movements, but also the briefest flit of a smile tracing the line of her mouth. Then came the moment when the balance seemed to tip. Tied down, her struggle increasingly frantic, a desperate kind of shrinking when the knife approached, her eyes white orbs of fear.
From somewhere to the right, there must have been a window, as a thin strip of white-gold light split the bed diagonally from the top of Amy’s pale toes right across her body to where her left hand was tied, wrist raw and bleeding. During the video, when the pain seemed to overwhelm her, her face turned toward the light. I imagined she was willing the world to find her, to rescue her. Then a gloved hand would steer her face back toward the camera, toward further torture, and her body, arms tight as cable wire, would press into the mattress.
Besides the horrific nature of the film, another thing was startlingly obvious. The room looked nothing like the interior of the Costello home.
“Worth rechecking the Costello house, see if there are any similarities with the rooms?” Baz asks, still staring down into the blue room.
“No point. The date is after we discovered Eleanor Costello. We’ve had two uniforms there since.”
“Unless the video wasn’t recorded live,” he counters.
“Steve?”
Steve shakes his head. “Looks like the genuine article to me, but I’ll check.”
“Break it down. Scene by scene. It has to give us something,” I say.
I see Steve swallow.
“You okay?” I ask.
He frowns, all manly, makes a pathetic kind of snorting noise. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Right, so. Get on with it.”
I move to the case board. The frustration at not locating Peter Costello is a titanic fucking ball bearing banging round my head. He can’t hide forever. I draw him up on the board. Under his name I write, “Dark Web,” “Cell Site connecting him to Amy.” I bring the pen to my lips, study the information. Then I add the two silent calls from Costello’s phone, the locations, the times. I move toward the door, shrug into my coat, and Baz arrives at my side.
“Tom Quinn? You want me to cancel his interview?”
Tom. I see the tiny rabbit cupped in his hands; then the body, dropped in the bin, discarded like a worn dishcloth. But then I see him standing in Keegan’s Garage, a full smile white against the dirt and oil on his face, sleeves to the elbows, arms folded. A hard worker. The face of home.
“We need to start somewhere, Frankie,” Baz urges.
“Bring him in, but I’ll do the interview. Peter Costello is still our prime suspect. Our pursuit of him mustn’t waver.” Frustration and anger press my hands into tight fists.
Baz is following my thoughts. “Maybe he did switch SIMs or got another phone. Eleanor was onto his affair, so he got rid of the old one?”
I want to say yes, I want to agree, but something’s not quite right.
I close my eyes and Amy’s lifeless face looks out at me. He, the killer, reaches up, switches off the camera. He likes to have a moment with the body afterward, linger over his work. The stink of her struggle, her panic-soaked breath, is heavy in the room. He rubs sweat from his eyes, then leaves her, lets her tired body rest. He makes a cup of tea, smokes a fag. Imagines how else he can draw out his pleasure.
The idea comes to him as he lights the gas for the kettle. He finishes his fag by the window. Outside, kids are dragging driftwood up the beach toward an unlit bonfire. He remembers Amy mentioning that her village celebrated similarly. Kids, families, loved-up couples, warm against the chill Halloween night enjoying the bonfire. Jealousy is sudden and violent around his throat; bitterness stings his mouth. He moves quickly.
My head is shaking. “So, if Peter Costello murders her, then crams her body into an as-yet-unidentified vehicle, drives north to Clontarf, where he might easily locate the bonfire. Waits for his window, which is no more than three hours between when it gets dark and when the fire is lit. He drags the one-hundred-twenty-eight-pound body of Amy Keegan out of the car and spends time in the dark hiding her deep in the firewood. It’s raining slightly, so there’s not many out on the promenade, and anyone there assumes he’s adding to the fire.
“He buries her in the midst of the bracken, wood pallets, tires, and the like. Stays among the crowd for some fucked-up kicks, then slips away in the mayhem that ensues?”
Baz rubs his chin. “It sounds mad enough to be true.”
He breaks away, collects his coat. “I’d better get out to the Costello house, see what’s what. Tom Quinn will be here by the time you get back.”
We’re both mentally and emotionally drained from what we’ve witnessed, and it’s barely half past ten. In a normal job, you’d be awarded a course of psych therapy for what we’ve just watched, but instead I move to the door, pick up my bag, prepare to leave for court.
“I’ll walk you down,” I say to Baz. “I’ve a half hour to get to court. Clancy will be smoking himself into emphysema if I don’t hurry.” I make light of it so I can feel some thin rein of control between my fingers.
“From one sociopath to another,” Baz says as he opens the door. I step out into the corridor.
When we get to the exit, he squeezes my shoulder; his long square fingers pulse briefly against the skin and bone of me. I try not to pull away, reward him with a tight smile.
“Call me with anything new,” I say.
“Will do, Chief,” he answers.
* * *
—
WHITE VANS ARE crammed up along the quays, satellite disks spinning on their roofs. The reporters wait, twitching, anxious, eager for a shot of the perp or his lawyer. The prosecutor stands for a few seconds on the steps of the court, addresses the crowd. Cameras collectively swing about, seeking anything of interest. We are sitting some way down the quay, Clancy and I, watching the commotion, the hype.
“You could go in the back way?” Clancy’s voice is hopeful.
I have to swallow before I can speak; my lips are so dry, they sting and peel apart when I answer.
“No. The public need to know that their streets will be safe from at least one more killer. The case needs to get some coverage. PR is always good.”
“Fuck fucking PR,” he growls.
I get out of the car and squint against the cutting wind that’s rising from the Liffey. “Come on, Jack. You know how these things work.”
“It’s different this time.”
“Why? Because I’m one of you? Not a faceless woman that we’ve scooped up from the floor, untangled from a beam, or dredged from a lake? You always make a statement after one of these cases and today should be no different.”
He flicks his wrist. Checks his watch. The prosecutor has gone in. The reporters have turned their backs on the steps, lit fags; are leaning up against their vans.
“We’d better get inside.”
I walk away from the car and the movement draws attention. A p
hotographer kneels, balances the lens at the right angle. Click. It sets off a series of flashes, and a cacophony of questions roars out from the reporters. Clancy shields me with his arm, but I try to stay ahead of him. I want to appear tall, confident, uncowed, even though I can feel the tingle of panic sparking in my toes and fingertips, the trip in my breath and the way my throat is sticking at the back of my mouth.
* * *
—
THE ROOM IS packed. The press have done a good job of teasing out excitement from the public, of whetting the appetite, stirring hunger for justice. It has helped that Tracy was young, only twenty-two, just returned from her gap year, the world at her feet and she about to step on it. Her parents have shown a united front in the media, the mother red-eyed and pinched with grief, the father hoarse with sorrow and determination.
Prosecutors couldn’t ask for a better case. Throw in an assault on a senior member of the Gardaí, not only that but a female member, and you’ve got the kind of drama that movies are made of. Both public and law firmly on one side, the villain on the other. But the job of the court is not to play into that drama.
In reality, court is a monotonous trudge of facts and silences as lawyers scrabble to catch up with their notes and judges read through evidence and statements. However, if there is drama to be had, cases such as this are where it’s at. A killer caught weapon in hand, fleeing the scene, witnessed by another victim but still professing innocence, will call on the lawyers to use all their legal trickery to win. There is a good possibility that this monster will smile as he’s led away after a verdict of not guilty. And that is something that can’t happen.
* * *
—
MY HEAD ACHES; my forehead feels like it’s knotted into folds of lead above my eyes. The crowds of people we managed to dip through on the way in close around us, but Clancy barrels onwards, shooing away cameramen as if they were flies.
“That was a fucking joke. What are we working for, eh?” he snarls. “A bunch of Mickey Mouse arseholes in suits.”
I can’t answer.
“I mean, we were right there. Weren’t we? Self-defense, my hole,” he continues, yelling over his shoulder. “We were right fucking there. Seen him with our own bloody eyes.” He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and jams one in his mouth. “Fucking pile of shit, that’s what it is.”
I push forward, reach his side, say anything to get him to shut up. “It doesn’t mean anything. Of course he’ll say he’s innocent.”
He gives me a fierce look out of the corner of his eye. “The fucker was caught red-handed. It’s absolute bollocks.” He slices the air with his hand. “Four months waiting for that bullshit. Look at the evidence!”
“The judge has to look at all angles. At least he was denied bail. It’s a wobble, that’s it. All cases have them.”
“It’s a fucking insult. Here, the car’s over there.” He nods to the car across the road. A couple of reporters are leaning up against the hood.
We are breaking through the swell of people outside the courthouse, stepping onto the road. They are waiting for any glimpse of the suspect, who has long since been led out of the room and shepherded safely out through a side door.
Clancy darts across the road, waving at the traffic as if the will of God would stop cars for him. The dark navy of his coat flaps around him as he waits for me on the other side. My foot has barely left the pavement when the crowds, seeking Neary’s lawyer, swell around me again. I struggle to keep my balance, putting my hands out in case I fall. Someone grabs me, stops my tumble. They stay close.
Icy waves roll down my arms, my back. I turn, but whoever was there has rejoined the crowds. Collars are up against the cold, backs turned on me, facing Neary’s lawyer, who’s making a dramatic speech from the steps.
I hurry across the road and stand in front of the car. From this vantage point, I get a clearer view of the madness unraveling outside the courthouse. No one looks in my direction.
“You right?” Clancy barks, impatience straining in his voice.
“Yes,” I say. “Fine.”
I get into the car, eyes peeled, not quite sure who or what I’m looking for. I watch the damp streets of Dublin drift by through the pale reflection of my face, hand pressed to my mouth. Peter Costello’s name echoes through my head. It tangles with Tracy Ward’s and Amy Keegan’s. I think for a moment that there may be a chance that Neary didn’t do it. That maybe the killer I’m hunting now is also Tracy Ward’s killer. I take a breath. Shiver. No. Neary is guilty. No one else could have been involved in that murder. I blink hard, shut away the idea, and Eleanor Costello’s smile widens in my mind.
CHAPTER 9
TOM QUINN WALKS into the case room, head bowed, a heavy black duffel clutched to his stomach like a shield. His feet scuff the carpet as if testing the solidity of the floor before he moves forward. As he moves, his eyes skirt the room: the desks, the team busy on phones and computers.
He’s wearing a gray suit; the shirt collar is too tight on his neck, and rolls of stubbly skin sit over the top of the stiff material. He looks terrified. I hover at the coffee machine. I’m not sure caffeine will help him, but a stiff drink is not something I’m able to offer. At least prior to the interview.
“Would you like a coffee, Tom?”
I hear the shake in my voice and realize I’m frightened too.
He accepts the coffee, two sugars—a rural man’s quota—with plenty of milk.
As he stirs the hot drink, I make a sweeping gesture over the room, noting, gratefully, that someone has thrown a cover over the case board.
“This is the team who’re doing all they can to apprehend Amy’s killer.”
As I say the word “killer,” the corner of Tom’s left eye tightens briefly, as if he’s expecting a blow to the side of the head. I’m moving through the office. Steve moves in parallel, on the other side of the office. He’ll wait in the viewing room, recording, getting papers ready.
“Anyway,” I say. “Thanks for coming in, Tom.”
He pulls at his shirt collar. “Amy was like family to me, I want to help.”
I nod, point him through the office. “I think the interview room is ready.”
“Right, so,” he says. I can see him emotionally picking himself up, dredging through his adrenaline reserves to get over the next two hours.
The tape is running. Tom sips at his coffee and settles his large frame into the plastic chair across from me. He glances around the room, stares at the mirrored window.
“Just like the TV,” he says.
“They do get some things right.”
He gives me a wary smile. “What is it ye want to ask me, Frankie?”
I smile back. Hold up a finger, then point to the rolling cassette. “Wednesday, second of November, two p.m. For the purposes of this interview, I, Detective Sheehan, am interviewing Mr. Tom Quinn. Work colleague of the victim’s family.”
I meet Tom’s eyes. His face is solemn.
“Mr. Quinn, you have the right to a lawyer. You’re not under arrest. However, it’s important for you to realize that this is a murder investigation and therefore anything you say will be taken down, recorded, and could be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
He sets his jaw. Clasps his hands. “Yes.”
I get straight to it. “When was the last time you saw Amy?” It should be a comforting, easy question. A softball.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, I don’t know now. Could it be as far back as the summer?”
I give him a little more time. Leave a gap, wait for him to fill it.
“She came home sometimes from uni but, you know, didn’t come down to the garage often,” he adds.
“Eamon must have been so proud that his daughter was studying medicine?”
He blows air through his lips. “Christ
. Yes. The sun couldn’t shine brighter than Amy in her daddy’s eyes. And, to be fair, she was very bright. But she barely had her foot in the door at some big company, and the recession came and took a big ol’ bite out of her future.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t stop Amy, though. She kicked her pride into the gutter, ate up her failure, came home, and started over.” He meets my eyes. “Takes guts, you know.”
I do. “So she moved back home.” Keeping him on track.
“Yeah. Moira was delighted, of course, and then last year she got a place as a mature student in UCD. They were made up. Then she got herself a wee flat in the city. It was hard, though. Money-wise for them, I think.”
“Oh?”
“Amy wasn’t the best with cash. She never seemed to have enough and Eamon never seemed to stop forking out.” He frowns. “That sounds bad now. She was a lovely girl, though. Just lovely.”
He nods, sniffs. Rubs his fist under his nose, then takes a slurp of the coffee. He takes a deep breath.
“I was as proud as any of them of that girl,” he says.
I steer the topic away gently, like easing off a Band-Aid.
“On 31 October, can you remember your activities? Can you take me through your day?”
He grasps the topic, staring sightlessly at some point above my shoulder.
“I got up the usual at seven to open the garage. We’d a really full day, always the way when the weather changes, people get their tires checked and changed for winter and all that. Eamon and Moira weren’t around. They do trays of goodies for Halloween. Toffee apples and other sweets for the kids. They headed to the shops to sort the stock out.”
I smile, picturing the trays of apples at the annual bonfire, shining with thick toffee sauce topped with sprinkles. It was a highlight in my Halloween childhood memories.
Too Close to Breathe Page 9
