Steve opens it, but the folder is programmed to self-trash every two days and there is nothing but junk and spam.
He turns in his seat. “I could try and hunt out his IP address from this e-mail. The chances are less than small, but it’s worth a shot. If we can get an IP, then it may help in trying to connect on the Black Widow site.”
“We still can’t be sure that he’s even on the Black Widow site. Besides, his IP would be encrypted on the Dark Web.”
We’re at an impasse. The workload for this kind of task is so time-consuming, but short of getting down to it, we’ve little else. After a short silence, I give in.
“Go on then, but if you meet a brick wall at any time, move on to something more productive.”
Paul pushes back from his desk, swivels his chair round. “I’ve got the press conference all set for Mrs. Fagan this afternoon,” he says.
“Great. If Costello’s hiding in some friend’s flat or maybe another lover’s house, then a press conference might encourage someone to drop us a line. Or at least propel our suspect into action. I’m wagering he’s getting a little bored with sitting tight. Let’s light a fire under his ass.”
A sharp intake of breath hisses from around the office; it was a bad metaphor in light of Amy Keegan’s passing. I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”
Steve speaks up. “You’re going to out him, aren’t you? As prime suspect. At the press conference. Is that ethical?”
“Peter Costello left ethical behind when he tightened a rope around his wife’s neck.” I sigh. “It’s not how it’s usually done, and no, I’m not going to out him. I’m going to out Eleanor.”
“Eleanor?”
“Yes, her death was greeted with barely a shake of a broadsheet. I’m just going to draw the camera lens toward her a little. I’ll restate that her death is being treated as murder. I’ll make the announcement directly after his sister’s plea and finish by saying that we really would like to speak to Peter Costello in relation to her death.”
Steve is nodding. “And let the media connect the dots for you?”
“Correct. The media can be a great weapon in these cases, Detective.”
Helen is hovering over my shoulder. I can feel waves of nervous energy coming from her. When I turn, she holds out a sheaf of stiff paper, still warm from the printer.
“Chief. Steve set me to look into Amy Keegan’s bank account. I think you might find this interesting.”
“Thanks, Helen.” I take the paper and she continues:
“Not a bad balance for a student. Especially a med student.”
“That’s almost ten grand.” I scan through the pages. Look for the deposit. Look for the quarterly dump of money from the bank of Mam and Dad. Helen has highlighted two account numbers; both are standing orders delivering money into Amy’s account. One monthly, the other weekly.
She smiles, reaches out, points to the one highlighted in yellow. “That’s Daddy’s account, a conservative eighty a week.”
I put my finger to the other account. “Is this work? Or a grant?”
Her smile fades a little. “No. That’s . . .” She hesitates, almost as if she’s afraid to tell me. “That’s Tom Quinn’s account.”
I stare down at the number. “Tom?” It can’t be. I shake my head.
Helen clears her throat. “Should we get him in for questioning again?”
Thumping starts up in my ears. My breath sounds loud. Helen’s voice twists and slides around my head, the words long and spiky.
“Chief?”
I press my fingers against my eyes and take a deep breath. “No. Not yet. We have to get through this conference. Find Costello.”
Steve looks up from the computer. “But, Chief, if Tom Quinn was paying Amy for something, shouldn’t we look into it?”
“Put a car on him. If he’s got something to hide, we’ll find it, but I’ve known Tom Quinn most of my life. He isn’t a killer.”
Steve picks up the phone to make the call. “Everyone’s a killer with the right motive,” he says, echoing our previous conversation.
“Just get to work, and, Helen, keep an eye on Amy’s account. Let me know if and when that standing order is terminated.”
I knead the bottom of my back. My entire body feels snarled up. The patch of tender skin aches over my temple, and the base of my neck throbs. It’s not yet midday, and exhaustion is hanging from the corners of my body, weighing me down.
* * *
—
THE PRESS IS waiting. Most of the room are looking down, adjusting their screens, typing, sending off tweets—#EleanorCostello. Looking at my Twitter feed, I see that word is trickling out, spreading like blood blooming in water. My hope is that it reaches the front pages by tomorrow morning; numb as the public are now to murder, a murder where the husband is missing may spark enough interest to sell papers.
I can see Steve coming down the corridor, Priscilla Fagan behind him. Although her gait is sure and measured, she is grim-faced and pale, and I feel a momentary stirring of guilt in my gut at using her. But in reality, the Costellos don’t have many blood relatives around to pledge for them, and the public are always moved to give us more information if a family member makes a plea.
In part, I want to see how Priscilla does. Despite her apparent concern for her errant brother, there’s a chance that Priscilla Fagan may know where Costello is hiding. They were close; she is possibly the closest friend Peter has, outside of his wife and lover. At the back of the room, I catch sight of a familiar face. The neighbor Neil Doyle is white-skinned beneath the flickering fluorescence of the room. I watch him take a seat at the back and crane his neck to watch the action.
Jack comes up behind me.
“We’re almost ready,” he says. “I’ll lead.”
The cameras are set, microphones tested. I remain standing, alongside the gathering press audience. Jack leads Mrs. Fagan, Baz, and Steve across the front of the room. I slide into a seat. My job is to observe, study Priscilla’s actions, wait for her to slip up. Give her brother away.
Jack waits until all have been seated, giving the opportunity for the press to get their equipment ready, poised. Mrs. Fagan sits, takes a sip of water from one of the glasses provided, clears her throat, then greets the waiting lenses with a high chin and a challenge in her eyes. If she weren’t real, I would assume her a cartoon character of herself, in that she is the kind of person who is exactly who she seems. Solid through, in physique, morality, and sensitivity.
Jack leans in, picks up a piece of paper.
“Thanks for coming here today,” he says into the microphone, his voice grave. “As some of you might be aware, a woman was discovered hanged in her home on 20 October 2011 in Bray, Wicklow. We believe that the woman’s death had occurred the evening previous, initially presumed by her own hand. This woman was Dr. Eleanor Costello. We now know that this is a murder case. It is important to point out that at this stage we have a few leads that may give us a better picture of the manner of her death.”
There are murmurs rippling through the room, surprise, excitement. My stomach is sick with revulsion; the journos are preparing their ground, imagining how they will tell her story, crawling all over the tragedy of her death. I remind myself that, in doing so, they will help us. Eleanor Costello needs front-page status in order to push her husband out of his hidey-hole.
Jack’s voice rises and the room quiets. “In addition, we also discovered the remains of Amy Keegan on 31 October 2011, a young medical student from Clontarf who appears to have been known to Eleanor Costello’s husband, Peter.”
From the front row, a hand twitches like a cat’s tail in the air. The owner does not wait to be instructed to speak.
“Are we dealing with a serial killer?”
This is the best we could have hoped for. My gut twists for Mrs. Fagan, who is lost in the
case presented to her. We have deliberately kept her in the dark about a connection with Amy’s murder, but I could tell as soon as Jack uttered Amy’s name that she had made the same leap I did on that night with Eamon Keegan in Clontarf.
Jack does not answer the journo’s question. We’re not dealing with a serial killer as yet. There have not been enough victims; even murderers have criteria to meet.
He continues: “We appeal for anyone who may have noticed anything strange or saw Eleanor Costello or Amy Keegan in the run-up to their deaths to come forward. We would urgently like to speak to Peter Costello, Eleanor Costello’s husband. We believe he might have information that would help us greatly in our investigations.”
“Is the husband a suspect?” someone shouts.
Priscilla Fagan purses her lips in protest. She looks as if she’d like to drag the reporter outside and give him a hammering. But instead she picks up her water glass again and takes another sip. Steady.
“No. Peter Costello is not a suspect. But we believe he may have vital information that could help us with our investigation. We and his family”—he nods to Priscilla on his right—“are gravely worried about him and urge him to get in touch or come home.”
There is a pause while the cameras of the room turn; microphones are held out, aggressive and demanding, in front of Priscilla Fagan. She holds her nerve.
There is not a single note of tremor in her voice when she speaks into the microphone.
“Peter. Whatever you’ve done or didn’t do, come home. I am worried sick about you. You’ve left your prescription behind, and I know how you can’t get by without it. Come home.” She coughs into her hand, and when she looks up to the camera again, I can see the strain line the corners of her eyes. “Come home. I need you.”
It feels genuine. So genuine that I have a fleeting moment of concern for Peter Costello.
CHAPTER 11
EVEN WITH ALL my attention centered on Amy, her death feels like a tributary of horror that’s feeding some darker evil. Eleanor Costello’s face haunts every thought I have; there’s something not quite right about her puzzle. Her home doesn’t fit, doesn’t slot into a life. Even for someone who was obsessively tidy, it has a stale feeling lingering in its rooms. Unlived. Unloved.
Priscilla Fagan’s appeal to the masses secured a front page this morning. Some of the papers ran shorter stories on Eleanor and her tragic past. Something, I know, she would have abhorred. Or at least sneered at. Maybe she would have pitied herself? She suffered bouts of self-pity and hatred, undoubtedly. Those emotions would have generated drive in her, but they would also be the emotions that caused great caverns of weakness and passivity to open up in her, resulting in binge-purge cycles and secret moments of despair. There is never a better reason to hate pity than when it lives inside you, controls you.
I step out of my car. I’m not sure what’s brought me back here. Back to the Costello home. Two Gardaí are stationed at the front door. I sign the log book, and they nod as I duck under the crime-scene tape, step inside. Even after the SOCOs have traipsed through the house, it looks tidy.
Usually, when I attend a crime scene at someone’s home, I have a sense that I’m trespassing. I’ve the urge to tell my team to whisper, almost as if they’re in a library. The ghosts of occupants’ memories are soaked into the walls and floor of the abode, and we should be respectful of our invasion. But when I stepped over the threshold of the Costello household, I got none of that. People did not live here; they existed. Nothing of note could be felt from its bricks and mortar except a pervading feeling of sadness.
I can’t imagine Peter and Eleanor lying on the sofa watching TV, legs meeting at the middle, folded at the knees, or maybe her head in his lap, his fingers tracing the elegant line of her jaw. It feels as if the guts of the house have been torn out, removed, discarded.
I carry on through the house. I can’t bear to look into her bedroom again; it’s late in the afternoon, and my imagination will easily resurrect her body hanging from the beam. Instead I make my way to the office. I search the drawers again, look behind and above the curtains. Peer out at the darkening sky.
“Can I get you anything, Chief?”
I nearly leap out of my skin. One of the guards stands in the hallway, hovering at the door.
Hand at my throat, I reply. “No. Thank you. Have there been any people asking questions? Nosing about?”
He shakes his head. “Not a sinner. People tend to get awful fond of their own business when there’s a murder inquiry underfoot.”
I smile. “Yes. Thank you. I’m just going to have a look around.”
He salutes and leaves me to it.
My gaze settles on the Post-it. The password to the computer scrawled in round, stern letters on the yellow paper: “Chagall.” I’m not sure what it is exactly that has captured me, but I can’t resist plucking it away from the calendar and holding it up to my face. After a moment, it registers. Hurrying to the living room, I almost trip over the sofa in my haste to get to the coffee table. There I open up the Chagall book that I’d studied briefly the day Eleanor was found. I look from the note stuck to the tip of my index finger to the book and back again, several times.
The handwriting is different. Remarkably so. The a in the book curls around, elegant, old-fashioned. On the Post-it, the letter is a round fat circle with a sharp, short line drawn down its side. Could the computer be Eleanor’s after all?
Placing the Post-it next to the scribbled notes in the margin of the book, I take a few photos with my phone and send them to Steve with the instruction that they are to go for handwriting analysis.
I move from the room and out the back door. The immediate space in the garden is concreted over, and hard-looking rusted metal furniture stands like a lonely family in the corner. The rest of the garden is run-down and bursting with the wrong kind of growth. I peer over the hedge. The garden of the neighbor, Mr. Neil Doyle, is immaculate.
I turn to reenter the house when a voice greets me from behind. Fear gathers in my muscles. Neil Doyle approaches me from the rear of the garden. I take a breath. Reassess.
I can barely hear my own voice, just make my mouth form the words.
“You startled me.” My heart is hammering. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. “Detective Sheehan. We met a couple of weeks ago. I’m working the Costello case.”
He points at a connecting gate in the hedgerow that separates the properties. It’s hidden well in the darkness of the swollen shrubbery. “Sorry. I saw you looking and wanted to know if there’d been any luck getting in touch with Peter?”
Anger stirs in me. How have we missed this link between the properties?
The neighbor continues, voice a whisper. “Fuck. I mean, excuse me. I never swear, just, you know. Fuck. He murdered her then?”
“We are doing our best to find out who’s responsible for Eleanor’s death. Mr. Costello is an important witness.”
I tilt my head. “Do you have time for a few questions?” I ask him. My voice has just the right note of pleading. It would be helping us out so much, he hears.
He smiles, then answers: “Sure.”
“Thanks. Mr. Doyle, right?”
“That’s right. Neil Doyle.” He turns, directs me with an open palm. “Shall we?”
I step inside.
* * *
—
THE WIND IS whipping rain in great streaks across Abbey Street. I shiver and hurry, head down, toward our watering hole, where Clancy is waiting, armed with a strong pint and a sharp tongue for a case update.
Crowds of theatergoers gather beneath broken umbrellas, waiting for the first night of Richard III. I have to step off the pavement to pass the queues, sending my feet straight into the cold, wet puddles that line Dublin’s side streets. By the time I arrive outside the pub, my hair is soaked and stuck to my skull, the ends curling round my chin. My fee
t are soggy and cold, and water is running down the inside of my jacket, sending icy rivulets shivering down my back.
I nod to Enda and go to find Clancy and Baz in our usual spot.
“The state of ye,” Clancy says. Concern is in his eyes even if his mouth can’t express it.
“Charmer,” is all I say.
I sit and stomp my wet feet beneath the table in a weak attempt to chase the chill from my bones.
“Here. Will ye sit there, for Christ’s sake?” He gets up from his seat. Offering me the prime spot, next to the fire.
I don’t need to be asked twice. Grinning at Baz, I hurry to claim the coveted position. The fire immediately spreads a warm glow against my back, and I can almost imagine the steam rising from my clothes.
“How come she gets the good spot?” Baz complains.
Clancy never relinquishes his seat. As the most senior of us, he is not shy of pulling rank and has always claimed the seat next to the fire when we go for a drink.
I stick my tongue out at Baz. We are children, siblings squabbling over the division of our dad’s affections.
“Clearly, I’ve earned it,” I say.
Baz raises his eyebrow: “You’ve definitely the soggiest brain.”
Clancy groans. “For fuck’s sake. You’re a drink late, Frankie.” He glances up at Enda, who deposits a rather full glass of inky red wine before me. “Another couple of whiskeys there, fella,” he adds before the long, thin barman can escape.
I shrug out of my coat, hang it over the back of the chair. “Whiskey? It’s one of those nights, is it?”
Baz throws the last of what smells like Jameson down his throat. Then comes the obligatory grimace and purse of the lips. His eyes seem to melt a little, his jaw relaxes.
“Sure, why not?”
“I returned to the Costello house this afternoon,” I say.
Clancy’s head snaps toward me. “Alone?”
I don’t look at him. “I had a chat with the neighbor. Neil Doyle.”
Too Close to Breathe Page 11
