Too Close to Breathe

by Olivia Kiernan

  He holds up his hands. “And what about Amy Keegan? And where is Eleanor’s husband? Effectively, he disappeared almost two months ago. Maybe our organized Eleanor got herself into some shit, maybe she’s not only the victim but the guilty party too.”

  I shift in my seat. I’m uncomfortable with the thought. I turn it about in my head, try to make room for it among the rest of Eleanor Costello.

  “But what about the Prussian blue? The pigment found on Eleanor’s body and Amy’s. An artist’s paint. ‘Purposeful application,’ those were the words of the pathologist. Peter Costello is the art buff.”

  His shoulders fall. “I give up then.”

  I stand, go to the coffee machine in my office, and help myself. I pop another couple of paracetamol. “As I said, Eleanor can’t be guilty, she was already dead at the time of Amy’s murder, remember?”

  “It doesn’t mean she’s innocent,” Baz says.

  “Really? Because when it comes to these murders, she is. She was the victim of one, she was dead for the other. I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Do you really think we should exclude the Ward case from this?”

  A coldness settles in my stomach.

  “Hear me out, okay? I know, but when I think of the violence of Tracy’s murder, knives. With Neary, there’s already a question over his arrest. He says he came to check on her. He thought you were the intruder. Maybe we did act too quickly. His story could be true.”

  “Fuck. Of course he’d say that. What? You’re doubting the evidence now? Evidence that you and Clancy compiled, remember?”

  “I know, but maybe there is something in Neary’s testimony?”

  I round on him. “You’ve got Ivan Neary stepping out of the room that Tracy Ward had been murdered in, literally moments earlier. He was holding the murder weapon. He tried to kill me.”

  The air trips in my throat. A cough barks up from my lungs. A fresh wave of sweat rises and falls across my forehead. It takes me a few moments to quiet my body.

  I know I’m not being fair. The same questions have been creeping into my head since Eleanor Costello’s death. The same thoughts. Burrowing through my memory, making me doubt what happened.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He shrugs. “No. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’m saying. I guess, there’s a feeling of a bigger picture. A sense of something missing. I don’t know.”

  I take up my pen, reclaim my seat. Brace myself behind the desk. “And is there? Do you think you missed something?”

  A shadow passes over his face, but he shakes his head. “He was standing over you with that knife. I saw the look in his eyes. It wasn’t fear, defensive or otherwise, it was rage. Pure rage.”

  CHAPTER 13

  DESPAIR IS A detective who suspects a murderer has slipped the net. Almost one week has slid by since the press conference, sneering at our effort of slowing time and attempting to revive time lost. The influx of calls we had after Priscilla’s plea has dribbled to a stop.

  It might have been naive to paint Peter as the bad guy at the press conference. Somewhere along the line, the message the public received was skewed. The public decided they didn’t want anything to do with a man like that, so any leads we wanted have dried up quickly.

  The image of the case is smeared across the newspapers. And there in the midst of the fallout, next to a picture of Amy Keegan, is Eleanor Costello’s wedding photo. Peter Costello’s dark good looks suddenly become gothic. “Night of the Burning Dead,” the headlines shout. “Killer Who Says It with Knives,” another tells it how it isn’t.

  Everyone wants to peer in from the sidelines, but nobody wants to associate themselves with Peter Costello. After the conference, Mrs. Fagan was blistering with anger. Her husband had to hold her back from me as I tried to explain to her my reasoning. In her fury, though, she told me I was wrong. Peter was too ill to commit these crimes, she said. Hands shaking, she’d rooted about in her handbag and produced the set of prescriptions made out to her brother.

  “There,” she said, thrusting them at me. “That’s the drugs he was on, antidepressants and painkillers. Much good they did him.”

  I thanked her and let her husband pull her away. I had to pause then for a moment in the midst of the swirl of people leaving the press room. An odd feeling of guilt seemed to have tagged itself onto the end of my breath. A wriggle of doubt that squirmed under my skin and asked whether I had gotten Peter Costello all wrong.

  “Anything?” Jack barks.

  We are weaving through the crowds along Dublin quays. Through the slicing cold, we’ve hit the lunchtime stagger. Workers march stony-faced, collars up and heads down, in search of a hot spot of lunch or maybe a bit of early Christmas shopping before final payday.

  “About Peter Costello’s prescriptions we have nothing new,” I reply. “It’s strange that she’d have his prescriptions.”

  “She says he couldn’t trust that bitch with it.” He glances sideways at me as we walk. “Her words, not mine.”

  “Do you think she was a bitch, though?”

  “Maybe. I think it’s fair to say we can’t really rely on Priscilla Fagan for a character reference of her sister-in-law,” he says with a single rumble of laughter. “Although I’d say it’s nothing more than jealousy.”

  “You think?”

  He looks at me again. “You don’t?”

  “Priscilla Fagan is the type of woman who, once she makes up her mind on something, I would think she’s pretty unshakable, but I think for that reason she’s not one to make up her mind easily.”

  “Eight years is a lot of reason when you believe your brother’s wife only married him for his money.”

  “True.”

  We order a couple of takeaway coffees from a street vendor and head toward the car park. Settled in the driver’s seat, I wrap my hands around the cup and soak the heat into my fingers. I take a sip, then fit it into the cup holder at my side.

  “Neil Doyle was his reference,” I say, half sharing, half thinking aloud.

  “Come again?”

  “The neighbor Neil Doyle. Peter Costello had put him down for a reference on his most recent work applications. The day of the press conference, he was there. I saw him. He had slipped in at the back of the room.”

  “Rubbernecking? Camera-hungry?”

  I shake my head. “He does like to nose, but I think we may have actually found a friend of Peter’s.”

  “You want to pay him another visit? Bring him in for official questioning?”

  I put the car into reverse, ease gently out of the parking space, then speed up the ramp and out into the gray light of Dublin.

  “No. I might put a tail on him. On the morning we found Eleanor, he mentioned that he was a consultant, but never really said what in. Now, if he was a financial consultant, great, that would make some sense, but otherwise, why on earth would Peter use him as a reference?”

  Jack sits, one hand holding his coffee like a weapon before him, the other braced against the dashboard.

  “Costello was hardly the popular lad in school, now, was he? A person wouldn’t be happy about losing references if you were tied up in any way with the recession.”

  “Yes. But it turns out that Priscilla Fagan’s summary of how Peter lost his job was in some part true, in that it was namely down to a poor investment he made in Eleanor’s company.”

  Jack is nodding. “It might explain why she stayed with him so long through his unemployment.”

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t seem to be down to love, now, does it?”

  He takes a loud gulp of the coffee and swats a few invisible spots from his tie. “I think that’s a given.” He sighs. “Where are you going with this now, Frankie, because I’m beginning to feel like I’ve spotted a white rabbit and now I’m tumbling down a dark hole.”

 
I pull a face at him. “Ha. Ha. Some good old-fashioned detective work. It may be a complete waste of time, but I’d like to know exactly what kind of glowing character reference Neil Doyle would give to a prospective employee. Doyle says only one company phoned him with regard to that reference.”

  “Doyle wouldn’t have reason to give a glowing reference?”

  I throw him a cynical look. “Oh, come on. Neil Doyle doesn’t know his neighbors as well as he thinks he does.”

  Jack guffaws at that. “Clearly.”

  “You know what I mean. Not simply because of Eleanor Costello’s death, just that he seemed to have little to say about their personalities, and he was never invited over for a drink or dinner. Which is odd in itself. Now that Eleanor is dead and Peter is missing, he’s suddenly a character reference? And he was at the press conference, unable to look away. Either he’s pathologically nosy or he knows where Peter is.”

  I pull up at our building, and we both step out of the car, face each other over the bonnet.

  “You may be right. Let’s see what this company has to say, if they respond to you.”

  “Never any harm in asking.”

  When I turn, I notice Steve at the door. His face urging us inside. I glance at Jack, then rush forward.

  “What is it? Have we found him?”

  Steve is walking, leading us back through the building to the case room. “No. But we’ve got something on Tom Quinn. Something big.”

  I follow Steve to the lifts.

  “Tom?”

  “I think you’re going to have to bring him in again, Chief. Sorry.”

  Clancy shuffles into the lift next to us. “Tom Quinn? The Keegan employee?”

  “Yes,” I say. “What have you found?”

  Clancy cuts across me. “I thought you said he was clean, Frankie?”

  “He’s been depositing money into Amy’s account for the last year,” I answer. The lift sinks to a stop, and I push out into the hallway.

  “What? How long have you known that? Why didn’t you bring him back in?” Clancy demands.

  I stop outside the office door. “I didn’t think it was enough to negate a lifetime of model citizenship, so I put a tail on him yesterday morning.”

  Clancy sags a little. “You can’t tiptoe around a potential suspect because they share the same watering hole as your folks. Get him in for questioning. Stop messing about. It’s fucking easier on the budget.”

  I press my lips together but nod.

  He lifts the sleeve of his coat, glares at his watch. “I gotta go. Keep it under control, Detective.”

  He stalks off down the hall, leaving me glowering at his back.

  * * *

  —

  FOLLOWING STEVE INTO the office, I remove my coat, straighten my blazer.

  “What’ve they got?”

  “At nine last night, he drove to Dublin city. He parked on Drury Street, and they followed him on foot to where he accessed an underground club in the basement of a bar. The club, called Rialú, has held BDSM nights for members for the last five years.”

  “BDSM? Sadomasochism?”

  “That’s right. Ordinarily, I’d say person’s a right to whatever kicks he can get, you know? But in light of Amy’s and Eleanor’s lifestyle choices, this could be a link.”

  I let out a long sigh. Close my eyes. “Okay. Get him in. Let’s draw a line under this. Tom Quinn is not our man.”

  “There’s more,” Steve interrupts. “Our plainclothes talked to one of the guys on the door.” He rubs his fingers together, indicating that we’ve paid for this information. “The event last night was sponsored by an underground sadomasochism site called Black Widow.”

  He steps back, spreads his hands.

  I feel the moment the blood drops from my face. The image of that baby rabbit stirs in my head, ears flat, heart flickering under brown fur.

  I take a deep breath. “Thanks. You know what to do.”

  CHAPTER 14

  TOM QUINN WAITS in the interview room. It’s a rare thing that witnesses return so easily for a second interview, but Tom is old-school. He’s got nothing to hide and stupidly trusts the system. I sort through the reports on my desk. Evidence is mounting, pointing fingers at him. I don’t want it to be true. It’s bad enough that my work has pulled back the film reel of my childhood and colored my memories with Amy’s horrific death, but it seems too oppressive that such a familiar face could be capable of such evil.

  The bouncer at Rialú confirmed that Tom is a regular. Examination of Tom’s bank account shows that his payments to Amy equated to a third of his wages. Every month saw him dip into his overdraft. He had no savings. The connection to Black Widow has pitched the scales of justice down, laid a burden of guilt right at Tom’s feet.

  Baz taps on the door and steps in. “I think we’re ready. You sure you don’t want to do it?”

  I stand. “Yes. I’m sure. I can’t see beyond the Tom Quinn I know. I can’t see him as a viable suspect. Therefore, I can’t get the answers we need.”

  “I’ve never known you to let sentimentality get in the way of work.”

  I sigh. “This is about giving Tom the best chance to clear himself. I may not go hard enough on him, and that’s doing no one any favors.”

  He keeps his mouth shut but nods.

  I gather up the reports. “You got everything you need?”

  He pats a roll of paper tucked into his suit-jacket pocket. “Everything.”

  On the other side of the window, Tom Quinn is sitting bolt upright, his feet anchored against the legs of the chair, his face as gray as his suit. He doesn’t look at the mirrored glass this time. He stares straight ahead, his mouth tucked in at the corners. I look for the killer in him but can’t see it. When Baz enters the room, Tom looks up expectantly, and as if someone has flicked a switch, his shoulders droop, his chest sinks inwards.

  “Detective.” He reaches out a hand.

  Baz shakes it. “Mr. Quinn. I’m Detective Harwood. Thanks for coming in.”

  Tom nods. “Of course, of course. Although I answered questions for Frankie the last time.”

  “The case is moving along and we’ve a few details we’d like you to clear up.”

  I see the muscles contract in Tom’s throat, the Adam’s apple dip beneath his shirt collar.

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve already established that you knew Amy well?”

  “As well as if she were my own flesh and blood.”

  “Did you get along?” Baz doesn’t look at him when he asks the question, but when Tom doesn’t answer immediately, he meets his witness’s eyes.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did you get along? Did you like her, loathe her, or have any disagreement?”

  Tom tucks one foot under the other, folds a little more in the chair.

  “Mr. Quinn?”

  “We got along fine.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Tom shakes his head. “The summer, I think.”

  “The summer? During the holidays?”

  “I think so.” More confident. “Yes.”

  Baz checks his notes. “She didn’t come home then, during term time? No weekend breaks?”

  Eyebrows go up. A smile. “Oh, no, hang on. I tell a lie. I left her back up to Dublin, must have been a month ago now. Eamon asked me to leave her up, he’d done his back in, tried to lift out a battery.” He shakes his head, reliving the moment. “So’s I took her back to uni.”

  “You left her at her flat then? Or on campus?”

  “At one of the other students’ houses, I think. It was in Sandyford. He looked a right posh one. A bit older, mind. Not sure Eamon would ha’ agreed with it, now, but you know these young ones.”

  “Name?”

 
“Didn’t get the name. She did tell me. I want to say Larry but can’t be sure.”

  Baz makes a note, leans back. “Amy’s bank statements show that you were paying her four hundred euro a month. Could you tell us about that?”

  “She needed a few bob for uni, ’tis all. As I said, she was like family.”

  “Family?”

  Tom’s eyes slide to the table. “Yes.”

  “We think she was blackmailing you.”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Quinn? Was Amy Keegan blackmailing you?”

  Tom lifts his face. Pink blotches rise on his cheeks; the skin over his neck reddens. He looks at the window, as if he’s seeing me through the glass; talking directly to me, his voice beseeches.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not blackmail?”

  “No. I mean, yes and no. She . . . she wasn’t always nice to me. She wasn’t always a nice person.”

  Baz leaves space for him to continue. It takes a moment.

  Tom loosens his tie, tugs at the neck of his collar. Finally, he looks up, pushes his graying hair back.

  “She said she’d tell Eamon if I didn’t pay her. He wouldn’t understand. I’d lose my job.” His eyes become desperate. “The Keegans, they’re my family. I’ve no one else.”

  I put a hand on the window frame; the fear, the resentment in his voice, is almost motive enough.

  “Why were you paying her, Mr. Quinn?” Baz presses on.

  “She saw me, at a club I go to. It’s not the norm. Not understood.” He puts out the palm of his hand. “No one gets hurt, but it’s a private thing.”

  “A sex club.”

  “Yes,” he whispers. “She was there, but of course she could do no wrong in Eamon’s eyes. Me, on the other hand. If Eamon knew I was into that kind of thing, he wouldn’t be able to look at me again.”

  Baz removes a photo from the file at his elbow. “Is this the club?”

  Tom glances at the photo, then pulls back. “Yes.”

  “Do you know a website called Black Widow?”

  “Black Widow? No.” A clear answer.