Too Close to Breathe

by Olivia Kiernan

  * * *

  —

  THE BONSAI TREE has shed its overlarge leaves; there is miniature lush foliage flourishing over the canopy. My shrink will be pleased. Textbook.

  On the counter, Tracy Ward’s file is resting beneath my bag. I move to the window, open it, and stare down on the dark street. I light up a cigarette. From the street lamps, orange circles of light project outwards into the blackness. The sky is clear of cloud, the lights of Dublin city not quite bright enough to obscure the cool twinkling of the stars or the steady white glow of the moon. I finish the cigarette quickly. Then turn, trace my hand over the stiff foliage of the bonsai, and head for bed.

  My limbs and eyes are heavy. Months of chasing a ghost have exhausted me. Despite the horrors the last few days have brought, I believe I’ll sleep tonight and my mind will open to all the fragments of terror I’ve witnessed over the past six months.

  CHAPTER 17

  BAZ JOGS TO catch up with me. I’m hurrying against the cold, the wind, and the time. This morning showed the first real frost of the winter. A hoarfrost. The university trees are still against the chill blue sky, their branches feathered white with bold, frigid spines. I lift the sleeve of my coat, feel the blast of air against my skin, and glance at my watch.

  “We need to hurry. Otherwise we’ll miss him,” I say.

  “I’ll break my neck on this,” Baz answers, picking his way along the edge of the path.

  “There’s always some collateral damage. Just hurry up,” I say.

  Lorcan Murphy is still following Eleanor’s timetable; he is in the midst of a biochemistry lecture with year threes. There’s only thirty minutes left before it finishes. That gives us approximately half an hour to chat, off the record, with the barista, before catching Murphy exiting the lecture.

  I walk through the university doors and down the same hallways that Eleanor Costello walked or ran along each morning, although I can’t quite imagine her ever being late for a lecture or a meeting. I see her taking sure, brisk steps ahead of me, the corners of her blazer flapping back over her hips as she walks, a file tucked under one arm, a briefcase in the other. I hesitate outside the coffee shop where I spoke to Mr. Murphy in the days after Eleanor’s death. Baz arrives at my side.

  Instinct tells me that Nicole Duarte—the barista—wouldn’t cope well with a formal interview. She wanted to tell me something that day, but hesitated when she discovered Eleanor Costello had been murdered. With the right leverage, a desire to keep law on her side, she may talk. She is supporting a two-year-old daughter at home. Alone. A little digging about shows her claiming dole while working.

  She has her back to us when we approach. Her hands are busy, stacking cups on the coffee machine in preparation for the eleven o’clock onslaught of students and staff in the next half hour.

  “Hello again,” I say.

  She jumps, turns, her hand on her throat.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologize.

  She laughs, but I can tell she is unnerved already. “Detective! You’re back.”

  Her eyes check over my shoulder, look beyond Baz, into the café, the hallway behind.

  I laugh. Lighten the mood. “Just waiting for Lorcan to finish his lecture. We’re early. Is it okay to have a coffee while we wait?”

  Immediately, her slim shoulders drop. She smiles. “Sure. Americanos okay? Or cappuccinos?”

  “Americanos are fine.”

  Nodding to Baz, I indicate that he should take a seat near the back of the café; then I turn back to Nicole Duarte.

  “Gosh, it’s quiet in here today.” I make a show of looking around.

  She shakes her head. “Not really, it’s always quiet at this time. Between lectures. You get a few stragglers.” She goes to the machine, flicks a switch, unscrews the coffee holder.

  She glances back, smiles again. “Hangovers and the like, you know how students are. And Dr. Costello, actually. She was frequently late.” She laughs. “Or living on the edge, she liked to say.”

  The ground shifts a little beneath me. I struggle to keep my tone light. Again, I find it odd that she brings up Eleanor so readily.

  “Eleanor late? I wouldn’t have thought it of someone like her.”

  She looks back at me, gives me a funny frown. “Eleanor? That was exactly like her. I mean, she was on time mostly, but at least once a week I’d hear her heels clipping down the hall. I’d have her coffee ready, she’d snatch it, laugh, and head on to deliver her lecture.”

  I pull back. Eleanor. She’s a type A personality, high achiever. Determined. Perfectionist. I remember her childhood, the shoplifting, petty crime, and add risk taker to the list. I remember the contents of her laptop.

  “Were there complaints?”

  Nicole blows air through her lips. “Not one. Eleanor was one of the best lecturers this university has seen. Students would write from all over the country to sit in on them. She was very charismatic when lecturing. She lit up. Those students would have waited three hours for ten minutes of one of her lectures.”

  I lean in. “You’ve been to one?”

  She looks down. Her cheeks color. “I listened. One of the students used to record them on a Dictaphone.”

  “Ah.” I check my watch again. Fifteen minutes.

  She places two cups under the shelf of the machine.

  I place another couple of euro on the counter. “Here, have one for yourself as well. You can join us if you like. Tell us a little more about Eleanor.”

  She nods, meets my eyes, and I get the sense that she’s wanted to talk all along. To talk about Eleanor.

  “Take a seat, I’ll bring them over.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn, catch Baz’s eye. He gives me a hard stare, which I ignore. This is not exactly aboveboard, shoehorning information from a potential witness without a tape running, without a formal interview, without the witness knowing what we’re about. There’s a strict protocol to follow. It’s not right, but right now, it’s not wrong either.

  Nicole unties her apron, pockets the change I’ve given her, and fills a glass with water. Frugal. Good mother. She slides into a seat at the table, sitting on the edge of the chair, her knees pressed tightly together, her hands grasping the glass on her lap as if she’s drawing strength from it.

  She glances at my coffee, then meets my eyes. “Sorry, I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”

  I give her another reassuring smile. “I’m sure water is better for you anyway.”

  I take a sip of the coffee, then sit my cup gently back on the saucer. I stare purposefully out the window, down at the pitch where again teams of players are exercising in the crisp white grounds.

  “They’re determined!” I bring my attention back to Nicole. “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to the Christmas break?”

  Her shoulders settle, and she places the water glass on the table, crosses her legs. “Oh, yes. I love Christmas. Gabe and I have a wonderful time.”

  “Gabe?”

  She smiles. “Gabriella. My daughter.” She produces a photo from her pocket.

  I look down at it. A smiling toddler snug in her mother’s arms. Pink-ribboned pigtails, round cheeks, shy smile.

  “She looks like you,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  “When are they finishing here? It must be soon?”

  “Not until the twenty-second, but we don’t come back until the eighth, so it all balances out. To be honest, I’m glad of the routine.”

  I nod. “I get that. Is there a staff party?”

  “Was. Last week. They get earlier every year.” She laughs. “I don’t go often, though.”

  “It must have been strange this year. I mean, with Eleanor and all. Peter too.”

  “Peter?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Eleanor’s husband.�
�

  Realization widens in her eyes. “Right. I never met him. I don’t think, anyway. He may have called in, I wouldn’t know, although I—” She stops herself, flushes. “No. Nothing.”

  Baz is glaring hard now. I can hear noise building down the hallway and know the lecture is finishing. I don’t want Lorcan to see me talking with Nicole.

  “Nicole, anything you know might be helpful.”

  She looks up, surprised. “I don’t know—”

  I hate myself for doing it, but I rest my hand over hers, squeeze lightly, and force as much sadness into my voice as possible.

  “Nicole, please. You don’t have to come to the station and give a formal statement if you don’t want to, but we need more information to help us with Eleanor’s death.”

  She looks down. The noise is working its way up the hall, and a few students step into the café, hover by the counter, staring up at the menu. Lorcan Murphy won’t be far behind them.

  There are tears thickening along the base of her eyes when she looks up.

  “I don’t want to lose my job.”

  Baz straightens and speaks for the first time. “A woman lost her life, Nicole. Help us find her killer.”

  A tear tips onto her cheek, and she pushes it away with her fingertips. “I was going to say that I think Mr. Murphy and Dr. Costello had a thing.” She looks up, panic whitening her face. “I’m not sure. Only, he seemed to have a thing for her, I just don’t know if she felt it back.”

  I nod to Baz, to check the hallway for Lorcan Murphy. He gets up, goes to the café entrance, and watches for Murphy’s approach. I return my attention to Nicole.

  “How do you know this? Did you see them together?”

  She sniffs, shakes her head. “No. I . . . We kissed, at a work event. We had a few dates, cinema and the like. Nothing too extravagant. I like him. Liked. A lot. But he stopped calling. At the college finals dinner, I got pretty drunk and confronted him, he said he was sorry but he was in love with Eleanor and it wouldn’t be fair to me to carry on.”

  She takes a deep breath, pulls her shoulders back, cleans her face with the back of her hand. “Wow. I sound pathetic, don’t I?”

  I squeeze her hand again. “Not at all. But you can’t say for certain that they were involved?”

  “They flirted a bit, but I couldn’t see it as anything other than infatuation on his part. I don’t know. I’ve never been very good at reading those kinds of signs.”

  Baz signals.

  I sigh. “You and me both.”

  Baz smiles up the hallway, and I move Nicole’s water glass to a nearby table.

  I give her a final smile. “I think Lorcan’s arrived.”

  Her face whitens again and she stands quickly, making her way back to the front of the café.

  Baz is showing his badge, shaking hands. It’s seconds before they are across the room.

  CHAPTER 18

  LORCAN GREETS ME with a handshake.

  “Detective! What a nice surprise. I hope it’s news on Eleanor’s killer?”

  I hold his stare for a second longer than is natural. It’s sometimes remarkable how little it takes to unnerve a person. His smile falters.

  “Mr. Murphy—”

  “Please, it’s Lor—”

  “Mr. Murphy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come in for a chat.”

  “Sorry?” He searches my face, then looks to Baz, then back again. “I can’t,” he says flatly.

  “It’s important that you come with us, Mr. Murphy.”

  “I’ve lectures all afternoon.”

  I retrieve my phone from my pocket, scroll through Eleanor’s old calendar. “That’s odd. I assumed you were free, from lectures at least. According to your timetable.”

  I hold out my phone so that he can see his schedule.

  He sighs. “The lectures, they’re private. One-to-one tuition. It’s end of term. They wouldn’t be on the timetable.” He pulls his shoulders back as if he’s decided something. “What’s this about anyway? I mean, I said I would help, but I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “We need to talk to you about your relationship with Eleanor.” I let the statement hang for a second but long enough to see his eyes widen, then add, “What she was like to work with, her professionalism. Absenteeism? Whether she was friendly.”

  He swallows. “But you know all that stuff, or if you don’t, I’m happy to stop for a coffee now?”

  I step aside. Give him room to move. “I’m afraid we need it all tied up. Official. On record. Really, you’re one of our most reliable witnesses as to her personality. You worked with her for years as her assistant but, more than that, as her understudy on your PhD.”

  The lines on his brow soften; he closes his eyes briefly. Then, “Okay.” He steps into the space I’ve made for him, and Baz joins his side, leading him through the university halls and out into the freezing December air.

  * * *

  —

  BAZ BENDS HIS head, tugs at his hairline; his knuckles are mottled red and white.

  “Keep your knickers on,” I say.

  “Murphy could make life very difficult for Nicole here. She could lose her job. You have to make him tell you himself. If you challenge him about his relationship with Eleanor like this, he’ll know it came from Nicole.”

  “She knew that when she told me.”

  He puffs his lips. “Really? That’s it? Have you no conscience? People like her are needless casualties in cases like this. She has a kid, for fuck’s sake.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. My hands are clean. Work in the gray. Do what needs to be done with minimal damage. That’s my duty of care. We either play with the lousy pieces we’ve got and lose, risking another death, or we cheat to win and catch this fucker. I know which one will help me sleep at night. We’re all insomniacs with an unsolved case.

  “Nicole Duarte knew what I was about. From the moment she first approached me, she’s wanted to tell us that little nugget on Murphy. She’s sweet and she means well, but she’s human. Hurt. Jilted. On some level, she wants Murphy implicated.”

  His arms drop to his sides; his head tips back. “Christ. You don’t know that. We’re not all as emotionally screwed as you, Frankie.”

  I slam the case file shut. I don’t need this bullshit every time I make a decision that makes his conscience whimper.

  “Detective, this is a murder investigation. In case you’ve forgotten, a young woman, just a few years younger than you, has been slaughtered live on the internet for sickos to wank over. Another woman has been hanged, and our only suspect has been found dumped like a shopping trolley in the bloody Liffey. This is not Disney-fucking-land. There is no happy ending. There is, however, the occasional gift, if that’s not too perverse a word, that’s left behind for us to open. If you can walk away from that, fair fucks to you. But don’t delude yourself. Don’t think you are helping anyone by doing that. Because you’re not.”

  I tuck the file under my arm and move to leave the office, but Baz blocks the way. Murphy is down the hall, sweating in the interview room. It’s only been ten minutes since we brought him in, but ten minutes alone in a room can feel like an hour and I want him relaxed when we start.

  “Frankie, wait.” There is an apology hanging back in Baz’s voice. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you meant. I’ve a job to do. If you can’t help me with it, then get out of my way.”

  I brush past him.

  “Frankie!” He wants to sit in on the interview. But selfishly, I can’t stand the thought of it. I have enough demons sitting on my shoulders; I don’t need a six-foot-tall angel of conscience looking over me too.

  “I still haven’t received your written report on the shrink. I’ll expect it when I get back,” I demand.

  * * *


  —

  LORCAN MURPHY IS crying. Fat, messy tears that slip down the sicles of his nose and drop onto the desk. He mops them up quickly with his sleeve.

  “Sorry, Detective,” he mumbles. “This whole shit has got me, like, broken or something.”

  There is redness growing along his cheekbones. Embarrassment for crying. Embarrassment for being a man and crying. Fear or grief for his work colleague. That’s what he insists Eleanor was. I’ve not told him what Nicole has said. Witnesses and suspects alike are best squeezed fresh. If they are given any context to work with, suddenly all their answers are colored with either offense or defense.

  I reach out, take his glass. “Let me get you some water.”

  He glances up, and another droplet falls onto the desk. “Thank you.”

  Once in the viewing room, I hand the glass to Steve, who fills it from a water dispenser in the corner. I watch Murphy, arms folded.

  Tom Quinn had identified Lorcan as a friend of Amy’s. He could fit the profile. He’s intelligent with a sort of schoolboy charm. He’s the right age. Lives alone. There is something lacking in the way he presents himself. He scrubs the tears from his face. Tips his head back, sniffs. It could all be a performance. He must know that I’m watching him.

  He turns, checks the corners of the room, clocks the camera high on the wall, over his right shoulder. Momentarily, he appears worried, surprised. This is the reaction most people have when they see that they are being observed; the next is looking at the mirrored window I’m standing behind. And right on cue, Lorcan Murphy turns his head and looks guiltily into my eyes.

  “Well?” Steve asks. “What do you think?”

  I sigh. “He’s a strong maybe. If what Nicole has said is true, he’s as good as lied to us.”

  “He looks shifty to me.”

  “That’s just it. Whoever our perp is, they’re not visibly ‘shifty.’ They would be calm. In control. They would almost enjoy the attention and the knowledge that we had almost nothing on them.”