We give a brief summary of the court proceedings, the brunt being that Neary will be released, that we may add Tracy Ward to our kill list. Anxiety vibrates through the heat of the office; worry hangs on every face. The sweat and tackle of an investigation relies on trust. They trusted the process, and we almost put the wrong bloke behind bars.
Pointing at the case board, I say: “Our priority now is to learn as much about Lorcan Murphy as we can. I want to know everything, from when he took his first pigeon-toed steps to which eye he opens first in the morning.”
“So you’re saying that Neary definitely didn’t kill Tracy Ward?”
I share a resigned look with Baz. “No. We’re saying that it’s unlikely he killed Tracy Ward. Tracy Ward’s case shares similarities with our current investigation.”
Mumblings and sighs rise from the team, chatter erupts, heads shake, arms fold. Discontentment. No one likes a backward step.
Helen stands at the front, notebook in hand, pen poised. “This might be a stupid observation,” she says.
“And what is that?”
“Well, isn’t this a good thing? I mean, we don’t want to convict the wrong man.”
I think of what we’ve lost, how far ahead this killer is, further ahead than any of us comprehended.
I sigh. “No. We don’t.”
Her mouth opens to speak, she raises her pen, but I stop her with my hand.
“Get back on the e-mail trail. Look into a warrant on Murphy’s number. I want up-to-date information on Cell Site, where his phone is hitting masts around the city. Blank spots that might show he’s gone away for a weekend, or an evening. Get to know his habits, his movements. We’ll need as much information as possible for when it comes time to interview.”
“Okay, Chief,” she says.
The team disperses and I go to my office. Tracy Ward’s file lies open on my desk. I collect up the folder and head out. Clancy wants a postmortem on the case. In his words, he doesn’t want to sound like “a fucking pleb” when he sees the commissioner in the morning. “At the end of the day, Frankie,” he says, “there’s no law without money, and the commissioner can tie up this case if he senses we’ve been careless with the credit card.”
* * *
—
THE PUB IS busy; people mill around the bar. Clancy sits in the far corner, leaning back into his favorite deep chair. He’s forgone his usual pint for coffee, never a good sign.
He looks up when I approach, a wry smile on his face.
“Sure lookit, if it’s only your bona fide, two-for-the-price-of-one witness. Both prosecution and defense in a single unsuspecting package.”
I sit, lay my reports on the table between us. The side of my head aches; the base of my neck aches. The reports contain statements from Tracy Ward’s family. Words I could not make myself look at six months ago.
“She’s the perfect victim for our perp,” I remark, glancing back down at the papers.
Clancy sighs. “I want to go along with you on this. Fuck, no one wants to put the wrong guy down, but are you sure about this?”
I let out a long breath. “Yes.”
He frowns. “We found that fucker running from the property with the knife in his hand.” He points a finger into his palm. “In his fucking hand, Frankie. Still warm with your blood.”
I rub the side of my head. “He said he heard Tracy’s scream. Maybe he did investigate, scared off the real perp, and thought I was the killer.” I sigh. “It was so dark in that house. I saw his shadow, he lurched, I turned to run, and . . .” I shrug.
Clancy leans against the seat, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. “Christ.”
I take a mouthful of water. I need a clear head. After a while, Clancy straightens. There is worry circling his eyes.
“If Ivan Neary isn’t guilty and this guy is still out there, he could come back for you, Frankie.” He runs a hand over his face. “I’ve seen it before. You interrupted him and now you’re threatening him again.” He meets my eyes. “You got away.”
A flutter of panics flaps in my stomach, but I pin it down. “A solid deduction, Clancy. Did anyone ever tell you, you’d make a great detective?”
He shakes his head. “We need to talk to Rachel Cummins again. At the very least, she needs to be warned. She’s the only other surviving victim. What if he goes after her again?”
I swallow. “He won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Rachel was a shoddy failure. For him. She won. She got away after a clumsy attack. No. This killer is coming into his own now, there’s no going back.”
* * *
—
THE TEAM HAVE gathered like hounds on a blood trail. When I enter the room, Baz is pulling up a seat at the back of the group. The rest are seated, pens poised, around the case board. Lorcan Murphy holds the title of suspect.
News channels have already churned out the story that Ivan Neary has been released. That we’ve cocked up. Reporters are speculating over whether Tracy’s body will be exhumed, reexamined for new evidence. Vultures.
I hate that we’ve been blindsided yet again, but I can’t let fear leech away at this case. So much has already been wasted in the wake of my injuries. Guilt is not a friend of action. Eyes down, I need to keep on the scent and not lift my head until I spy the feet of the killer.
Lorcan Murphy’s denial of his involvement with Eleanor Costello has started a new drive inside me. And I’ve decided the worm won’t wriggle from the hook this time.
I stand at the front of the room and run through a summary of where we are in the investigation.
“As you know, we may need to add Tracy Ward to the investigation. Tracy was twenty-two years old and unmarried. She worked at a bar in Upper Leeson Street; it might be wise to keep her address and the location of her work in mind during geographic profiling.
“On 4 June 2011, Tracy endured a sustained violent attack; the cause of death was blood loss as a result of a cut throat. The connection with our other victims is the discovery of the pigment Prussian blue beneath her fingernails.
“Victim two: Peter Costello, forty-four years old, chronic heavy-metal toxicity, thallium for over nineteen months. Cause of death: likely drowning. Date of death is difficult to discern due to the cold water temperature in the Liffey, but if we go with visibility in Liffey and tidal flow, then any time between 9 and 12 October.
“Eleanor Costello was aware her husband had been missing. Thallium-laced deodorant found in the Costello household, along with confirmation of the poison in Peter Costello’s blood and tissues, strongly suggest that Eleanor Costello was poisoning her husband.
“When viewed with the knowledge that Eleanor Costello was ingesting a thallium antidote, Prussian blue, on a regular basis, this theory becomes more certain. It also appears that Peter Costello had long-term signs of physical abuse, and, on speaking with his sister, he may also have suffered verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of his wife.”
I pause. Digest. Then move on:
“Victim three: Eleanor Costello, thirty-nine years old, death by hanging. The mystery with Eleanor’s death, among other things, is that she also displayed old wounds that could have been attributed to physical abuse. We now suspect that these wounds may have been inflicted as part of alternative sexual practices. This is something that we are hoping to draw out of Lorcan Murphy tomorrow.
“Victim four: Amy Keegan, twenty-nine years old. A vulnerable and troubled young woman who was desperately trying to keep her life in the living. We have now confirmed that she was Peter Costello’s lover.
“An affair, which we know very little about. But in light of the websites that Amy Keegan had been visiting, namely a site called Black Widow, we believe it involved unusual fantasies, death-related fantasies, and extreme BDSM practices.”
A gasp goes up as
I say this. I’m amazed that they can still be shocked by the turns in this case.
“Amy Keegan was murdered live on the internet on 30 October, repeatedly stabbed until she eventually bled to death. Sometime afterward, likely the following day, her body was driven or taken to her hometown of Clontarf, where the killer attempted to get rid of her remains in the community’s annual Halloween bonfire. We have to acknowledge that this killer may want to draw attention to his murders; Amy’s brutal killing on the internet indicates a narcissistic nature.”
I look out at the room. “Any questions? Comments?”
Nothing. The team return to their stations. Twenty or so people collecting information on Lorcan Murphy. I take a tremulous breath, then turn to Helen.
“Helen, can you look into why Rachel Cummins was so sure of the e-fit, maybe try her again with a set of photos including Murphy?”
Helen nods. “Yes, Chief.”
“Good.”
I move to Steve’s desk. He’s working through the Black Widow site, reaching out, making friends. His face is impassive, eyes focused on the screen, every now and then a flurry on the keyboard, replying to someone or starting a new thread. I’m not sure how he stomachs it.
“Steve? Can you assemble a team to pull in Lorcan Murphy tomorrow? Our best only, I want nothing to give us away until we’re ready to go in.”
He clicks over the screen, scrolls over an Excel sheet. “Yes. I’ve spoken to the officers already.”
“Great. So this is how it will go . . .”
* * *
—
LORCAN MURPHY LIVES so close to Priscilla Fagan that they could be considered neighbors. The estate is red-bricked, quiet, dull. Driveways are occupied with steady, solid cars, nothing too showy. In the early-morning darkness, you can sense the slumbering residents inside the safe, warm houses. There are a few houses with lights on, families up early, making the most of the last shopping weekend before Christmas.
I switch off the engine and check my watch. It’s seven a.m. There are lights on in the upstairs of Murphy’s house; occasionally I see a shadow flash by the windows. I know that he’s working today, that he leaves the house by seven thirty to make the twenty-minute commute to UCD. In his drive, there is a well-kept Renault Mégane; my mouth waters at the prospect of what evidence we may gather from it. Eventually, the lights flick off upstairs, and after a few seconds the front ground-floor light comes on.
Baz and Steve are stationed at the end of the street, near the surveillance van. I’ve parked near Murphy’s house. The radio crackles and I pick it up.
“Sheehan.”
“Are we set? Forensics will be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Let’s bring this worm in.”
In my rearview, I see Baz and Steve step into the streetlight. I wait until they are almost at the house, then climb out of the driver’s seat. The morning is dark and damp but surprisingly mild, with a light, warm breeze that does nothing to cool the sweat that’s building across my forehead.
I nod to my colleagues and lead the way up the short pathway to Murphy’s door. Baz slips down the side of the garden, jumps the neighbor’s wall to bypass the locked side gate to get to the rear of the house.
Lorcan Murphy won’t have the chance to run out the back once we’re upon him, but no one is taking any risks. The forensics van pulls onto the street, parks, and the team clamber out in a clamor of doors slamming, coughs, and chatter. I give them a moment to gather their gear, then raise my hand and push the doorbell.
There’s a collective breath-hold, a few seconds of silence as we all listen for what may be happening inside. Finally, there are steps from inside and I remove the warrant from my pocket.
Lorcan Murphy pulls the door open. He’s already dressed in a suit for the day, but on his feet are a pair of soft brown slippers. His face pales, creases, then frowns as he takes in my presence first; then his eyes lift to behind me, to the four SOCOs waiting to take his life apart.
“Mr. Murphy, I have a warrant to search these premises and any vehicles that you may own. Would you step outside the property, please?”
His mouth opens, closes, then opens again.
“Detective, what’s going on?”
The SOCOs don’t wait; they move by him, into the hallway, and spread out through the house.
Instinctively, Murphy moves aside.
“Would you mind if I put on some shoes first?” he asks.
I shake my head. “We’ll get your shoes for you later.”
“Later?”
“Lorcan Murphy, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Eleanor Costello. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Detective? Seriously? I didn’t kill Eleanor.”
I nod to a nearby officer, who cuffs Murphy and takes him out to a waiting Garda car. Through the open door, the sky is lightening and some of the neighbors have stepped out of their warm homes to nose at the drama unfolding on their quiet, safe street.
I walk through the house, through the kitchen, where steam is still rising from the kettle. A tea bag waits in a mug for Murphy’s morning cuppa. Freshly popped bread sits in the toaster. I move to the back door and flick the lock.
Baz steps in. “How’d he take it?”
“Shocked, stupefied, the usual.”
“Proclaiming innocence?”
“Yep. Although, technically, they are all innocent until we can prove otherwise.”
“We’ll get him, Chief. He can’t deny the connection between him and Eleanor, now that we have her phone. It’s there in black and white.” He looks me in the eye, senses how important it is to me after Neary.
“I know. Softly, softly.”
The SOCOs are already carrying boxes of Murphy’s possessions out of the house and stacking them into the van to be taken to the labs. Each box is a potential conviction, but each one costs. Costs the department, costs the government, costs the taxpayer.
“I’m not sure how I’m going to persuade the powers that be to sign off on all this.”
“Let’s see how he squares up to questioning, we’ve got a lot on him already. We simply need him to corroborate what we have.”
I stare down at the waiting tea bag. “We need to find that other location. The blue room on Amy’s video. If we can find that place . . .” I move away from the kitchen, push by the other officers, team members, forensic specialists.
Frantically, I start opening doors, peering into each room, checking the angle of light from the windows, the color of the walls. Checking linen cupboards for the blue floral pattern that adorned Amy Keegan’s deathbed. I move up the stairs, Baz behind me.
There are three doors off the main landing, all open, all occupied by white suits; none matches the room where Amy Keegan was killed. Something sinks inside me.
CHAPTER 23
LORCAN MURPHY IS defiant. If looks could kill, we’d have him for murder on the spot. Anger shakes in his movements; his fingers grip the edge of the table as if they could snap it in two.
“Mr. Murphy, can I remind you that you’ve a right to legal representation?”
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Okay. In that case, we’ll begin. You mentioned before that you used a particular type of pigment to aid in your research?”
“I didn’t kill Eleanor.”
“Could you answer the question?”
“Potassium hexacyanoferrate,” he says sulkily. “Why have you brought me here? I’d nothing to do with Eleanor’s death.”
I wait.
“Is this about the papers? They came to me for the story. I only told them what I know.”
“Yes, you did. Including that Eleanor
had ingested the pigment.”
“Did I?”
“I didn’t give you that information, Mr. Murphy.”
He shrugs. “It was an imaginative leap. I work in science.”
“Okay. Dr. Costello would have had to get the blue pigment from somewhere. You use it in your studies. Would you know how she managed to access it?”
“It’s not under any particular security, if that’s what you mean. She could have accessed it at any time. She could have ordered it in herself, just like she could order a box of slides for the ’scopes if she wanted to.”
“Right. In the week leading up to Thursday, 20 October, the day after Eleanor was murdered, can you take me through your activities?”
“Aside from work?”
“Aside and including.”
He looks at his hands. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. “I went to work, finished at four most days, then went to the uni gym and home between five and six p.m. On that Wednesday, I had a tutorial with Eleanor after work. We left just after five p.m.”
I flick through my notes. Texts sent to and from Eleanor’s phone two days prior to her murder were picked up from a mast outside the university at about five p.m. There was the text that promised a meet-up at Murphy’s house, for two p.m. on the Tuesday, the day before she was murdered, and the reply from Eleanor’s phone in Sandyford announcing her arrival.
“You go to the gym every evening?”
“Most. Unless something else comes up.”
“So throughout that entire week you were in the university, working, and then at the gym until about six, apart from the Wednesday?”
He nods, then shakes his head. “No. Sorry. On Tuesday afternoon I went home early.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
He shrugs. “I had problems with my boiler, a plumber was coming round. Fortune Heating, they’re local to Sandyford. You can call them. Check.”
“What time were they due?”
“They came around lunchtime.”
Too Close to Breathe Page 20
