“And you had no contact with Eleanor apart from at work for that entire week.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
We break for fifteen minutes. I arm myself with another cup of coffee while Baz fills me in on what they’ve found at Murphy’s house. Eleanor’s fingerprints have been found on bedroom-door handles, the nightstand, the headboard, the toilet, and in Murphy’s car. Blood has been found on some of the bedsheets in the closet. The canine team have picked up cadaver scent in the car boot.
Steve has had no trouble accessing Murphy’s computer, where, next to articles on microbiology, muscle building, and lecturing, there are files of pornographic material, some sourced back to the Black Widow site, screenshots from BDSM sites, victims tied up, knives to throat, cages, and submissive contracts. Nausea pushes up my throat. It takes all my resolve not to throw all our evidence at him, but somehow we need him to offer it, to trip himself up in his defense.
Steve looks up. “Can’t we just show him the Amy video, put some pressure on him? Or hit him with what we’ve found in his car?”
“We want to get him to volunteer as much information as we can. Then we can challenge him with what we’ve got.”
Steve pushes. “He’s already admitted to being home on the Tuesday. There’s a text interchange between them, arranging a meeting for that afternoon. It must mean something.”
“It’s circumstantial. Not enough for a conviction in court. We need to place him at one of the murder scenes. That’s what we’re aiming for.” I straighten.
Returning to the interview room, I give Murphy a smile. I see doubt bloom in his eyes.
“You need more water?” I glance at his empty glass, then top it up from a jug in the middle of the table before he can answer.
He looks up at the clock. “I assume you’ve notified the university. They’re short-staffed when it comes to microbiology lecturers,” he says with some sharpness. “Is this going to take much longer?”
I give him a thin smile. “Hopefully not. Did Eleanor Costello ever socialize with any of her students?”
He sighs. “I told you that she took off home pretty much as soon as she finished her shifts.”
“Yes, but she was freelance. Her lectures took up only a couple of hours when she was here, her research maybe more, but that still leaves plenty of freedom and free time to meet up with students.”
“No.”
“Would she have known many of them by name?”
“Of course. This is about Miss Keegan, isn’t it?”
“Amy Keegan, yes. Did Eleanor know her?”
“On one of the lectures I sat in on, Miss Keegan approached her to ask for an extended deadline on a piece of course work as she had some personal issues that would delay its submission.”
“Can you recall how long ago that was?”
He shrugs. “Ten months or so.”
“Was it granted?”
“No. Eleanor always said that if you couldn’t hack a medical degree, for any reason, you couldn’t hack medicine. She didn’t want to unleash a doc on the public that couldn’t take the pressure.”
Bitterness floods my mouth. “Did you think it was a fair decision?”
Again, he shrugs. “It wasn’t my decision, ultimately it was hers, but yeah. Maybe.”
“You know of the video that was found of Amy’s death?”
“I know only what I’ve read in the newspapers, that’s all.”
I glance down at the notes Steve gave me. I sift through them slowly, taking my time. “Are you familiar with the work of detection dogs used by the Gardaí, Mr. Murphy?”
He pushes upright in his seat. “Not really.”
“Our detection dogs can smell a great deal.” I close my mouth, count to five in my head, let my words sink in. “A droplet of blood on clothing or bed linen, even if that clothing has been put through a hot wash. They can smell whether a dead body has been in your house, in your car, in the recent past. Or items taken from a dead body, a trophy, perhaps.”
Color is running from his face; the skin at the corners of his mouth blanches.
“A trophy? I didn’t do it. I swear it.” He looks up suddenly, spreads his palms. “I don’t know how that blood got there,” he says. “Look, she was murdered in her house, right? Why would there be blood on my sheets from her death? And Amy? I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t do that to someone. You’ve got to believe me.” He clasps his hands together, unclasps them.
I look down at the desk. “We found the phone, Lorcan. Eleanor’s. It’s amazing what our forensic tech-heads can do nowadays. Did you know that it’s possible to recover data from a waterlogged SIM?”
I give him a wide smile. “And the phone’s memory? I was surprised to discover over five hundred saved messages on Eleanor’s phone. And you know who some of those messages were from?”
His breathing is thin, thready with panic. He glances around the room, looking for escape.
Suddenly, he drops his head into his hands. He groans, then looks up at me through his fingers.
“I couldn’t have killed Eleanor. I wasn’t near her home, or mine, for that matter.”
He runs his hands over his face, pulling his pale skin down so that the lower white orbs of his eyes flash at me. He tips back his head and lets out a long sigh.
“I think I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”
* * *
—
GET HIM A lawyer,” I bark at Steve when I step out into the office. “He says he has an alibi. Shagging one of his fucking students.” I throw Murphy’s statement onto Steve’s desk.
“Christ,” I fume.
“You called?” Baz looks up from his desk.
“Very funny,” I say.
Helen approaches, waits for me to take a breath, her pen tapping against her leg.
“Something new on the Black Widow site?” I ask.
A brief shake of her head. “Chief, we’ve had a couple of calls from Moira Keegan about where we’re at with Amy’s case.”
Moira Keegan, desperate for a line of hope. A fix of something, anything, that might sate her need for answers. And there it is, guilt tipping forward, running sharp jabs into the parts of me that should be hardened to this shit.
“Helen, I can’t talk to her about the case. You know that. Get in touch with the Keegan family liaison officer.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Anything on Rachel Cummins?”
She twists the tip of her pen around. “She’s been quite down, especially since the trial. The doctor’s put her on some meds, so she was pretty fuzzy. But she said that when she looked at the e-fit of Ivan Neary, she was exhausted. She wasn’t sure she’d picked the right guy, but when you testified, she got more sure.”
“See if she’ll come in for questioning.”
“Chief, she really wasn’t herself.”
“Just do it.”
I turn to the coffee machine. “Fuck.” I frown. “Why didn’t Lorcan just tell us about his alibi sooner? Something feels off.”
Baz glances up. “You’ve got a guilt hangover is all.”
Doubt nibbles away at my conscience.
“If his alibi checks out, he can go. No bad.” He pushes back from his chair. “I was thinking.” He gives a half-smile. “This morning, Lorcan’s arrest, it started the mice running round the wheel.” He circles his finger at the side of his head. “The blue room. I was thinking about it. Where it could be.”
“If this is the result of your thinking, you need to phone Mensa right now.”
He sighs. “You said ‘that place.’ As in, another place altogether. Not Clontarf. Not Bray. Maybe not even Dublin. That’s what you meant, right?”
“If there’s a point to this interrogation, Baz, get to it.”
He tucks a hand into his pocket. “You should be glad someone round
here values your insight. Even if it’s provided unwittingly.”
I tip a sachet of sugar into my coffee. A cigarette is already in my hand.
Baz leans forward and clicks the track pad on his computer. The screen lights up, and Amy Keegan’s terrified face fills the screen. I almost cover my eyes, the desire to protect myself from what’s before me is that strong.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“I’ve seen it before. A little too late for shielding my sensibilities.”
“No. Close your eyes. I need you to listen. Not see.”
I do as he says, and shortly after, I hear the click of the track pad, then Amy Keegan’s strangled breath as she attempts to drag air into her starved lungs. I am about to shake my head; then I hear it. Beyond the sounds of the room, beyond Amy’s panicked breath and the creak of the bed, a church bell is ringing out the Angelus.
I open my eyes. Baz gives me a delighted grin. “Well?”
I give him a smile. “The Angelus is most commonly played in Roman Catholic churches; unfortunately, they seem to number quite a few in Ireland.”
I shrug into my suit jacket.
Baz closes the laptop. “You not staying to harass little mister anymore?”
“Nope. No fun when there’s a lawyer interrupting every few seconds. We have enough to hold him for twenty-four hours, let’s hope that something solid turns up at his house so we can charge him. We should start with towns and villages known to our victims and of course our suspect, Murphy. Steve, phone me with anything significant. I’ll be working from home tonight.”
There is a gentle cough behind me. I turn, and Steve’s standing, stiff-legged, behind me with a pale, stricken expression on his face. He holds out a sheet of paper.
“It might be that his alibi is stronger than you think.”
“What is it?” I grasp the page.
It’s still warm from the printer, and on it is the latest direct message from TrustMe57.
TeeganRed,
There comes a time when words need to become action. It’s time we meet. I have the perfect place.
TrustMe57
I turn, stare through the viewing window, to where Lorcan Murphy sits, head in the crook of his arms at the interview table.
Baz looks over my shoulder, reads the two lines of text, and swears under his breath. He turns, takes a few steps toward the window, then faces me again.
He points at the note. “This has just come in?”
Steve nods. “This minute.”
I steady myself on the back of the chair. “Well, it can’t be Lorcan Murphy then, can it?” I think of the blood in his car, on his sheets. The cadaver scent in the boot.
“Maybe the internet weirdo isn’t our guy?” Baz says.
“Whoever he is, he’s been e-mailing two of our vics. That’s a connection we can’t overlook.”
“But Murphy?”
“He’s in there somewhere too. Texting Eleanor Costello right up to her murder.” One of the text messages writes itself into my mind: “You’ve a choice of two weapons . . . Pain or asphyxiation?”
Pulse thumping, breath tight. Patches of heat creep across my chest and up my neck. I close my eyes for a few seconds, shut out the buzz and tension in the office, the before and after of every decision. When I open my eyes, the room sharpens.
“We’re close. Murphy’s out of play until we have something that puts him at one of the murder scenes. Let’s arrange a meet-up with this internet freak and see where it goes. If he’s not directly involved in the murders, he has known the victims. We need to question him.”
I turn, pick up my coat, and make for the door. I yank it open, then turn back.
“Steve, send me Nicole Duarte’s number. I’d like to get her in for questioning. I want to know once and for all what she’s dancing around.”
CHAPTER 24
AN IRATE COMMUTER is leaning on the car horn. A string of swear words that would pink the cheeks of a mafioso rises through my flat window. Sun is streaking through the pane, happily scorching the top of the bonsai tree. I roll off the sofa, then scramble to capture my work pages before they scatter over the carpet.
I gather up the paper and move it to the coffee table, turn off the TV, and stretch the shape of the couch from my back. Moving to the window, I stare down at the static traffic below; there is a man leaning out of his window, his red fist balled and shaking at a bus that’s edged out in front of him.
I shake my head and carry my slowly desiccating project into the kitchenette. The soil around the tree is gritty and dry; when I touch my fingertips to the leaves, they are so brittle that one brushes from its branch and drops off into my hand. Without the binding and pruning, some new branches have formed and shot outwards like gangly teenage limbs.
“Sorry, mate. You got a rough deal when I chose you from the garden center,” I murmur. I run the tap and stand the pot in a small pool of water while I’ve breakfast.
The kettle bubbles to a boil and I stir up a sachet of granulated coffee. A text from Baz tells me there’s little else on Murphy showing up at the house. He’ll be released in two hours. In anticipation of his lawyer’s arrival, he’s reduced his answers to “No comment.” I almost shrug. He has an alibi. If this were a battle, this would be the time to pull back, weigh up another line of attack. That’s what we have to do.
Nicole Duarte. The barista. She’s a way in. I lift the mug to my lips, drum my fingernails on the counter. Why did she want to tell me so much about Murphy anyway? At the time, it felt like she might have some urgency to help out the investigation, that her conscience or her jealousy of Murphy’s relationship with Costello was pushing her to speak. My spine straightens. She knew. She knew Murphy liked some messed-up shit.
I pick up my mobile, rush to the file, and find Nicole’s number. Pacing over and back across my flat, I finish my coffee while I wait for her to answer. It rings out to voicemail. I hang up and try again. And again. Finally, I call Baz.
“Yo!”
I sigh. “Yo?”
“Just trying a thing.”
“Well, don’t. You’ve not released him yet?”
“Murphy? No.”
“Is the lawyer there?”
“Hold on.” The sound of a door opening and Baz’s loping gait, his feet hitting the floor, comes through the phone. “Not yet. But he refuses to speak until the lawyer arrives.”
I think of the picture that Duarte showed me, her daughter, pink-ribboned pigtails and a gentle, shy smile.
Baz continues: “Murphy’s alibi checked out. The student is male. Nineteen. I’ve spoken to him. Murphy was with him all night and went straight into work from his gaff.”
“There’s blood in Lorcan’s car, on his sheets, Eleanor’s prints are all through his house, we have lurid messages from him on her phone and replies to his phone—”
“Shouldn’t we wait for DNA to come through—”
“Do you really think he had nothing to do with it?”
He sighs. “I’m not saying that, only it seems like this other online nutter fits the profile better.”
“Then why would Duarte come to us? She gave us that information on a plate.”
Silence.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let him out yet. I won’t be long.”
* * *
—
ON THE WAY to the office I try Nicole’s phone three more times, but each time I’m left with only the drone of her voicemail. I leave a short message, telling her to call me as soon as she can. My pulse picks up and I have to reassure myself that our prime suspect is safely tucked away in an interview room, where he can harm no one.
Only he’s not. When I arrive, Lorcan Murphy has been released.
Clancy is standing at my desk. Hands on hips, a purple scowl on his face.
“Tell me y
ou didn’t do it.”
“Sheehan, your time was up with him. You know the deal.”
“I’d another half hour.” I say the words slowly, pushing them out between gritted teeth.
“His lawyer beat you to it. There was no point in detaining him any longer. His alibi was verified.” He approaches me. “Work faster,” he orders. “Or by God, this fucking case will sink and that’ll be the end of it.”
I reach out, feel the support of my desk, lean into the wood. My knees give a pathetic wobble beneath me that I hope Clancy can’t see. He mistakes my silence for contrition.
“Look, I know you’re doing your best. But we’ll soon be three months down the line and we’ve sweet fuck all. Money’s tight.” He has the grace to look ashamed as he says it.
It’s what justice comes down to, after all. Who’s got the money to order the right tests. Who’s got the staff to throw at a scene. Justice costs.
I manage to pull myself upright.
“I’ve got another lead.” I hold up my hands when his eyes snap onto mine. “Don’t worry, it won’t cost us a fucking penny apart from a tank of gas.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, get on with it.”
* * *
—
I DON’T GET ON with it. Not right away, at least. I’ve never taken a verbal smacking easily, and the rebel in me has dug her heels in. Besides, I need time to think about how I’m to get Nicole to talk. I drive to the café, my old haunt, and settle down to a table at the back. Baz slides into the seat across from me.
He looks about furtively. “We’re on the clock, aren’t we?”
“Yep.” I wave the waitress over and order two coffees.
“Don’t you think we should be getting on with it?”
I hold up a finger and dial the office.
“Steve, can you check out someone for me, please?”
“A background check?”
“Sort of. Nicole Duarte.”
I hear keys striking the keyboard on the other end of the line.
“Could you also check if she gets child support payments from anyone?”
Too Close to Breathe Page 21
