I go to hang up when I hear a sharp intake of breath. I tense. Listen. Then the caller whispers one word into my ear: “Cunt.”
The line goes dead. I am frozen. A dark mixture of shame and terror creeps over my face. I swallow, touch the heat of my ear, and look down at the screen. The message has finished. I drop the phone, let it thud to the carpet.
After a moment, I get up, check the door, push over the bolt. Then, backing away, I sit into the sofa and take a steadying drink of wine. My eyes are fixed on the floor where the phone lies. When the screen lights up again, I jump. Edging closer, I see a text on the screen.
With shaking fingers, I take the phone into my hand. It’s a message from Baz. He’s in the pub, down the street. I pocket the phone, turn, grab my coat, and leave the flat.
* * *
—
BAZ PUSHES HIS index finger into his ear and presses the phone against his head. He frowns. When he looks at me, his expression is a mixture of confusion and concern. He pushes the mobile back toward me as if it were a grenade without a pin.
“Christ. I thought the calls had stopped.”
I look down at my wine. “There’s not been a single hit on a mast since Amy’s murder. We all thought they were a hoax, someone who’d managed to get hold of Peter’s old handset, to taunt me. Steve has got a location already. It came from a mast on Duke Street. We’ve checked through CCTV, see if we could catch someone on a phone. Nothing.”
“Duke Street? That’s off Grafton Street, isn’t it? Frankie, that’s right beside you.”
“You don’t need to tell me where I live.”
I think of the flat, the open door, the feeling of another presence in my home.
Baz is studying my face. “What?”
“I’m not sure someone hasn’t been in the flat. When I got home yesterday evening, the door was open.”
His eyes darken. Flash. Anger. He takes a gulp of his pint.
Laughter erupts from a table behind us, an office party or a group of friends, thin paper crowns and tinsel tiaras crooked on their heads, broken Christmas crackers at elbows.
“A break-in?” Baz asks.
“Nothing was taken, nothing to suggest a burglary.”
He nods. “Murphy was released. You think he might have chanced an unwelcome visit?”
“Dunno. I’m not sure I didn’t just forget to lock the door.” I chew down on my lip. “I was in a rush in the morning. Maybe I pulled the door over too quickly, it didn’t slam, and I didn’t check.”
“It could be the killer.”
I look down at my fingers, spread like a starfish around the base of my glass. I’m afraid to move them, afraid they will shake.
Baz leans in. “Your phone, there’s always voice-recognition technology.”
“And who would we compare the sample to? Besides, a one-syllable word would be near impossible to get a match on even if we had a suspect in custody.”
“What if he’s after you?”
“He’s not.” I can’t let that thought in. “He’s taunting me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I know enough about murderers. He’s frustrated. Frustrated that he’s not managed to tell us how thick we are and how clever he is.”
“You think he wants to get caught?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Mostly, he wants acknowledgment.”
“Frankie, there are people out there that you’ve pissed off. Some of them might want to hurt you: Murphy, Ivan Neary,” he says.
I raise the glass to my lips, breathe out through my nose.
“Maybe I should speak to him. To Neary.”
He slides his hand over mine, and the action is so swift that I can’t help but jerk away.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“You’re not the big bad in this crime, Frankie. You’re not the murdering scumbag.”
“I know. But neither is Ivan Neary.”
He nods. “I guess maybe a visit is warranted. He is a witness.”
“It’s more than that. We’re both victims, both carrying different scars from this case. I was going to give him a wide berth, but, after Rachel Cummins, the least I can do is drop in. I don’t know, it seems like I owe him that much.”
I settle back into my seat. “I’m thinking of going back to the Kilcullen house.”
Baz straightens. Hopeful. “They found something?”
“No. This evening, I was speaking with Moira Keegan on the phone. She mentioned something about Amy, that she was a fan of Joni Mitchell.”
“And?”
I reach out, open the photos of Eleanor Costello’s childhood house on my phone, scroll to the set I took of the living room in Kilcullen. Settling on one, I turn the phone round to face Baz.
“This one. Here.”
“What am I looking at?”
“The CD rack. Three down. It’s her album.”
He tips his head at me. “Who on earth uses CDs anymore? Can’t seem to cast off the nineties, no matter what you do. Frankie, is this really worth another trip down there? I think I even have a copy of Joni Mitchell somewhere. Or I would have, if I bothered with CDs.”
I take the phone back. “I thought it was worth a shot.”
“If the CSI didn’t find anything, I’m not sure your CD will bring a killer to justice.”
I gaze out the window at the black night. More laughter and shouts from the party behind, a stumbling start at a song, off-beat clapping, and a crippling version of what could be Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.”
I sigh, look back to Baz. “I don’t know. Something is telling me to go back there. Maybe I’m frustrated that I never seem to get to know her.”
“Eleanor?”
“She’s the key. Where’re the knife marks? Where’s the cutting? It was the killer’s hard-on, but apart from old wounds and a pathetic slice on her forearm, there’s not much on her body that matches the type of injury on Amy’s and Tracy’s bodies.”
“Peter was stabbed.”
“Yes, but where were the teasing slices, the wounding cuts to torture and terrify, designed to draw out death, not deliver it? With Peter the wounds were sudden. Injuries to bring a man to his knees, a surprise attack. When I looked at the X-rays of his chest, out of the seven stab wounds, five had gone through ribs. These were forceful, angry blows.”
Baz pours another glass of wine. Holds the bottle up. “You want?”
I nod and he fills my glass.
A sip; then I keep with my train of thought. “Peter’s injuries were not consistent with our perp’s other victims.”
Baz settles back down into the armchair. “Do you think a woman would have the strength to do that? To stab through bone? Eleanor?”
“Yes. If her victim was already weakened with illness and unable to fight back. But what if it was a joint effort? Between Eleanor and someone else. A fantasy, a kill for both of them.”
I am in full profile mode now. I see Eleanor’s wedding photograph again in my mind’s eye. Such poise and control. Her husband not ready, never ready. That smile. Knowing too much. It would be her downfall.
“Eventually, the killer would have had to get rid of Eleanor; she knew too much or maybe he believed she had become too powerful. In a strange way, he respected her, loved her even. Serial killers often make trophies of some women, elevate them to wife status, and often these women are spared the same fate as the killer’s victims. But Eleanor was not to be persuaded into the submissive role. She had to go.”
I make a mental note to talk to Murphy again. If he and Eleanor were in a relationship, it may be that he lent her his car. As his alibi has checked out, it would explain the cadaver scent in the boot. A scent that didn’t belong to Eleanor but to her murdered husband.
“Excuse me,” I say to
Baz.
I know Abigail will still be in the office. When she answers, her voice is scratchy with tiredness.
“Dr. James here.”
“Abigail, it’s Frankie. Any updates on the blood from Murphy’s car?”
“We’re almost there,” she says.
“I know it’s late, but could you run through all sequences tonight: Eleanor, Peter, and Amy?”
There’s a pause. “I’ve a lot of paperwork to do.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s a lot to ask, but we could really do with some clarity here.”
A sigh. “Clancy has loosened the purse strings, has he? All right, sure. In the next few hours?”
“Thanks. I’m on my mobile.”
When I hang up, Baz gulps down a mouthful of Pinotage. “You’re too good at this job sometimes, Frankie. But even if that theory is true, we’ll still be no closer to nailing it to this guy. We’re running out of time.”
“I know,” I say in frustration. “I know!”
“Lookit, you were right with what you said before, there’s one person who says he saw the killer. Clancy won’t be happy about prodding a wasps’ nest in case it lights the tinder on a libel case but—”
“Neary?”
He nods.
I sag against the chair; panic patters up my throat.
“Forget Kilcullen. We’ve been already,” he says. “Get Eleanor out of your head. She’s dead. The killer isn’t and could be moving in on his next victim any moment. Neary might have the lead we need.”
“I’ll see him first thing.”
“You want me to go? Wait in the car, in case he threatens you?”
I give him a tight look, try not to think about the tsunami of memories a visit to Neary will trigger. “Are you having me on? If he gets a gander at anything but my mug, he’ll take my nose off with the door, he’ll slam it so hard.”
The party are moving, bundling toward the door, arms over shoulders, high heels twisting on the carpet.
Baz stretches. “Can I crash at yours?”
And I know he’s offering so that I don’t have to be alone.
I get up. “The couch is yours.”
When we get into the flat, Baz kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the sofa. His legs drop over the end; his head is overly high on the armrest. But he closes his eyes and waves off my offer of a pillow. “No need. I’m as good as asleep.”
“Night,” I say.
I get to my room and stretch out on the bed. When I wake the next morning, it’s early; the sound of traffic thickening on the streets below tells me it’s close to six. I scramble for my phone, still in my pocket from last night.
Abigail’s message came through at four a.m. Eleanor’s blood on Lorcan Murphy’s sheets, but the results of the DNA profile found in the boot of Murphy’s car were decisive: Peter Costello.
CHAPTER 26
IT TAKES ME almost a full fifteen minutes before I can meet Ivan Neary’s eyes. He greeted me at the door of his house, escorted me to the living room, and presented me with a glass of water, and I’ve somehow avoided looking at him.
Tension builds across my chest, but I make myself do it: raise my head, strap down the nervous smile that is threatening to pull across my face, and look at him.
His head is bent, hands cupping the tops of his knees. His fingers pressed into his jeans.
“Mr. Neary. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
Mouth dusty-dry. My teeth work across my bottom lip. “Okay.”
He’s soft-featured, not in a pathetic kind of way, but he has the kind of face that you know will age into deep benevolent creases around youthful blue eyes. It makes it all the more difficult to look at the pain pulling at the corners of his mouth and the flare of his nostrils.
“What’re you here for?”
His question unlocks me.
“Oh.” I cough into my hand. “Can I just say thank you for meeting me.”
“What else could I do?”
“You’re a free man. There was nothing that could stop you from saying no.”
He sneers. The soft lines deepen. “Free? You think I’m free? I’ve had to move fucking house. My wife has left me.”
He takes up a newspaper, glances at the cover, then throws it at me. “You call that free?” A trembling finger wags at the front page.
The headline reads, “Man Arrested for Ward Murder Released. Murderer Connected to At Least Three Other Deaths.”
He turns away. “How can they be allowed to print that shite?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your fucking apologies.”
“Mr. Neary. I know you don’t want to talk about it but—”
“I’ve been doing nothing but talk about it for the last seven months, Detective Sheehan.”
I look up.
He stops, reclaims his seat. Rocks back and forth. Clasps his hands. Unclasps them. Cups the tops of his knees again.
“I’m angry, yeah, but I’ve my share of guilt.” He extends a shaking finger at the floor where the newspaper lies. “It’s that head-fucking I can’t stand. Lying pigs.”
He takes a breath, holds it. Swallows. It looks almost as if he is pushing down a great weight deep into his abdomen.
“I’ve never hit a single person in my bloody life. You won’t believe that, I’m sure. With the work that you do, like. But ’tis true. I’m fifty-three and always the first to turn my back on a scuffle. Even as a kid.”
His head shakes. “To use that knife. To feel your body give under it. I get night terrors thinking about it. And the smell. That hot smell of blood. I can taste it.”
Sweat is beading across my hairline. It itches. I sit on my hands. Take long drags of air into my body. Tell my brain to get with the fucking program. Words. Just words.
His eyes meet mine, and I swear he can see the terror I’m hiding.
“I’m sorry too,” he says.
A silence stretches out between us and I am there. Returned in a moment to the scene of Tracy Ward’s murder. There is thumping in my ears and a terrible, throbbing inevitability as I hear the scuff of stone under my feet. I’m creeping around the back of the house. It’s dark but I daren’t turn on my torch. The screaming has stopped and I want to rush inside but I’m sure I see a shadow shift in the blackness ahead of me. My brain, all-knowing in hindsight, fills in the darkness with Ivan Neary’s silhouette.
The side wall of the house is cold on my back. I blink hard a few times, persuading my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. I draw short quiet breaths in through my nose. I hear a man’s voice shouting out, something violent, threatening. A warning. The back door is wide-open and there isn’t a chink of light inside. I step up, into the house, and immediately the bitter, cloying smell of fresh blood hits the back of my throat.
Ivan coughs into his hand and I snap back into the room. He’s ready.
“I didn’t even hear you pull up. That road out there. Always so busy, to be fair. ’Twas the same in the old place. It’s a wonder I heard poor Tracy at all. She was a quiet sort. Barely even watching the telly, and the way the walls are between our houses, you know sometimes I could hear the hum of her dinner spinning round the microwave in the evening.”
He shakes his head. “I heard the scream, like I said before, and I came around the back, up the garden, and saw that there weren’t any lights on. And I know it’s strange, but I knew something wasn’t right from that moment. I came up the yard and in the door, which was open a little way. I was scared but at the same time knew that she was in trouble, so I didn’t bother looking about too much. I thought I could hear something up the hall, like.
“I shouted out that I had a weapon and then heard a scuffle from the bedroom. I figure that’s when he went through the window. She was laid out on the bed. Blood was still
—” He swallows, points to his neck. He takes a few seconds, then continues.
“The knife was on the ground. It was dreadful. Awful. I didn’t know what to do. I should have pressed against her neck or something, but I couldn’t make myself. I checked her wrist. I couldn’t find a pulse. That’s when I heard a noise in the hallway. I didn’t even think.
“I picked up the knife and hid to the side of the doorway. It was so dark. I felt sick. The knife was still warm. But I thought he was coming back, you know. When you came around the corner, I struck out. I was suddenly furious. You turned to get away but I thought you were him. And I was so angry at what you’d done.”
“The killer had done.”
“Yes. The killer.” He sighs. Rolls his shoulders, then sags onto his hands again. “I was a madman. Blind. Determined. Terrified.”
The silence rises again between us, and my final image of Tracy Ward returns. The smell. The horror. The blur of my vision as my head falls back over Clancy’s arm, looking at the inverted scene and Tracy’s neck open, her head tipped over the edge of the bed, eyes white and staring at me.
I swallow, give Neary a hard look. “You knew I would come here?”
“I thought you might. It’s what I would have done.”
“Did you see anything of the killer? Anything? A glimpse as he went out the window?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” But then he frowns, as if he remembers something after all.
“What is it?”
“Only, the houses. The windows are very dated. In my house, at least. Wooden. Sash.”
“They open, though?”
“Just. You have to get close. Shuffle them upward. The wood swells in damp weather, you see. You’d have to know how to do it. There’s a knack.”
My mind offers me photos. Photos of the inside of Tracy’s room. Feminine, if not a little cluttered. The window, sash. Open. The curtain gaping on one side.
“He’d been in there. Before. Or Tracy slept with the window open?”
Too Close to Breathe Page 23
