I move to the main bedroom, draw the long curtains there too, not wanting the daylight hours to bleach the carpet, but I don’t linger. The image of someone forcing a rope around Eleanor’s throat and yanking her off the ground in her own bedroom is like a movie replaying in my head. Like one of those terrible dreams where someone is after you and, although you sense you know them, your brain refuses to fill in the blank of their face.
When I’ve been through the house, I step back out on the porch and pull the front door, letting the latch snap shut.
I grasp the yellow tape and begin to wind it around my wrist, following its path out through the garden around the posts the forensics team set up on that first morning more than two months ago.
“You’re wrapping up then?” A voice behind me makes me freeze. I turn. It’s the neighbor. Neil Doyle.
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, a glimmer of a smile twitching at the side of his mouth.
“What?” I ask. How on earth anyone could find humor in the situation is beyond me, let alone someone who lived next door to the victims for the guts of a decade.
“It’s just so like Eleanor is all. A mystery. A glorious mystery. Always secrets.”
I roll the tape up around my arm and ball it into my pocket. “It seems we might never know all her secrets.” I shouldn’t comment, but I can’t help myself.
“She always said that it was growing up in a small village. Nothing like a tight-knit community of curtain twitchers to teach you how to hide stuff, she used to say.”
“She said that?”
“Oh, yeah. She was so private, I’m only sure that she wouldn’t ever have given me the time of day, only I guess she needed me to watch the house on the occasions she and her husband were away.”
I feel all the moisture evaporate from my mouth. “Away? Together?”
He shakes his head, then nods. “Sometimes, but no. Rarely together. It was more her thing. She had a lot of work trips, but she visited Kildare, kept her aunt’s house in check, aired it and the like. These old houses, they don’t do well if they’re not lived in, and she always said she couldn’t bear the thought of a tenant in her childhood home, sleeping in her bed or using the stuff she shared with her aunt. You know she had a very troubled upbringing before she moved there?”
I nod.
“Well, it was special to her and, of course, she still had a social life there.”
“She had many friends in Kilcullen?”
He shrugged. “I assume so. She often spoke of having a few too many when she went home, so I just reckoned she was out with friends. Shame. It wasn’t really reflected at her funeral. People are funny, you know, when the word ‘suicide’ is bandied about. Or ‘murder,’ for that matter.”
“Yes. Murder rarely brings out the talkative side in people.”
“Ah, well, I suppose it’s going to Peter’s sister now, is it?”
And he’s back on the gossip hunt.
“I couldn’t say.”
“He had no other family, did he? And Eleanor, I don’t think she had anyone else?”
“You’ll have to ask their lawyers that, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Thanks, Mr. Doyle.”
He puts his hand to his forehead, gives a smart salute. “Good luck to you.”
I continue on, clearing up the tape, then collect the metal poles round the garden that sectioned off the areas the team had wanted to investigate.
I pack the lot into the back of my car and send a text to Clancy: “House cleared for probate.” I sit for a moment at the steering wheel, thinking about Neil Doyle’s final summary of Eleanor and her husband. His assessment of her life in Kilcullen, that it was a getaway for her and occasionally her husband, makes my decision. I turn on the engine and head north toward Dublin, knowing that when the turn comes I’ll take the Naas Road away from the city and head for Kilcullen once more.
* * *
—
WHEN I STEP inside Eleanor’s Kilcullen house, I need a little time to think about what it is I’m searching for. I move slowly toward the kitchen. Signs of Lorcan? That anyone had been here apart from Eleanor? I step out of the kitchen, away from the stale damp smell that clings to the walls and into a crowded garden.
It’s only three in the afternoon, but already it’s darkening, the December sky closing down the year. The rain has stopped, but the air is damp and cold in my chest. The back garden is narrow; a thin concrete pathway leads to an aging garden shed. There are grand, big rhododendron bushes swallowing up most of the space, residual from her aunt’s gardening days, no doubt.
Turning, I step back into the house. The drive to get to the bottom of this case is like a persistent itch somewhere under my skin that I can’t quite reach. I move upstairs to the rooms, check the lighting again, the glow of daylight coming through the window.
In Amy’s video, there was sunshine. I recall the angle at which the sunlight had lain across Amy’s feet before reaching her eyes. None of the windows here catch the light that way. The house is old-fashioned, small stingy windows facing east and north. All the same, I use my penknife, lift back the corners of the wallpaper, check the walls for the telltale blue that highlighted the room in the video. But beneath the wallpaper there is only rose-colored paint and patchy plaster. I make my way back down the stairs and into the living room.
The stack of CDs next to the TV and stereo is arranged in alphabetical order. I trace down and find the Joni Mitchell. The CD box is broken and the top cover comes away in my hand. I lift the CD out, look it over, as if I might find answers etched into the shimmering back. My own wobbling reflection looks back at me.
Turning the stereo on, I push the disk into the player and sit down cross-legged on the floor. The fast swinging tune of “Big Yellow Taxi” strums out of the speakers, and suddenly I have tears in my eyes. Tears of frustration and sadness for Amy Keegan. I remember her round youthful face and feel a twinge of sorrow for not getting to know her better. I think of her father and the years of worry and love that he’s now drowning in. Rubbing my eyes, I lean back against a nearby chair.
When I open my eyes again, my backside is numb and my neck aches from where my head has tipped over the seat of the chair. I must have fallen asleep. The afternoon has stolen away. The house is quiet; the music stopped long ago and the room is full of dark shadows. A mean bloom of streetlight comes through the window. I sit for a moment; defeat clings to my shoulders. There’s a text message from Baz: “Nothing new. Where are you?”
I check the time the message came through. Almost two hours ago. I give him a call, but there’s no answer. I type out a quick text and hit send: “In Kilcullen. Eleanor’s aunt’s house. Heading back soon.” I push up from the floor and make my way out of the house. The evening is cool; the scent of damp, rotting foliage and mud carries on the light breeze from the green close by.
I am making my way to my car when I see him. Chin tucked down, hands deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead of him. The man from Burke’s office at the uni. At first I think I’m seeing things, but instinctively I step off the pavement and get into my car before he has the chance to recognize me. He strides past. Stops on the edge of the pavement, checks the road, then jogs across the street. He’s tall, a triangular build. Something says “yoga” in the way he moves—a carefulness of foot, the length of his neck.
I watch as he removes a key from his pocket, then dips quickly into a house. A work colleague and a neighbor of Eleanor Costello. He may not know anything, may well be as prickly as when I met him at the university. But the link is enough to make me step back out of the car and into the biting December night.
CHAPTER 29
I PAUSE ON THE porch, take in mouthfuls of damp winter air, try to silence the banging in my ears. Beyond the noise of my breath, my heart, are the gentle sounds of the village traf
fic, the occasional bleat of a car horn. I raise my hand and lift the knocker. The rap of brass echoes down the dark street. There’s a scratch of footsteps, the soft thump of feet on stairs, and then he is there, smiling in the halo of the porch light. Eyes dark. Hair the wilder side of conservative curls round his ears.
When I don’t speak, his face takes on a good-humored look of confusion, as if he is somehow tickled by my inability to move. Then he recognizes me. Places me. I see it dawning on him as a veil might drop from a dark window.
“Good evening, I’m Detective Sheehan,” I say.
He smiles. “I remember.” He tips his head; worry corners his eyes. “Is there something wrong?”
“You were a neighbor of Eleanor Costello.” I point across the street.
He looks over my shoulder, frowns at the house, looks back at me. “Yes. Yes, such a tragedy.”
“Your name?”
“Oh. Sorry. Adrian Carr.”
“Mr. Carr, do you mind if I come in? Ask you a few questions?”
“I’m not sure how I can help you. I didn’t know her very well.”
I give him a tight smile. “It won’t take long.”
He steps aside in the narrow hallway. “Of course.”
“Thanks.”
The carpet sinks under my feet. There is a row of footwear along the hallway, and I notice for the first time that he’s not wearing shoes.
“Sorry, yes. I’m a bit of a neat freak. Would you mind?” He nods at my shoes.
I slip them off and stand in my socks inside the door. A cool snake of evening air wraps around my ankles.
“Come in, come in.” He walks ahead down the hallway, waving me into a living room. Cozy. No TV. A coffee table sandwiched between two pale sofas.
He sits down on one of them and waits until I sit across from him.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“You didn’t mention that you lived across from Eleanor Costello.”
He frowns. “You never asked. Sorry, Detective, have I done something wrong?” He appears genuinely concerned, rests large hands on his knees.
“No. It’s a strange coincidence is all.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t really know Eleanor Costello. I know that seems odd, but she only used the house a few weekends a year and often I was away then. And work? It’s the first time I’ve worked at that university. As I said, I’m covering for Dr. Burke.”
“When was the last time Eleanor was down here?”
He spreads his hands. “I really don’t know, Detective. I’m sorry.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them.
“Okay. But you’ve met Dr. Burke? The lecturer you’re covering for?”
He gives a short laugh. Shakes his head. “Look, I’ve just got in. I’m parched. Would you like some tea, Detective? Then, I promise, I’ll answer all the questions you want.”
I nod. “Sure.”
He moves swiftly from the sofa, pads out of the room, toward the kitchen.
“Do you take sugar, Detective?” he shouts back down the hall.
“One, please,” I return. I take out my phone. Check for any more updates on Lorcan’s whereabouts, Nicole’s. There’s a text from Baz.
“More dead ends,” it says. “Nicole Duarte walked into a Garda station on the Southside this afternoon. She’s fine. Was staying with friends.”
I can read Baz’s frustration in the space around the words. He’s thinking of time lost, energy spent. Me, I feel a tired kind of peace. She’s okay. One less victim. I sit back down, drop my head into my hands. Eyes closed. Deep breath. She’s okay. I tuck my phone back into my coat. Get up, move to the window, push back the curtain.
Across the street, Eleanor’s house sits dark and lonely among the warm yellow lights of the street. Adrian Carr would have had a good view of comings and goings, if he chose to look. I let the curtain swing closed. On the mantelpiece, a ceramic skull, the planes and pockets of personality marked out in black lines. Phrenology, a shrink’s paperweight.
There are dull thuds coming from the kitchen, cupboards opening, closing, the knock of mugs on the counter. My eyes move over the grate, no fire, a single log, half burned, the singed bark peeling upward like a curling lip. For a brief moment, I smell charred flesh again. Amy Keegan. I swallow, turn away.
Under the coffee table, there are stacks of books. A mottled blue spine calls me closer. My breathing catches, changes gear. I bend. Read the word. “Chagall.” The same book was found in the Costello home. I remove it. Spread open the first page. La Mariée. The image of a young couple, the bride luminous in reds and whites pushed forward on a dreamy blue. Eleanor. Shallow, quick breaths. I look up, around the room, a certificate behind me on the wall, an acknowledgment of qualification. I move cautiously toward it, half knowing what it will say.
“Dr. Jeremy Burke.” His name swirls in gold letters. Eleanor Costello’s therapist. I blink white stars from my eyes. I’m in his house. I see it, free and full, all the dots line up, all the pieces stumble into formation. The affair, the manipulation, the shared dark fantasies, the collusion, the need for more, the abuse of her husband, torture, murder. Amy Keegan, a pawn, a vulnerable young woman trying to understand her own issues, wrapped up tight from the moment she reached out.
My throat closes. Hand goes to mouth. Press the panic down. I edge away from his name, my fingers already pressing dial on Baz’s number. The clink of cutlery comes down the hall. Get out. Get out! my head screams. I clamber over the coffee table, pull the door back.
And he’s there. Two mugs of tea and a knowing smile.
“You going, Detective?”
Heat prickles along my hairline.
I drop the dialing phone into my pocket, hope that Baz is on the other side.
“Toilet,” I say. “I should’ve gone in Eleanor’s. I wasn’t expecting to bump into one of her work colleagues here. It’s a long trip back to Dublin.”
His eyes narrow. He raises the mugs, indicating for me to wait, leaves them on the table. Next to the open art book, the painting of the young bride.
He turns. “I’ve always loved that painting. How the blue makes her stand out.” He looks back at me, frowns. “Here, let me take your coat. Seems silly to still be wearing it when you’ve no shoes on?”
I clear my throat. “No, thanks. It’s okay.”
He makes a tsking sound, steps behind me. “It’s no trouble. Otherwise, it’ll be no use to you outside.” His fingers unhook the coat from my shoulders. He lays it on the back of the couch.
“There. The toilet,” he says, “is up the stairs, second door on the left.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, lips sticking.
He stands in the doorway, watching me. I move quickly, increase the distance between us, but halfway up the stairs it hits me. Sweet, rotting smell. The cloying scent of blood and a faint sting of bleach cuts through the warmth of the house. Smell. The most primitive of senses. My mouth dries. A fluttering pulse starts up at the base of my throat. A check behind shows me Burke bent over the tea, flicking calmly through the art book.
I move over the landing, into the darkness, away from him. Finding the toilet, I turn on both taps, leave them running. There is no air up here, as if the windows haven’t been opened in years. The bathroom window is locked. Hammered shut with crooked, rusted nails. I pull at the collar of my blouse. Sweat gathers under my arms, across my back.
I take a deep breath, try to get some control, but suddenly the thrum of Dublin city is in my ears, the sound of my feet on gravel as I inch round the back of Tracy Ward’s home. The smell of blood is in my nostrils, the rise of hatred like acid on my tongue. I swallow. Chase my breath, catch it, get it under control.
Creeping out of the bathroom, I hurry into another room. A bedroom. Clammy, stale air, stiff with body odor. The windows, again, like in the bathroo
m, are hammered shut. A prison. There’s another door, by the landing, directly over the living room. I edge closer, but something stops me from entering. Someone’s on the other side. I feel it. I press my ear against the door. There are no sounds, no groans, no murmurs for help, but cold or warm, there is a presence behind that door. Another person. Another victim? My hand appears ahead of me, reaching for the door handle, fingers trembling.
“Detective?”
I suck in the sticky air. Turning, I see him behind me. He comes up the last few steps, stands on the landing, facing me, not more than two strides away.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” he says. He moves aside, holds his hand out in the direction of the stairs, and looks at me expectantly.
In the darkness, it’s difficult to make out his expression, but his fingers are white and stiff on the banister, as if at any moment he could tear a chunk of wood away.
“I need you to open this door.”
I’m sure I see his nostrils flare, his mouth tighten.
He takes a step forward. “It’s not worth your trouble.”
“Is there someone in this room?” I ask, forcing a hardness into my voice.
He takes another step closer and I’m up against the door. He looks at me with an expression of pure disdain. His top lip lifts, twitches.
“Yes, Detective. There is.”
“Are they alive?”
I hold his eyes, too afraid to look away, too afraid to move. He’s close, close enough for me to feel the heat of rage fizzing under his skin.
“Are they alive, Dr. Burke?”
His eyes close, like a father asking the gods for patience. A slow sigh, blown warm into my face.
“Define ‘alive,’ Detective. Are they aware of every aching strip of flesh? Alive? I believe he’s probably never been more so.”
My brain stumbles. He.
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