If Looks Could Kill: Innocence Is Nothing. Appearance Is Everything. (Frankie Sheehan 3) Read online

  IF LOOKS COULD KILL

  ALSO BY

  Also by Olivia Kiernan

  The Killer in Me

  Too Close to Breathe

  IF LOOKS COULD KILL

  Olivia Kiernan

  COPYRIGHT

  This ebook edition first published in 2020 by

  An imprint of

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2020 Olivia Kiernan

  The moral right of Olivia Kiernan to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  HB ISBN 978 1 52940 105 9

  TPB ISBN 978 1 52940 106 6

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 52940 107 3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  www.riverrunbooks.co.uk

  DEDICATION

  For Grace and Matthew

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  You’ll find the Gardens buried in the heart of Dublin, away from the grey Liffey waters and the stiff smile of the Ha’penny Bridge, on down, beyond Grafton Street’s red-brick road and the old ghosts of Trinity College. Somewhere around a corner, up a narrow street, is the entrance, framed with concrete pillars set into an old stone wall. Inside, winged angels stand watch over dark pools and sunken lawns. The trees form hidden avenues, follow-me trails that lead to fountains, tumbling waterfalls and neat box-hedge mazes. The rusted iron arm of a sundial observes time here and, on this day, it is casting its shadow to one o’clock. The late February sun is a scream of cool light in the sky and slowly the park, whose waiting trees are full of bright new foliage, begins to fill.

  First, a couple of teenagers: a boy dressed in loose jeans and a school shirt, his sweater tied low on his hips, his arm around a girl. She’s maybe fourteen, thin and small, her school blazer is over one arm, her skirt rolled up at the waist comes to mid-thigh. Thick black tights cover her legs, a pair of black slip-ons on her feet, the backs folded under her heels.

  She bumps along next to the boy, her head forced a little forward by the weight of his arm. They make their way towards one of the fountains, where the boy’s arm drops away and they both take the time to shuffle free of their schoolbags. The boy sits on the fountain’s edge, the girl next to him. She has to lift herself up onto the stone and when she sits, only the tips of her toes skim the ground. She looks up at the boy and he looks down at her. Then they are kissing, at first only faces turned to one another, but after a few moments, the boy’s hand goes to the girl’s and she turns more fully to him.

  In this time, a woman enters the park, a toddler in hand. The toddler, despite the brightness of the day and the slow climb of the temperature, is wearing a thick padded coat, a scarf and round fluffy earmuffs. They walk down one of the little paths, then the toddler breaks free, wellied feet pumping towards one of the benches that looks out on the lawn. She throws herself at it, using her padded middle to lever herself onto the seat. The woman joins her and promptly reaches into a bag to remove a blanket, which she spreads on the bench between them. She passes a juice box to the toddler then arranges the rest of the bag’s contents of Tupperware on the blanket. The toddler brings the juice to her lips, her legs kick a beat beneath her and the woman unwraps a sandwich and sits back, her face tipped to take in the most of the sun’s warmth.

  It’s filling up now. Not packed, but enough of a sprinkling of visitors to signal lunch hour. A young woman carries a takeaway coffee to a favourite spot to read a book. A group of suits cradling paper lunch-bags, energy drinks and crisps pass her. The woman watches the men settle around a bench on the opposite side of the park. They’re loud with banter carried out of the office. Something, a shared joke perhaps, sets one of them off and there’s a roar of laughter. The sound makes the kissing teens look up.

  It is around this moment that Rory McGrane stops briefly outside the park gates. Pedestrians, racing against the thin slice of their lunch hour, bump up against him as they move by, on to cafés, corner shops or pubs to meet friends, lovers or escape work colleagues. Rory steps a little to the side to let a group of people pass. He takes a moment to watch them, observing their walks, the ease of their movements: relaxed, hands in pockets, the occasional pat of a back or shoulder, the friendly squeeze of a forearm.

  Rory’s hot, but he barely notices. In an unconscious movement, he lifts a hand to his throat and runs a strong finger around the neck of his shirt. He took his time ironing the shirt this morning. Pressing creases along the arms like he’d been taught to do. In his other hand, he feels the weight of his navy holdall. He tightens his grip around it then turns into the park, away from the manic din of the traffic and the quiet tinkle of the Luas as it snakes through Dublin city.

  The park is not as busy as he thought it would be, but it will be enough, he thinks. It has to be because he’s not sure he’ll be able to face another attempt. But what choice would he have? None, he thinks. He walks down the pavement; last year’s leaves cling in dry brown clumps to the borders, but there’s fresh growth all around and above him. It’s a good day, not raining, and he’s glad about that if nothing else.

  He walks across the lawn and looks around. A little way off, a young woman looks up from her reading. Her coat is spread out on the grass to protect her work clothes. She takes a sip from a takeaway cup then returns to her book, but he can see her focus has been thrown and every now and then she looks in his direction as if waiting for him to make his move.

  He can feel the heat coming over him now. The sweat gathering down his back. His mouth turned dry. He puts down the bag then straightens, wip
ing the back of his hand across his lips and swallowing. He’s surprised at the emotion he’s feeling. Fear. He had thought once he was here he would feel relieved, almost free, and he experiences a jolt of disappointment that he’s still stalked by his weaknesses.

  There’s a young couple holding hands at the fountain. He spies the boy’s thumb moving over and back on the girl’s wrist, sees the soft smile creeping across the girl’s face. And he thinks what it might feel like to be young once more. To have his chance again. Avoid the mistakes. He swallows again. Focuses. There is only forward. That is all that’s left to him.

  He squats down and opens the zip of his bag. He pushes his documents aside until he finds the small triangular case. He unclips it and removes his gun. It’s been some time since he’s had to use it but he won’t need much skill to do what he needs to today. When he straightens again, he takes another look around. Too late he notices the toddler on the bench, the mother with her face tipped back in the sun. He hadn’t thought about children. The woman with the book is watching him again and he sees her eyes drop to the weapon in his hand. Her mouth makes an ‘O’ shape and she scrambles to her feet, knocking the cup into the grass, her book pressed to her chest but she doesn’t run and he wonders at her hesitation. He lifts the gun, his finger suddenly steady on the trigger. A light breeze trembles over his face and he thinks he probably should have shaved this morning, then he places the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I look back, it comes to me, that there’s one event, upon which rests the decision about the type of person you believe yourself to be. And although every step from then on, you’re attempting to discover who you are, you’ve already become one thing or another, all hinged on that single event. As if you’d only been stretching the elastic of your existence from that point. That moment, long since passed, but living on behind every action, every choice, forming you over and again.

  For me, it was nothing grand. No drama. I was happy. Content. Safe. Where it didn’t matter who I was because I didn’t know then, I was shaped by bigger people around me, my horizon kept comfortably close, set behind the walls of my home. My parents’ bedroom. The light cool but not cold. Maybe spring. I think it was morning. The room still held the scent of my mother’s moisturizer, a sweet floral magnolia. I’m watching my dad – pulling the blazer of his uniform closed. His fingers, long and thin, adjusting the collar. His wedding band glinting on his pale skin.

  He works up the buttons on his uniform. When he’s done, he threads the belt around his waist, pulls it tight, sets it so that the buckle sits in line with the buttons. Then he tugs his blazer down. And I see him rise a little, his shoulders pulling back through the thick navy wool of his uniform. My eyes follow him as he reaches out to the dresser, takes up his hat. He places it on his head, pushing it down firmly, smoothing a hand over the back of his hair, the other hand straightening the peak.

  He’s transformed. More than Dad. A symbol of righteousness and good. He catches my eye in the mirror and winks. And I can remember the feeling I had. Of warmth. A secret pride that my dad helped people. That he was a hero.

  I’d watched him do this often. Enjoying the ritual, the patience he took as he turned from Dad to guard. And maybe it was the look in my eye that he saw, or the sudden realization that the reason I watched was because I wanted the same path as himself. But that day he moved towards me and kneeled, so that I had to look down into his face.

  He took my hands in his and I felt the warm comfort of his wedding ring against my skin. ‘It’s important to know who you are, love, but more important to know how others see you.’

  ‘What do you mean, Daddy? I am who I am.’

  He smiled. Eyes closing briefly. ‘That you are,’ he said.

  He got up and I followed him out of the room. The darkness of his uniform stark against the light cream walls of our hallway. The foreignness of him moving through our home had never struck me before, but in that moment I saw it: as if his words had cracked softly against the image I had of him and split it neatly in two. Two halves of my father, now weighing evenly in each hand. The person he was and the person he presented to others.

  In the days after, I watched everyone, searched for their other selves, noticed when my mum rushed us, stressed and late, out the door for school, then turned her smile to a neighbour, changing the tone of her voice. And on the obsession grew, a secret study to detect the changes, to discover the person behind smiles, tears, make-up, confidence. Then through my training, and on to detective, where I learned that some people were better at hiding their true selves than others but, in their wake, left evidence, where I could see their tells, read their behaviours and finally see all the faces a person can wear.

  I push the back of the earring onto its post. Simple silver studs that stand out against my deep navy satin dress that falls to the floor. I’m wearing my hair up, swept off my face in a loose knot, my fringe arranged to the left so that it covers the shining scar on the side of my forehead and temple. There are other scars too, hidden beneath my clothes. A thin white one in my abdomen where a knife once found a home, a bone fragment chipped free from the back of my neck, suspended deep in the soft tissues just above the neckline of my dress. There are other tells that might be noticed if someone were to look closely enough: a limp I’ve trained myself to walk free of but still pulls if I sit too long; the time I take to cross a room, counting tables, obstacles, one, two, three . . . the paces required to leave quickly, safely. In the dark. Should I need to.

  Taking up my bag, I reach for my perfume. Then I slip into my coat and leave the flat. Baz waits with the engine running and, eager to escape the biting cold of the evening, I open the door and get into the passenger seat.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ I say, settling my bag on my lap.

  Baz Harwood, my partner at the Bureau for Serious Crime, friend and all-round putter-upper, although he gives as good as he gets in that department too, is dressed in jeans and a green hoodie. It’s a studied casualness he’s going for but his hair is still damp from the shower, the smell of his aftershave fills the car. A tiny fragment of tissue sticks to the corner of his jaw where he’s run his razor too close.

  He sweeps his gaze over me, eyes widening. Fucker.

  I look at him squarely. ‘What?’

  His eyebrows lift a fraction, he smiles then turns his attention to the street ahead. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I can’t go in work gear,’ I say, plucking the dress free of my ankles, thankful I haven’t caught it in the door. ‘If I wasn’t giving out one of the awards, I would be at home, having a bloody rest.’

  He laughs at that because he knows I wouldn’t. Instead I’m attending the annual Gardaí awards. Although I’m using the word ‘annual’ in the lightest of ways, being as it’s the first. A new little initiative dreamed up by our ever-inventive commissioner, Donna Hegarty, to help throw some good publicity at our not-so-good-publicity-winning force.

  I pull down the sun visor. Slide over the mirror and frown in at my reflection. ‘The food will be good.’

  ‘You’re selling it to me.’ He flicks his eyes in my direction again. ‘Relax. Clancy will be there. Just try not to spend the evening talking shop.’

  I groan. ‘I’m not great at small talk.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘You sure you can’t come?’

  His face draws into a smug smile. ‘I’ve had this weekend trip in the diary for ages.’

  I flip the visor back up. ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Still.’

  Baz is in love. Two months’ worth. He mentions his girlfriend more often than it rains. Like a soppy teenager, he shoe-horns her name into as many conversations as he can. Chief, we’ve a body down near the Liffey. Christ, myself and Gemma had a takeaway coffee there last weekend. The staff draw bets on the number of times per shift she comes up. Even if he never sai
d her name, you’d tell from the perpetual smile on his face. Everything makes him happy. There are detectives who when they get in deep with someone ease up. You can see them throwing covetous eyes at the desk jobs going. Requesting positions or departments that don’t feature shift work. Nice nine-to-fives. And they squirrel away in the background until they’re up for pension and then it’s see ya later. But Baz is not one. If anything, he’s more hungry. I’m guessing his relationship is still at the stage where the badge is a turn-on. Reality will come soon enough. There’s no better litmus test of a relationship than being a detective, and I feel a pang on Baz’s behalf when I think of it.

  ‘We got the best place on this new holiday site. Little cottage near Clogherhead. Can you believe Gemma’s never been there?’ he says to me.

  I try not to roll my eyes. ‘That’s a shocker.’

  He shoots me an irritated look.

  ‘Sorry. I’m jealous. I hope you have a lovely time.’

  He glowers out the window. The traffic is deathly slow. Never the quickest in Dublin at the best of times, navigating the merry-go-round of one-ways and the Luas commanding all to stay clear until she swoops by. The tram, from the moment of its conception, was met with irritation by commuters – whether in car, on foot, bus or taxi – even though everyone’s happy enough to use it when it suits. Now antipathy towards it is maintained by numerous strikes, travel disruption and the cost of development. It probably doesn’t help that the odd person or bike seems to get sucked under it on occasion.

  We turn onto the Southside quays and roll slowly to a stop near O’Connell Street. The light is dropping from the sky. Friday night calling people home or out. The street is a hustle of dark coats, heels, slick-haired men, shoulders up against the sharp tongue of the wind coming off the river, the odd person pushing through the crowds in trackies, clasping white-bagged takeaways like cherished bairns in their arms, the homeless stacked up and still in cardboard and sleeping bags in the dark crevices of the street, life turning around them.