Too Close to Breathe Read online

  I start up my computer and wait for it to whiz to life. My staff are right. This is a lot of manpower for a suicide. But I can’t risk letting something slip. If the powers that be are as tetchy about this death as Clancy would have me believe, then I can’t afford any complacency. Although, to be fair, complacency has never been my problem.

  Truth is, the moment the plastic sheeting was drawn back from that woman this morning, I’d already begun shaping her personality in my mind. Short, classic, elegant hairstyle; the scent of the morning’s hairspray lifting up from her fringe as if she’d just breezed by.

  I see her hand, poised, then waving overhead, fingers depressing a nozzle; sticky vapor clouds the air before landing like shimmering dew over ash-blond hair. A beat for the hairspray to dry, then a quick comb through to soften the effect along the chin.

  Jewelry had been absent, removed prior to autopsy to prevent radiological interference. But in the soft pad of each purpling earlobe were identical puncture marks, where, undoubtedly, up until a few hours before, a pair of tasteful earrings were housed. My guess would be studs. Pearl. Luminescent to complement her pale skin. A medium ball, nothing ostentatious.

  A slim-fingered hand with a neat French manicure pushes the butterfly back onto the gold-stemmed post. A glance in the mirror to check how they look. The pearl reflects the white glow of her shirt.

  The case file tells me I’m right. There, in the photo stack, item number four: two pearl earrings with gold-plate backs.

  Settling into my chair, I pull my notebook forward to build Eleanor Costello’s picture. The next photo shows an overall shot of the scene as found at 10:16 A.M. today.

  A neighbor had become worried when the victim didn’t emerge for work. Did he always notice when she didn’t leave on time? Well, yes. He had a routine. Breakfast at the window. Eight a.m. The victim would walk by his house. For the morning train. Like a religion, it was. Hard not to notice that. But no, he didn’t notice anything unusual the night before—he’d been out late. They’d been neighbors for seven years. They shared keys; he often locked himself out of his house. Didn’t all neighbors hold copies of each other’s keys? No, he hadn’t been aware that Mrs. Costello suffered from depression. If she suffered from depression. Although, between him and me, he wasn’t altogether sure whether the marriage was always a happy one, if I knew what he meant. I didn’t. But he was not one for dropping anyone in it.

  This was Neil Doyle: unmarried, intrusive, and exactly the type of person I’d cross the street to avoid. Everything about him was weak and soft, from the delicate bones of his elbows that appeared just below his sleeves to the small potbelly that rounded out the bottom of his T-shirt. He worked from home. A consultant, whatever that meant.

  The husband, Peter Costello, is unreachable. But the helpful neighbor supplied us with enough information on the guy to set up a bank account in his name and take out a mortgage. Although a mortgage would probably be rejected. Peter Costello is unemployed and has been for a long time.

  The next photo shows the victim’s hands; the fingers curled in, like long petals, on the palm; the tips blue, as if dark ink were pooling along the crescent-moon nail beds. The photos are labeled, left hand, then right. Apart from a small detail on the skin, both look very similar.

  On the index finger of the right hand, above the knuckle, there is a line of purple-brown dots. Petechiae caused by minute vessels bursting under the skin. The rope rips upward, grips her throat. Sudden, hard, and terrifying. She is gulping, her body kicking for air. She fights, her right hand pushing against the rope, working its way under. But the rope bites down and something pulls her arm away. Or someone.

  My breathing falters, chest squeezing like a fist on a fly. My head, the scar running along my temple, feels newly sliced, oozing pain, sharp enough to make my eyes water. Anxiety is churning through my veins, thumping away at the undersurface of my stomach, pushing sweat into my eyes and down my back. I can feel fear swirling inside me. I could sense it this morning. My subconscious, ahead of my conscious, preparing me for the task ahead. The investigation not of a suicide but of a murder.

  CHAPTER 2

  THERE IS AN unsettling truth to be learned when profiling a killer. That is: how incredibly alike all humans are; how worryingly similar our desires, our drives, our fears. There is a sliding scale, of course, but it never ceases to alarm, how even at each end of the spectrum, there is still some part of me that can see evil’s point of view. Even if it turns my stomach to admit it.

  The victim, on the other hand, so often overlooked, is more important. The victim, a by-product of the perp’s obsession, rage, or envy, is dusted off for evidence or clues, then allowed to fade into the shadow of the killer. But the question is not who committed the crime but what type of person becomes a victim of it.

  The team will be resistant to the idea. No one wants another murder case, least of all me, but the pebble is in the shoe, and we either hunt it out or endure the constant rub.

  Eleanor Costello’s fingers fill the large screen in the case-building room. I move the laser beam over the arc of her index finger.

  “Here. The petechial hemorrhage suggests that at some point between dropping onto the rope and dying, she struggled to free herself, right?”

  “Instinct? But she eventually succumbs to the suicide attempt?” Helen suggests. She is eager to please after the misjudged party this afternoon.

  I nod. “A need to survive? Perhaps.”

  The flashback is blinding. Eyes squeeze closed, shut tight to the memory, but it plays out anyway. A hard thump at the side of my head. I am trying to run even though I’m already falling to my knees. Sudden pressure in my gut, stars, white flecks of lightning spark across my vision, then darkness and pain.

  I look out at the office. “Yes. Survival instinct. She’s worked her finger beneath the rope. It’s tightening as a result of her body weight. But both hands were found by her sides.”

  The team is predictably blank. Fuck, we’re such a cliché. Then from the back a hand rises, the voice deep, scratchy, and instantly recognizable.

  “Someone else was there.”

  I search the team. Spot him. A lean lank of a man who manages to look perpetually disheveled despite a suit and tie.

  “What happened to Special Branch, Detective Harwood?”

  Baz moves forward. An ally, a sparring partner, and, apart from Jack, the only person I can call a friend. Not that I’d ever tell him that. He has a hard enough time carting round his substantial ego.

  “Ballistics were fun for a while but, ultimately, not my thing,” he says. “How could I miss all this?”

  I smile. “You did a good job of missing it when you were here before.”

  “Two days absent. Two. Days. You ever going to forget that? I’d the flu.”

  “Man flu.”

  “The deadliest kind.”

  Shaking my head, I suppress another smile. “The jury’s still out if you’re any better, to be honest.” I turn to the team. “Both hands found by the victim’s sides. As Detective Harwood said, someone else was there.”

  Helen speaks up. “She could have just pulled her finger out,” she announces.

  The statement raises laughter from the office. “If only,” one of them jibes.

  I lie down on the floor. Silence falls over the room. They think I’ve lost it.

  “Helen, maybe you’d like to attempt this? Steve, an approximation of my weight and height, please. Don’t be a dick, though—I’m still your superior, remember.”

  He stares down at me. Grins at the others, asks for support. “Five nine . . . erm, maybe one hundred forty pounds?”

  My eyes widen. He puts up both his hands. Backs off. “No fair, Chief. There’s no right fucking answer to that question.”

  “Pipe down, Inspector. Five eleven and one hundred thirty-three pounds. Helen?” She moves
closer. “Why don’t you try lifting me?”

  My height and weight are close enough to the victim’s. I want to illustrate how Eleanor Costello would have had to lift the entirety of her body weight to release her index finger from beneath the rope.

  Helen’s mouth turns down. She squats and her trousers rise to her shins, revealing solid beat-wearing footwear. She prepares to slide her hands beneath my back. I shake my head. “No. Only your fingertips.”

  There is comprehension developing in her eyes. I get up and face the team.

  “Effectively, Mrs. Costello’s entire body weight was squeezing down on that finger. Her legs are scissor-kicking, her jaw is locked, mouth open, tongue desperately trying to scoop oxygen into her lungs. Each muscle twitch is tightening the noose, pulling her weight further onto her finger, onto her throat, killing her. That is the force that caused these hemorrhages. But the body was not found with a finger trapped under the rope. Both hands were by her sides. Someone removed her hand from beneath the rope. It would have been impossible for her to release it herself.”

  And there. It is done. The case has opened up like an old paint tin, changed from suicide to murder with a few purplish bruises.

  The team swarm over the pictures. Make notes, calls; begin the setup. Someone writes, “VICTIM: Mrs. Costello, 39 years old, married eight years, no children, microbiologist,” on the whiteboard and pins the photo of the fingers beneath the declaration.

  Baz is at my side. “Clancy suggested we should work together.”

  “Great.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s fine.” I throw him a half-smile.

  He sighs. “He didn’t tell you.”

  “He danced around it.” I shrug, gather up my bag, my coat. “Clancy has trust issues. I’m broken, a possible liability in his eyes. I would’ve done the same thing, probably. He thinks I need a chaperone. I don’t.”

  “I’m not here to mind you. I’m here to work. Fuck what Clancy thinks.”

  “You see, we’re already agreeing on something. Could’ve done with someone a little more experienced in the field. But”—I look around the office—“beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Funny. Just put me on interview.” He tugs the sleeves of his jacket, straightens his suit.

  I smile, fold my arms. “I’ve seen your attempts at interview. You barely scrape in at a grade three.”

  “I scrape in at a grade two, actually. Clancy reckons the pope lies better than me.”

  “The pope lies better than anyone. You seen God lately?”

  He laughs, and something not insignificant lifts in my chest; something that was threatening to pull me inwards has lightened, and the relief is mighty.

  “Chief?” Helen interrupts. “We’ve had a call from autopsy, initial thoughts and a possible artifact. The pathologist reckons it could be significant. Firstly, severe erosion of tooth enamel, posterior incisors and molars, possibly due to bulimia. Secondly”—she checks her notes—“there was a dye or something found along the edges of the cut on the left arm.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “She said the tox have come back and it’s a specific shade of blue. Potassium hexacyanoferrate or, more commonly, Prussian blue. It’s been used by artists for years.”

  “A paint?”

  “Yes.” Helen smiles. “She said the way the compound coated the edges of the wound”—she looks down at her notes again, reading the pathologist’s statement—“‘appeared purposeful and consistent with postmortem application.’ There was also a minute synthetic hair found in the wound that Textiles are working on, but to the naked eye it might belong to an artist’s brush.”

  “Thanks, Helen. Fill in the team.”

  I move to leave the office but stop at the door.

  “Well?” I say to Baz. “You coming?”

  * * *

  —

  COSTELLO’S HOUSE IS at the bottom of a cul-de-sac in Bray. The type of street that makes developers grit their teeth. Prime location, a stone’s throw away from the beach and local amenities, but populated with unadventurous detached town houses with bland square gardens and boxy garages. Put up in the seventies and predominantly inhabited by the gray brigade.

  The quiet suburban house is theirs, not inherited, not rented or leased. Sought out in 2004, bought and lived in since. Inside the living room, it’s neat, minimal, the only clutter a few books on art stacked below the coffee table.

  I hear Keith Hickey’s voice before I see him.

  “Detectives. Back again so soon?” he says.

  He walks from the kitchen and into the living room toward us, moving on the balls of his feet, anything to add a few inches to his height.

  “Keith,” Baz says. “How’s it goin’?”

  He stops before us, chin up. “We’ve got a good lot of the tagging and processing done now,” he says. “Dublin’s given us a team of four SOCOs. Quality lads now. Should be out in a couple of days. Tops.”

  “Any phones yet?” I ask.

  “Nada. A laptop, though. Ready for you to take to your guy.”

  “Can we look around?”

  “Sure.” He holds up his palms. “But you know the drill: Keep your hands and feet inside the cart at all times.”

  I dangle a pair of gloves at him. “Of course,” I say.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.” He winks, then heads off across the room.

  I turn to survey the Costello home. The scenes of crime officers, SOCOs, are hard at work, scouring the house like white-suited miners. Every now and then a camera clicks and there is the rattle and shake of an evidence bag. The front door is open, showing a darkening autumn night; the screech of seagulls cuts through the cold air.

  I linger over the coffee table, put on a pair of gloves, reach down, and select one of the books on art. Chagall. The cover is striking. It shows off a long stained glass window, sunshine blasting through shocking reds and oranges. It’s vibrant. I turn it open. There are notes in the margin, phrases like “perspective,” “medium,” and “egg tempera.”

  “The paint or stain found on the body? Significant? I wouldn’t have imagined she was much of an arty type.” Baz looks over my shoulder.

  “She doesn’t seem bohemian enough for you? Are science buffs not allowed to appreciate art?”

  “All right, all right. She didn’t seem the creative type is all. She seemed like she would’ve been a bit more tightly wound. Stiff, you know?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “She was dead.”

  “Fair point,” he says.

  He nods at the painting on the first page: a woman, a goat playing a violin. “There’s a print of that in the downstairs loo. Looks pricey enough. One of the lads says it’s framed by some fancy uppity company in Blackrock. A few hundred at least.”

  “So she was the arty type.”

  “Could be the husband’s?”

  “Maybe we can ask him when we find him.”

  He shakes his head; the corner of his mouth tucks in with a half-smile. “Though there has to be a link. Right?”

  I shrug. “A painter’s pigment found on the body and a possible interest in art? Sure. It’s something.”

  I move toward the room. She chose the bedroom. Or her killer did. Probably because of the aged oak beams that run across the ceiling. They aren’t a period feature but rather the kind that has been added to fit in with a nautical theme. The wood has the appearance of driftwood and in places isn’t flush against the white ceiling.

  There are three SOCOs working systematically through the room. They’re finishing up, getting ready to collate, add to the picture. The real work can begin now. The walls, window ledges, and door handles are covered in black dust. The sheets have been carefully removed, placed into plastic bags, the pillow cases collected. I bend, check under the bed, although
I know that too will have been cleared.

  One of the SOCOs glances up from dusting the headboard of the bed. “There’s a laptop in the office. We’ve swabbed and taped it. You’ll want your tech to have a look?”

  “Thanks,” I mutter. I’m staring up at the ceiling. I can see her hanging there. As she was found, rigid and cold.

  Baz joins me. “I’ve had them dust the Chagall in the toilet.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “A couple. It’s a long shot.”

  “Sometimes a long shot is all you need.” I look up at the beams. “How d’you think she got up there?”

  His hands go to his hips, push his jacket back from his sides. He looks around, takes in the generous expanse of room. It’s light, airy. There’s no way a woman of Eleanor’s build could climb up to hook herself on one of the beams without a stool.

  “The window is too far away. As is the bed. The dresser would’ve had to be moved. Probably what set the coroner twitching,” Baz murmurs.

  Something wobbles inside me, but I hold it together. I turn to the SOCO at the bed.

  “Anything on the husband yet?”

  He shakes his head. “Not much.”

  My teeth bump together; frustration twists in my gut.

  “The office is down the hall, on the right. The small boxy room,” he says.

  * * *

  —

  THE OFFICE IS gray, cramped, dull. The desk is some kind of odd plastic that’s supposed to mimic steel. The shelves are aluminum and glass. I flick on a lamp.

  “Whoa, that’s bright!” Baz exclaims. He blinks.

  “A daylight lamp,” I murmur. I flick it off, turn on the main light. “It’s a type of treatment for winter blues, or seasonal affective disorder. Dark evenings, gray skies, can leave some very low.”

  “People need treatment for that? Don’t we grow up used to grayness in this country?” He laughs.

  “You’d think, but for some it leads to clinical depression. It can have a profound impact on a person’s life.”