Too Close to Breathe Page 4

  In some ways, her past might have worked against her, making her accustomed to abuse, possibly expecting it or, worse still, more comfortable in that environment. Sadly, she might have recognized her role in a violent relationship: that of victim.

  CHAPTER 4

  SO SHE WAS a girl done good.” Baz is thinking aloud.

  “Looks that way. Although it appears she knew how to fight her own corner,” I say, referencing the alleged assault.

  He shakes his head. “But those charges were dropped. It might not’ve been anything. Besides, we’re all different beings when we grow up.”

  We’re in my kitchenette. The city is rearing up for the day. Cars clog the streets, lights on, horns blaring, even though it’s barely six and sunrise won’t be for another two hours.

  Baz is pouring coffee into large mugs. He’s never been in this flat, but within minutes of arriving he understood the place, knew where he was welcome and where he wasn’t. It’s so like him to choose the neutral ground of the kitchen.

  With some persuasion, Abigail has given him more information on the ongoing autopsy. Old fractures of the left carpal bones—wrist fracture—about eighteen months ago. Some scar tissue in the lower abdomen, possibly from surgery; significant decay of the teeth, hinting at an eating disorder. Cracks are appearing in the perfect veneer of Eleanor’s life.

  “The tox reports?” I ask.

  “Ongoing,” he says.

  “Did you check through the drawers in the office again?” I ask him, swinging the conversation back to the Costello home. I’m searching for her passport.

  “Yes, as predicted, it was tucked in at the back. The same drawer you found the husband’s in.” He shakes his head, pushes his hands through his hair. “Fuck. The Dark Web, huh?”

  “What?”

  “The Dark Web. Steve filled me in. She was into some dodgy shit then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “She looked so bloody normal yesterday.”

  I give him a half-smile. “Define ‘normal.’”

  “Well, a bit anal-retentive, you know. Everything about her life, from her clothing, the house, her hair—everything was so ordered. It all seems”—he pauses, searching for words—“fake now.”

  “The computer may not be hers—both sets of prints were found on it, remember? And, if she was using the Dark Web, it might be that she was simply uptight about security. Not everyone who uses the underweb is dealing in crime.”

  Baz checks his watch. I glance outside. There’s a gentle lightening of the sky, a blue-gray hue stretching out along the cityscape. Mist is clouding around Dublin’s buildings, yesterday’s cold freezing in the morning air. Somehow, two hours have slipped by.

  “I should shower.” Baz points his thumb over his shoulder, toward the door.

  Getting up, I take a sip of the coffee. It’s gone cold. “I’ve a lecture to attend.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Lecture?”

  “Lorcan Murphy. The victim’s understudy. It’s been a while since I brushed up on microbiology.”

  He laughs. “Sounds riveting. Rather you than me. I’m off to Peter’s old workplace.”

  “They won’t know anything. Social media is a wonderful thing. I did a search on him already, I’ve a list of his friends and followers. Here.” I pass him the list. Triumphant. He should have thought of this. I smile. “If it were me, I’d start with his sister. She’s in Sandyford. Not too out of your way.”

  “Feck off, Sheehan. You’re an arrogant piece of work sometimes.” He yanks the flat door open, glares at me, but I can see the smile in the lines around his mouth.

  He stuffs the page into his pocket, steps into the hallway.

  “You’re welcome,” I call out, and the door slams.

  * * *

  —

  IT WOULD PROBABLY be a fair guess to say that the lecture hall in University College Dublin has rarely been as packed with students on a Friday morning as it is today. Most of the students will have arrived at the hall with prior knowledge of Dr. Costello’s death. Her assistant, Lorcan Murphy, is remarkably confident in his delivery, and the subject matter seems morbid enough for the morning it’s in.

  His eyes barely slide in my direction as I slip into the dark room. He points a remote and the screen lights up. The image displayed shows rows of fuzzy yellow orbs on a blue background.

  “Anyone recognize this little devil?”

  “Strep A,” someone offers from the back.

  Murphy smiles. “That’s right. Streptococcus A. A major protagonist in necrotizing fasciitis. Or flesh-eating bacteria, to the layman.”

  He presses the remote again and a gruesome image of an ulcerated leg fills the screen. There are groans from the front row. Hardly sensitive teaching matter, considering the demise of their lecturer.

  “You can see here the proliferation of the infection, aggressive bacterial colonization will be seen on slides, the inflammation extends via the fascial tissue through to the deeper structures, often compromising vessel walls, resulting in intravascular thrombosis.”

  He presses the remote once more and a purple slide appears—an image of the infection as seen through a microscope.

  “Here.” He points to the network of thin lavender lines on the image. “Can anyone tell me what the significance of this dye is?”

  A hand flickers at the front. “At the lab, two dyes are applied, the first violet, second red. Strep A retains the violet dye and is shown up as purple histologically.”

  Murphy nods. “Good. Gram-positive.”

  I’ve had enough and stand, catching Murphy’s attention. I walk toward the door.

  He hedges; then, addressing the room: “Okay. A list, please, of the epidemiology of this disease, then the distinctive features you might look for under the ’scope.”

  The students shift in their seats, look to one another, but gradually there’s the shuffle of paper and they set to work.

  In the corridor, Murphy’s less gloomy. All smiles. His hand extends. “Detective Sheehan. Good to meet you. I’m Lorcan Murphy. Elean—” He stops himself. “Dr. Costello’s PhD student.”

  I place my hand in his. Despite his outward calm, his skin has that too-hot, damp feel to it. Immediately, I want to wipe my own hand clean.

  “Sorry for your loss,” I say.

  He shrugs, but there is a paleness that stretches around his mouth. His nostrils flare, suppressing emotion. He’s not able to meet my eyes when he says: “What can you do?”

  He’s not asking. For the briefest of moments he looks lost, as if he’s the type of man who clings to the ordinariness of his life when things get fucked up. I set my jaw.

  “Quite a lot, actually, Mr. Murphy,” I answer the nonquestion.

  Confusion crosses his face. “Please, call me Lorcan.”

  “I like to keep things formal. Everyone knows where they are then.”

  “Right so, of course, yeah.” He points down the hallway. “There’s a coffee shop. I don’t have an office of my own, per se; I used to share with Elean—” He sighs. “Sorry, Dr. Costello.”

  “An office? I thought she lectured part-time? Wasn’t most of her work consultancy and agency-based?”

  “Yeah, but it was solely on behalf of the university. She never accepted contracts anywhere else. She’s too busy here.”

  Our twenty-four hours since the victim was found is almost up, and not one member of my team has been to her office. Anyone could have been and gone from there. Including the husband. I call it in. The team will take an hour or so to get the necessary warrants.

  “Has anyone been in her office since?”

  “I’ve a set of keys, but no one else would enter, not unless the school manager let them in.” He stops. His expression is hopeful. “I can get him for you? He’s probably in the library about this time.”
<
br />   I walk on. “Let’s get that coffee. My team will be here shortly. They’ll fill him in. I’m afraid Dr. Costello’s office is now a crime scene.”

  “A crime scene? I thought—” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I thought it was a suicide?” He mimes the word “suicide,” as if his mouth might become contaminated if he says it out loud. Such is the effect of Catholicism on a country: educated, sensible people become blithering eegits in the face of mental illness.

  “Poor Peter,” he murmurs.

  Letting the thought stew for a few moments, I turn in to the small café. It’s brightly lit and overlooks the sizable sports fields that stretch out behind the university. There are women smashing into one another in the soft ground, practicing rugby drills. They pivot, dodge, and crash up the pitch. They partner up, shoulders drive against shoulders. It looks cathartic, empowering.

  I step up to the counter. The woman behind it is young, keen, and too happy for a morning, in my opinion. She can’t be more than twenty-odd. Shouldn’t she be hungover? I order a plain black coffee, and before Murphy can make his request, the girl beams and chirps: “Latte and an extra shot, right?”

  A ferocious blush sweeps up Murphy’s neckline and into his face. “Sure.” He makes a shrugging gesture at me, as if to say, What was that about?

  We collect our cups and sit at the back near the window.

  He has barely shuffled his feet beneath the table when I ask my first question: “How long have you known Dr. Costello?”

  The paleness is back. “Probably four years or so. Not long.”

  “Not long? Four years seems extensive enough.”

  He laughs, then bites down on his lip. “Not in academia. I’ve been working on my PhD for six. She’s been my tutor for three; before that I had another tutor, but that finished and Dr. Costello stepped up.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Why did she step up?”

  “No. Why did you finish with the first tutor? It seems odd. A PhD is a big investment for both student and tutor, isn’t it?”

  “It was nothing dramatic. He retired. Eleanor had studied under Professor Muldoon, and he thought she’d be best qualified to continue.” He takes a gulp of the coffee. “And he was right. She was an amazing tutor. Very passionate.”

  “Passionate?”

  The blush rises again. “About her work.”

  “I see.” I close my notebook, lean back. “How would you describe Eleanor, personality-wise?”

  His eyes narrow briefly. There is a flash of uncertainty in them. “I dunno. She always seemed so together to me. Professional. She was a consummate professional.” The pitch of his voice teeters toward bitterness.

  I see them leaving the university grounds on the evening of her death. Something in their body language suggests more than professionalism to me.

  “Do you drive, Mr. Murphy?”

  “I have a car, but I bus it home. Guess I haven’t quite left my student days behind.” He laughs again.

  “On Wednesday, do you know how Eleanor Costello got home?”

  He shrugs. “I assume she got the train. It’s what she usually did. We walked out together—we sometimes do after a tutorial—we walked to my bus stop, which is about fifty yards down the road. She left me there. She gets her bus from the south side. She likes to walk.”

  On the sports field, the women are jogging around the pitch, legs red against the cold, clouds of breath streaming out behind them.

  “You ever go for a drink together, after work, perhaps?”

  He pulls back a little. “The odd time, but it wasn’t a habit, no.”

  There is a defensive note to his voice. I back off, give him a smile. Trust is hard-earned and worth keeping with witnesses and suspects alike.

  “Do you know if Eleanor had any enemies? Was she in any trouble?”

  His bottom lip juts out; shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. She seemed happy, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Money trouble?”

  “I don’t think so. But she probably wouldn’t discuss that kind of thing with me.”

  He frowns, face softening into an expression of regret. “I’m sorry, Detective. But I really should be getting back to the lecture hall. The end-of-term exams are coming up, and the students have already suffered a huge upheaval.”

  I stand, offer my hand. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Murphy. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of Dr. Costello’s office?”

  “Of course. Thank you, Detective.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll probably have more questions once we know a little more.” See which way the spinning bottle is pointing.

  He fishes about in his pocket, produces a stiff business card. “Here. My card. I will help any way I can. Truly. Call me day or night.”

  “Thank you. I might have to do that.”

  I take the card. There is fear in his eyes, and I can’t tell whether it’s for Eleanor Costello or himself.

  * * *

  —

  ELEANOR’S OFFICE IS not how it should be. Apart from a few tubes of lipstick and a bottle of perfume in the top drawer, there is little of Eleanor Costello here. The laboratories that she worked in are also predictably clean, as one would hope a microbiology lab would be. Her field was medical microbiology, specifically the effects of drugs on various pathogens. There are rows of petri dishes displaying diseases in all stages of progression and suppression held behind brightly lit incubators.

  The scenes of crime officers have arrived, and they remain, dissecting Costello’s office. Clancy has asked to check in. Or for him to check on me rather.

  I’m passing the coffee shop on the way out when the young woman, the barista from behind the counter, calls out. At first I think I’ve left my purse behind or, worse, my notes, but as she approaches, hands wringing, face creased, I realize that she wants to tell me something.

  “Hi,” I say, and put out my hand. “Detective Sheehan.”

  She gives my hand a brief, gentle shake. “Nicole. Nicole Duarte.” Her eyes slide to the floor. Nervous. “Dr. Costello? She’s dead?”

  Her teeth chew over a dry flake of skin on her bottom lip.

  “Yes. We believe she was murdered.”

  She peeks up at me, dark brows pulled down, skin blanched. “Murdered? Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I mean, who would do that?”

  Her hands weave worried knots in her apron.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Nicole, was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  She looks at the counter. Takes a step back in that direction. “No. Sorry. It’s not important.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She looks up at me, shakes her head. “I thought . . . I thought she killed herself is all.” Her eyes redden, water. She sniffs.

  I step forward. “Nicole, are you okay?”

  She nods. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

  “But you expected suicide?”

  She wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “No. Goodness, no. I reckon I was thinking of my own stuff. That’s all.” She sighs, and it hiccups in her throat. “I saw her leaving a therapist’s office in town months ago. When I heard suicide, I guess I thought she might have had depression or something.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  A stream of students comes round the corner, gathers in a line before the counter.

  “I have to get back to work,” she says.

  “Sure. Here,” I say. “Take my card. If you’ve anything you’d like to tell me, then contact me, anytime.”

  She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck, I hope you find whoever did it.”

  I nod. Watch her return to work, see how her eyes slide occasionally in my direction, waiting for me to leave.

  The afternoon is the gray, misty sort where it feels
like night has not really left the sky and the day is darkening before it began. It’s gloomy but no matter. October has always been one of my favorite months. The sharp angles of the trees are surprising in the landscape rather than depressing; a few stubborn fiery leaves flap about on the branches, holding on until the first storm rips them away and winter begins in earnest.

  Pausing at the university gates, I inhale the dank, earthy smell of autumn; feel the cold reach into my chest, tickle the base of my lungs. I am checking for anxiety, but there is none.

  * * *

  —

  STEVE WALKS OUT from the kitchenette, guiltily shoving a flaking slice of chocolate cake into his gob while looping his scarf around his neck. He stops abruptly when he sees me.

  “Chief!” Crumbs fall from his mouth. He glances around furtively. “My cover will be here shortly.”

  “Get out of here, Adams, while you still can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He rushes to the door.

  “And Steve?”

  “Yes.”

  “The reports are done?”

  “On your desk, Chief.”

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  He ducks out of the room, pulls the door behind him. I can hear his heels clopping smartly down the linoleum hallway toward the lifts.

  The night shift are settled into their tasks, working in the half-light of computer screens. I retreat to the isolation of my office. The reports are laid out neatly; photographs peek out from between the pages. I run my hand over them, ease the pages apart. “Victim.” “Cause of death.” The words and phrases of crime, of murder, lift out from the text. A familiar sensation spreads over the side of my head, an itching, like a nettle sting. I trace my hairline, fingers featherlight over the scar, and a thin layer of moisture rises like hot breath over my skin.

  Reaching down to my right, I open the middle drawer of my desk and move the files forward. A soothing wash of relief runs through me when I touch the glass. I don’t have a drinking problem, but there are some days when I could happily succumb to alcohol’s warm, soft oblivion. I lift the bottle away, unscrew the top, and take a few burning mouthfuls. Already, I feel safer. Or maybe the alcohol simply makes me care less.