The Murder Box by Olivia Kiernan

Author:Olivia Kiernan [Kiernan, Olivia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Suspense, Fiction & Literature
ISBN: 9781529401172
Google: t__cDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0875RYCVX
Goodreads: 56924204
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2021-07-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

The rain has given way and the September light is gold and warm on the grounds of Trinity College. There’s a lick of cool in the breeze and students are already trying out their winter coats as they walk in small groups towards their various meeting points. A couple of tourists follow a map across the courtyard, pause to take photos of the historic buildings. I perch against the cold granite of the campanile – the famous bell tower in the middle of the grounds. Twin maples stand on either side of the lawns, their leaves showing the changes of the season, bright yellow and burnt orange. Even though it’s quiet enough, you can almost feel the new-term energy in the air; takes me back to that feeling of potential when I was studying. When everything was still up for grabs, or we were naive enough to think so, anyway.

We have five persons of interest. Five people who we are busy trying to link to Lydia Callin, but no matter how much we dig we can’t find any crossovers between their lives and hers. Desperate to pull in some fresh evidence, I thought again to conduct a search and seize of all of their homes. Try to locate the boxes. A phone call to Camille Forbes deterred me from that path. ‘We bring in those boxes,’ she said, ‘these players will simply cover their homework with their arms. They’re in it to win.’ And she’s right. Our monitoring of the murder box site has given us nothing that could prompt an arrest. If one of them is involved in Lydia’s murder – or all of them – we’ve nothing that would induce them to talk.

She went on: ‘If there wasn’t a clock on the website, I might say go on as you are, proceed at your leisure but I’m sure you know that the clock brings about an end to the game regardless and they may know that it likely signals another victim. Until that last moment, to them, everything remains in play and your actions to intercept them make no difference. Go in on them, but go in softly.’

I look up in time to see Derek Cohen exit a side building, the security guard I asked to dig him out walking by his side. Derek keeps his head down, his gait quick, even and measured. He’s not the tallest, maybe five six, dark hair, a beard filling out a narrow jawline. He’s wearing a pair of black combats, trainers and blue hoodie that droops from one shoulder. The security guard points him in my direction and he walks towards me.

I push away from the campanile. ‘Derek Cohen?’

He stops, pulls the strap of his laptop bag higher. ‘Yes,’ he says cautiously.

‘Detective Frankie Sheehan,’ I say, ‘with the Bureau for Serious Crime.’

He glances around as if someone might overhear. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘Think your man there said there’s a café close by?’

‘I have lectures.’

I smile at him.

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