The Red Ribbon Girls

by Adam J. Wright

  I mentioned a number of cases where foul play might be involved and no one would be any the wiser because of the lack of evidence. One of those cases was the death of Danny Coates. I suggested that perhaps some of these cases should be re-examined.

  Despite the Recorder’s modest circulation, the story sent shockwaves through the community. Released during a slow news week, it garnered the attention of the national tabloids and soon the headline LOCAL NEWSPAPER ACCUSES SIMON COATES OF MURDERING OWN SON appeared on every newstand and in every newsfeed across the country.

  The Recorder, fearing legal action, fired me. It soon became clear that Simon Coates didn’t intend to make good on his promise to sue, but not before he threw out a nasty barb on television. A couple of seconds after the photograph had been taken outside the police station, he faced the cameras and said, “Mrs Lumley’s own brother died in mysterious circumstances. Perhaps that case should be reopened!”

  That comment dealt a vicious blow. It left me reeling. I hadn’t mentioned Max in my article because I wasn’t ready to talk about his death, not even in print. There was a black hole inside me where all of the emotions surrounding my brother’s death were hidden and I didn’t dare disturb it for fear of what might come flooding out.

  I was ten when Max died. Dad told me that there was no one responsible for my brother’s death and so I had no one to blame, no one to hate. Unable to express those two emotions, my ten-year-old self had simply placed a mental door over the black hole and locked it.

  The only people I ever talked to in any detail about Max were Greg, my best friend Nia, and my therapist. And whenever I spoke of him, it was in a matter-of-fact manner that didn’t betray the love I felt for my younger brother, who’d always called me Katy and had an enthusiasm for life.

  My therapist, of course, had connected Max to my article about Simon Coates. “Did you write the article because you needed to blame someone for Max’s death?” she asked me one afternoon.

  “Of course not,” I said. “Simon Coates isn’t responsible for Max.”

  “No, he isn’t, but your subconscious mind might have felt that finding someone to blame for Danny Coates’ death would make up for not finding someone to blame for Max’s.”

  I said nothing.

  She continued, peering at me over her glasses. “And that’s what you have a hard time accepting; that sometimes bad things just happen and there’s nobody to blame.”

  I close the folder on the computer and sit back in my chair, letting out a long breath.

  Deep down, I know my therapist was right. When I wrote the article for the Recorder, it was Max who had occupied my thoughts and a sense of quiet rage that had fuelled my emotions. I knew that there was no one to blame for Max’s death but what if there was someone to blame for Danny’s? Didn’t the boy deserve justice? If there was even a shadow of a doubt…

  Except there wasn’t any doubt at all in the police report. Danny’s death was ruled accidental and saying otherwise destroyed my career.

  Simon Coates might not have sued the Recorder or me but he came after me another way. I started getting phone calls at all hours where the caller would hang up as soon as I answered. On two occasions, I found my tyres slashed. The worst incident was when someone spray-painted the word LIAR over our front door in red paint in the middle of the night.

  The harassment went on for months. In the end, Greg decided to apply for a transfer at the bank where he worked. When Middlesbrough became available, he jumped at it because he knew I’d always wanted to live by the sea and it was possible to get a place on the east coast within commuting distance.

  My own job, as developmental editor for Wollstonecraft Publishing meant I could work from home, so the change of location wouldn’t affect my career.

  I down the coffee and get up from the desk. My therapist was right; it’s best not to dwell on the past. Thinking about Max makes me feel so helpless, that the world is a cruel place and there’s nothing we can do to change it.

  After pouring a second mug of coffee, I go to the living room window and look out at the same view I’d fallen in love with yesterday. The landscape has changed since then. The storm clouds that were roiling over the sea have gone, replaced with clear blue sky. The fields and distant cliffs are covered with a white blanket that glitters in the sunshine.

  Max would have loved this. When our Mum and Dad took us to the Brecon Beacons in Wales for a holiday of camping and hiking, Max complained that he wanted to go to the seaside instead. He loved the sea. If we’d gone to the sea that year, he would probably still be alive.

  In a way, I feel like I’ve moved here for him. We had good times during our seaside holidays; running along the beach, paddling in the sea, and building sandcastles that would inevitably be washed away by the unstoppable tide. Even though Max was two years younger than me, I never thought of him as the baby of the family; we played together without any care for the age difference between us.

  That might have changed eventually if we’d both grown a bit older together but, of course, that never happened. Our relationship froze when I was 10 and he was 8 and we were best friends.

  My phone rings, bringing me out of my reverie. It’s Nia. She’s another reason we decided on Whitby when we were looking for somewhere to live. Nia and her husband live in Robin Hood’s Bay, which is only a fifteen minute drive from here.

  I’ve known Nia Mitchell since she was Nia Preston and I was Kate Vance, two teenagers working weekends in a clothing store in Manchester. We both started on the same day and became fast friends. Since then, we’ve been involved in each other’s lives every step of the way. I was Nia’s shoulder to cry on when she split up with her first serious boyfriend, and she was mine when Doug Hendrix—a guy I met while working as an apprentice at a local newspaper—and I went our separate ways.

  I was maid of honour when Nia married Will and became Nia Mitchell and she was matron of honour when I married Greg four years later. We’re godparents to their son and daughter, Jordan and Kishawn, and if Greg and I ever have kids, I’d like Nia and Will to be godparents to them.

  As soon as I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear, Nia is already talking.

  “Hey, girl, how’s it going? Have you settled into your gothic mansion yet?”

  I laugh. “As you know, we only rent one floor of said mansion.”

  “Well that’s a start. Anyway, are you too busy unpacking or do you want to meet up for a coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds great.”

  “Okay, do you know a place called Hallowed Grounds? It’s on Church Street. We went there a couple of years ago. It’s the one where Greg and Will spent most of their time coming up with coffee shop names that were puns.”

  I groan. “I remember. Has Beans.”

  “Yeah, that was one of them. Another was Around The Blend.”

  “We have to make sure they never go into business together.”

  “So do you remember where it is?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “But if it’s on Church Street, I’ll find it.”

  “Great. I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  An hour isn’t much time to get ready but I should be able to make it. “See you then.”

  “And be careful on the roads,” she warns, “there’s a lot of ice and snow out there.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and push two pieces of bread into the toaster. After buttering it and eating it at the counter, I take a quick shower, reminding myself to get some mould remover for the tiles while I’m in town, and dress in my warmest clothes. When I check myself in the full-length bedroom mirror, togged up in boots, salopettes, a thick snow jacket and a woollen slouch beanie—from which my blonde hair keeps escaping until I use a hairband to keep it in place beneath the hat—I decide that I look like I’m about trek to Antarctica rather than drive a couple of miles into town.

  Still, it’ll have to do. I only have twenty minutes left to get into town and find Hallowed Gr
ounds.

  I grab the flat key, stuff a pair of fleece-lined gloves into my pockets, and go out into the hallway, locking the door behind me. As I walk beneath the attic hatch, something catches my attention; a shiny silver padlock hanging from a hasp and staple that Rob must have fixed into place. Last night, we heard him walking around in the attic, his footsteps pounding down through our ceiling, and then we heard banging in the hallway. The banging was obviously the sound of him fitting the lock to the attic.

  What can he have up there that’s so precious? In a house of this age, I’d expect the attic to be full of nothing more than old junk and furniture. I shrug beneath my jacket. Whatever. The attic isn’t part of our lease anyway so it’s none of my concern, just as long as we don’t have any more water leaking into our flat.

  I reach the stairs and descend them quickly, relieved that I’m not in the confined space of the lift. And using the stairs should get me to the ground floor in less than the whole minute the lift takes.

  When I reach the ground floor—in 45 seconds if my counting is accurate—Winston appears and starts to rub round my legs, purring. Ivy’s door is open and the old lady is sitting at her kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea. I wave in at her and she waves back.

  “Good morning, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I can’t right now, I need to get my car defrosted and head into town.”

  Her face falls slightly. I wonder how many visitors she gets in her flat, if any.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’ll get the car started and let it run for a while to heat up. While it’s doing that, I’d love to have a cup of tea with you.”

  She brightens and gets up from the table. “I’ll put on a fresh pot.”

  I go outside, being careful not to let Winston follow me, and groan when I see the ice covering the Mini’s windscreen and the layer of snow sitting on the roof and bonnet. The day is cold and even though the breeze is nothing like last night’s winds, it chills my face as I don the gloves and wipe the snow off the car. I open the driver’s door and start the engine, thankful when it purrs into life immediately.

  After dialling the heat up to maximum and turning on the rear windscreen heater, I get out of the car and lock it. That’s a precaution I probably don’t need to take, since the house is in the middle of nowhere, but city-living and the events of the past year have instilled in me a heightened wariness when it comes to security.

  There are two other cars in the parking area, an old green Land Rover Defender and a red Volvo. Like my Mini, each has a layer of snow on its roof and a sheet of ice on its windscreen. But unlike my car, the Land Rover doesn’t have any snow on its bonnet. Instead, there is only a pool of water. I remove one glove and go over the car, touching the bonnet. The metal is cold now but it must have been warm when the snow fell early this morning. Was this the car I saw last night from my window?

  There’s a clear space on the ground, where a parked car shielded the gravel beneath it from the snowfall. It’s next to my Mini, where Greg’s Honda was parked.

  I go back inside to find Winston waiting for me inside the door. He follows me into Ivy’s flat where the old lady is sitting at the table again. A pot of tea sits in front of her, along with a set of matching china cups and saucers. There’s a pleasant smell of warm biscuits in the kitchen. It’s so warm in here, I have to take off my jacket and hat and hang them over the back of my chair before I sit down.

  Ivy fills two cups with tea and passes one to me. “Here you are, dear. Might as well start the day right, with a cup of tea.” She places a full sugar bowl and cream jug in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s really cold out there.”

  She nods. “That’s why Winston won’t go out. He doesn’t like the cold. He usually does his business in the garden but when it’s like this, he uses his tray instead.”

  “Have you lived here long?” I ask.

  “Twelve years. Since my George died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It was for the best. He was in so much pain from cancer that when the end came, it was a blessing, really. My daughters decided I should live somewhere smaller, easier to manage. Downsizing, they called it.” She looks wistfully at her tea cup. “It was all right in the beginning, when I could still get around. But now I have trouble with my hips and I can’t get to the bus stop to go into town.” She puts her hands up and looks around the flat. “So this is all I have now.”

  My heart goes out to her. “If you ever want a lift into town, just let me know. I’ll be happy to take you. I’m going there now if you want a lift, or if you want me to bring anything back for you.”

  “There’s no need to trouble yourself, dear.”

  “It’s no trouble, really.”

  She looks pensively at the window. “Well, I wouldn’t want to go out in this weather but perhaps some other time. That’s very kind of you.” She reaches forward and taps my hand with her icy fingers. “Now, you must have a biscuit. I baked them this morning so they’re still nice and warm.” She gets up, opens one of the kitchen cupboards, and brings out a plate of shortbread biscuits. Setting the plate down on the table between us, she gestures to them. “Help yourself, dear.”

  Despite having recently eaten two slices of toast, I gratefully pick up a biscuit and take a bite. It’s wonderfully warm, with a delicious buttery taste. “These are amazing!”

  Ivy beams. “I’ll wrap some up for you so you can take them home and give some to your husband. He was telling me this morning how good they smelled while they were baking.”

  “You saw Greg this morning?”

  “Yes, he’s a lovely chap. You’ve done all right for yourself with that one.” She winks at me and takes the biscuits to the counter, where she puts half a dozen of them into a small Tupperware container and snaps the lid shut.

  When she brings the container back to the table, I say, “I suppose you see everyone who comes and goes, being here on the ground floor.”

  Ivy nods sagely. “Nothing much gets past me.”

  “I heard a car last night. Well, this morning, really—”

  “Just after two this morning,” she says. She points out of the open front door. “It was him. He goes out at all hours of the night. Thinks I don’t know about it but I sleep as light as a feather. If a mouse sneezed on the second floor, I’d hear it. And his car’s noisy.”

  “Is it the green one?”

  She nods. “The Land Rover.”

  “Where do you think he goes at that time of night?” I ask lightly.

  “I don’t know.” She looks at me closely and lowers her voice. “It all seems a bit sinister to me.”

  “Sinister?” I wonder if Ivy knows something about Rob or if she’s just making up a story to entertain me.

  “I have my suspicions,” she says, tapping her nose and winking at me. “I think he gets up to all sorts.”

  I lean closer and whisper conspiratorially, hoping she’ll elaborate. “Like what?”

  She pauses momentarily, probably for dramatic effect, before whispering, “Nightclubs.”

  “Nightclubs?”

  Sitting back in her chair, Ivy nods and takes a sip of her tea. “They get up to all kinds of things in those places. Drugs for one thing. I wouldn’t put it past him. He seems spaced out most of the time.”

  Her answer disappoints me. I thought she might have some real suspicions regarding Rob; something I—

  I could what? Investigate? Those days are gone, Kate. You have a good job, a good husband, and a nice flat by the sea. You don’t want to rock the boat.

  I finish my tea and biscuit and thank Ivy. “Now, I really must be going. Is there anything you want me to bring you back from town?”

  “No, I’m fine, dear. You have a nice time.”

  When I get into the Mini, most of the ice has melted off the windscreen, leaving streaks of water on the glass. The wipers are still frozen so I get out of the car again and use my glove to dry
the windscreen.

  As I do, I notice that someone else has been out here recently. A fresh set of boot prints leads from around the rear of the house to my Mini. I’m sure the prints weren’t there when I came out to start the car and closer inspection shows me that they lead right to up my driver’s door.

  They don’t go to any other vehicle; not to the Land Rover or the Volvo. Only the Mini.

  Did someone try to get into my car while I was having tea with Ivy?

  I follow the prints back around the rear of the house. There’s a small garden back here, covered with snow, and a flagstone path that follows the edge of the house to a door. That’s where the footprints begin, just outside the door.

  The door itself is fairly innocuous looking: heavy wood painted black with a large brass door knob. I wonder if this is Northmoor House’s original back door. It probably led into a kitchen in Victorian times. But where does it lead now?

  I grasp the knob and push but the door is firmly locked.

  It doesn’t take much mental calculation to figure out who came out of this door and went to my car. Rob North.

  I walk back to my car and climb in, checking that nothing is missing from the glove box even though there’s nothing of value in there anyway and the car was locked. I also check the back seat.

  Satisfied that no one actually got inside, I put the car into gear, gently press the accelerator, and ease out of my parking space and through the open gate in the low stone wall that surrounds the Northmoor House.

  When I get the car onto the snowy road and trundle slowly past the house to make sure I don’t slide into said wall, I happen to glance at the basement window.

  As I look, a shadow moves away from the window and melts into the darkness within.

  Chapter 4

  “You found it!” Nia says, getting up from a table as I enter Hallowed Grounds. Despite the weather, the coffee shop is full of people. There’s a smell of roast coffee beans drifting from the kitchen and the place is full of sound: customers chattering, cups and saucers clattering, and the clanging of forks on plates. As well as coffee, Hallowed Grounds serves cakes and most people seem to have a slice of chocolate cake or strawberry gateau on the table in front of them.