The Red Ribbon Girls

by Adam J. Wright

  Greg appears at the flat door, still wearing the dark blue apron he wears when he’s cooking. “Hey, guys. Come in, come in.”

  Everyone goes into the flat and I hear Nia exclaim, Wow, this is lovely!” but I’m still staring at the lift. I’m remembering when Rob came up to stop Greg going into the attic. We’d barely been out in the hallway more than 20 seconds when the lift arrived at this floor.

  But it’s so slow that even if Rob had seen us on the hallway camera, as Greg suggested, and got into the lift immediately, he wouldn’t have arrived at this floor so quickly. The lift takes at least a minute to travel here from the ground floor.

  So Rob must have already been in the lift before we went out into the hallway. How could he have known we were going to go into the attic before we even left the flat?

  Greg pops his head around the door. “You coming?”

  “Yeah,” I say, turning away from the lift and going into the flat. Nia and Will are making all the right noises about our new home and the kids are exploring it with interest.

  “This place is lovely,” Nia says, coming up to me. “And the views are magnificent!”

  I smile and nod but I’m distracted, my eyes searching the walls and ceiling for any cracks or holes.

  Anywhere a camera might be hidden.

  Chapter 18

  It’s cold and windy on the beach and my scarf is blowing about crazily, whipping my face, but Jordan and Kishawn are having a great time splashing in the sea in their wellies and chasing each other across the sand.

  Greg and I wander along behind them, arm in arm, and I wonder if this is what it might be like in the future if we have children of our own; lazy afternoons on the beach while they play and run without a care in the world.

  My earlier worries about a camera in our flat have been assuaged. A quick inspection of the walls and ceiling revealed nowhere that such a device could be hidden.

  In fact, it looks like any holes in the plaster have been recently filled and given a lick of paint. So Rob might not have spent the two years after Caroline’s disappearance remodelling the flat, as Ivy suggested, but he’s certainly dabbed some paint here and there, like Mike said.

  “I hope Nia and Will are having a nice time,” I say to Greg.

  “I’m sure they are. Who wouldn’t want to be in an isolated B&B in the middle of winter? “

  “They just want to spend some time together. So isolated is perfect.”

  He shrugs. “It just seems like an odd time of the year.”

  “Nia’s a bit worried that things aren’t going great between them at the moment so there’s no time like the present to get it sorted. Besides, it’s a new year, so why not also a new phase of their relationship? It’s a perfect time.”

  “I didn’t realise they were having problems. Will hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”

  “Well, women talk more about that sort of thing to their friends, I suppose.”

  “Whereas men have a stiff upper lip and carry on regardless.”

  “No, men bottle everything up and worry about it without saying anything to anyone and then have a heart attack in their fifties.”

  “Hmm, I suppose so.”

  We walk on a bit farther and I watch the seagulls hovering above the waves and standing by the sea’s edge, hoping a tasty morsel will be washed up somewhere close by. Jordan runs up to one but the bird takes flight long before he reaches it and chastises him with a loud cry.

  “I wonder how many times Caroline Shields came to the beach?” I wonder aloud.

  “You’re still thinking about her?”

  I told Greg about Caroline going missing two years ago and the fact that she lived in our flat and was friends with Ivy. I also told him about the police not interviewing Rob North when they came to the house. Greg agrees that it’s an oversight but doesn’t think much of it. “It’s not like he’s a murderer,” he said when I mentioned it to him.

  I didn’t take the conversation any further. After the trouble we had following the Simon Coates debacle, I don’t want Greg to think I’m going to throw accusations at someone else.

  And I’m not going to throw any accusations around. Not without proof, anyway.

  “I just wonder about her life sometimes, that’s all,” I tell Greg. “And some things make me think about her. Like being on this beach. How many times did Caroline come here, not knowing that her days were numbered?”

  “Sounds a bit morbid.”

  “I know but I can’t help feeling that way sometimes with all that’s going on around us. They found Amy Donovan quite close to where we live.”

  “Okay, but you don’t even know if Caroline Shields is dead. For all you know, she could have faked her death and now she’s living it up in the Bahamas or somewhere like that.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t what happened, Greg.”

  “Why not? You couldn’t blame her if she did run off to warmer climes. It’s bloody freezing here. And we’re supposed to get another snowstorm in a few days, as well as sub-zero temperatures.”

  “She didn’t run off; her car was found on the moors.”

  “Well, that’s easily explained.” He thinks for a couple of seconds and then says, “She ran away with her lover. They drove out to the moors together, dumped Caroline’s car, and then drove to the airport in the lover’s car. And that car is still in the long-stay car park at the airport.”

  “After two years?”

  “Well it is long-stay after all.”

  “And did Caroline change her clothes before boarding the flight or did she arrive in the Bahamas dressed as Snow White?”

  Now he looks confused. “What?”

  “She was on her way to a Christmas party that night, dressed as Snow White.”

  He considers that for a moment and then says, “She stayed in costume and her lover was dressed as Grumpy the dwarf.”

  I laugh. “You’ve got an overactive imagination.”

  “I’m not the one thinking our landlord has something to do with a vanished woman.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but you’re thinking it, aren’t you? That’s why you mentioned the police not interviewing Rob. Why would that be an issue unless you think there’s some reason why they should have interviewed him?”

  “I just mentioned it as an example of how sloppy the police investigation was, that’s all.”

  “Come on, Kate, I know you better than that.”

  I shrug.

  “Look,” he says, “Rob is creepy, and rude, and lacks social skills, but that doesn’t make him a murderer or whatever it is you’re accusing him of.”

  “I know that. I’m just—” I let my words trail off.

  “You’re trying to solve the case of Caroline Shields’ disappearance. Just like you tried to solve the case of Danny Coates’ death. You can’t solve the world’s problems, Kate.”

  “I’m not trying to.”

  “You are. You always do.”

  “I’m just trying to make sure that if a person hurts someone else, they don’t get away with it.”

  “That’s the purpose of the police. They investigate crimes and put bad guys away. You told the policewoman at the restaurant about them not interviewing Rob so if she thinks that’s relevant, I’m sure she’ll follow it up. If not, then she won’t. But that’s for her to decide because that’s her job.”

  “Whereas I’m just a lowly book editor who shouldn’t get involved in such things, is that right?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I just don’t want you doing something—” Now it’s his turn to let his words trail off.

  “Something stupid?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  I let out a long breath. “You didn’t have to, Greg. Don’t worry, we’re not going to have a repeat of what happened last year.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that. We walk on in silence, watching Jordan and Kisha
wn as they chase seagulls and pick up pebbles that have been worn down by the relentless sea for so long that they’ve lost their original shape and all that remains is a smooth remnant of what they once were.

  When we arrive back at Northmoor House, we’re all tired. Jordan is almost asleep on the back seat and Kishawn is typing on her phone and yawning. Greg seems weary as he pulls into the parking area and I feel as if the wind has battered me into an exhausted submission.

  “Can I watch telly when we get inside?” Kishawn asks, looking up from her phone.

  “Of course,” Greg says. “And while you do that, I’m going to make us pasta for tea. Maybe Jordan can help me.”

  Jordan gives him a tired smile.

  Greg grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  We go inside to find Ivy’s and Rob’s doors both open. Ivy is standing in the hallway with a tin of tuna in her hand. She’s looking towards Rob’s flat and doesn’t seem to have noticed our presence.

  “What’s up, Ivy?” I touch her gently on the shoulder and she jumps.

  “Oh, it’s you, dear. It’s Winston. He’s gone into the basement flat and I can’t go in there to get him because of the steps.”

  “Who’s Winston?” Jordan asks.

  “Winston is my kitty, dear.”

  I look at the open door to the basement flat, then back at Ivy. “Where’s Rob?”

  She shakes her head. “Who knows? He went up in the lift about half an hour ago and left his bloody door open. And Winston, being a curious cat, went down there to have a look around.”

  “I want to see the kitty!” Jordan says, running towards Rob’s door.

  “Jordan, come back!” I shout after him but it’s too late. He’s gone through the door and down the steps to the basement flat.

  “I’ll get him,” Greg says, starting after Jordan.

  “No, let me.” I push past him. If I want to get a look inside Rob’s flat, this is as good a chance as I’m ever going to get. He can hardly get angry if I’ve gone in there to rescue a child and a cat.

  “Don’t forget Winston,” Ivy calls after me as I go through the door and descend the steps.

  The room at the bottom of the steps smells of unwashed socks and stale food. Because the room is subterranean, the only natural light comes through thin windows set high into the walls. The room is dim and I suppose it has to be lit with artificial light all the time. That, along with the fact that Rob only seems to go out at night, explains why his skin is so pasty.

  Jordan is standing in the middle of the room, facing me, fists clenched. His face has a worried expression and he seems to have suddenly thought better of coming down here into the weakly-lit room.

  “Jordan, come on!” I wave him over and he comes to me. “Go back upstairs to Greg and Kishawn,” I tell him. He does so.

  I continue into the flat, calling Winston while I look around the living room.

  The furniture in here looks like it’s from the ‘70s. There’s a worn green settee with scratched wooden arms and an oval-shaped wooden coffee table with spindly legs. It’s weighed down by stacks of magazines. Sitting on a second coffee table which has been repurposed as a TV stand, a large flatscreen TV faces the settee. Beneath this coffee table sit a number of game consoles and an assortment of controllers.

  There are posters everywhere, of characters from video games, women from men’s magazines, and fantasy art that depicts heavily-muscled barbarians and scantily-clad damsels. A number of horror and science fiction film posters also fight for wall space.

  There’s a small cluttered and dirty kitchen through an open doorway and two closed doors, which I assume lead to Rob’s bedroom and the bathroom. A clatter from the kitchen catches my attention and I turn to see Winston walking across the worktop, sniffing around the pots and pans that are stacked in the sink.

  “Winston!”

  The cat looks at me and jumps down to the floor. Before I can grab him, he shoots out of the flat and up the stairs to the hallway. I hear Ivy say, “Winston, you naughty boy!”

  Then I hear a rumble in the walls and realise it’s the lift coming down to the ground floor. My eyes dart around the flat. The lift takes 30 seconds between floors, which means it will take a minute if it’s coming from the 2nd floor but only half that if it’s coming from the 1st. I can’t think of any reason why Rob would be on our floor so I have to assume I only have 30 seconds to look around.

  I open one of the doors and enter a small bedroom. As well as an unmade single bed, there’s a desk and computer in here, as well as an old wardrobe and a bedside table. The walls in here are covered by posters, like the living room. All of these are photographs or cartoon depictions of women.

  There’s a small, flat box on the bedside table and I read it without picking it up. The printing on the box says, Valium (diazepam) 10 mg.

  No wonder Rob is so slow and doesn’t do anything in a hurry; he’s probably dosing himself with sedatives all the time.

  I can’t stay in here any longer. The lift is still rumbling but I know it will stop any second now and I can’t use the excuse of children or cats to explain why I’m in here when Jordan and Winston are now in the hallway.

  I rush out of the bedroom and across the living room to the steps. I take a last look at the flat and notice something on the coffee table, among the piles of magazines.

  My bloody pen.

  It’s too generic an item to be sure but I’m convinced this is the pen I used when I was working on The Secrets of Falcon House. And now it’s here, sitting on Rob’s coffee table, giving me all the confirmation I need that he let himself into our flat while I was out.

  Leaving it there, I bound up the steps and out into the hallway where everyone is waiting for me.

  “What took you so long?” Greg asks.

  “Nothing,” I say breathlessly.

  The lift judders to a halt and Rob steps out. He sees us standing by his door and his face instantly takes on a suspicious expression. “What’s going on?”

  “My poor Winston got lost in your flat,” Ivy tells him. “You need to keep your door shut in future. God only knows what could have happened to him down there.”

  Rob looks at his open door and then at each of us in turn. “Well, you know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Don’t you threaten Winston,” Ivy shouts at him. “I’ll give you a good hiding if you go anywhere near him.”

  Rob just smiles and disappears through his door, closing it behind him.

  “He’s a monster,” Ivy says. “Threatening a poor defenceless cat like that!”

  “I’m sure it’s all just for show,” Greg tell her. “I don’t think he’d actually harm Winston.”

  I’m not so sure of that but I don’t say anything.

  Ivy is still incensed. “I meant what I said. If he harms a hair on Winston’s head, he’ll rue the day, believe me.”

  “I believe you,” Greg says. “I feel sorry for anyone who crosses you, Ivy.”

  “Just as long as he knows it,” she says, pointing at Rob’s door.

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Well all right then. I’m going to give Winston some tuna now.” She takes the cat into her flat and closes the door.

  Greg looks at me and lets out a sigh. “Well at least that’s sorted.”

  I nod. “Until next time.”

  Kishawn pulls on my sleeve and looks up at me. “I think Jordan took something. That’s why he won’t open his hands.”

  “No, I didn’t!” Jordan says.

  I look at him and see that his hands are still closed into fists. “Have you got something, Jordan?”

  He shakes his head but doesn’t open his hands.

  “He’s always taking things,” Kishawn says. “Mum says he’s a klepto-something.”

  “No, I’m not!” Jordan says, taking off towards the stairs.

  We all follow him but he’s so fast, we don’t catch up to him until he’s on the second floor, outside
our flat. There’s nowhere else for him to run so he’s standing with his arms folded tightly.

  I crouch in front of him. “What have you got, Jordan?”

  “Nothing,” he whines, shaking head.

  I hold out my hand. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong to you. You should give it to me and I’ll return it to its rightful owner.”

  “No, he’ll be mad at me for taking it.”

  “Who will?”

  “The man downstairs. The man who doesn’t like cats.”

  “I’m sure he won’t be mad if we explain to him that you took it by accident. And if you apologise. You know that taking things is wrong, don’t you?”

  He nods hesitantly.

  “It’s because he’s a klepto-shaman-ack,” Kishawn offers.

  “Why don’t you give me what you took?” I say to Jordan.

  He holds out his fist and opens it. A single item drops from his fingers and I catch it.

  When I open my hand and see what he took from Rob’s flat, my breath catches in my throat.

  Lying on my palm is a scrunched up red ribbon.

  Chapter 19

  It is Saturday night and it is cold. The sky is clear of clouds, the stars and moon shining down on him brightly as he parks the Land Rover on the North Terrace, the road that runs along the top of Whitby’s West Cliff. Most of the buildings here are hotels and B&Bs. All of their windows are dark.

  The parking meters are covered with canvas hoods that bear a sign saying, Parking Free Until 1st of March. There are no other people around.

  He walk north from the car and finds the tarmac path that angles down the cliff to the beach below. The tide is coming in but there is still a sliver of sand visible in the moonlight.

  He descends the steep path as quickly as he dares, eager to get to the ice cold water but also wary of slipping and falling to the cement promenade below.

  When he reaches the promenade, he descends the concrete steps to the beach and then pauses to take in his surroundings. The area seems deserted, the town slumbering. The only sound is the rhythmic rush of the waves as they sweep over the sand.