Red Ribbons

by Louise Phillips

  Passing the living room on his way to the stairs, his curiosity was aroused when he saw the hot ashes in the fire, some of which had blown out onto the large hearth rug. If there was one thing he knew about William Cronly, it was that he was awful tight when it came to money, and lighting fires in the middle of the day was not something he’d have done unless he had planned to hang around for a while. He was about to go upstairs when he noticed that the ash on the rug looked wet. Kneeling down, he put his hand to it, and discovered that the whole mat was soaked. He looked around more carefully, and it was then that he realised parts of the walls had been washed down too. He thought about checking the garage, to see what cleaning stuff had been used, but then remembered the bolts, and the new lock fitted on the back kitchen door.

  His head told him to grab the money and get the hell out of there, but his gut told him Cronly had been up to no good. In the past, when the old bat was asleep, Steve had roamed around the house plenty of times, but he’d never gone into the son’s bedroom. Mainly because Cronly gave him the creeps, especially the way he’d crawl around the place. You were never fully sure whether or not the guy was there. He remembered once standing in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea, when Cronly came right up behind him – nearly killed him with the fright.

  Abandoning any further investigation downstairs, he went upstairs to get the last of the money out of the sideboard, deciding that with the house empty there would be no harm having a good last look around.

  In a house like Cronly, the place was one nook and cranny after another. He’d been in the mother’s bedroom many times, but with this being his last opportunity to check things out, he made up his mind to have a look in at the son’s room. He had no idea what to expect, just thought it would be like the rest of the house. In many ways it was, but the thing that struck him most was how much of the stuff looked like it belonged to a kid. There was a painted wooden train set made up in the corner, and to the left of the bed sat stacks of comics. On top of the window seat, a whole bloody toy farm – all the animals set out, like a child had just been playing with them. There were other items on the top of a high wooden dresser: an ornate silver crucifix on a stand, a framed photograph of a man with a husky dog, a folded piece of cream silk cloth, and what looked like an old library book, A Traveller’s Guide to Italy, to the side, all the items placed like it was some kind of altar, and to the front, on top of the piece of cream silk, a tiny metal key.

  It didn’t take him long to find the attaché case under the bed, and when he saw the Italian stickers on it, he remembered what Mrs Flood had told him about the family trip to Tuscany. Maybe he could cash in on a whole lot more than the contents of the sideboard. Maybe there was something in this case that might hold the Cronly family secrets. He felt like a kid himself when the tiny key turned in both locks.

  At first, the contents of the case were a disappointment. Apart from a Polaroid camera, some spools of ribbons and assorted bits and pieces, there was nothing of value. What finally attracted his attention was a small leather pouch with a tie string, like the kind gold miners might have used to hold nuggets. Pulling open the pouch, he didn’t find gold nuggets, just three miniature plastic zip bags, each one containing a lock of hair. He wasn’t sure what any of the contents meant, but he reckoned they meant something to William Cronly. Most of the items, including some small earrings, were things you’d expect to see in a girl’s suitcase, which made him wonder about the son’s sexual predilections – or even perversions. It would certainly explain why the snotty little shit never got married.

  He was about to put the suitcase back where he’d found it when he noticed the small crucifix on a chain. It was just a cheap yoke, but under it was a faded pink Polaroid photograph.

  Mervin Road

  Sunday, 9 October 2011, 1.00 p.m.

  WHEN KATE GOT BACK TO MERVIN ROAD, DECLAN and Charlie had made a pretend camp out of bedclothes, with sheets spreading from one couch to the other.

  ‘Come under, Mom, it’s cool,’ Charlie shouted, his little face red with excitement.

  ‘Is your Dad hiding in there?’ Kate tilted her head down and pulled up one of the sheets. Declan crawled out from underneath, looking a bit sheepish. Kate raised her eyebrows in amusement.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked

  ‘Let’s have coffee, Kate. Charlie, you’re now on lookout duty. Let no one pass.’

  Declan made two cups of coffee and brought them over to the table in the kitchen, where Kate waited silently until he sat down beside her.

  ‘You didn’t get back until late.’

  ‘I needed to clear my head.’

  ‘Want to share your thoughts?’ She blew her coffee to cool it down.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what exactly, but something is going on here. Things aren’t right between us.’

  ‘I know that, Declan. I guess I’ve known it for a while,’ she said, putting her coffee cup down, ‘but I just didn’t want to admit it.’

  Although she didn’t know what Declan was thinking, her response seemed to make everything more real. Declan opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by her mobile ringing. She picked it out of her bag and saw O’Connor’s name on the screen.

  ‘Let it go, Kate.’

  ‘I’ll only be a second. It might be important.’

  ‘And we’re not?’ Declan looked down into his coffee.

  ‘Of course we are. Look, I’ll take this and get it out of the way.’

  Kate walked out to the hallway. ‘O’Connor?’

  ‘That idiot Gunning has actually got something back from Interpol.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a connection to the crucifix, similar age, but the case is complicated. I have the images here.’

  ‘Can you send them over?’

  ‘You know that stuff is encrypted. You’ll have to come back to Tallaght.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘When would you like to come over, Kate? Yes, bloody now.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m on my way.’

  Declan had remained seated, waiting for her. He looked up as she walked in and his features, set in a hard line, spoke volumes.

  ‘Don’t bother, Kate, I can tell by the look of you you’re already on your way out the door.’

  ‘It’s just this case, Declan. I can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Wave to your son on your way out,’ he replied, his voice cool and unforgiving. ‘He’s the small guy on lookout.’

  Home of Dr Samuel Ebbs

  Sunday, 9 October 2011, 1.00 p.m.

  SAMUEL WAS LISTENING TO THE RADIO IN HIS KITCHEN, working on a cryptic crossword puzzle he was determined would not get the better of him, when the news reporter on the lunchtime news mentioned the ribbons and the plaiting. He turned the volume up. He had heard about the double murders, of course, who hadn’t? But when the newsreader mentioned the red ribbons and the plaiting, he listened more intently.

  Was it possible that Ellie Brady had made the whole thing up and he had been taken in by her lies? If she had heard the news bulletins, it would certainly explain why she had decided to come out of her shell all of a sudden. He had not discounted the idea that what she believed she remembered, and what was, in fact, the truth, might be two very different things. Yet if her story was nothing more than a fabrication, then Ellie Brady was some actress. For the first time in a very long time, Samuel felt real anger towards a patient. He’d believed Ellie Brady, had been moved by her story, but right there and then he cared less about her mental condition and more about how he might have been conned, particularly at this late stage in his career.

  His next meeting with Ellie wasn’t until the following morning. It would give him time to assess this latest development. If Ellie had listened to the coverage on the news, there was another possibility he could not dismiss, one that was easier to accept than believing Ellie had purposely wanted to trick him with a copycat story. He knew only too well that guilt did strange things to p
eople. At this point, it was completely possible that Ellie may not realise that she was making the whole thing up.

  Tallaght Garda Station, Incident Room

  Sunday, 9 October, 1.30 p.m.

  KATE’S THOUGHTS WERE ALL OVER THE PLACE AS SHE drove along the roads back to Tallaght Garda Station. She seemed to be doing nothing but apologising lately, particularly to Declan and Charlie. She hated leaving the two of them, especially when the look of disappointment on her son’s face equalled the look of annoyance on her husband’s. No one was happy. Although Declan probably didn’t realise the unhappiness extended to her too.

  She retraced her steps from the car park, into the station and back to the Incident Room, this time not waiting to be escorted inside. She was beginning to feel that O’Connor wasn’t the only one who needed a temporary office. Everyone looked just as they had done an hour earlier, frenzied and preoccupied, as if time was standing still. She weaved her way through their desks and walked into O’Connor’s office.

  ‘What do you have, O’Connor?’

  ‘A missing person case from forty years back. It was reopened five years ago. Skeletal remains of a young girl found buried in the grounds of an old church.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Livorno, Tuscany.’

  ‘Do they know who she was?’

  ‘Thirteen-year-old Silvia Vaccaro. The site was owned by the church, but it was subsequently sold to a developer. It was during the excavation that the girl’s remains were discovered.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Yeah. At the time of the girl’s disappearance, she was returning from a visit with her uncle, a Bishop Antonio Peri. He lived close to the church grounds. Her parents sent her there in 1972 to spend time with him, mainly because she had aspirations of entering the religious life.’

  ‘A long time back, O’Connor.’

  ‘I know, but what’s significant about the case is, firstly, the girl’s age, which was similar to that of both our victims, and, secondly, a silver crucifix was buried with her body.’ He watched Kate for her reaction.

  ‘Like the one we found with Caroline?’

  ‘Close enough, although Silvia’s was the real thing, not some cheap copy. The crucifix was given to Silvia by her parents, both of whom had died before the remains were discovered, but it was one of the first clues to the girl’s identification. According to the statements taken from the parents after she went missing, it was supposed to keep her safe while travelling away from home.’

  ‘Any idea how she died?’

  ‘She had multiple fractures, consistent with falling from a height, but the fact that the girl was buried and an attempt was made to keep the body hidden meant someone knew what had happened to her and didn’t want anyone else finding out. The Italian police have treated the death as suspicious since the remains were discovered.’

  ‘Do they have any suspects?’

  ‘That’s where it gets complicated. The church grounds in Livorno are less than a mile from the uncle’s home. The authorities spoke to him. He had moved to Florence not long after the girl’s disappearance, but came back to Livorno about a year ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He died a few months back. According to Gunning, and to quote his exact words, “he’s a dead-end”.’

  ‘Where are the images you mentioned?’

  ‘Here.’

  O’Connor turned his computer screen in Kate’s direction. The images from the Tuscan burial site formed a boxed pattern across the monitor. Just like both Irish victims, the skeleton remains of Silvia Vaccaro had been photographed from numerous angles. Kate took in everything she saw while O’Connor continued.

  ‘As I said, according to police reports, the fractures were consistent with falling from a height and were the most likely cause of death. What’s interesting, though, isn’t just the connection you mentioned about the crucifix, but the grave itself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You tell me, Kate. Keep looking.’

  She didn’t know what O’Connor meant, but Kate kept searching the images. Nothing obvious struck her. It simply looked like a hole with assorted bones in the ground. The remains may have revealed information to a forensic anthropologist, but to the naked eye not so much. It was then she remembered something from the photographs at the first mountain burial site, taken after the remains of Caroline had been removed. The more she studied the images from Tuscany, the more she saw how the stones near the bodies looked similar. At first she had thought they were not unusual, figuring them to be the way stones would naturally form underground, but the more she looked at the remains from Tuscany, the more her eyes were drawn to one particular element. Right at the top end, where the girl’s head would have laid, was a large, flat stone. In Caroline’s case, Kate had assumed it was too large for the killer to dig out, part of the natural formation, but at the Tuscan grave, a similar large stone was located in the same spot. Her eyes widened as she saw the connection.

  ‘So you see it?’ O’Connor asked.

  ‘The large flat stone? It’s like the one at Caroline’s burial.’

  ‘But this happened forty years ago, Kate. Can it be linked to our cases?’

  ‘If it’s connected, our killer must have been a child at the time of this girl’s death. If he witnessed it, and that’s a big ‘if’, maybe our victims are some form of copycat burial.’

  ‘Why copy it?’

  ‘I don’t know. The bishop, the one the girl went to visit, what do we know about him?’

  ‘There were rumours of him being indiscreet with women, young girls too, nothing concrete, just unsubstantiated accusations.’

  ‘Fits with what Jessica said about the protection from abuse. You said he died?’

  ‘A few months back. And guess what?’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘He fell from a height. It was considered an accident. He’d gone out walking near a dangerous spot. They reckon he slipped.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘I don’t like coincidences, Kate, never have.’

  Kate’s mind was racing, trying to make the links that would make sense of all she was seeing and hearing. ‘Maybe that was the catalyst.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something has brought our guy out of the woodwork; you said the death of the bishop was only a few months back?’

  ‘March this year.’

  ‘I’d hoped we’d find history, but I never thought it would be as old as this.’

  ‘So what’s your opinion on the flat stone?’

  ‘For what it’s worth, O’Connor, I think the stone is a pillow.’

  ‘A pillow?’ he said, surprised.

  ‘You heard me. Do you have a spare desk I can use? I’ll need to work here for a while. Home isn’t an option right now.’

  ‘Take that one in the corner,’ he said, nodding to the far end of his office. ‘Kate, I don’t like how this investigation it filtering out. I know clear cut cases are rare, but this one is like a bloody maze.’

  ‘There is a core O’Connor, and our killer is right in the middle of it. All we have to do is figure out where.’

  ‘And bloody fast, Kate. Look at the room out there, once those calls start flooding in about the ribbons, plaiting and talk of ritualistic burials, we’ll be so far under we might all as well be buried up in that bloody mountain.’

  Meadow View

  BACK AT MEADOW VIEW, HIS FORM COULDN’T HAVE BEEN better, having made excellent time returning from Wexford. The stroll from the garage in Terenure had pleased him too – nothing like fresh air to get a better perspective on things. Looking out the kitchen window, he reflected again on how the days were getting shorter. Despite enjoying his outdoor recreational pursuits, a part of him didn’t mind the reduction in daylight hours, believing one should always go with the seasons.

  He regretted his neglect of reading material over the past few days, something he would put right very shortly.
Making himself a cup of Mokalbari tea, he reviewed the books he hadn’t yet read and some he planned to read again. Shortly after he moved to Meadow View, he’d arranged for wooden bookshelves to be fitted either side of the fireplace. He liked rearranging the books, placing his new favourites on the top, giving them the status of importance they deserved. To him, books were precious, they were fuel for the imagination. He remembered his summers as a child, reading on the beach, and how in winter, when he needed to avoid his mother’s male friends, they were his greatest ally.

  If he wanted to, he could convince himself he was one of the characters in whatever novel he was reading, imagining places he had never been. As a boy, he had read comics too, many of which were still in the big house. He was fond of most of the superheroes and even when he progressed to older reading material, he had always kept some old comics at hand.

  The year his mother told him about Tuscany, it had sounded like the biggest adventure ever. He plagued her for days with questions: how they would get there, who they would see, why they were going, how long they would stay. She told him very little. All he knew was that they would take the train to Dublin and then fly from Dublin airport; their final destination was a place called Suvereto, in Livorno. He couldn’t wait to visit the mobile library at the end of the month, like a scavenger, to read everything he could find on Italy. Although the holiday had come out of the blue, he had embraced the idea of such a wonderful adventure, even if his mother didn’t explain why they were going there to begin with. He wasn’t to know then that the trip was going to change everything. Even in that second blissful week, he did not have any inkling about how his life would turn out at the end of it.

  He remembered the place so clearly: the extreme heat, how his clothes stuck to his body, how the shade was a blessed relief, how the midday sun made the air hard to breathe. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze in those hours between midday and three o’clock, nothing like the winds that flanked the beach at home. The people were different too. At first, he liked listening to them speaking Italian and moving in ways that were so different from people at home – the heat made them move slower, made them happier to stop and sit and spend endless hours seemingly doing very little. At Ciampino airport he had listened to the announcements over the speaker system, the voices sounding strange with their accents and also loud, like people shouting. The airport unsettled him. Almost immediately, he felt people were staring at him, as if he was something odd, something that needed to be worked out. When they looked at his mother, it was different. The women checked her from head to toe, as if she were a mannequin in a shop window; the men smiled, following her movements by turning their heads.