Red Ribbons

by Louise Phillips

  When he stepped back out into the hallway, he noticed the door at the very end of the corridor was ajar. He walked down to it without a sound and looked inside.

  The child was deep in sleep. Just as well, he thought, considering how loud the father had the television on. Other than the sounds coming from the living room, the place was as good as an empty house. He made his way back down into the bedroom he’d just left and closed the door behind him, placing a chair against the handle to give him ample warning of anyone heading his way.

  Having no real expectations about what he was going to find didn’t deter him. He had learned over time that the things people kept, and the way they kept them, could give some very interesting insights. The first thing he noticed was a postcard by the bed from Sweetmount Nursing Home. It was addressed to Kate Pearson, and had a very nice message from staff at the home. They wanted to thank her for the beautiful flowers she had brought on her last visit. Four of them had signed their names at the back. The picture on the front was of a very fine-looking building. In small letters on the bottom right of the card was the address of the nursing home, in Greystones. He put it into his jacket pocket.

  The bedroom was divided between male and female things: wardrobe space, bedside lockers, everything, including the under-sink cabinet in the en-suite, had a separate section for the joint occupiers of the room. The upper shelves in the wardrobes had the more interesting items, such as photo albums, jewellery, odd bags, various books and magazines. Ms Pearson had an intelligent selection of reading material, another pleasant surprise, especially when he saw her small green copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. It was dated 1931 and had been a present from her late father: ‘To Kate, with love always, Dad.’ It had all the classics, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, but no Blake, something that always annoyed him, such a shame that he had been left out.

  Pulling open the drawer in the dressing table, he found it jammed with papers and other smaller items. Instinctively, he was intrigued. When things were jam-packed in that manner, it was generally a good sign that something of value might be found. His instincts didn’t let him down. The drawer was full of the usual mishmash of personal items, such as old cheque book stubs, prescriptions, letters, receipts, loose photographs. He noted the random manner of the drawer’s contents and put his first black mark against Kate. He examined each item in detail, having found in the past that if you rushed this type of thing, you could miss something important. His patience paid off when his search turned up an item that exceeded even his expectations.

  At first, he wasn’t sure what the contents of the A4 brown envelope were. It was addressed to Kate’s mother, Gabriel Pearson. The report inside was very thorough and, judging by the date, it was completed when Kate was quite young. He knew that psychological assessments of children were not an uncommon occurrence; one of his clients from Newell Design, an ex-principal, had said they were now ten a penny.

  This was different, though. The report on Kate Pearson had been done over twenty years before, which would have been unusual enough for the time. She did come from an educated family of course, a privileged family, but still, he felt this discovery might turn out to be extremely relevant. Closer examination of the report didn’t reveal the usual suspects his ex-principal friend had alluded to, dyslexia, dyspraxia, ADD. Certainly, Kate’s intelligence was not in any doubt. She had received a rating in the 99 percentile, meaning she was top amongst her peers, a fact that increased his admiration for her. According to the report, what Ms Pearson suffered from was something the child psychologist referred to as a thin psychological skin. It would seem the younger Kate had extreme sensitivity to the ways others dealt with her; he could relate to this sort of sensitivity. An incident had occurred when she had been twelve, an attack while out with her friends. The girl had got away unharmed, but the event had left its scars nonetheless. It was noted that her mother had found the event difficult to cope with as well, a factor that the report concluded added to the girl’s feelings of being vulnerable. Other than a series of exercises to help Kate gain back her confidence, there seemed to be little else mentioned as a way of moving forward.

  To William, it was obvious that the principal problem was her mother. He could see immediately that, like him, Kate had suffered from a lack of attention. Oh yes, he knew her mother’s type, full of her own importance. Although ill-equipped to cope at that tender age, Kate had managed her survival alone.

  As the envelope was addressed to Kate’s mother, more than likely it had only come into Kate’s possession after her mother began to reside at Sweetmount Nursing Home.

  A further search through the drawer brought very little else by way of value, apart from a small pearl earring, missing its match. This he put in his pocket along with the postcard, as a token from his visit.

  When he went back out into the hall, he noticed the travel suitcase by the front door. Maybe the husband was planning a small trip away. The door from the living room was still ajar, but the man inside stared straight at the square box, oblivious.

  He went back up the corridor again and pushed open the door of the child’s bedroom. This time, he slipped inside the room. An afternoon nap was good for a boy. The child looked happy asleep, not likely to waken any time soon, so he set about familiarising himself with the contents of the boy’s room. There were a couple of Superman and Batman comic books, which naturally grabbed his attention, and a painting of what looked like Batman, no doubt done by the child. A book on the locker told the story of a missing bear – perhaps the reason why the child was holding his teddy bear so tightly.

  Turning his attention to the sleeping boy, he stood over the bed, gazing down at him, like a large shadow. The boy looked so vulnerable, so alone. He bent down close to him and gently worked the teddy bear free of his arms. He watched as the boy turned into his pillow, as if trying to locate the missing bear in his sleep. He smiled, and dropped the toy to the floor, kicking it far enough away to ensure it was out of the child’s reach.

  As things turned out, he had calculated his visit perfectly. Not long after climbing back onto the fire escape, he heard the front gate opening, then Kate calling out a hello as she opened the front door. It all felt like it was meant to be.

  Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station

  Sunday, 9 October 2011, 3.45 p.m.

  O’CONNOR HEARD NOLAN ARRIVE BEFORE HE SAW HIM, his voice bellowing through the Incident Room, addressing Donoghue first before marching in to see him. The next full squad meeting was set for 4.00 p.m., but it was customary for Nolan to arrive early. Out of habit, O’Connor fixed his tie and removed the empty coffee cups from the desk. When Nolan flung open the door, without knocking, he was sitting tall, with a straight back, ready.

  ‘I hear Gunning’s got a lead from Tuscany.’

  ‘Young female, similar age, suspicious death, a silver crucifix buried with her, plus—’

  ‘Plus what?’ He sat down heavily opposite O’Connor.

  ‘There was a flat stone present at the head of the burial area, not unlike what we found at the first Dublin burial. Kate Pearson thinks it could be significant, but the death happened forty years ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It could be nothing, Boss.’

  ‘I know that, but you think it’s something?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘I want Gunning to go over there. He can shake information out of people like a KGB agent, nothing like being in a place to get a proper grip on things. Mulcahy’s in charge of the purse strings, but cutbacks or no cutbacks, if a trip abroad is necessary, I’ll turn him on his head myself and shake the money out of him.’

  ‘Right, I’ll organise it.’ O’Connor waited. Nolan looked far too comfortable in the chair to be finished yet.

  ‘We’re setting up a reconstruction for broadcast tomorrow, last movements of the girls and all that. The public need to feel we are active on this one, O’Connor.’

  ‘We are active.’

  �
�There’s one thing being active, there’s another thing the public believing it. Anyway, it’s a good idea at this point. We have the photofit, albeit limited, a car, year and model. It may not be connected, but we’ll put it out there. The information about the plaiting and the ribbons is now public. We’ll push the swimming connection too. The public seeing the girl’s last movements might spur something. If someone has information, guilt has a habit of opening people up.’

  ‘What about the crucifix?’

  ‘We’ll include it, but keep the Tuscan thing to ourselves for now – too vague, no point feeding those international journalists extra lines when we have enough trouble with our own lot. I’ll get Rohan to put something in the next press briefing, along the lines that it may or may not be significant – that right now, we’re not ruling anything out.’

  Nolan looked up at the wall clock behind O’Connor’s desk.

  ‘Right, I’ll see you outside in five. Do you want to tell Gunning about his little trip, or will I?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Boss.’

  ‘I’ll send him in to you so.’

  ‘There’s one other thing.’

  ‘What’s that, O’Connor?’

  ‘Kate thinks our killer could decide on someone older next time.’

  Nolan raised an eyebrow. ‘Great. Why is there nothing about this case that ever sounds like good news?’

  Beachfield Caravan Park

  Sunday, 9 October 2011, 3.50 p.m.

  OLLIE PULLED BACK THE CURTAINS ON HIS MOBILE home like he was taking a swing at them, and damned the man to hell when he realised it was Steve Hughes who was making all the racket with his car horn. They weren’t even due to play poker. He dropped the curtain again and looked around. No matter what brought Steve to his door, Ollie wasn’t of the mind to be sharing any of his best bottles of whiskey with the man. By the time he opened the door of the mobile to let Hughes in, he’d safely hidden it away.

  ‘Some afternoon, Ollie, what?’ Steve Hughes rubbed his hands together to get a bit of warmth.

  ‘What the hell are you at, frightening the life out of man, jumping on that bleeding horn of yours?’

  ‘Not feeling too sociable are we, Ollie?’

  ‘Less of your smart mouth. I’m not in the mood for visitors. Most decent folk would be of the mind to leave a man alone when he wants some peace.’

  ‘It’s just as well I’m not decent, isn’t it then?’ Hughes joked.

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  Steve looked over at Ollie’s whiskey glass. ‘Any of that whiskey left? I could do with something to calm my nerves.’

  ‘There’s an end of a bottle over there by the sink. Go easy on it, mind, it’s the last drop I have.’

  ‘Sure, I can bring you back one tomorrow.’

  ‘Right so. Go on then, if you are going to replace it with a full bottle.’

  Steve poured what was left of the cheap whiskey into a glass drying by the sink. He took two large gulps out of it before sitting down opposite Ollie on one of the sofa beds.

  ‘Yer man’s been down again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think, the fucking king himself.’

  ‘Well, it’s his house.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that, Ollie. Cronly made that only too clear the last time we had the pleasure of each other’s company. Put more bolts on, so he did.’

  ‘Probably down getting it ready so he can put it up for sale. I heard he’d called into Moriarty Auctioneers in the village not long back. The man couldn’t wait to hightail out of there after the old one died. He’s barely been down since.’

  ‘Made a couple of house calls lately, though.’

  ‘As I said, Steve, it’s his house.’

  ‘He’s been doing a bit of spring cleaning too.’

  Ollie’s ears caught the inflection in Hughes’ voice and he was interested, in spite of himself. ‘Spring cleaning?’

  ‘Yeah, he had his cleaning stuff out all right. The place stunk to high heaven of bleach everywhere. Didn’t pay much mind to it at the start, but then I noticed how he’d taken to washing the carpet in the living room, even some of the walls. You could tell right away they’d been given the once over.’

  Ollie wasn’t going to enter any conspiracy contest with Steve Hughes. ‘So what? Nothing wrong with a man giving the place a bit of a tidy up.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, and sure I know well how he is always tidying stuff up and all. But it was a bit fishy, all the same.’

  ‘What do you mean, “fishy”?’

  ‘Well, like, there were bits that got attention and other bits that didn’t.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, man, what the hell are you on about?’

  ‘I’m just saying, it wasn’t like the way he’d normally go about things, you know, doing one thing at a time. Like you’d have thought he’d have cleaned the whole carpet.’

  Ollie felt his head starting to throb. He’d already had enough of Hughes’ voice and everything else about the man. ‘Hughes, don’t you go drinking any more of that whiskey, cause as it is, I can’t make any sense out of what you’re saying.’

  ‘The carpet in the living room, there was some of it cleaned and some of it not. Why would he have done that now, tell me that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the man spilled something, for God’s sake. It seems to me like you are making a whole lot of something out of nothing.’

  ‘That might be right, but I haven’t told you the best bit.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ Ollie said wearily.

  ‘When I went upstairs—’

  ‘Hold on a minute, what were you doing in the house in the first place?’

  ‘I’d forgotten something, needed to get my hands on it before yer man did.’

  ‘I’d call that breaking and entering.’

  ‘I’d call it getting what was rightfully owed to you.’

  ‘Get on with it, I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, when I went upstairs, my curiosity got the better of me.’

  ‘That’s not like you at all,’ Ollie said sarcastically.

  ‘Less of that, Ollie. People in glass houses and all.’

  ‘It’s my whiskey you’re drinking, which gives me rights. Keep talking.’

  ‘When I got upstairs, right, I started to wonder what yer man’s bedroom was like. It wasn’t a room that ever had the door open, even when the mother was alive. I was a bit reluctant at first, like he might have been watching me somehow, but I went in and I couldn’t believe what I saw.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The room hadn’t changed from when he was a boy. I mean, everything in it was like something a kid would have, comics, trains, toy cars, nothing but that kind of shit. Oh yeah and on a tall dresser, the guy had a huge silver crucifix, on a stand and all.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of religion, plus maybe he’s someone who likes to keep things, some people can be sentimental.’

  ‘More like fucking mental, if you ask me.’

  ‘Well anyhow, you were there in the room with his majesty’s toys …’

  ‘Yeah, and it was then that I saw the case.’

  ‘The case?’

  ‘Yeah, under the bed. It was one of those old yokes, you know, with the locks that snap.’

  ‘An attaché case?’

  ‘Whatever. Anyhow, I pulled it out and opened the thing up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s when I got the biggest surprise of all.’

  Ollie kept his face neutral, but he felt like rattling Hughes to get him to spit it out. He clenched his fists and kept his eyes on Hughes, eager now to know what Cronly could have hidden away in his room.

  Hughes leaned forward and took great delight in drawing out the story. ‘The case, it was filled with all girls’ stuff. You know, ribbons, earrings, even a small chain, all that kind of shit.’

  ‘So maybe it belonged to someone else?’

  ‘Who the f
uck else would put that kind of stuff under yer man’s bed?’

  ‘I don’t know, nothing as queer as folk, as they say.’

  ‘Exactly, you’ve put your finger on what I was thinking. I reckon yer man’s a fag. The kind that likes to dress up as well.’

  Ollie sighed deeply. ‘So you came all the way over here to disturb me just to tell me that? I don’t give a flying feck if the man is gay. I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Nah, you haven’t heard everything.’

  ‘Jaysus, Hughes, less of the bleeding drip feed, will you.’

  ‘Stop interrupting me then.’

  ‘Oh I see, the man drinks my whiskey and I can’t even talk. Is that it?’

  ‘Shut up, Ollie, I’m trying to tell you about the photo.’

  ‘The photo?’

  ‘Yeah. And do you know who was in the photo?’

  ‘Obviously I haven’t a fecking clue,’ Ollie said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Well I’m not one hundred per cent sure, which is why I came over here with it.’

  ‘You took it with you? You stole it out of his house?’

  ‘I can bring it back as easy as I took it away.’

  ‘Christ, Hughes, you don’t make things easy for yourself. Go on, so, give me a look at it.’

  Ollie had one long look at the image. Even though it was faded, he had no doubt who was in the photograph. There were some faces you couldn’t forget.

  ‘Well, is it who I think it is?’ Hughes asked eagerly. ‘That girl who got burned in the fire here?’

  ‘You might well be right there, Steve, but it’s a long time ago. I reckon the best thing you can do is put that photograph right back where you found it, and fast. You don’t want yer man on your case about breaking and entering now do you?’

  ‘Yeah, I know all that crap. But why do you think he has a photo of a dead girl? It’s weird, isn’t it?’