by Andrea Mara
At the front door, I hesitated, then grabbed the handle and pulled it open.
There they were.
Just like before.
Footprints all across the garden, and deeper at my bedroom window. A wave of nausea coiled through my stomach. I hadn’t imagined it. As I sat in my chair, facing the window, he was outside looking in. No more than ten feet away. He couldn’t see me, I reminded myself, the black sack blocked his view. But still. He was there.
This time I took photos. Outside in wellington boots at quarter past seven in the morning, I took a dozen photos of the footprints, focusing on the ones below the window. The diagonal trail led from the gate at the bottom of the garden, across the snow-covered grass, right up to my bedroom. Then, like the previous day, it went around the side of the house. I followed the prints to the back and right around to the other side, from where they continued down the driveway and out the gate.
Back in the living room, I phoned the Garda Station. Someone I didn’t know answered the phone, and said he’d pass the message to Geraldine, who’d be in any minute. He gave me an email address and, still shaking, I sent the photos.
Jagged thoughts careered like ping-pong balls inside my head – who was coming into my garden, and why? Why knock? There had to be a reason – some link between me and him. Because strangers don’t just peer in random windows, do they?
My phone rang – Geraldine had seen my message.
“It could be young fellas having a laugh,” she said without preamble, “but don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”
“During a curfew?” I said, staring out the living-room window, as fresh snow began to fall.
“Oh listen, the amount of people who didn’t take that seriously! And then the storm passed over the Atlantic, so of course everyone thinks they were right to ignore it. You can’t win.”
“I know, but I’m in the middle of nowhere. I can’t imagine ‘young ones’ out having a bit of craic would want to stand outside my bedroom three nights in a row, in the snow, for fun. It makes no sense.”
“And did you cover that window of yours or were they looking in at you in your bed?” she asked, and I could hear her boiling a kettle in the background.
“I covered it with a black sack again. I’ll get a proper curtain when the thaw comes.”
“They say it’s coming today, Marianne, so you should be grand. And if there’s no snow, there’ll be no more footprints – because you won’t be able to see them!”
I had no answer to that.
“Ah sorry, that wasn’t funny. But you know what I mean – someone was trying to freak you out with the snow here, and they’ll lose interest when it’s gone.”
She promised that she or Patrick would be up later for another look around, and said goodbye.
I flopped on the couch, thinking about what she’d said. She was right – if there was no snow, there’d be no footprints. But twisting it the other way – what if it meant he’d been coming all along, and I hadn’t realised until now?
Work should have been a distraction, but every few seconds I found myself looking up at the living-room window, half expecting to see a face peering in. Eventually, for diversion, I clicked into iSleuth, where I found a new update and a flurry of chatter in the Blackwood Strangler sub-forum. A newspaper had just done a big feature on him, more comprehensive than anything I’d seen before. Much of it was familiar – the stalking and the preference for single-storey homes, but the article also referenced footprints – some victims had spotted footprints in their gardens and mentioned them to neighbours, with a sense of curiosity, it seemed, more than any great concern. One woman had gone to the police, and they’d told her it was probably a neighbour taking a shortcut through her garden. She was found dead two days later. I shivered.
The next section was subtitled – rather cruelly as it turned out – X Marks the Spot.
A victim had been speaking to her sister by phone when she spotted an X scratched into her front door. She was furious, sure a neighbour’s child had done it, and told her sister she’d call in the following morning to complain. She never had the chance – she was found dead the next day. What caught police attention was the X mark – they had another case with something similar, this time in Bournemouth, over a hundred miles from the Blackwood Strangler’s usual hunting ground. There was no phone call to fill in the grey areas, but they did find an X that had been freshly scratched into the paintwork on the back door.
I clicked into the Armchair Detective Facebook group to share the article.
Barry responded immediately. Wow, that’s creepy, I wonder does he have other victims outside the East Midlands area then?
Good question. It was the media who gave him the Blackwood Strangler name, but maybe they just hadn’t joined the dots – maybe he’d spread his wings.
I’ve always wondered about that case in Leeds,Judith replied. You know the couple who were killed out in the countryside? Lots of similarities with the Blackwood Strangler but I suppose if police assumed he stuck to the East Midlands, they didn’t look at this one.
I didn’t know the case and went off to google. It came up quickly in multiple news reports – a couple in their thirties found dead in bed, one stabbed, one strangled. They were supposed to be away, and the incident was believed to be a burglary gone wrong. The next bit stopped me cold. They’d reported seeing footprints in soil under their bedroom window, two days before the attack. At the inquest, police presented details of that report as further evidence of a burglary gone wrong. But what kind of burglar stabs and strangles homeowners? Wouldn’t he just run if he discovered they were home?
You’re right, I typed in reply to Judith’s comment, it’s very similar. I guess they’ll look at it now if they widen the scope? Have you read anywhere that they’ll do that?
I have, Barry chirped up, I saw it on iSleuth. Police are looking at murders across the UK where strangulation is involved.
But why wouldn’t they have made the connection already? I asked.
Strangulation’s not that unusual, I suppose, Judith replied. And if the locations were widespread and separated by long periods of time, each one would be seen as a random attack.
Anne chimed in, always quick off the mark when there was a chance to educate the rest of us:To be classified as a serial case, there must be three or more killings and they must be spread out timewise. One killing in one area wouldn’t stand out.
Scary to think of it that way, I typed. Anyway, I need to do some work, chat later.
I closed Facebook and went back to my work email, but something was niggling at me. I opened Google.
When was last Blackwood Strangler murder? I typed in the search bar.
The top result was a Wikipedia page, one I’d looked at many times before. He’d been active on and off for years, always with long breaks between attacks. I kept reading, until I found what I was looking for. His last suspected attack was a year earlier in Nottingham. Nothing since.
Or nothing that they knew of, I thought, as I closed the screen and swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, the thaw had begun. The snow had taken on a watery sheen and the small shrubs that lined the driveway were poking through, dark against the greying slush. Towards the end of the garden, a shadow caught my attention. Not a shadow, I thought, as I squinted, but something on the ground, under the snow. Exposed by the thaw. What was it? The house was achingly quiet, holding its breath it seemed, while I stood at the window, staring. It was probably nothing, I told myself as I turned the door handle and walked outside. Probably a mound of earth I hadn’t noticed before. Or a molehill. I drew closer.
It wasn’t a molehill.
The bird had no injuries but was clearly dead. Small, brown, speckled, dead. Frozen under the snow, until now. Lying on something square and dark that definitely wasn’t a molehill. And that was the problem. A dead bird wasn’t unusual – I’d found dead birds in the garden before. Bu
t someone had placed it on top of what looked like a folded jacket. A camouflage jacket, the kind soldiers wear. A memory flickered. A long-ago photo. A fire. Ray.
“I suppose the bird might have frozen to death, poor little thing,” Patrick said, licking his finger to turn the page of his notebook. “Not unusual in this weather, I imagine. Do you want me to remove it for you?”
“No, that’s fine, I can do it – it’s not the bird in itself I’m worried about, it’s that someone clearly put the jacket there, and put the bird on top.”
“Well, maybe not,” Patrick said, hunkering down to lift the edge of the jacket. “Couldn’t the bird have just settled there and died?”
I sighed inwardly. “I suppose, but either way someone left an army jacket in my front garden. I don’t know who or why or what it means. They obviously meant for it to appear once the snow melted.”
Patrick looked up at me expectantly.
“Maybe it’s to show me that he was here before the snow?” I suggested.
Patrick stood. “Maybe. It’s not a threat in its own right, though. I mean, it looks like an Irish Defence Forces jacket to me – it’s not like it’s some scary despot’s army coming to get you, is it?”
I said nothing.
“Listen, I’ll have a look around, I’ll check the window where you heard the knocking, and I’ll take the jacket into evidence, in case something comes up later. How about that?”
I nodded. Evidence of what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I wanted it gone.
CHAPTER 15
By two o’clock, I couldn’t bear to be in the cottage any more. I messaged my boss to say I was heading out for supplies, checked every door and window a thousand times, and set out for the village on foot. The snow was turning to slush and, as I trudged down the narrow road, I slipped and caught myself. The sky overhead was grey and heavy, but the forecast was promising no more fresh snow. All over the country, people would be digging cars out of driveways and braving slippery footpaths, desperate to reconnect with the outside world. It wasn’t as bad as this in ’82, they kept saying on radio shows and on Twitter. At least there was no curfew back then, and the shops didn’t run out of food. But the snow had caught us all off guard, and savvy shoppers had cleared supermarket shelves of bread and milk before it became too difficult to get to shops at all. I wondered if there’d be anything to buy in the local supermarket in Carrickderg when I eventually got there, but really it didn’t matter – I needed air and space.
As I passed Alan’s farmhouse, I glanced over – no smoke from the chimney or sign of life around the yard – they must be out too. It couldn’t be easy looking after farm animals in weather like this, I thought, with an unfamiliar pang of sympathy. However boorish Alan was with humans, he had always taken care of his animals. Back when Ray was still here, he had offered to help Alan once during lambing season but Alan had turned him down with a sneer – what would a writer from America know about lambing? At the time I felt sorry for Ray – the rebuttal of his olive branch left him looking hurt. As things turned out, Alan was probably right to steer clear.
By the time I got to the village, the road was relatively free of snow, though the car park in the Carrickderg Arms hadn’t been cleared. The window of the Post Office hadn’t been replaced either – duct tape covered the spot where the brick had gone through. As I passed, I could see Mrs O’Shea behind the counter, her coat buttoned up and her purple woolly hat on her head. I nodded in at her, and went on to the supermarket, where I was greeted by empty shelves and worried faces.
“The delivery trucks will be here within the hour, we’ve been assured,” said the manager as I walked past, his smile reeking of hope and false promises.
I checked my watch – maybe if I had a late lunch in the Wooden Spoon, there would be something to buy by the time I was done.
The café was packed with people fixing hunger and cabin fever with towering club sandwiches and giant sausage rolls. I squeezed through to a free spot at the back and was already sitting when I realised Alan and Jamie were at the table beside me. Jamie nodded and smiled, but Alan very deliberately turned his head away – to the point where it was awkward for him to eat his soup.
Jamie locked eyes with me and gave a small shrug. I shook my head and grinned.
It was a long time since I’d chatted to Jamie – I watched him as he ate his soup, wondering if he’d ever done anything with the Graphic Design course he was doing back when my dad died. When we were in school, we used to talk about what we’d be – Linda was going to be a fashion designer, Jamie an artist, and I was absolutely one hundred per cent sure I’d be a detective. A blonde Nancy Drew mixed with a bit of Christine from Cagney and Lacey. Now Linda was a doctor’s wife in Kerry, Jamie was a farmer, and I was doing what everyone else was doing – basically working in an office.
I ordered lasagne and glanced over at Alan and Jamie as they ate in silence. Alan in his black wide-brim hat, something that always made him look like a lost cowboy or a slightly creepy minister. His heavy black coat and boots completed the look, utterly at odds with the usual farm attire of waterproof jacket and jeans. Jamie, thankfully, hadn’t followed in his father’s sartorial footsteps – he was wearing a red check shirt, snug across his wide shoulders. A swimmer’s physique, wasted in a town with no swimming pool or beach. Where did he socialise these days, I wondered, or did he at all? I shook myself. Why was I wondering about Jamie’s social life?
Alan got up to go to the bathroom, and after a moment Jamie leaned over.
“Are you doing okay with the snow up there on your own – is there anything you need?”
I put down my fork, surprised and unexpectedly charmed by the concern.
“I’m grand, going to the shops after this, but thank you for asking.”
“Remember the last time – the bad snow when your jeep got stuck and me and Ray were trying to push it up the hill?”
I did remember. Ray didn’t want Jamie’s help, and it was a struggle to talk sense into him. I wondered if Jamie remembered that part. “And Ray kept asking why we didn’t have snow tyres and we were trying to explain that it never snows in Ireland as this blizzard swirled around us.”
Jamie laughed. “He must have thought we were awful eejits. They’re so much better at dealing with bad weather in the States. Where is he living now?”
“New Jersey.”
It felt abrupt. I grappled for something to add, just as Alan arrived back to the table asking Jamie about pig feed, and that was the end of that.
“Nothing like a bit of snow to bring people together,” whispered an elderly lady at the table to my left. “Brings out the best in folk.”
I smiled, and wondered if perhaps she was right, and if maybe it wasn’t too late to patch up this thing with Alan. Ray would be furious. But Ray wasn’t here.
As they got up to leave, Jamie nodded at me, and this time Alan looked over too.
“You’d want to watch yourself in the snow, Marianne – you could slip and fall up there at that cottage, and there’d be nobody to hear your screams.”
Then he tipped his hat and walked out into the slushy, slippery dark.
CHAPTER 16
2005
That Sunday night glass of wine with Ray was the first of many more dates, all far less eventful than his spiked-drink incident with Alan. We drifted into a relationship, spending weekends between the hotel and the cottage, and I began to resent returning to Dublin on Monday mornings – missing Ray on my weekday evenings in my once-beloved Dublin flat. I hadn’t done anything with the cottage and, as time went by, I realised I had no intention of selling it. It was more than my weekend home – it was my home full stop.
“Why don’t you just tell them you’re sick and stay here for the week?” Ray suggested as I was packing for Dublin one Sunday night in early August.
I laughed it off but imagined how good it would be to stay put. Ray had only three weeks left in Ireland – I hated that we’d be spending most of it
apart.
“How about booking some vacation time?” he continued. “We could take off around the country for a week?”
My instinct was to give a dozen reasons why it wasn’t possible, but then I stopped. Why not?
And that’s how it happened. We took off on our road-trip, and somewhere between Moll’s Gap and Kenmare he decided to stay on in Ireland. He didn’t say for how long and I didn’t ask but somehow we both knew it would be forever.
Or three years, as it turned out.
Back in Carrickderg, things progressed quickly. Ray moved into my cottage, and I joined him at weekends. He spent his days writing – filling one notebook at a time, transcribing to a newly purchased computer he installed in my dad’s old bedroom. It was easier that way – he was old-school, he explained.
Carrickderg locals were shocked at how quickly Ray moved in, while my Dublin friends raised eyebrows at the age gap – Ray was thirty-five then, thirteen years older than me. My friends were spending every Saturday night drinking vodka and Red Bull in Coppers and Doyle’s, falling into taxis and other people’s flats. There were jobs everywhere and the country was still mid-boom, flooded with money. Dublin was buzzing, day and night, and why I’d want to escape to the Wicklow Mountains every weekend to shack up with an older man was beyond anyone’s comprehension. But I didn’t miss any of it – it was as though Ray had rescued me from a life I was fake-living. Or perhaps he simply swept me off my feet at a time when I was buried in grief and trying to pretend nothing was wrong at all.
We used to see Alan around town of course, and he and Ray were always civil to one another – a hat tip or the hatless equivalent. The first time I realised that Ray was not in fact over his early falling-out was when a Planning Permission notice went up on the farmhouse grounds.
