by Andrea Mara
As I pushed through the door, the young guard from the front desk was coming through with two mugs of tea, his face falling as he realised he’d failed at his one job that morning.
I was still cross when I arrived at Delaneys’ to get a coffee, only to find the doors locked. Bloody Sunday opening hours, I thought, looking at my watch.
“Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?” said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Jamie grinning at me.
“Yeah, the double whiskey breakfast will have to wait,” I said, giving him a half-smile back.
“I was going to grab a coffee in the Wooden Spoon. Want to try there? No whiskey on the menu, but their cappuccinos are alright?”
I nodded and fell into step as we made our way to the café.
“So what’s up?” he asked as we took a table, and suddenly it was just like the old days, hunkered in the den in my garden.
“It’s going to sound ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
So I did.
We ordered coffees, and I told him about the footprints and the rag doll and the chalk drawing and the face I thought I saw and the knock I was almost sure I’d heard, and I waited for him to tell me it was probably nothing.
“Wow, weird,” he said, as our coffees arrived. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but it would be good to know who it was and move on.”
I nodded. “That’s it exactly. In one way, it’s no big deal, no harm done. But for peace of mind, I’d like to know who it is. And I can’t help worrying he’s going to try to get into the house. Like, would I even know if he did?”
“Wouldn’t your alarm go off?”
“I don’t have one. It’s ordered but not in yet. So if he had a way to get in . . . Jesus, I could walk into my house with no idea he was there waiting for me.” My heart was thumping now.
“Okay. First, he can’t get in. Your doors are locked, right?”
I nodded.
“But for peace of mind, couldn’t you do something like leave things a certain way so if they’re disturbed you’ll notice? Or put thread across your hall or tape around your windows? If it’s where it should be each time you get home, you know you’re okay.”
I laughed. “It sounds like something from a mystery novel.”
“Well, in fairness, no better woman to solve a mystery, right?”
Did he know about the web sleuthing? My cheeks flushed.
“I remember it so well,” he continued. “You were going to be a detective, I was going to be an artist, and Linda was going to be a fashion designer.”
I sat back and smiled. “In a way, we all did what we set out to do – you did your graphic design course, Linda is apparently a dab hand at knitting jumpers for her kids and, honestly, working in IT feels exactly like being a detective sometimes – usually trying to work out what the hell the Ops team did this time.”
Jamie smiled but there was something not quite real about it and I wondered if I’d hit a nerve.
“How many kids does Linda have?”
“Four under five – I don’t know how she does it. The youngest is only a few months old.”
“God, I can’t imagine Linda with four kids! Is she the same as ever or has she changed much?”
Good question. I had to think for a second before answering.
“I guess now that you say it, she has changed. I didn’t really notice it happening, but she’s kind of drifted away from me in the last while. That’s quite sad actually, now that I say it out loud.”
“I imagine it’s busy with four kids. No doubt she’ll be back to her old self soon.”
“I wonder . . . we don’t have so much in common anymore. She’s talking about sleep deprivation and I’m talking about work, and we’re not really finding common ground. You remember we used to sit in the den for hours and hours – what the hell did we talk about?”
“Usually how annoying Sorcha Riordan was, who was going in your little black book, and how you were going to be the greatest detective since Hercule Poirot.”
“Actually,” I said, not entirely sure if it was a good idea, “I do still have an interest in detectivey stuff.”
He sat forward, his face brightening. “Oh, yeah?”
“Okay, don’t think I’m a weirdo or anything, but I started getting interested in true crime about ten or twelve years ago, and then found out there are loads of other people who are too, and lots of them are on a forum called iSleuth.”
I stopped to gauge his reaction.
“Go on,” he said, leaning closer.
“We read up on real-life cases and we share theories and . . . it probably sounds a bit mad . . .”
Jamie was rapt. “No, that sounds cool! God, what did we do before the Internet, especially out here in the middle of nowhere?”
We sat in my kitchen chatting with Mrs Townsend, I wanted to say, until we didn’t anymore.
“I suppose we used to read books,” I said instead, “and talked to people on the phone instead of just WhatsApp’ing them.”
“Well, you still read books – you always have one with you,” he said, nodding towards my bag on the floor. “I just sit staring at the TV with yer man glowering over everything and nothing in the corner, like Victor Meldrew crossed with Jesse James’ awkward second cousin.”
I snorted a laugh.
“Oh God, you should see him,” Jamie went on, warming to his theme, “sitting muttering over everything he sees on his iPad. Grumbling about politicians and banks and foreigners, and everything is political correctness gone mad. Then he goes out to take the dog for a walk, which is code for chain-smoking ten cigarettes, only he won’t do it in front of me because the doctor told him he has to quit. How he thinks I don’t notice the stench off his clothes is beyond me.”
“Where does he walk the dog – just around the farm?” I asked, in an Oscar-winningly casual tone.
“Ah no, you don’t think it was him, do you?”
Not Oscar-winning then.
“What?”
“You’re thinking of the footprints and the drawing. I know he’s an eejit and still holding grudges against everyone who’s ever crossed him, but his dispute was with Ray, never with you.”
I tore a little piece off my napkin and studied it.
“Seriously, Marianne, I’m not defending him because he’s my da or anything. I just don’t think it’s his style.”
I looked up. “Ah here, of course it’s his style! Remember the dead fox?”
Jamie’s face changed. “Remember the dead chickens?”
My eyes dropped again. “I’m not looking to rake over old fights. I’m just saying that creeping up to my house in the middle of the night is not beyond him, you know?”
Jamie sighed. “I know. I don’t think it’s him though – there’s no reason for it. But I’ll keep an eye out – how about that?”
I nodded, glad to have someone in my corner.
“About Ray . . . I wanted to ask you about the other day, when you thought you saw him in the bookshop?”
“Yeah, what do you think from the picture – is it him?”
“I think it looks very like him,” I said carefully.
“I didn’t go over. I just took the photo while he was looking at books. And I didn’t hear his voice. But I’d be, like, eighty per cent sure it was him. I wonder what he’s doing here?”
I had absolutely no idea. And after what he did, and the way things ended, I needed to believe he’d never make his way back to Carrickderg.
CHAPTER 28
2007
It was just after our second Christmas together, a Saturday night in mid-January, when Ray brought it up. We were on the couch together, me on my laptop, Ray scribbling in his notebook. I sensed he had stopped writing, and looked up from my screen to find him staring at me.
“What?”
“I have a confession.”
“Go on?” I said, suddenly chilled.
“I needed to sea
rch for something online when you were out this morning and my PC wouldn’t connect to the Internet. So I borrowed your laptop.”
I swallowed, and shrugged in what I hoped was a what’s mine is yours way.
“And when I opened Google and started to type, your recent searches came up.”
He looked down at his notebook and started to read out loud.
“Danish serial killers. Dina Karlsen. Unsolved murders + Købæk. Serial killers who drown victims.” He looked up at me. “Anything I should be worried about?”
I said nothing.
“Is it some kind of project? Who’s Dina Karlsen?”
Laying my laptop on the coffee table, I got up to take the photo of my parents from the shelf and sat back down.
“Right, here goes,” I said. “I told you my mother died when I was a baby – that’s true. But there’s more to it. She had gone back to Denmark, and it wasn’t for a visit like I always thought. I found out a couple of months ago that she had left my dad and me.”
Ray looked up from the photo. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I waved it away.
“But why are you googling serial killers?”
My stomach churned. “That’s the other bit I didn’t tell you. She didn’t just die, she was killed.”
His eyes widened.
“See, it’s weird, isn’t it? It sounds so dramatic. It is dramatic. Urgh, I don’t know how I feel about it.”
“Jesus Christ. That’s huge. Your mother was murdered?”
“Yeah. I found out when I was twelve – Jamie blurted it out after an argument at school, and my dad confirmed it that night. Up until then I thought she had died in her sleep.”
“Your dad lied to you all those years?”
I looked at him. “Yes, but to protect me from something absolutely horrific. Anyone would do the same.” It came out sounding defensive.
He held up his hands. “Of course. I get that. Do you want to talk about what happened to her? Did they catch the guy?”
“No, but all sorts of cases are being reopened because of advances in forensics, and I’m hoping something new comes up in her case too.”
“So what happened to her?” he asked, his eyes wide.
And I told him. Everything about the day she disappeared, and about Maja and Frederikke, and the similarities, and the differences. And the other cases – the ones from other countries, the paths I’d followed, the virtual snakes and ladders, zigzagging across the continent.
“You don’t think the person who killed your mother was also killing people in other parts of the world, do you?” he asked when I stopped.
“No. I mean, maybe. Look, I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, I get that, but the more I read, the more patterns I see. And if none of the cases are linked at all, in a way that’s worse, isn’t it – if there aren’t just a few killers out there, but literally hundreds, killing for sport. Isn’t that terrifying when you think about it?”
“Sure, but in reality the figures are tiny compared to the population of the world. Reading about it compulsively is going to blur your judgement – it feels like it’s more prevalent than it is. Right? Maybe you need to cut back and give yourself a break?”
He was right, of course, but I wasn’t ready to stop, so instead changed the subject, going for that good old Irish reliable: the weather.
“God, it’s freezing, even with this blanket. Is the heat definitely on?” I got up to feel the radiator for good measure, and stopped to look out at the swirling snow. I hugged myself and sat back down. “Wouldn’t like to be out in that tonight.”
Ray looked at me, a sly expression on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Did you know Alan has two guys living in his outhouses?”
“Yeah, he does that every winter – lets people stay there if they’ve nowhere else to stay. Fair play to him. Hell of a lot better than sleeping rough in that weather.”
“Yes, but he charges them. He’s not doing it because he’s such a philanthropist.”
I sat up straighter. “Oh! I didn’t realise he was charging them. I thought it was his good deed, to make up for being such a prick most of the time.”
“I know, right? I was passing yesterday morning, and met one of them. Young guy, down on his luck, landlord put up the rent and he had nowhere to go. He’s still getting welfare he told me, but it’s not enough to cover rent anywhere else. He can just about afford what Alan is charging. Imagine taking money off someone to live in a shed. He told me there’s another guy too, older than him, and not in great shape health-wise. Doesn’t stop Alan squeezing every dime he can get.”
I shook my head. Alan really was an asshole. I wondered what Jamie thought of it, or if he knew his dad was charging rent.
“And imagine being so badly off you have to live in a shed,” Ray was saying.
“The sheds aren’t actually too bad,” I said. “We used to play in them when we were kids. They’re not like sheds for animals, they’re properly insulated – Jamie was planning to use one as a home office, I remember. He had it all worked out – he was going set up his art studio there, with a desk and a phone and a bit of space between him and his dad.”
“Sure, but they’re not proper living abodes,” Ray said, sounding pompous.
He said nothing for a minute, his eyes glazing over. Then he asked if he could borrow my laptop. And unlike me, he knew to clear his search history. Otherwise I would have known exactly what he did that night.
CHAPTER 29
As it turned out, while he was good at hiding his search history, Ray was less accomplished at covering his tracks, which is why Alan came banging on our door one freezing cold morning in early February, shouting about snitches. This time, we didn’t let him in. We stood in the kitchen, staring at one another, waiting for him to go away. After a minute, I realised that Ray’s confused look wasn’t quite as genuine as mine.
“Ray, what’s he on about – what did you do?”
“I didn’t think he’d get to see our names on the complaint!” Ray whispered, though how Alan would hear us above his own shouting and banging, I don’t know.
“What complaint?”
“To the County Council. It’s illegal to rent out sheds or outhouses – you can’t have people living in them. Did you know that? Completely unsanitary and a risk to public health.” There was that pompous voice again.
“Ray! For fuck’s sake!You reported him? Jesus Christ, he was giving shelter to people who had nowhere else to stay – who cares if it’s illegal or if he was making a few quid on it. What is wrong with you?”
“The law is the law, and people who break it can’t expect sympathy when they’re found out.” He folded his arms, his mouth set, absolutely certain he was right.
“You know something, I hate to say this, but you can’t just waltz in here and go stomping all over people.”
“Waltz in here – where’s here? Your town? Your country? Is that it – because I’m not from here, I need to sit quietly and keep my mouth shut?”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” I hissed. “There are rules and laws everywhere, but there are unwritten rules too, and you know what one of ours is? Don’t have a fucking raging feud with your fucking next-door neighbour because guess what? Nobody fucking wins!”
I stormed out of the kitchen, through to the bedroom and, ignoring Alan’s hammering and Ray’s indignation, slammed the door behind me.
And, of course, it wasn’t the end of it.
A week later, Alan arrived back at our house, this time carrying a black sack. I was in the kitchen attempting a first-ever roast lamb, so left Ray to deal with it – Ray went outside to talk to him and closed the door behind him, which was what made me curious.
Through the living-room window I could see Ray and Alan on our front lawn. Arguing. I strained to hear but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Alan was holding up the black sack, and Ray kept shaking his head, until eventually Alan threw down the
bag and stormed off.
Ray stood for a minute, then tipped the contents of the bag on the grass. It looked like old clothes but it was hard to tell. As I watched, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out, then hunkered down at the pile.
Seconds later, I realised he’d set fire to them.
“Ray, what are you doing?” I shouted, opening the front door. “You can’t just set a fire in the garden!”
“It’s only a small fire and nobody’s going to see it.”
“But why are you burning Alan’s things? Why did he leave them here?”
“Because he’s doing everything he can to piss me off, and because this is the last thing he’s expecting me to do.”
“What have you done now? Did you damage that stuff? Was he trying to get you to replace it?” None of it made any sense.
He ignored me.
“Ray! if you burn his stuff instead, he’s just going to come back at you – why do you keep doing this?”
Ray turned, an odd look on his face.
“Believe me, Alan won’t be back for these.”
I stood by helplessly while the clothes burnt.
Ray watched until the fire was reduced to a smoking pile, then stood and walked towards the house.
“How’s that lamb coming along?” he asked as he passed me and went indoors.
I shook my head. Why on earth would Alan dump his stuff here? As retaliation went, it was hardly in dead fox or dead chicken territory. I walked down to the smouldering heap and stamped on it. The clothes were charred and indistinguishable – it was impossible to tell what they had been five minutes earlier. I kicked at the ashes, looking for signs of flames, annoyed more than anything at the damage to the grass beneath.
Then I spotted a piece of paper – burnt across the top but still in one piece. I picked it up and realised it was part of a photograph. A couple and a baby, sitting on a brown check couch. The baby was on the woman’s knee, but the couple were only visible from chest-height down – their heads and shoulders burnt off in the fire. It was eerie to look at. The woman’s cream blouse and check skirt were straight from the eighties and the man was dressed in what looked like an army uniform. Jamie’s mother holding Jamie as a baby perhaps? I had never heard that Alan had been in the army, but maybe he had?
