by Andrea Mara
I held out my phone, but Geraldine was too caught up in her new theory to pay any attention.
“People do strange things when they’re in love, believe me – I could tell some stories,” she said. “Watch now, you’ll go home and find flowers on your doorstep next time – I bet I’m right!”
A sudden image flashed through my mind – a single pink rose on a doorstep, and the woman in Austria who thought she had a Peeping Tom. Until she wound up dead. I shivered.
“Are you alright?” Patrick asked. “Marianne?”
“I’m fine. Just spooked. I get that it doesn’t sound worrying or serious, but for me waking up to find that someone was sneaking around outside my house at night, it’s not nothing. I need to know who it is, and I need them to stop. That’s all.” My voice broke on the last words and I could feel tears threatening.
“Ah Marianne, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to belittle the story,” Geraldine said in a soft voice I hadn’t heard before. “I was just trying to reassure you that there’s probably nothing to worry about. We’ll look into it, of course we will. In the meantime, is there anyone who could come and stay with you?”
With a watery smile, I shook my head, and turned to leave, not trusting myself to speak.
I got home in time for my afternoon conference call, and was in the middle of giving an update when I heard Bert’s knock. Opening the door with my phone still to my ear, I pointed at it to indicate I couldn’t talk.
“Don’t worry,” he mouthed, placing a package just inside my front door and stepping back to go.
“One sec!” I mouthed, holding up a finger. “That’s everything from my side,” I said into the phone, and put it on mute.
“How’re you, Marianne?” Bert asked.
“I’m okay . . . I was wondering, were you up this way this morning on your route? I know I didn’t have any letters, but maybe you had some for houses further up the road towards Ramolin?”
“No, nothing this morning – but I don’t pass your house to get to Ramolin, I go round the other way. Why do you ask?”
“Ah, someone’s been creeping around at night, and they left something here this morning. I was hoping maybe you’d been past and seen. Doesn’t matter.”
He tilted his head. “You’re not okay, are you, love?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, my throat tight. “It’s probably just kids messing.”
“Well, look, I’m around this way at least every second day, so I’ll keep an eye out, okay?”
I was about to say I was fine again, but who was I fooling?
“I’d appreciate that,” I said quietly. “Thank you, Bert.”
Jamie was picking me up at eight, and at quarter to I was still rummaging through my wardrobe, cursing my year-round jeans-and-jumper uniform. Then again, for a Thursday night in Delaneys’, maybe jeans-and-jumper was exactly right? I hadn’t gone out with anyone in over a year, and that was a blind date Linda organised with one of her husband’s friends. I’d listened to him talking about investment banking and rugby all night, then told him Zorian were sending me on sabbatical to the Limerick office. Zorian don’t have a Limerick office, and a quick Google would have caught me out, but the guy was so busy talking about himself, he wasn’t going to remember a thing I’d said. In fact, in the years since Ray and I split, I hadn’t gone out with anyone more than two or three times, and I’d never cared enough to worry about how I looked. Why did this feel so different, I wondered, and why on earth didn’t I own proper make-up?
In the end, I went for black jeans and a black long-sleeved top, brightened up with a silver pendant and my one and only pair of heels. Then I decided heels were ridiculous for a Thursday night in Delaneys’, and changed back into my boots, just as Jamie knocked on the door.
“You got the car back then?” I said by way of greeting, forestalling any chance of awkward hugs or references to the unusual circumstances of our encounter.
“Yeah – otherwise you’d be in a Land Rover that smells distinctly of pigfeed,” Jamie said as he opened the passenger door for me. “Though knowing my da, you’d be sitting at home going nowhere – he’d have said no to me using it out of spite.”
“Well, we could have booked a cab – and I meant to say, if you want to leave your car down the village and have a drink, I’ll drop you down tomorrow to pick it up?”
Jamie nodded thanks, and something in his face told me he was as much in need of Dutch courage for this not-really-a-date date as I was.
“And about Alan – does he, um, know?”
Jamie looked sideways at me as he pulled out of the driveway.
“Know we’re going for a drink together?”
“Yeah . . .” This was weird. But not bad weird.
“No – I just said I was going out. Can you imagine his face? I might save telling him for some time when I really want to piss him off.”
He grinned at me, and I grinned back, and settled in the seat, wondering where all of this was going.
In Delaneys’ we got quizzical looks from the sprinkling of customers, most of whom had known both of us all our lives but had never seen us come into the pub together. Jamie led the way to a small table near the fireplace and went up to order drinks. I could see John behind the bar saying something to Jamie, and smirking in my direction, as Jamie shook his head. What did that mean? Jesus, I needed to stop overthinking everything – it was Jamie Crowley for God’s sake. We’d picked blackberries and climbed trees and swapped books – we could surely handle a drink together without analysing it to the nth degree.
“Good to see John’s as big an arsehole as always anyway,” Jamie said in a low voice as he arrived back with two pints of Guinness.
“Ha! What did he say?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said, his brown eyes meeting mine. “His mind is in the gutter.”
I could feel my face colouring, and picked up my pint to take a sip.
“He hasn’t changed a bit.” I said. “He was like that when I was working here, twenty years ago. It was gross then, and it’s even worse now that he’s older.”
“I know. And the thing he did with my da – spiking Ray’s drinks that time, that was shitty. He’s a gobshite.”
“Did you know about that?”
“Of course. My da came home bragging about it. I never got to apologise for it at the time – I should have.”
“God, no. It wasn’t your fault, sure you weren’t even here. And let’s face it, Ray was as bad as Alan in the end.”
“Any news on that front – do you reckon he’s definitely back?”
I filled him in on my stop-off in Stillorgan, and the conversation with the bookseller.
“So he is back. I wonder what he wants?”
There was something odd about the way he said it.
“What do you mean? I guess he could be in Ireland for all sorts of reasons.”
“Sure, but is he really going to travel all this way and not come back to Carrickderg?”
“Ah look, why would he come back here?” I said with a laugh that sounded high and artificial. “Sure everyone else rushes off as soon as they can. Actually, out of our whole class in school, I think you and I are the only ones left?”
Jamie nodded. “Believe me, I’m very aware of that fact. At least you escaped to Dublin for a few years. Did you ever see Sorcha Riordan when you were there – she’s in Grand Canal too, isn’t she? One of the big US tech companies?”
I hadn’t realised that – I couldn’t imagine Sorcha Riordan as an adult. In my mind, she was still the whiny bigmouth she was when we were eight.
“And Linda scarpered as soon as she could,” Jamie continued. “God, you two were like glue when we were in primary – you must miss having her around.”
“I guess.”
“Oh – I’m detecting a distinct lack of enthusiasm – what’s up?”
“Ah, nothing new – same as I was saying before – we’ve drifted apart recently. I’m the one doing all
the calling, and she’s not making any effort at all. I’m fed up to be honest.” It came out sounding bitter. “I think I’ll back off a bit. She knows where I am if she wants me.”
Jamie looked at me for a moment, and I couldn’t read his expression.
“Do you remember the time Linda stuffed her lunch down the back of the radiator in school,” he said after a moment, “and then you and me did it as well?”
I laughed. I’d forgotten all about it. Nobody knew until the heating went on the following morning and the smell of warm tuna filled the classroom.
“Oh yes! Ms Brown went mad at us – remember?”
“Nope, she went mad at me and Linda – she didn’t say a word to you – you were always teacher’s pet.”
“Hey! I was not!” But thinking back, he was right – Ms Brown had sent Jamie and Linda out of the class to stand in the corridor, but not me. “Well, maybe a little,” I conceded. “I think she always felt bad about that Mother’s Day card thing – remember it led to a whole discussion about how my mother died? She was mortified.”
Jamie nodded, his eyes searching my face. “Did you ever find out more?”
“More?” I knew what he meant though.
“About your mother – sorry, you might not want to talk about it.”
I took a big swallow of Guinness. “I don’t mind. Things were bottled up in our house for long enough, and it all happened so long ago.”
“I remember Da saying you went to Denmark once, back when Ray was still here – did you get to meet your grandparents?”
“Yeah . . . but I messed up and it didn’t work out.”
“Ah.”
Jamie wasn’t going to push me into saying anything further, but suddenly I wanted to talk.
“I wound up fibbing about who I was, then they found out, and refused to see me.”
Jamie put down his drink. “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s shitty of them in fairness.”
I shrugged. “I get it. They were still grieving for Hanne, then I came along disrupting everything.” I paused. “Basically I panicked and said I was a journalist from New Jersey called Linda.” I smiled and shook my head. “So. Dumb.”
“But you had good intentions. Did you ever try again?”
“I called back another day to apologise and Dina – that’s Hanne’s mother – turned me away at the door and told me never to come back. I tried one last time the night before I left, and ended up sneaking around to the back of the house, peeking in the kitchen window at her and some guy.”
Jamie burst out laughing. “See, you did become Nancy Drew after all! Who was the guy? Was she having an affair?”
“Jesus, no! If you met Dina – she doesn’t look like . . . Anyway, I don’t know who the man was. They seemed close, just not in an affair-having way.”
“So you never tried getting in touch after you came home?”
“No.”
Jamie looked at me for a moment, soft eyes soaking me up. “Would it be worth a try again? Even a letter?”
“What’s the point? There’s only so much rejection a girl can take!” I laughed, as tears sprang to my eyes.
“But –” He paused, as though choosing his words. “Well, I’m assuming they’re getting on a bit now – not to be morbid or anything, but what if they die before you have the chance to meet them?”
I picked up a beer mat and studied it, blinking to clear the blur of tears. “I stayed in touch with Asta – a girl I met while I was there. She sends me snippets about the case whenever there are local articles and keeps me posted on the ins and outs of Damtoften, where Hanne’s parents live. If something happened, she’d tell me.”
“But, Marianne –”
“Yes?” I looked up at him.
“If something happens your grandmother, it doesn’t matter how many people you have sending you news – won’t it be too late?”
CHAPTER 46
It was only when John pointedly began switching off lights behind the bar that we realised how late it was. We still had unfinished pints in front of us, and an unfinished conversation – about marriage of all things. An outdated concept, we agreed, though an onlooker might have wondered at our mutually earnest conviction. Jamie swallowed the rest of his pint, I pushed mine aside, and we wandered out to the quiet street towards the minicab office. We spent twenty minutes rubbing our hands in front of a storage heater before Mick O’Shea, the only driver working that night, made it back to pick us up. Jamie tried to get him to drop me first but I insisted it was ridiculous – his house was on the way to mine, I pointed out, as I slid into the passenger seat.
When we stopped at the Crowley farmhouse, Jamie tried to pay the fare, but I told him he could pay next time, surprising myself with how much I wanted there to be a next time. I told him I’d message him in the morning about going down to pick up his car and said a breezy goodbye. Jamie hesitated, but then the front door of the farmhouse opened, and there was Alan, scowling out at the two of us. Jamie muttered something under his breath and got out. As the cab turned in the front yard, I watched them in the doorway, framed by the light behind. Alan was blocking the way, his hands on each side of the doorframe. Jamie was shaking his head, then pushing past to go inside. Jesus, it was like being school kids again, coming home to disappointed parents. Except there would be nobody waiting for me, I thought, as the cab turned into my driveway, and a long-suppressed trickle of loneliness welled up inside. Something else hit me too, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Fierce cold tonight,” said Mick as I searched through my wallet. “You wouldn’t want to be out walking in that. They say it’s the global warming, but it feels awful cold for global warming.”
“At least the snow is gone,” I said, handing him a fifty-euro note. “Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller.”
“You’re grand,” he said, going through his money-pouch for change. There was no hurry on him, and I could feel him settling in for a chat. Mick was the longest-serving cab driver in Carrickderg, and a gent who’d never see you stuck, but God he could talk for Ireland. “You had some trouble here with the snow, didn’t you?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I mumbled, wondering how he knew.
“The missus was filling me in,” he said, reading my mind. “The morning she had the brick through the Post Office window – you were telling Patrick Maguire about someone trespassing here. Same fella maybe?”
“It seems not – that guy is long gone, so it couldn’t be him.”
“Oh – you mean you’ve had more trouble since?” His voice was kind.
I swallowed. “Ah, nothing really, I’ll be fine.”
“Well, look, I’ll stay here till you’re inside,” he said, handing me my change. “Have you a torch on your phone to see the keyhole? It’s fierce dark here – do you not have a porch light you could leave on?”
I looked over at the door and realised that was what had seemed odd as we drove up. I always left the porch light on.
“I do, I think I just forgot it tonight.”
“You’d be as well getting a few more lights around the place – good deterrent, you know? I’m always telling the missus to be more security-conscious. She’d leave doors unlocked all over the place during the day, thinks nothing bad could ever happen in a town like Carrickderg. Well, she did anyway, until that bloody brick through the window. She never stops talking about it. You’d think Russian spies were sending her a message to hear her go on. And she’s some woman for talking, there’s never a minute’s quiet.”
There’s a pair of you in it, I thought, as I smiled and said goodbye. Good as his word, Mick stayed in the driveway, headlights trained on my front door, until I was safely inside with my living-room light on and the door locked. I gave him a thumbs-up from the window and dropped to the couch, eyeing up my closed bedroom door. It was late and I had work in the morning but sleep held little appeal. What if he was out there already, planning his next surprise? My skin prickled, recalling the touch
of the maggots’ fat bodies. And after all my trouble taping the windows, I’d forgotten to bloody check them. Well, there was no way I was going out there to do it now.
On my phone, a sudden glut of notifications from the Armchair Detective group pinged through, providing a tempting and timely alternative to sleep. I opened my laptop.
The flurry of chat centred around a newspaper article on the Blackwood Strangler, speculating that he was responsible for crimes in other countries too.
So annoying when we’ve been saying that all along! That was Neil.
Hmm, I don’t really see it that way, Judith replied. I like it when our theories get some validation. It means we’re on the right track and should keep digging.
I know but that guy who wrote the article gets all the credit! Neil replied.
It’s not about credit, is it? said Judith.Surely we’re just a group of curious minds with a hobby?
I didn’t care about validation or credit, I just wanted someone to tell me there was no way in the world the Blackwood Strangler was in Ireland.
Anyone got something new on the footprint cases? I asked.
Judith said she’d taken a longer look at the Danish murder – the one with the chalk hangman – and the more she read, the more convinced she was it was the Blackwood Strangler.
I don’t suppose there were any cases where he left an apple at someone’s doorstep? I asked.
Not that I’ve seen – there was a rose left at someone’s I think, Judith replied. Why do you ask?
You know the stuff I was saying about footprints and a chalk letter – someone left an apple on my doorstep.
Maybe just a random apple that blew there? Judith suggested. Do you have an apple tree in your garden?
No, I replied, but can’t help thinking about the rose in Austrian case. Not the same, but similar …
Judith came back quickly. Yes, but it’s human nature to see patterns, apohenia (sp?) or something? The more I read about the cases, the more similarities I spot, while handily ignoring the bits that don’t fit and the other explanations – like an ex-husband who got the life insurance or a son with a heroin habit.
