The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  A chill settled across my skin. Ray was coming back.

  CHAPTER 50

  At home that night, I checked the doors three times before making myself sit down with a glass of wine and a book, but I couldn’t concentrate. Was he already out there, watching? Planning his next visit? Geraldine had come up to take photos of the hangman, and a police car had driven by twice since, but still – they couldn’t be there all night, and then what? Meanwhile, I’d pissed Jamie off by making only the slightest suggestion Alan was responsible, and now Ray was coming back. I felt sick.

  After an hour of disjointed reading, I got up to make sure the front door was locked, and suddenly remembered the sticky tape. I hadn’t checked it when I came in from town. Dammit anyway, I’d have to go outside. I slid back the bolt, unhooked the chain, and turned the key. Outside, I could see my breath, but I didn’t bother putting on a jacket. It would only take a few seconds. Hugging myself for warmth, I ran to the window and began the familiar ritual, tracing my fingers around the frame.

  The tape wasn’t there.

  Hands scrabbling over the woodwork, sure I was wrong, I kept searching. It was cold, pitch dark, I’d missed it, that was all. Slow down and try again.

  But I wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t missed it. It was gone.

  Back inside, I slammed the door and turned the key, and didn’t stop to check the time as I hit the number for the Garda Station. Patrick picked up, sounding weary. Saturday night. He was probably expecting a call about drunks.

  “It’s Marianne,” I said, out of breath. “I think someone tried to break in. I hate making a fuss but please can you or Geraldine come up?”

  Within ten minutes, Patrick had pulled up at the house, and ten minutes later he had checked all the rooms and done a thorough search of the front and back gardens. I showed him the window and told him about the sticky tape.

  He looked confused as we moved back into the house.

  “But, Marianne, how would Sellotape keep someone out?”

  Jesus, no wonder he was confused.

  “No, of course not, it’s not to keep anyone out – it’s so I know if someone tried to get in. Tried to open the window. And now the tape is gone, so that means someone did.”

  “Ah, I see. Is it okay if I look in your bedroom again?”

  I led him through and watched as he examined the window from the inside, and the floor underneath.

  “It doesn’t look like anything has been broken or tampered with, and there’s nothing on the floor – no bits of muck or dirt like you might get if someone climbed in. I reckon it’s safe to assume someone removed the tape but didn’t do anything else?”

  I nodded. Partly because it made sense and partly because it was a lot better than believing someone had been in the house.

  “Do you change the tape every day or leave the same one there?”

  “I leave it there unless it rains. It loses its stickiness if it’s wet – then I change it.”

  “Well, it rained earlier this afternoon, maybe it fell off and blew away, I’ll have another look at the ground outside.”

  “Maybe . . .” I conceded.

  “And I know it’s not cheap, but the best way to make sure someone doesn’t try to break in is a burglar alarm. Better than Sellotape.” He smiled at me.

  I didn’t smile back.

  When he left, satisfied that the tape had blown away despite not finding any on the ground, I sat back down to read, but it was no good, I couldn’t concentrate. Every creak, every rattle was amplified, and every dark story I’d ever read was coming back now, a tangle of faceless monsters and creeping fingers clawing through my jittered mind.

  My phone beeped and I grabbed it, realising I was hoping to see Jamie’s name. But it was Linda.

  Did you see my text – any chance you can pick it up in next few days? Sadie won’t sleep without it, total nightmare.

  Seriously? Without stopping to think, I hit the call button.

  “Oh, hi,” she whispered when she picked up, “I texted instead of phoning because I didn’t want to risk waking the kids.” A hint of reproach. “Is it about the teddy?”

  “No, it’s not about the bloody teddy.”

  Silence.

  “Marianne?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. Not that you bloody care.” My throat was tight with anger and threatening tears, but I couldn’t stop now. Months of hurt came tumbling out. “All you think about is you and your kids, and you never bother with me anymore, not until you need something. You’re a walking cliché – all those stories you hear of women who have kids and dump their friends – I never thought it would be you, Linda.”

  Another silence. I carried on.

  “I matter too, you know? Just because I don’t have four kids doesn’t make me less of a person. I have stuff going on that you know absolutely nothing about, because you haven’t bothered to call me, much less visit, in I don’t know how long. And I’m so hurt and so upset but, most of all, I’m so bloody angry right now.”

  “Marianne.”

  She said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear.

  “Marianne, I’m so sorry. I should have explained but there was never a good moment and I suppose I was in denial for a long time.”

  I heard her take a breath.

  “I haven’t been myself since Harry was born. I’m on antidepressants but –” her voice cracked and then she was crying, “I’m struggling. Every day, just getting out of bed and looking after them is a struggle. I feel like a shitty mother, I feel like they’d be better off with anyone but me. But there’s nobody else – Dónal is busy with the surgery, and my mam is in Arklow. So it’s just me, trapped with four kids who need every ounce of my energy. And I know that’s not your fault and not your concern and I should have been a better friend but I’m just in a really, really shitty place right now.”

  “Oh Linda.” It came out as a whisper. “Linda, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry – there’s no way you could have known, and there I am sending you stupid messages about stupid teddy bears. Only she won’t sleep without it and I’m just broken – I’m completely and utterly broken.”

  “And . . . and are you getting help? I mean, besides the medication?”

  “Yes, I’m seeing a therapist. I had postnatal depression with the other three but nothing as bad as this – it’s completely blindsided me. My mam was able to come down to help out in the past but she’s getting on now and couldn’t come this time. Dónal’s been brilliant though – he noticed pretty quickly that things were worse this time.”

  “Oh Linda, I’m so sorry. I should have realised.”

  “How could you? I didn’t even realise myself at first. That’s the irony, I suppose – I was so overwhelmed by it I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. I’ll get there, but it’s slow. Now, you must tell me what’s going on with you.”

  I switched the phone to my other ear and stood up.

  “God no, don’t worry about me – I wouldn’t have said a word if I’d known.”

  “Please, Marianne, I could do with the distraction – even if I can’t help, a listener couldn’t hurt, right?”

  She was right. So I told her – all of it. The footprints, the bizarre souvenirs, the Armchair Detective group, Ray. And Jamie – I told her about our not-quite-date and she said it was best news she’d heard in years.

  We talked for over an hour and when we finally said goodbye, I felt better than I had done in months.

  I got up to go to bed, checking the door one last time. Soon I’d have cameras and an alarm to keep the stranger out, and then it would be over.

  CHAPTER 51

  When I opened my work email on Monday morning and spotted Asta’s message, it gave me a jolt – the “bad news” subject line jumping out among more mundane correspondence about projects and meetings.

  Hey, Marianne,

  As per my previous email, I’m afraid Fru Hansen isn’t getting any better. She has seen a pastor and also a so
licitor about her will – she said she is determined to be organised in death. She is very direct! When I got upset during our visit, she told me not to be silly. She talked about your mother, and said it was a privilege to live to such an age when poor Hanne had so little time.

  But then something happened and this is why I am writing to you.

  There was a Bible on her nightstand and she picked it up – I thought maybe her last wish was to convert me to God now that she’d found him! But something slipped out of the Bible and onto the floor. I picked it up and saw it was a photograph – an old Polaroid of a man in front of a church, the one we visited near Fugl Sø, you remember? I asked if it was her son. She looked confused and took the photo from me.

  She stared at it for a long time. Then she passed it to me and said in the strangest voice that I must take it to the police. I wondered if her mind was going but she got agitated so I promised I would do as she asked. Then she became very specific. She said I must explain that it’s connected to Hanne’s death, and tell them the man in the photo is the one she saw near the house in the time before Hanne disappeared. Still I wondered if she was imagining things or trying to fix all of it before she dies. I guess she could see my scepticism because she took my hand and said: “You must go straight to the police, not to Dina. That is important. You tell them he is the man who was there before Hanne died.”

  I asked why not Dina, though I didn’t intend to go to Dina anyway – I would not be comfortable showing up at her door with a photo of a stranger and talking about her daughter’s death.

  “Because he is the dark-haired man nobody seemed to know,” she said, “and this Bible is not mine – it was given to me this week. This Bible belongs to Dina.”

  I stopped reading and stared at Asta’s email, trying to make sense of it. If Dina had a photo of the dark-haired man, she must have known him – so why didn’t she tell the police? I thought back to the man in her kitchen that night ten years ago – should I have said something to the police back then? But what could I have said – I was snooping around my estranged grandmother’s back garden and saw her talking to a man? It was hardly a crime.

  I started to read again.

  She was so agitated, I promised I would go to the police and I wouldn’t speak to Dina about it. I didn’t see any harm – if the police want to dismiss it as the unravelling of an old lady, that will be their decision. But I thought of you also, and your search for the truth. I wondered if you would want to see the photo. So I stopped on my way to the police station, and scanned a copy. See attached. Good luck with your detecting!

  Asta xx

  I clicked on the attachment and a photo appeared on screen. The church in the grainy black-and-white image was instantly recognisable as the one Asta and I had visited – the graveyard in which Hanne was buried.

  But I wasn’t looking at the church.

  I was looking at the man.

  As I stared at his face, a sickening dread slipped across my skin. And I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 52

  In a blur, I started to type a reply to Asta.

  The man in the photo is my dad. Can you tell Fru Hansen and see if she knew he went to Denmark?

  I deleted it immediately. If my dad was in Denmark back then – if he was the dark-haired man – would the police think of him as some kind of suspect? And what the hell was he doing over there? He had never said anything about it. In fact, I could remember asking him if he went to Denmark and he said no – he stayed here to look after me. Why would he lie? I made another attempt at the email.

  Hi Asta,

  I missed your email over the weekend, just saw it now. How is Fru Hansen? If she’s well enough, do you think you could ask her again about the man in the photo, to see if she knows anything at all?

  Marianne xx

  Her reply arrived minutes later.

  Dear Marianne,

  I’m so sorry to tell you this but Fru Hansen died sometime on Saturday night. My mother went in to bring some food yesterday morning but she had passed away. She was of course very elderly and ill, but it is sad to think of her dying alone. I am more upset than I expected to be.

  I sat back on the couch, feeling something much like Asta – sadder than I expected for a woman I’d met just twice, a long time ago. Another link with Hanne gone – one of the last people who could help solve what happened. I started typing again.

  Asta, I’m so sorry. I understand your sadness – it doesn’t matter how old someone is when they go – death has a finality that’s hard to process. I am sad too, and I hardly knew her. Is your mum ok?

  Mxx

  As I waited, I clicked into the photo again, and stared at my father’s face. There was no doubt about it, it was him. The dark hair, the sad eyes I knew so well, the forced half-smile. Why was he there? And who took the photo? Could it have been something to do with her funeral? He’d told me he hadn’t gone to it but maybe he did and kept it from me for some reason? Though funerals weren’t photo opportunities, even in the most bizarre circumstances, I couldn’t imagine someone asking my dad to pose for a photo beside his dead wife’s grave. My eyes wandered to the left of the photo, to the headstones around where Hanne was buried. Was hers there? I couldn’t make out the inscriptions – the copy was too grainy.

  I typed another email to Asta.

  PS about the photo – did you give it to the police and what did they say? Did they keep it?

  It felt like an eternity before she replied.

  Yes, they took it. The person on the desk didn’t seem very excited but I guess once it gets to the right person, they will know what to do with it.

  I typed again.

  Did you happen to look at the headstones before you handed it in? Do you know if it was taken after Hanne’s burial or not?

  This time her reply came through quickly.

  I did, yes, and I couldn’t see Hanne’s headstone. I can’t be certain, but I think it was taken before she was buried.

  The words swam a little as I read them again, trying to make sense of it. Had my dad gone over to help with the search? Then where was I when he went, and why did he never tell me? Or was it before she went missing? A buzzing behind my eyes was starting to hurt.

  I picked up my phone. Asta answered after one ring.

  “Hey, Marianne, it’s good to talk to you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. I’m so sorry about Fru Hansen.”

  “I’m sorry for you too, I know she was important to your search.”

  “Yeah, my search – how I wish I’d done something about it in the last ten years, instead of leaving it until it’s too late.”

  “It’s not too late. You can still try. Does the photo mean anything?”

  I hesitated.

  “Marianne? Are you still there?”

  “Asta, you can’t say this to the police – you promise?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “The man in the photo is my dad. I have no idea why he’s there – he told me he never went to Denmark.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know what it means,” I went on. “Maybe he had a good reason for not telling me.”

  “Was he there before or after she went missing?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe after, to help with the search?”

  “But then why would he be posing for a photo like this – I don’t know if you can make it out so well from the copy, but it looks like a tourist photo. You know what I mean?”

  I did. It didn’t tie in with a search at all.

  “And Fru Hansen –” She stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “Fru Hansen was certain she saw the man there in the week before Hanne went missing. A few times that week, and never after. She was very much involved in the search, so if your dad was there to help, she would have mentioned it I think?”

  True. But if he wasn’t there for the search or the funeral, then what?

  “God, Asta, I just do
n’t get it. And now I’ll never bloody know because Fru Hansen is gone.”

  “There is someone you could ask . . . your grandmother.”

  “I think those bridges are well and truly burnt.”

  “Marianne, time has passed – isn’t it worth trying again?”

  “It’s not up to me – Dina is the one who pushed me away.”

  “Of course. And you can sit there in Ireland and do nothing. Absolutely. And then just like Fru Hansen, Dina will die, and it will be another link lost. But that is up to you.”

  I closed my eyes, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Are you still there?”

  “When is the funeral?”

  More than ten years had passed since I’d walked the pavements of Købæk, but nothing had changed. The streets were as clean and picturesque as I remembered, and the March wind was every bit as cold as the November one. I planned to book a hotel but Asta insisted I stay with her – she was renting an apartment in the town centre, with a second bedroom she used as a darkroom. The flat was littered with prints – photographs of buildings and spires and people and skies – some framed and hung on walls, most in messy piles scattered around the wooden floor.

  “You really made it as a photographer, despite your mother’s warnings,” I said, picking up a black-and-white photograph of Rikke.

  “I don’t know if I made it – there’s not much money coming in, but I’m happy. I sell some prints online, and I give classes to teens at the Youth Club. And yes, even my mother has accepted that I’ll never get a ‘proper’ job.”

  “Good! I’m looking forward to seeing her. I guess she’ll be at the funeral tomorrow?”

  “Yes. But tonight we’re invited for dinner – will you come?”