Red Ribbons (8 page)

O’Connor cleared his throat. ‘I don’t need to remind anyone here that even though the general public will never see these images, they will be imagining them, and I cannot overemphasise how high the stakes are. The abduction and murder of this young girl has understandably generated a huge outcry from the public. It has also brought an enormous interest from abroad, including a very high media presence, which is growing by the day.’ O’Connor looked over at Rohan, and got a nod back. ‘Just to say here, there is absolutely no direct evidence of any sexual assault on the young girl, but I don’t have to tell you, the jury is still out as to what the killer’s real intentions were.’

When O’Connor had finished, Donoghue, as bookman, had the last word. ‘You don’t have to have a young family to think about how this girl will never get a chance to grow up, or how she might have suffered. We are at the height of this investigation, guys, and everyone in this room, including the much-appreciated support from Harcourt Square’ – he nodded to the guys from the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation in the corner – ‘knows what’s needed. Now, let’s get some answers, before there are too many more bloody questions.’

IT HAD BEEN SIX MONTHS SINCE HIS MOTHER’S DEATH, and he had returned to work at Newell Design, and the stupidity of his co-workers was now a constant irritant to him. He felt relief each evening when he finally turned the key in the lock of his two-up, two-down townhouse and closed the door on the world.

The house was small and of little consequence. Looking at it from the outside, one might consider it bleak, situated as it was at the end of the street, with none of the decorative frivolity of many of the others. He detested the exterior of the neighbouring houses, having no time for window boxes, door knockers with the face of lions or the diverse range of window dressings on display, from cheap lace to every variation of bobble and blind, including the latest addition of the wooden Venetian kind. He liked things to be uncluttered, hygienic and, at the very least, purposeful. Nothing existed in his house outside these guidelines. Ornaments were something he had a specific disdain for, being of no value other than to gather dust, along with his fervent aversion to fine bone china and a complete loathing of any form of waste. Olive oil bottles were turned upside-down, jars and tins cleared out with methodical knife-scraping, and tubes, especially toothpaste tubes, were flattened to perfection.

He had decided to buy Number 15 Meadow View four months previously. He had made up his mind that his childhood home at Cronly Lodge would never be suitable as a permanent residence. He didn’t care much for the name of the street; he failed to understand
why it held the title when no meadow, or view of one, existed. Perhaps at some point the square patch the house was built on had been part of a meadow, but if that were true, he felt a terrific irony in the fact that none of the houses on the street possessed so much as a front garden.

Once inside the house, with the door shut firmly behind him, he relaxed. He was still getting used to the liberating feeling of living in his own place, with the freedom to have things just as he wanted them. He had rented since starting work in Dublin, but it had been tiresome, always having to be concerned about how the landlord felt regarding arrangement of furniture or decorative changes. It had limited him. Sometimes, like now, he would walk around in the dark, remembering being a boy, roaming the corridors of Cronly at night, or those warm clammy evenings at the castello. It was important to remember the past. When he did turn on the light, he took solace from everything being just as he had left it. In fact, he never left without preparing the house for his return. If, for example, he left the house in daylight but knew he would not return until late evening, he would close the curtains. If, on the other hand, he left the house at night and knew he would not be back until morning, he would do the opposite. He had no time for people who didn’t prepare or plan. After all, most things in life were predictable and capable of being forecast, if you put your mind to it.

Although visitors to Number 15 were very few indeed, the house was at all times impeccably clean and tidy. Opening the kitchen cupboards, he noted the consumables sorted into their relevant categories, the earliest sell-by dates to the front. Taking down the small tin chest of Mokalbari tea, he felt an immediate sense of pride, delighted with this little find from the nearby Indian shop. The tea not only tasted of malt but had a very distinct and splendid hint of elderberry.

The house was quiet, other than the low hiss from the boiling
kettle. Being situated at the end of the street meant very few people ventured all the way up to the top of the cul-de-sac. The only living thing other than himself in the house was Tabs, the cat. Tabs was the last in a long line of cats called Tabs from Cronly, an unwanted but necessary bequest from the big house. Despite having no particular affection for the animal, it was nonetheless a tolerable pet. The cat demonstrated traits that he found matched his own – predatory by nature, incredibly selfish and, for the most part, kept himself to himself. As well, of course, as being impeccably clean.

As he poured the just-boiled water over his tea leaves, he watched with amusement as the cat cleared his bowl of milk. Tabs reminded him of Jarlath, both of them had skeletal-like frames. Indeed, on closer examination even their eyes looked similar – strained and watery, with a keen sharpness about them. Jarlath looked liked someone in need of a good meal, or at the very least some physical exercise to build him up a bit. He himself enjoyed his keep-fit routine, believing it was an essential part of a good life balance. He knew many viewed him as something of an intellectual, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take care of his body too.

Of course, this had not always been the case. When he was younger, like Jarlath, he too could have been thought of as sickly. If he had had siblings, he most probably would have been described as ‘the runt’ or ‘the weakling’, something that in another species of animal would be considered for extermination. It was only after finishing his studies at college that he set about improving himself physically; a change of image part of his fresh start. Most exercises he did alone, like walking, running, hill climbing. He enjoyed swimming too, usually early morning or late evening, times when most people would be someplace else.

He emptied his cup of Mokalbari as diligently as Tabs cleared his bowl, and his mind wandered to events earlier in the day. At work, little had changed from before: Susan was still there with her sniffles,
and Jarlath was just as enthused about Pascal’s unfinished work on the Pensées.

He had wondered if any of them would have guessed at his little secret, or did his quiet disposition still fool them into thinking he was harmless? The thought brought a smile to his face. In part, he liked being a man of mystery, it allowed him to deflect questions, surprisingly enough, rather than answer them. No, he was quite certain that none of them thought there was anything unduly strange about him – even of late, when life had proved so challenging. After all, he didn’t look like the type of man to do anything out of the ordinary. Even his ongoing, uninvited visits to other people’s homes would be laughed at as ridiculous. Visualising him going into places he was not supposed to was not an image that would spring immediately to mind.

The first place he’d broken into was the sacristy of the local church. Not that he considered it breaking in, more childish curiosity than anything else. He had obsessed for a long time about the place where the priest prepared himself for mass, wondering what rituals and mysteries would be involved. Was there a mirror in which the priest could admire himself in his colourful robes? Were there treasures hidden in this priestly place, things specifically for the ordained and not for mere mortals? He took his opportunity one Sunday after mass. His mother had engaged Fr Mahon in the type of conversation that didn’t allow interruption, making it easy for him to slip away unnoticed. His curiosity about religious customs was aroused well before his and his mother’s trip to Suvereto later that same year.

The moment he was inside the sacristy, his excitement rose. He had stood leaning with his back against the door, taking in all around him, as if he’d just entered a cave full of treasure. The room had smelled of candle grease and incense and was filled with heavy, dark furniture, which he had suspected had been there long before Fr
Mahon. There had been old papers too, hardback books, mostly of a religious nature, and a tall mahogany unit in the corner with carvings on the front depicting a scene from the Garden of Eden. The unit had been locked, but the key was in the door. He’d turned it, forcing it a little, his nervous excitement rising as he’d felt the bolt release itself, and the door opened.

Inside, the vestments had hung like a line of coloured soldiers. He’d moved his hand along the top, stroking the embroidered garb, like he might have touched a painting in an art gallery that he had been forbidden to lay a finger on. At first, he’d worried that someone might come in and find him, or that the heavens would strike and punish him for committing such a sin. His palms had felt sweaty as he’d looked all around him, thinking the very walls could alert others to his misbehaviour and, just for a moment, he had been sure he’d be paralysed to the spot. It was then that he’d noticed the large crucifix hanging above the doorway. The sight of the crucifix should have scared him more, but it had encouraged him, as he’d realised that neither the walls nor the crucifix had any power over him. Alone, he’d been free to move at will, so when he’d found the biscuit tin with the altar bread inside, he had not hesitated to pick up the wafer bread, place it high above his head and, facing Jesus on the cross, say, ‘Hoc est enim Corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradetur’ –‘This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ At no point had he felt any guilt – even afterwards when his mind had rambled now and then and he’d worried about being punished. Those feelings had soon passed; the lack of retribution had strengthened his delight that he had got away with it. After that, he often broke into places – after all, it was perfectly natural to be inquisitive, even if he carried out his curiosity in a way others would not have done.

He still had a few minutes before the six o’clock news, which he planned to watch upstairs. He had heard the headlines during work at lunchtime; they had all been about the missing girl. He looked
forward to listening to the news with no distractions, reading his notes, and his copy of Pensées. In his rush to get upstairs, he tripped on the second step. Falling forward, he dropped the book, his notes scattering on the staircase just as Tabs attempted to slip past. He turned, a blow from his left hand sending the cat flying backwards through the air. Tabs was lucky, having nine lives. Picking up the notes one sheet at a time, he placed them back in the book at exactly the same page, which now had a dirty crease down the centre. The mark would be permanent.

Straightening his back, he walked back down into the kitchen. The cat was nowhere to be found. Taking down a drinking glass, he wrapped a tea towel around it before hammering a meat mallet down hard, smashing it into tiny pieces. With protective gloves on, he opened a tin of cat food, mixing the smaller pieces of glass in with the food, then filled Tabs’ bowl to the brim. By the time he left the kitchen, everything had been tidied away and looked exactly as it had done before. Tabs would have an uncomfortable night. His mood shifted again. He smiled, knowing he would still make it upstairs in time for the news. He expected the main story to give more details on the missing girl, and he was keen to keep abreast of all developments – but the headlines were not as he expected.

He stood in front of the television screen, not quite believing what he was seeing, as a reporter from the scene reiterated the meagre information. Garda cars were parked up on a ditch at the side of the road, yellow tape running for as far as he could see. He saw
men dressed in white boiler suits, their faces looking downwards, wooden sticks in each of their right hands, breath billowing from their uncovered faces.

He had left her near perfect. He had wanted everything to be as it should be, not just for him, but for her too. Whilst staring at the television screen, he felt the intrusion of those unknown men, messing things up, a sense of violation rushing through him.

He replayed the broadcast, looking at the police in their white boiler suits, mucky tyre marks on the road with the onslaught of their cars, the black of the tall spruce trees shadowing the foreground, turning everything in their path to miniature. He paced around the room, with a multitude of thoughts flooding him all at once. There was no time for regret; he had to think, and think clearly. The finding of the girl’s body brought new difficulties, loose ends that would have to be dealt with. They had forced his hand, and he now needed to be one step ahead of them. The distance would not prove a problem. He still had another couple of hours before dark.

IT IS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME I MEET Dr Ebbs. I’ve had a bad feeling about today since I woke. I sense change and change isn’t a good thing, it’s unpredictable.

When I arrive, he has my case notes closed. On top of them is his jotter from yesterday, but that, too, is closed. I assume talking will be the order of the day, but it surprises me that he doesn’t want to write anything down.

‘Hello, Ellie.’

‘Hello.’

I sit down, join my hands and I wait. He smiles and draws in a deep breath to initiate conversation.

‘How are you today?’

‘Fine.’