Red Ribbons (10 page)

‘When it was probably kept somewhere else?’

‘Yes, Detective Inspector, and considering the rate of decomposition, it wasn’t kept anywhere warm.’

‘Do you mean it was kept outdoors?’

Morrison gave O’Connor one of his judgemental stares. ‘Unlikely, Detective Inspector, there are no traces of any protection being put on the body. In weather like this, a body exposed to the elements, even in cold temperatures, would have had more advanced decomposition. Most likely the body was kept indoors, but, as I said, somewhere cold.’

‘We’re not talking a fridge here?’

‘You’ve watched too many
CSI
programmes, O’Connor. If the body was in a damn fridge, I’d have told you.’

‘Okay, okay, just trying to get a handle on things – and, just for the record, I don’t watch that crap. Now, can we get back to the cause of death?’

‘As I said, asphyxia caused by strangulation. She has bruising to her face and body, possibly from a fall and/or as a result of the initial attack, but specifically there is acute bruising and injuries to the neck. There are external and internal signs of strangulation present – fracture of the hyoid bone and thyroid cartilage, the two structures making up the voice box, plus the haemorrhaging, spotting around the eyelids, meaning sufficient pressure and time had been applied to her neck. There is also major bruising to the side of the trachea.’

‘Trachea?’

‘Windpipe. There’s bruising on the back of the victim’s neck, meaning the assailant was facing the victim. She was still alive after the blows to the head, Detective, and no sign of anything else used on the neck, other than the killer’s own hands.’

‘Was she conscious?’

‘I doubt it. The markings are consistent with her being in a sedentary or lying down position, the killer leaning over her. If she’d been conscious, and despite the slightness of her frame, she would have attempted to fight back. There was nothing found under her nails, no skin deposits or any other indicators that she’d put up a struggle.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Why, is your notebook full?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. Well then, one last detail.’

‘Go on.’

‘There was blood pooling down the right side, consistent with how the body was found. The body’s position didn’t alter in any significant manner once the pooling occurred.’

‘What’s the story on the toxicology findings?’

‘You know how long they take, Detective Inspector.’

‘I’ll apply some pressure.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

‘You said steel implement, Morrison, any theories?’

‘A steel bar of some kind, Detective, round and narrow, might even be a household poker. Not my area of expertise, though, I’ll leave the
CSI
stuff to you.’

O’Connor left Morrison’s last comment unanswered, but it didn’t help his mood as he exited the revolving doors at the front of the hospital. Pulling the collar of his jacket up, he checked his phone for messages before crossing the main road to the station. As the beginning of another gale began to take hold, he stopped before entering the Incident Room to light up, standing on the exterior steel steps, wondering what kind of sick weirdo would break the bones of a young girl into place.

HE SAT IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT, THE CAR RADIO TURNED down, not hearing the young teenagers’ conversation but watching everything. His head barely moved, fixated on the girl laughing with the others, tossing back her waist-length, strawberry-blonde hair that curled at the end, as if it kept the best bit till last. Her hair was darker now, the summer brightening almost faded. Out of nervous habit, she twirled the front strands around her right index finger; teasing. There were four of them huddled at the side of the shops, all girls, swapping their silly stories.

He followed her from the house, knowing her routine. She would spend some time here, while her friends sneaked their cigarettes, before moving on. Amelia was popular. She liked to spread herself around.

His eyes moved to the other side of the road and spotted a young guy in a black hoodie who started to run over. One of the local studs, strutting up to them, they laughed in unison, delighted for him to be part of their little group. Such is their girlish silliness, elevating the stupid asshole to something important.

His gloved hands slid around the steering wheel and he stretched out his fingers on reaching the top. It wasn’t yet dark. He looked at the scarf on the dashboard, and read 19.45 on the clock. She wouldn’t be expected home until ten. He had everything he needed; preparation and good timing were an essential part of his success.

He waited, watching her pull away from the group, reaching into
the pocket of her denim jacket, answering her mobile phone. The annoyed look on her face telling him the call is unwanted, probably her awful mother. He would need to take care of that phone; no loose ends.

She crossed at the traffic lights, obeying the green man like a good little girl, then turned down the road towards the sports centre. He followed, pulling in on the left-hand side ahead of her and checking the rear-view mirror to make sure it was only her he saw. Leaning over, he rolled down the passenger window, before calling out to her.

‘Hi there.’

‘Ah, hiya.’ A nice big smile.

‘No swimming this evening?’

‘What?’

‘No kit bag …’ He points to her left shoulder.

‘Oh yeah – no, not tonight, just heading up to see some of the others.’

‘Hop in. I’ll give you a lift. I’m going there myself.’ She hesitates. ‘You can tell me all about your new medals, you must have more.’

‘Only one.’ She laughs.

‘Slacking on the training, are you? Come on, get in.’

‘They don’t come easy, you know,’ she says, sitting in beside him.

‘Nothing worthwhile ever does, Amelia. Roll up that window. We don’t want you catching a cold.’

He knew panic would set in once he passed the sports centre, so before reaching it he said, ‘Mind if I pick up someone else, they are just around the corner?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

‘Turn on the radio if you like.’

‘Cool,’ she bent her head down to flick around the stations.

The entrance to the back lane was on his left. As he turned the car she looked up, almost instinctively trying to get her bearings.

The punch to her face hit the underside of her chin. Dazed, her
head hit the passenger side window, and for an instant she stared back at him before lunging for the door handle. He had the large kitchen knife to her throat before she could reach it, pulling her back by the hair.

‘Now, Amelia, let’s be calm. If you are a good girl, I promise I’ll make this easy for both of us. Do you understand me?’

She nodded.

‘Good, now sit back down, nice and easy.’ A trickle of blood crept down her neckline, like a jagged teardrop. ‘We don’t want anything nasty to happen, do we?’ She didn’t answer. ‘No words? That’s not like you.’ He smiled before indicating to the scarf on the dashboard. ‘Tie that around your eyes, good and tight now, double knots, no peeping.’

She did exactly as she was told.

‘You’re doing great, now arms down, join your hands together so I can put this knife away.’

The next three punches knocked her unconscious. A quick check up and down the lane, then he opened the car boot. Once he had shoved her inside it, he tied her hands and feet quickly and taped her mouth. He was about to shut the boot down when he remembered the mobile phone. He pulled it out of her jacket pocket, smashed it under his boot and kicked the broken pieces to the side. The next part would take longer, but the hard bit was over. From here on, it would just be the two of them, and the dark.

≈

He pulled the car into an inlet to the left of the mountain road, the Special Area of Conservation to his right, the city behind him. He turned off the headlights. The road back down to the city was winding, and from his location he could see as far as the old bridge. He timed it, confirming that he had at least two minutes from when he spotted a car, to hearing it pass him. His own car was parked well
in off the road, out of sight. The important part was getting the girl down into the ditch unseen. The drop on the far side would be steep, but that did not concern him.

Opening the car boot, her breathing was deep, her chest moving in and out, her body trembling.

‘Let’s play a game,’ he said, and in his mind he heard the old clock ticking – tick tock, tick tock – followed by its familiar elongated pause: everything in perfect rhythm.

He left the duct tape across her mouth to keep her silent. The skin on her lovely face was blotchy, bruised and wet from tears. Her arms and legs still tied securely.

He wanted it to be quick.

Tick tock, tick tock.

He pulled the electric cable tight around her neck, closing off her oxygen, trapping the blood vessels. This time, expediency was all that mattered, although he did not want her to suffer.

He could still picture her from months earlier, placing those small toes in to test the water, pulling her hair back behind her ears before the dive. He had watched as the long strands of her hair had become immersed, floating to the top like seaweed. He had listened attentively as he heard someone call out her name: Amelia. It was such a pretty name for a young girl. He had thought she would be perfect.

In the dark, all he could hear was the flow of the water. Despite the lightness of the girl’s frame, she felt heavy on his shoulders. The ground underfoot was a mix of scrub and barren soil; he made no sound as he moved. They were now in a place without shadows. He had a long way to go. The farther he walked, the more he became part of the night. Past the gorse patches, where groundwater seeped through sand and gravel, the ground then hardening, before turning into the chalky bedrock he required.

For the first time since he left the mountain road, he turned and looked behind him. The vast, darkened wilderness brought him
peace. Dumping the bag containing her body to the side, he stretched upwards, allowing his own breathing to settle. This was the place. The grave would not have to be deep.

Even though she had been such a disappointment, he still prepared her body properly – brushing her hair and tying both plaits neatly with the ribbons. Her lips had reminded him of a painting by Vermeer, the deep shades of cherries over-ripening on the canvas. He laid out her body, as if she were a young girl sleeping, before gently kissing her forehead. She hadn’t understood, but then, why should she?

She was never good enough.

KATE WALKED DOWN THE LONG HALLWAY OF NUMBER 34 Mervin Road and pulled the bright yellow Georgian door firmly behind her. With at least another hour before Charlie and Declan were due back from the cinema, she had decided to get out of their apartment and go for a run. The three-storey building was divided into apartments, each occupied by a small family, but it was all quiet as she stood on the doorstep, pulling her jet-black hair into a tight ponytail. To Kate, changing into her running gear was like putting on a new skin, but tonight she knew she couldn’t outrun the images in her mind – she would end up thinking about the photographs O’Connor had shown her over lunch.

O’Connor had a good success rate, but that in itself was no guarantee that they would find out who killed the girl. But there was another thought niggling at the back of her mind. She had been surprised at how pleased she’d been to see O’Connor again, and couldn’t help wondering if the difficulties she and Declan had been experiencing lately had anything to do with it. She didn’t like the way that last thought made her feel, so she struck out along the path, determined to run it and all the other thoughts out of her system.

As she made her way out of Ranelagh village, past the small line of bijou shops and bars, she let the breeze consume her as she instinctively ran faster. Her feet sent her on the usual route: rounding the corner at the top of Appian Way, past the road leading to the Royal Hospital and farther on towards Donnybrook. Turning left towards Herbert
Park, she felt her body get into a more uplifting rhythm; she could hear the swish of her ponytail and the repetitive sound of her runners hitting the footpath, feeling the bounce as the ground resonated from the soles of her feet up through her body.

The faster she ran, the faster the questions about the murder came. What had led to the event? Why this victim? What had motivated the killer? She thought back to the images from the burial site, how murky everything had looked, alternating shades of grey and black. In the images, it looked as if the soil had eaten into the girl’s body, layering it, creating a sort of uniformity with the land, except for the small glint that one of the cameras had picked up – a silver crucifix around the victim’s neck, reflecting splintered light when all else was dark.

Entering the gates of Herbert Park, she took in the smell of recently cut grass, probably the last cut of autumn. Other than the odd rook and jackdaw cawing from the trees above, the park was empty, and as she made her way past the old stone water fountain, the cascading water blended with the sounds of the tall rustling trees.

The image Kate couldn’t get out of her mind was the school photograph of Caroline Devine, the photograph her parents had given to the gardaí. What struck Kate most was the girl’s smile. It was one of those large, unthinking smiles that children gave and it was, according to O’Connor, the clearest image Caroline’s parents had of her. They must have prayed someone would recognise their bright shining daughter and bring her back, but Caroline had not come back, at least not in the way her parents had hoped.

In the photograph, the girl’s blonde curls were held back by a narrow hairband, revealing tiny stud earrings, which reminded Kate of a pair she’d worn at that age. She could still remember being twelve, self-conscious, aware of her body changing, her parents not quite knowing what to do with her any more. Had Caroline felt self-conscious, no longer a child but not yet a woman? The few months since that school photograph must have changed things. The development of her body,
visible in the mountain grave, meant Caroline had begun adolescence, newly formed sexuality like an undercurrent waiting to settle.