Red Ribbons (15 page)

As she walked back to the car, some brittle branches snapped under her foot. Looking over her shoulder, she caught the light shimmering
in and out between the hedgerows, just like in her old memory. She thought about Caroline and Amelia being scared, like she had been all those years ago. He had grabbed her from behind and the feeling of hopelessness had been immediate. No one had realised she’d been missing. The whole world had seemed a lifetime away, and she had been powerless to reach it. In those moments of adrenaline and terror, she had felt forcibly that her life was in his hands – he hadn’t cared if he hurt her or took everything away from her.

Kate stopped walking and willed herself to breathe deeply, to be aware of the here and now. She hated when the past crept up on her like that, taking her out of herself for whole minutes at a time. It was like a sick joke he was still able to play on her. She couldn’t save Caroline or Amelia, but she would do her best to ensure that their tormentor didn’t get to anyone else.

ANDREW AND I WOULD MEET IN THE AFTERNOON, twice a week, when Amy had music practice. The clandestine nature of that escape, the duplicity, aroused feelings I had long since forgotten. I would drive so far and then abandon the car, walking the remaining half-mile to where he lived. His house had a rear entrance through the back garden, a black wooden door he had given me the key to. If I met anyone as I walked the laneway past the other back doors, I just kept on walking to the end. Once inside the garden, no matter what the weather, I would stop and take out the small compact from my bag to examine my face, fix my hair. Sometimes I would feel as if I was being sucked into my own reflection, as if someone else, a piece of me I hadn’t known existed, was going to meet him. Even on days when there was no need to reapply lipstick, I would do so. I always wanted to look my best.

Usually, he would be in the upstairs back bedroom, where he painted. Unlike him, I would feel awkward at first. He never did. He would stop painting when I walked into the room – I would tell him to continue, but it didn’t work that way. Andrew painted alone.

Almost at once he became a different person. The expression of anguish he wore on his face as he worked on the canvas would evaporate, and all he would seem to want was me. He could be flippant about things and yet completely in earnest, such was the complexity of his nature. Each time we were together, I knew what would happen. If I felt guilty about our meeting, he would charm it all away; in truth, he had no time for such nonsense. With him, it was all about the living,
the moment, the experience; few rules applied. Sometimes I would feel overdressed, too prepared, as if I should have been brave enough not to worry about lipstick or powder or any of that nonsense. I would feel that I should have been more like him, and have abandoned the complicated frivolities that seemed to feature so prominently in my life back then.

His place was different from where I lived with Joe. He cared little for all the things that Joe felt were important. Possessions were simply items of necessity. What obsessed him was his art and, for a time, me.

Sex was always immediate, as if the two of us had been starved. He had confident hands and his lips were gentle, sensual, before becoming harsh and needy. When his desire was at its most selfish, he felt both shocking and delightful. Afterwards, he would hold me, sometimes make fun of me, but then he would change again and become serious, talking to me in the softest tone, the one that utterly consumed me, the one I could not live without. From those early, intimate days, the one thing I remember most vividly was how he looked at me, as if I was some wonderful stranger who, having entered his life, would not be allowed to leave.

I cared little, at times, what he talked about, whether it was his art or his time in Canada, the land, the people. It was in Canada, far away from the confines of Dublin, that he had finally made the decision to study art. It was while away in a foreign place that he learned to appreciate the colours and textures of home, so that when he returned, it was as if he saw it all for the very first time. But for that decision – to return – our paths would never have crossed. My only connection to him would have been nothing more than Joe’s references to his ‘good-for-nothing brother’.

AS HE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR OF 15 MEADOW VIEW, he made a mental checklist of everything. Before leaving, he had gone through the same routine, checking the windows and doors last. One could never be too careful – breaking and entering was far easier than most people imagined and being familiar with the many tricks of the trade, he never took any chances. He combed the rooms thoroughly, ensuring that all was as it should be.

With everything to his satisfaction, he examined the reflection of his face in the hall mirror, fiddling with his shirt collar. Then he stood back and took in his full appearance. Sliding his fingers through his hair, which in the past number of years had developed slight tinges of grey on either side, a development he approved of, he couldn’t help but feel pleased about his overall look. He had no intention, at the age of fifty-two, of looking like some old fuddy-duddy, happy to wear smart jumpers and nondescript jeans when not in work. After all, he was physically fit, a non-smoker, a moderate drinker and he had a good eye for design and style. There was no reason he couldn’t continue to look this good for at least another fifteen years, once he adhered strictly to his regimes. He reached under the stairs and put away his walking boots, feeling quite the ‘frontier man’ – a description upon which he had moulded his appearance for a very long time, since childhood in fact.

At Cronly, the solitary framed photograph of his father had sat on the piano in the music room. He’d never met his father, but he had
made up many stories about him. The image in the silver frame was of a tall, handsome man with arms wrapped around a white husky dog. Behind the man and his dog were mountains with snowy tips. He remembered how pleased he felt about this man behind the glass, this man who was his unknown father.

When he got older, around the age of eleven, he’d become suspicious of the picture in the frame. He had waited and chosen an afternoon when he knew Mother would be ‘otherwise occupied’ – that was how Mother referred to the times she’d go missing without explanation – to remove the image from the frame. When he released it from the outer casing, he discovered at the bottom of the image the words ‘Frontier Man’. It didn’t take long for him to work out that the picture was a cutting from a copy of
National Geographic
, for on the reverse of the image was an article about Tibetan monks. He never did find out any other information about the man in the picture, other than the simple truth that he was certainly not his father. This lie told to him by his mother would lead, over time, to the uncovering of many others.

He felt particularly energised after his early-morning stroll in the park, so he switched on his PC before he even started on lunch. Sometimes the darn thing took ages to crank up, but he had no intention of changing it unless he had to.

A police press conference was due to be held later, but there had been early-morning reports about a second girl who had gone missing. One report even noted that ‘criminal profiling’ was being carried out as part of the ongoing investigation. There was a reference to Kate Pearson in a couple of the articles, listing her training in the UK with prominent criminal psychologist Professor Henry Bloom.

‘Good, that’s very good indeed,’ he noted out loud. He could hear rumbling from next door; the house attached to his was often louder with its weekend domesticity.

Running another search through Google, there were any number
of hits, but one in particular attracted his attention, covering Kate Pearson’s work with the professor. He saved it into Favorites, then went to the kitchen to make a bowl of pasta for lunch. His next trip wouldn’t take long. The bus stop was less than a five-minute walk from the house. He had the choice of any number of buses, which was partly the reason he had chosen 15 Meadow View because it meant that, despite the unreliability of the bus services in the city, the abundance of routes would ensure being late for work, or anything else, was not a problem he would encounter.

Locking his car in the Terenure garage the night before had been a rather rushed affair, and although he’d been careful that there was no mess this time, he would feel happier once he had double-checked that everything was as it should be. Things must always be as they should be.

He arrived at the bus stop ten minutes after finishing his lunch. A group of old ladies were waiting, and a teenage boy – a good sign, another bus would be along soon. It was an excellent day, with lots of sunlight, although chilly. He was glad he’d worn a warm jacket. The bus arrived empty except for a couple of passengers, so he stood back and allowed the others to go ahead of him. This generated smiles all round from everyone except the teenager, who stood back awkwardly.

Once on the bus, he chose a window seat. As he sat down, one of the old ladies smiled at him again. It was amazing how a small gesture could bring you close to people. If he wanted to, he knew he could be on first-name terms with the woman before either of them got off the bus. Instead, he decided to look out the window, allowing his mind drift to Blake’s
Songs of Innocence and Experience
, a masterful collection that explored the contrary states of the human soul. Blake saw childhood as a state of protected innocence although, importantly, it was not immune to the immoral world and its sometimes dreadful institutions.

At the stop before his, the old lady with the eager smile got off. He purposely nodded goodbye to her. She looked even happier than
before. He didn’t wave to her as the bus pulled out, although he noticed she waited on the footpath for him to do so. There was no point getting too friendly, that was something he kept for people who could be either useful or of interest. He closed his eyes and waited until the woman was no longer in view before returning to watch the rest of the passengers. He liked to watch how people moved, listen to how they talked and take in every little thing about their appearance and that way, bit by bit, he could build up an exact picture of every person he encountered. It felt like a stolen intimacy, and that notion pleased him immensely.

KATE RECEIVED O’CONNOR’S TEXT BEFORE SHE reached the end of the mountain road. She had no doubt that the last meeting at the Incident Room would have been a difficult one. Two young girls had been murdered, and O’Connor and his colleagues were under serious pressure to deliver the culprit. The text said: ‘Canter’s set up meeting with Caroline’s parents, see you there in twenty.’ Kate sighed – any thoughts of getting back to Declan and Charlie early in the day were lost now.

From the moment of Caroline Devine’s disappearance, the feeling of unrest in the city had been rising. Kate knew there had been editorials on the Devine case and numerous calls to various radio chat show programmes, with callers complaining bitterly about government cutbacks in policing, the dangers to children in today’s society and the seeming inability of the police to find the killer. Any sort of crime concerning children upset people hugely, and attacking the police seemed a kneejerk reaction.

Once confirmation of the second killing was released at a press conference later that afternoon, Kate was well aware that panic would take hold quickly. By the end of her first day on the case, she would have to attempt a detailed profile of the killer, but she knew more than anyone that an accurate profile never happened overnight. Nonetheless, she was going to have to draw on every resource she had to help her figure out what she could about this particular killer. She
had learned a lot from Henry about solving the puzzle, questioning everything, probing and exploring all possibilities then back-tracking to confirm conclusions. The only thing that mattered was getting it right, but with time in such short supply, she knew that any protests she might care to make would fall on deaf ears: O’Connor would expect her to help them narrow down the lines of inquiry, and he would expect her to do it fast.

Leaving the mountain road behind her, Kate made her way across the city to Harold’s Cross. The traffic was hectic, but she still made good time, arriving there seconds before O’Connor, whom she could see was talking intently into his mobile. Caroline’s family had been interviewed already, by Gunning, and O’Connor had spoken with them yesterday, but with Amelia’s killing it was essential that they talked to both families, to try to establish any correlation between the girls. Amelia lived nearby in Crumlin and like Caroline she was an active swimmer, another thing apart from age and general appearance the two girls had in common. O’Connor wanted Kate there so they could both get a feel for the girls’ backgrounds and, hopefully, their similarities. Kate knew that in the absence of both victims, the only people who could identify similar or disparaging traits about the girls were their family and friends.

While O’Connor finished his call, Kate got out of her car, locked it and focused on the external surroundings of the Devines’ house. Their semi-d overlooked the canal and was one of a half-dozen houses that were stepped back ten metres from the rest of the buildings on the street. She looked at the canal waters in which, a few days earlier, it was thought Caroline might be found. Crossing over to the canal side, she viewed the house from a distance.

As Kate stood there, thinking about Caroline, she heard a car door slam. O’Connor was crossing the road towards her, striding with purpose. He looked to be still riled from the Incident Room briefing. His manner was brisk and businesslike.

‘Right, Kate, we’ve security in place on Jessica Barry. Viewing the killing of Amelia as a means of tidying things up has really upset Nolan, even more than her obvious physical similarities to the first victim. None of us likes the idea of a tidy killer out there. Jessica and Caroline went swimming together, so if swimming pools are the connection, she might know something the killer doesn’t want anyone else to know. We’ll be paying a visit to her after this. There’s something about that girl’s statement that’s been bothering me.’