Red Ribbons (20 page)

He was a good two miles up the road when he spotted the police cars, and made the decision. ‘Mr Invisible’ or not, the risks of being seen were just too great. No matter. It was a lovely day, and although he was anxious to get back and check on developments, he was glad he had avoided the pollution of town when fresher air was to be had.

On his way back down the road, he met the boy again, only this time he had a friend with him, another boy of the same age, about seven or so.

‘Are you the boy who nearly killed me with the tennis ball?’ he asked, pretending to scold.

‘No, mister, it was Jack,’ pointing to his friend, ‘he sent it over first.’

‘Shut up, Tommy.’

‘You both friends?’

‘I live up there.’ Tommy pointed across the field, feeling more confident than before. ‘Jack lives at the end of the hill.’

‘Do you only attack strangers, or do you fight with each other as well?’

‘Sometimes,’ they both answered, and then laughed.

He smiled back at them. ‘With tennis balls?’

‘Nah, I kill him at Xbox,’ Tommy replied.

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

‘That’s because you’re old. You like walking, mister?’ Jack squinted as the sun shone down on him.

‘Oh, yes, I love it. You two boys keep out of trouble now, do you hear?’

‘We will, mister,’ they chimed in unison.

He could hear the two boys still giggling even after he turned the bend. Smiling to himself, he mused about how children were, by and large, much more trusting and open than adults. It was such an attractive quality.

≈

By the time he reached Meadow View, he was peckish again. The last week had seen a further shortening of the days, with the change in the evenings giving the air an extra bite. Soon it would be Hallowe’en. That wasn’t something he had ever engaged in as a boy. At Cronly, the gates were usually locked early in the day, preventing children from calling. He had no memory of ever dressing up, but, then again, who would he have called to even if he had? Meadow View was different. The proximity of the houses meant that strangers might be tempted to visit, looking for their ‘trick or treats’. Another pagan festival
commercialised for all the wrong reasons. He had every intention of keeping the house in complete darkness that night, discouraging any neighbourly interactions.

After feeding Tabs and boiling water for his Mokalbari tea, there was still some late-afternoon light in the kitchen. He felt positively elated at the prospect of checking the internet again. He thought about the website he’d looked at earlier that morning, the one he’d saved in Favorites for reviewing later. His intention was to spend the remainder of the afternoon finding out as much information as possible about the investigation. He took his filled teacup into the living room and switched on the computer, logging on and checking the breaking news first.

It didn’t take long to find out about Amelia.

Pacing up and down the floor, he was damned if he could work out how they had found her, and so quickly. He didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to plan. He took several deep breaths to still himself. The most important thing was that she was of no use to them. A dead girl couldn’t talk. He had handled things expediently and, irrespective of developments, everything was still under control.

Wondering whether the answer to the success of the police investigation had anything to do with the new criminal psychologist attached to the case, he decided to turn his attention to Kate Pearson. He found plenty of helpful information about her and the whole area of criminal profiling. The champion of this work in the UK was Professor Henry Bloom, under whose tutelage Kate had emerged as something of a star pupil. She had been involved in a dozen cases with him, some of them very high profile, and scored a success rate of over ninety per cent.

He Googled images of Kate, wanting to see what his new adversary looked like. When he saw her, he was completely taken aback, sitting upright in his chair before smiling back at the screen. Once the initial shock had passed, he laughed to himself. Sensing his master’s good
mood, Tabs jumped onto his lap and was rewarded with some rare gentle petting.

‘Well, Tabs, isn’t life full of the nicest little coincidences?’

Deciding it was time for a second cup of tea, he went back into the kitchen. The house was silent other than the hissing of the kettle coming to the boil. He searched for something nice to have as a treat. A packet of plain digestives would do the trick. He took his cup of tea and biscuit back to the computer, rejuvenated now, eager to find out more.

According to the biography he found on Kate, she had an impeccable educational background. Further searches revealed her late father had been an English literary professor, and had turned into something of a recluse in his later years. Kate was currently working with young offenders as part of the Counselling and Offenders Re-Integration Programme.

‘Well, well, well. Who would have guessed? Quite the do-gooder by the look of things, and intelligent, Tabs, don’t you agree?’ The cat looked up at him expectantly.

NEITHER O’CONNOR NOR KATE SPOKE UNTIL THEY were safely away from Jessica Barry’s house and driving back to where Kate had parked her car, outside the Devines’.

‘She’s lying, O’Connor.’

He turned to her. ‘Too right she is. But if she can put together a good photofit, it could be the best lead we have to date. There is only so far we can push her, but I’ve a feeling it won’t be the last tête-à-tête we’ll be having with young Jessica. I’m going to assign a female officer to stay inside the house as extra security. It might spook the family even more, but that mightn’t be a bad thing. If there are more answers to be had, we might as well shake them out of her sooner rather than later. What do you think about what she said, about the guy?’

‘If it is him,’ Kate said thoughtfully, ‘he came across as calm, relaxed enough with Caroline not to worry Jessica unduly, even if he did, as she says, give her the creeps. Caroline was a quiet girl, sensitive, wouldn’t have created a scene, happy to be polite. If he is our guy and he is the one who gave her the book, he would have spent some time watching her, testing her with brief interactions before he made his move. He wouldn’t have been just grooming her, he would have been courting her as well.’

‘Go on.’

‘My guess is he watched Caroline, followed her home, studied her. Whatever about Amelia, I don’t think his plan was to kill Caroline. I think she was special to him in some way. The burials, the killings of
Amelia and Caroline are at odds. There would have been a lot of blood caused by the blows to Caroline’s head. After the second hit, the place would have looked like an abattoir. Far too messy. He’s a planner, he wouldn’t have meant things to turn out the way they did. You only have to look at Amelia’s killing for that. If he wanted someone dead, he would plan it to be neat and controlled. The blows to Caroline’s head were frenzied, which means more than likely he reacted to things not going his way. If he is the guy at the swimming pool, then what he wanted from Caroline was some form of relationship, a closeness of sorts.’

‘But not necessarily sexual, right?’

‘No. He might be naturally drawn towards younger females, even children. Jessica did say she remembers him talking to other children, so perhaps he doesn’t find adult relationships easy to form and is emotionally attracted to or stuck within a particular type. He could be isolated, a loner, damaged – and if he is, he probably has been so for some time.’

‘So why act now? That’s what I keep asking myself.’

‘Damage never remains stagnant, O’Connor, it’s a bit like an addiction, and the fallout increases over time. He may have been happy for a while, indulging his fantasy, developing what he perceived to be a close relationship with Caroline, but then something must have acted as a trigger. It wouldn’t necessarily take a lot to make him cross the line, maybe a need to know more or wanting a bigger reaction from her, or even a specific reaction. The trouble is, we know it didn’t end there. Caroline didn’t work out, so she ended up dead, and now Amelia, sadly the same.’ She looked at O’Connor, wondering how he’d react to her next sentence, ‘The thing about him, though, is that he will look for his fulfilment elsewhere. He won’t stop. For him, the challenge is working out the best candidate, and the best time to make his move. That’s probably what he loves most of all – when he’s caught up in all that planning and potential.’

O’Connor sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Christ, I already feel I’ve been on this case too long.’ He looked at Kate. ‘So I’m up against a guy who’s already choosing number three?’

Kate shrugged. ‘I think so. So what’s next, O’Connor?’

He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll get on to Morrison now, and about two million other people I need to check in with. The next meeting in the Incident Room is scheduled for 5.15, and Nolan will be looking for concrete progress. Fuck!’

‘I’ll start working on my report as soon as I get back home.’ She smiled back at him, despite knowing it wouldn’t change his mood. ‘I’ll need you to send over the images from both burials. Can you do that quickly?’

‘Will do.’

‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘Anytime, Kate. You all right now?’

She stopped, her hand on the door handle. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Earlier today, after that thing with Innes, you seemed a little shook up. I don’t want to pry, but—’

‘I’m okay, just a couple of things on my mind.’

‘Well, you know where I am if you need me. We’re not strangers.’

‘Yeah, me and the two million other people,’ she said, smiling at him again. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’

Kate got out of his car and walked over to her own. It was time to go home, to Charlie and Declan.

THE NIGHTS ARE ALWAYS LONG HERE. AT LEAST DURING the day there is the routine, things to do, even if they are of little importance. I’m angry at myself for my change of mood. That’s the thing about moods, the way they often take you as they see fit. Maybe over the course of time, these shifts happen to everyone, but in the happening you can lose heart, because the inner core of you, the part that knows you best, knows when the mood is not for turning.

I kick the blankets down, leaving just the sheet over me. It feels clammy in here, although the night outside is anything but. The heating has been on all night and with the small rooms and lack of ventilation, it makes the air unbearable. It feels stale and sparse, as if at any moment I might lose the ability to breathe. I can hear a dog barking outside, it sounds as lonely as I feel. There is no breeze, the rattling gutter is silent, and if the branches on the trees sway, they do so without sound. It’s too early for the birds; perhaps the dog is barking because, like me, he’s unsettled by the silence.

I have felt lonely on many occasions during my time here, but I have for the most part been able to find solace in that form of loneliness. I have seen it as a type of life penance that is, at the very least, deserved. That was something I worked out a long time ago. What had I been trying to achieve yesterday, writing in that copybook? What possible outcome do I hope to gain from it? Why would thinking achieve anything? It’s nearly funny, after all the years of being here I’ve adopted an approach from Joe’s old book of wisdom – don’t think too much.
Pathetic. Dr Ebbs asked me to write about the beginning, yet in truth all I found were endings.

By the time I hear the others rising, flushing toilets, the water tank overhead filling, making its gurgling sounds, I’ve made up my mind what to do next. Today when I meet the good doctor, I will tell him he was wrong to ask me about beginnings, because in the beginning I understood nothing. The understanding came later and, when it came, it was like a slow wind that swept up everything in its path, until what was left held a very different answer from the one which I had sought at the beginning.

You think when you lose someone certain memories will come flooding back. But it’s not like that at all. Memories are like life, they don’t obediently do your bidding. Still, even when you know you can’t control them, you keep trying. You reach in and seek them out, as if you were a child going into a sweetshop to pick out sweets.

Immediately after the fire, I wasn’t capable of remembering anything. When the first glimpses came back, I fought hard against them. In part, they were too painful; in part, I felt unworthy. Now, knowing my mood has changed, I equally know I’m not prepared for the change.

I remember the first thing that struck me about memories was how different they were from their reality, how each one possesses a layer that might have been missed first time around. Like how I used to hold Amy in my arms when she was little, sitting her on my lap. In my head, I thought the memory was about the actual holding, the many nights I sat there with Amy when she was small, small enough to be in need of her mother’s arms. But that wasn’t exactly what I remembered. What I remembered were other, less obvious details. How when she left my embrace, a feeling of tension returned to my body. I found myself remembering the ease and joy her weight and warmth had brought me, and how when they left, I felt less whole and, at times, almost abandoned. Layer by layer the memories came
back. More often than not, they were just tiny flickers, igniting the months of darkness. After Amy died, the loss was so great it was bigger than anything I believed any human being could bear.

That alone might have been enough to send me to this dismal place. I guess very soon after the real sense of loss took hold of me, after all the dreams and even the guilt were cast away like scattered nothings, they were replaced by something else, a deep and seething anger that was all-consuming. In time, even that passed, and the disbelief over everything became of no consequence. It was all my destiny. That was when I’d given up completely, when I was at my most hopeless. Then I realised the truth – what was left behind, along with all the things I couldn’t change, was my future.