Red Ribbons (32 page)

‘And his selection process?’

‘She’ll have done something to get his attention, a reason for his admiration.’

‘When will he make his move?’

‘When he is good and ready, or when he is pushed.’

‘What then?’

‘Assuming she doesn’t play ball, he will lose it. His temper will flare up again, only the next time, his disappointment will be even greater, because next time, he has nowhere else to turn.’

‘And?’

‘And it will be everyone else’s fault except his; he won’t internalise blame, he isn’t capable of it. The victim, whoever she turns out to be, will suffer, as will anyone unlucky enough to be with her.’

Ollie Gilmartin wasn’t the type of man to display excessive emotion, but giving the grass at Beachfield Caravan Park its final cut for the year always pleased him. It was part of his caretaker job, but he never liked doing it; still, whether he liked it or not, it needed to be done. When he did the last cut before winter, he thoroughly enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing it was over and done with for another year.

The weather over the past few days had been dry, so that in itself was a blessing. Not that Ollie cared much about how neat the grass would look at the end of it, but dry grass was a hell of a lot easier to cut than the wet stuff. He had got most of the end-of-season jobs done, even with the stragglers still on site up until the day before. There were always a couple of occupants who insisted on hanging on until the arse end of the season, usually those without kids, the ‘DIY enthusiasts’ who did their own fair share of battening down the hatches for the winter months.

He had switched off the mains power yesterday, and the water supply, as soon as the last of them had left. It was with a certain kind of satisfaction that he pulled over the large blots on the entrance gates for the end of the season, glad that it was over. After nearly twenty years of working there, he was well used to closing up and looked forward to the colder months. Ollie wasn’t a sun or beach lover, which was why his mobile home was located well beneath the trees, ensuring that even on the brightest of days, he was shaded. He had his own private water and electricity supply too. All in all he had managed to set things up
at Beachfield to his own liking. His pigeon loft was a little farther out, seeing as the birds needed a clear view of the loft for their return, but the winter was a quiet time for the pigeons. That meant he could treat the cold season as a time for peaceful hibernation, which suited him perfectly.

Being the caretaker of a caravan park didn’t pay well, but the place was dry and he could do most things his own way, and in his own good time. Some of the kids could prove to be a nuisance during the summer, but a good roar usually sent the little feckers running. Ollie liked the feeling of being the master of his small kingdom. Throughout the season, nothing happened unless he gave it the okay and, even then, he set about doing his odd jobs in accordance with how the mood took him. He got most of his tips at the height of the season when things were at their busiest, and the size of the tip generally had a positive effect on both his mood and co-operation.

He made his mind up pretty quickly about people. Many of the visitors to Beachfield were regular punters, returning year on year. But all of the visitors quickly learned the fastest way to Ollie’s heart was by sending something extra his way. If you were a ‘regular’ and a ‘regular tipper’, you earned the privilege of calling him ‘Ollie’; if not, you called him Oliver. He knew the ones to mind on site and the ones who were best ignored. They all went through the same vetting process. Before he’d let any of them past the gate, they underwent his specific form of ‘welcome meeting’. With the newer ones, he made a special point of chatting as soon as they arrived. He wasn’t much of a talker, but it was important to set down your mark, make an impression, and even more important to gauge their worth. There was no point being rude at the beginning, never knowing which ones would turn out to be the better tippers.

His mobile home was positioned at the main entrance gates, giving him a clear view of arrivals, no matter what time of day or night they came. He wasn’t happy if they arrived after dark, unless they were a
regular tipper, of course. For those who dared to arrive late at night, disturbing him, Ollie wasn’t backward about coming forward with his mood. Anyone who arrived after midnight was simply ignored. They could sit there until morning for all he cared. He’d hung a large sign on the front gate: ‘No admittance after midnight.’ Those who chanced their arms on that one soon found out that Ollie Gilmartin could be a very hard man to deal with.

The outgoing season had been busy. The recession certainly hadn’t damaged business, if anything it was the very opposite, with all them jetsetters staying at home. There had been no end of new arrivals once the schools had closed for the summer. As was the case since the beginning of Ollie’s reign, everyone who came to the holiday park was taken note of in his Registration Book. Even if you were only a day-tripper, the fact remained that if you walked and breathed at Beachfield Holiday Park, you were put in that large navy register book, whether you liked it or not. Every single visitor had to go into Ollie’s mobile home and sign in. If nothing else, the registration system Ollie had in place gave him the additional benefit of letting him know who would be responsible for the tipping. Filling in the registrar was one of the first caretaker jobs that had been explained to him, and it appealed to his sense of being the main man, the one in control.

He had lived alone most of his adult life and now, at the age of sixty-two, he’d gathered belongings the same way he’d gathered people around him – enough to get by, but never any more. Anything of value, other than his secret stash of whiskey, was locked in the old chest he’d bought at auction in Gorey ten years earlier. At the end of his mobile home, he’d removed one of the sofa beds and put in a makeshift desk. On the desk was a cup with a broken handle that held his pens, and a small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary, which sat on top of a black leather Bible, one he’d inherited when he’d taken over. He was fond of having the Bible there, adding an air of authority to his role and influence; he let people jump to their own conclusions about it.

The coming of winter meant the return of poker nights – his only passion after the pigeons. After the clocks went back, he and the lads played every Friday night, spending hours winning and losing their meagre sums of money. There had been the same four players for the past ten years. The only change had been when Jimmy snuffed it two years ago. It wasn’t the same with just three of them, which was why they had allowed Steven Hughes to start playing. He had a right mouth on him, Hughes, so as far as Ollie was concerned, he was okay as a poker player, but nothing more.

No, Ollie liked his own company best. Not that it came without a price. He made sure to keep his shotgun handy at night, by the side of the bed. Living alone made you an easy target, if you allowed it to. They had tried to break into his place a few years back, a right pair of hard men they were. But they’d gone running like hyenas by the time he’d finished with them, two shots from his Lanber had sorted them right enough.

He returned to his mobile home after finishing the grass-cutting, and as a reward poured himself a large whiskey. Ollie’s mouth salivated at the thought of that first kick of alcohol, the beginning of his peace and quiet for another year. A strong wind was starting to build up outside, but that only made the whiskey taste sweeter.

The last thing he expected to hear was a car horn honking.

‘Fuck this,’ he said out loud, taking a quick swig from the glass. ‘This better be bleeding important.’

HE STOOD ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE ROAD, looking across at the house divided into apartments. The yellow door of 34 Mervin Road was bright, the side gate easy to jump, getting into the rear of the building wouldn’t be a problem. There was a fire escape fitted, which made things even easier. If it were night-time, he would have to smash the glass on the light sensor on the tree opposite, but that wasn’t a problem at this hour. Experience had taught him that what was needed most was speed, and to be able to pick the right moment, to wait until another sound – a neighbour closing a bin, heavy traffic – camouflaged any noise.

He moved quickly and climbed the fire escape. The husband and the child had arrived back from a visit to the shops ten minutes earlier. If Kate came home unexpectedly, he would have to deal with that. The open bedroom window helped things considerably. He was inside in less than a minute. The noise of the television blared from the living room, a football match from the sound of it. The first door in the hallway was locked, so he tried the next one. It was Kate’s bedroom, he was sure of it, as neat as a pin. He liked neat people.

When he stepped back out into the hallway, he noticed the door at the very end of the corridor was ajar. He walked down to it without a sound and looked inside.

The child was deep in sleep. Just as well, he thought, considering how loud the father had the television on. Other than the sounds coming from the living room, the place was as good as an empty house. He made his way back down into the bedroom he’d just left
and closed the door behind him, placing a chair against the handle to give him ample warning of anyone heading his way.

Having no real expectations about what he was going to find didn’t deter him. He had learned over time that the things people kept, and the way they kept them, could give some very interesting insights. The first thing he noticed was a postcard by the bed from Sweetmount Nursing Home. It was addressed to Kate Pearson, and had a very nice message from staff at the home. They wanted to thank her for the beautiful flowers she had brought on her last visit. Four of them had signed their names at the back. The picture on the front was of a very fine-looking building. In small letters on the bottom right of the card was the address of the nursing home, in Greystones. He put it into his jacket pocket.

The bedroom was divided between male and female things: wardrobe space, bedside lockers, everything, including the under-sink cabinet in the en-suite, had a separate section for the joint occupiers of the room. The upper shelves in the wardrobes had the more interesting items, such as photo albums, jewellery, odd bags, various books and magazines. Ms Pearson had an intelligent selection of reading material, another pleasant surprise, especially when he saw her small green copy of
Palgrave’s Golden Treasury
. It was dated 1931 and had been a present from her late father: ‘To Kate, with love always, Dad.’ It had all the classics, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, but no Blake, something that always annoyed him, such a shame that he had been left out.

Pulling open the drawer in the dressing table, he found it jammed with papers and other smaller items. Instinctively, he was intrigued. When things were jam-packed in that manner, it was generally a good sign that something of value might be found. His instincts didn’t let him down. The drawer was full of the usual mishmash of personal items, such as old cheque book stubs, prescriptions, letters, receipts, loose photographs. He noted the random manner of the drawer’s contents and put his first black mark against Kate. He examined each
item in detail, having found in the past that if you rushed this type of thing, you could miss something important. His patience paid off when his search turned up an item that exceeded even his expectations.

At first, he wasn’t sure what the contents of the A4 brown envelope were. It was addressed to Kate’s mother, Gabriel Pearson. The report inside was very thorough and, judging by the date, it was completed when Kate was quite young. He knew that psychological assessments of children were not an uncommon occurrence; one of his clients from Newell Design, an ex-principal, had said they were now ten a penny.

This was different, though. The report on Kate Pearson had been done over twenty years before, which would have been unusual enough for the time. She did come from an educated family of course, a privileged family, but still, he felt this discovery might turn out to be extremely relevant. Closer examination of the report didn’t reveal the usual suspects his ex-principal friend had alluded to, dyslexia, dyspraxia, ADD. Certainly, Kate’s intelligence was not in any doubt. She had received a rating in the 99 percentile, meaning she was top amongst her peers, a fact that increased his admiration for her. According to the report, what Ms Pearson suffered from was something the child psychologist referred to as a thin psychological skin. It would seem the younger Kate had extreme sensitivity to the ways others dealt with her; he could relate to this sort of sensitivity. An incident had occurred when she had been twelve, an attack while out with her friends. The girl had got away unharmed, but the event had left its scars nonetheless. It was noted that her mother had found the event difficult to cope with as well, a factor that the report concluded added to the girl’s feelings of being vulnerable. Other than a series of exercises to help Kate gain back her confidence, there seemed to be little else mentioned as a way of moving forward.

To William, it was obvious that the principal problem was her mother. He could see immediately that, like him, Kate had suffered from a lack of attention. Oh yes, he knew her mother’s type, full of
her own importance. Although ill-equipped to cope at that tender age, Kate had managed her survival alone.

As the envelope was addressed to Kate’s mother, more than likely it had only come into Kate’s possession after her mother began to reside at Sweetmount Nursing Home.

A further search through the drawer brought very little else by way of value, apart from a small pearl earring, missing its match. This he put in his pocket along with the postcard, as a token from his visit.

When he went back out into the hall, he noticed the travel suitcase by the front door. Maybe the husband was planning a small trip away. The door from the living room was still ajar, but the man inside stared straight at the square box, oblivious.