Red Ribbons (36 page)

Ollie had no intention, before or after the fire, of having any call to meet Alison Cronly in person. When he did meet her, at first he didn’t have a notion who the hell she was. Feelings were running high after the child’s death, what with the garda presence and all the bloody
questions they had. Fitzsimons had been on edge, too, worried about how it would all affect his insurance. There had certainly been a whole different approach to fire precautions after that episode.

It was late in the evening, nearly a month after the fire, when he’d stumbled on Alison Cronly. He’d spotted a woman down at the seafront from where he’d been standing on the grassy area overlooking the strand. At first, he hadn’t been able to make out what it was that he was looking at. He’d thought that maybe something had been washed in from the sea, but the closer he’d got to it, the clearer it had become that the curled-up heap on the shore was a woman. He had no idea how long she’d been there, but it was a couple of hours at least since most folk had left the beach for the evening. He’d known straight up that she wasn’t a resident from Beachfield.

When he’d got close and called her, Alison Cronly had looked more startled to see him than the other way around. Another half hour and the woman wouldn’t have been seen. Apart from the darkness, the tide had been on its way in. When he got to her, the water was no more than a foot away from her. Ollie knew he could be a bit gruff, especially when it came to conversations with women, so he’d been somewhat lost for words when he’d stood looking down at Alison Cronly, kneeling on the sand. To make matters worse, she’d looked like some religious freak, bowing her head as if she’d wanted to offer herself as a sacrifice to the ocean. Despite her position and obvious shock at seeing him, when he had asked her who she was, she hadn’t been backward about coming forward with her name. She’d said ‘Alison Cronly’ like it was supposed to mean something.

Even if he’d never heard of her before, the one thing obvious to Ollie was that the woman wasn’t in any normal state. He hadn’t planned to be putting his rescuing skills to use again so quickly but, knowing it wouldn’t take him long to get her back to Cronly Lodge, he’d done just that. As far as he’d known, she lived on her own, with Mrs Flood the housekeeper going in and out during the week. As it was a Saturday,
he hadn’t been sure if anyone would be at the house when he got there, but one thing had been certain, if he hadn’t got her off the beach, he’d have had another death on his hands, and Fitzsimons would be having even more of a canary about things.

Walking to the Lodge, there hadn’t been a whole lot of words between them; being friendly was the last thing on his mind. What he’d wanted was to get the crazy woman somewhere she could be someone else’s problem. She hadn’t got her keys, or a bag, nothing other than what she was wearing, so when they got to the drive, he was relieved when someone opened the front door. The guy had been a stranger to him, but he’d turned out to be her son, or at least had introduced himself as such when they’d got within shouting distance. Ollie had got the distinct impression that he wasn’t particularly pleased to see either him or the old woman. When he’d introduced himself to Ollie, it was in as uppity a voice as Ollie had heard tell about the mother. It hadn’t been a particular surprise – like mother, like son and all – but still, it had been clear enough to Ollie that the woman wasn’t in her right mind. The look of emptiness on her face down at the beach and all the way back to the house hadn’t changed.

The young master hadn’t taken too kindly to Ollie passing remarks about her needing a doctor; the only thing that had been clear was that he was very keen to get rid of him, like an unwanted piece of shit on your shoes.

From what he’d found out after, head wise, that was the start of the woman going downhill, and if what Hughes had said to him was true, Alison Cronly had been missing a few marbles ever since.

The conversation with Steve Hughes the previous day was still bothering him, and had done so non-stop from the beginning. At the time of the fire, there had been no talk of the son at the house, and even though Ollie had seen him the night he took Alison Cronly home, that was a while after the fire all the same. He had no good reason to think anything other than the son had arrived afterwards.
But then, he had a photograph of the girl. There was no denying that. Ollie knew that if the man had such a photo, there must have been a bloody good reason for it.

He thought about walking up to the Lodge, as if the house itself might have answers, but he had no intention of following in the footsteps of Steve Hughes and breaking into the place. He just wanted to give his head a chance to work things out. If William Cronly had been visiting his mother at the time of the fire, he couldn’t have been there for long. Mrs Flood would have told the neighbourhood about the prodigal son returning, unless, of course, the guy had kept himself out of the way. But sure, what would have been the point in that?

The more he thought about things, the more he didn’t like the answers he was coming up with. The fire had happened a long time back, but with Steve Hughes’ interfering, Ollie needed to work out the best course of action. If Steve was of the mind to call to Ollie about what he’d found, then he would be of the mind to talk to a whole lot of other people as well. He’d been right to tell him to put the photograph back. Even if it proved to be nothing important, he was happy that at the very least he’d told Steve to do that.

DR EBBS LOOKS MORE AGITATED THAN USUAL, OR maybe I’m thinking this because of how I feel.

‘Good morning, Ellie. How are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you not sleep well?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to talk about that?’

‘No.’

‘You look pale, are you unwell?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you upset?’

‘No. I’ve heard stuff, seen stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s to do with what I told you the other day, about what really happened to Amy.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘It’s about the girls who got killed.’

‘The girls from Dublin?’

‘Yes, I think … I think whoever killed Amy killed them as well.’

‘You’re talking about this man you saw in Wexford again?’

Why isn’t he shocked? He looks strained, puzzled, but not shocked, definitely not shocked.

‘Yes.’

‘And what makes you so sure?’

He’s staring at me, talking at me, like I’m some form of idiot, his tone almost patronising.

‘Everything, the ribbons, the plaiting, the crucifix.’

‘What about the crucifix?’

‘Amy had one. She had it in Wexford.’ My voice sounds fast, desperate. ‘They said in the reports this morning that one of the girls was still wearing her crucifix when she was found.’

‘You didn’t mention anything about a crucifix before.’

‘I didn’t think it was important before.’

‘Ellie, lots of people wear crosses.’ He sighs.

‘I tell you it’s him. I know it.’

‘Okay, let’s just calm down, shall we. It’s very understandable that you’re thinking this way.’

‘What way?’

‘The case is so similar to Amy’s.’

‘Did you see the images of the first girl? Do you think she looks like Amy too? ’ Maybe he understands after all.

‘No, Ellie. I haven’t seen any images, just what I heard on the radio, but I understand how it could confuse you, cause you to think all sorts of things.’

‘You don’t understand. I know it’s the same man.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Because of what Bridget said.’

‘Bridget?’

‘Yes, Bridget. She told me this morning about the first girl they found in the mountains, that she was wearing a crucifix. I saw a picture of her on the television yesterday and she looked just like Amy. They could have been sisters.’

‘Ellie, please understand me when I say this, it is very possible that the incident of these girls’ deaths, and the memory from all those years ago, could be getting mixed up inside your head.’

‘You don’t believe me.’

‘It’s not that, Ellie.’

‘Well what is it then?’ I want to stand up, walk away, but I have to make him believe me.

‘Look, I’m just saying that we need to be careful. The mind is capable of tricking us at times.’

‘You are just like the rest of them.’

‘Who?’

‘All of them, all of the others, they didn’t believe me either.’

‘Calm down, Ellie.’

‘I am calm.’

‘You say you heard all this from Bridget this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘But that you had already heard some stuff, seen some stuff?’

‘Yes, on the television.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday. It was a repeat of the
Late Late Show
from Friday night.’

‘And you hadn’t seen it before?’

‘No, not before. Why do you ask? What difference does it make?’

‘I was just wondering about it, perhaps something you heard or saw could have upset you the other day?’

‘I hadn’t seen anything the other day. Look, I want to go.’

‘Ellie.’

‘I want to go. NOW.’

‘Perhaps it’s best if we talk later, when you’re less anxious.’

‘Will you believe me then?’

‘Ellie, you are obviously upset. I can see that. You look pale. I will give you something that will help you relax. Then, if you’re up to it, we can talk later.’

‘Give me whatever you like, but I want the picture of me and Amy.’

He reacts to the defiance in my voice by breathing inwards and pausing, then, without question, he hands me the photograph from the file. ‘I’ll get someone to take you down to your room.’

I don’t answer him.

‘Ellie, are you okay?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’ Walking to the door, I don’t look back at him, but turn the handle as if I’m a free woman, like everybody else.

EVEN THOUGH IT HAD BEEN WELL PAST MIDNIGHT BY THE time he’d returned to Meadow View, he rose early on Monday morning and followed the same routine as if it had been a work day. Kate’s light had stayed on until late. It had taken everything within him to resist going to her. She looked so fragile on the couch. He’d watched her from the fire escape, understanding fully what it’s like when someone you care about lets you down. She was well rid of that husband, though. It took a special kind of person to understand someone like Kate. She needed someone like him, someone who would appreciate her. Of course, timing in these matters was crucial.

He made breakfast – two poached eggs and wheat bread – and decided to fill the kitchen with music in celebration of not having to go into Newell Design. Taking the music centre down from the bedroom, he chose one of his favourites, Vivaldi’s
Le Quattro Stagioni, ‘
La Primavera’. There was something uplifting about new beginnings. Raising the volume to the highest, he blocked out all other sounds, marvelling at how great music could raise you from the mundane, could lift spirit and soul, in such an extraordinary way. It was precisely what he needed.

His suffering had made him a stronger man, and he had no intention of engaging in any outpouring of emotion, indulging in melodrama like Gabriel and his mother had done. He didn’t approve of such heightened performances, he’d even disliked it as a boy; drama had always been his mother’s speciality.

In Livorno, it had been the same. They had only arrived at Castello de Luca when it became evident that each time his mother spoke, she would assume a raised tone, a ploy she’d used to illustrate that she meant business. Despite his young age, he had sensed that Bishop Antonio Peri wasn’t a man who would be distracted easily. From the very first day, the bishop had given the distinct impression that, despite his mother’s sense of importance, neither she nor her son had been wanted there.

Suvereto had been unlike anywhere he’d seen before, up so high on the slopes of the hills overlooking Costa degli Etruschi, with its wonderful paved streets and stone buildings. He had been enthralled the first time he’d passed through the ancient wall surrounding the town, the streets narrow, the buildings tall, so high they’d blocked out the sun, keeping the inhabitants cool and enclosed whilst moving within them. The sounds too had been different, voices bouncing along the streets like ghost rumblings.

Despite his early enchantment, within a couple of days he had become disappointed with his Tuscan adventure. Other than when they visited the town of Suvereto, they’d stayed mostly at Castello de Luca, and although it overlooked the coast, he’d been restricted in his movements and not allowed to travel far. He had quickly begun to feel that his new adventure was becoming nothing more than a repeat of things at Cronly, only worse, because at least at Cronly he could escape to the familiarity of his room or his secret hideaway.

It was only when he met Silvia that things had changed.

Silvia was a year older than him and, unlike others, she’d showed no hesitation in becoming his friend. She’d been such fun to be with. It was as if the world had taken on a whole new meaning because of her infectious enthusiasm for life. She’d told him all about her plans to follow the Lord, and had trusted him with her most intimate thoughts. To Silvia, her beliefs had been wondrous. It had seemed so alien to how people from home thought about God. To them, He had been
something to be feared but, to Silvia, He had been someone to be loved. Together they had explored the castello with far more fun than he would have had alone. His mother had seemed relieved he had found someone to keep him company, which had given her more time to concentrate on getting what she’d wanted from the bishop. He was a man, after all, and Mother had been accomplished in getting what she wanted out of men.

It was Silvia who’d explained to him how the dead dreamed. When people died, she had told him, they dreamed about the living, some becoming guardian angels to protect souls from birth and through life. She’d said that, when she died, she wanted to become a guardian angel. He had listened to her so intently, believing every word she had told him. She even looked like a guardian angel with her strawberry-blonde hair, making her stand out from her fellow Italians with darker hair. She’d told him this while they sat at the cliff edge. From that vantage point they had been able to see the trees all the way down to the coast. At the time, he had not known what he felt for her was love, being unfamiliar with such emotion.