Irrespective of how people looked at them, he had no intention of letting it interfere with the most exciting time of his life. It was his first holiday and the small attaché case he’d carried with him on the train from Gorey to Dublin and on the flight to Rome was filled with comics, books on Italy and the spool of red ribbon he’d taken from the upstairs sideboard. The attaché case felt like his last connection to home, and although home was not where he wanted to be, he kept it close to his chest as he and his mother travelled by train to Livorno, and then on to Suvereto.
Sipping his tea, he thought again about the Italian countryside, and how different it was from the Irish landscape. Although there were vast fields of green, in Tuscany especially, some of the land appeared scorched, and often more rugged than the Irish sunny southeast. The vineyards seemed to run for miles, and you could pass by vast spaces without seeing anyone in the fields. He was amazed by the buildings, both big and small, with their orange rooftops and their precarious positions, stuck into the side of the mountain or valley.
When the train had reached Livorno it was past noon, the worst time for the heat. His mother had displayed more than her usual share of displeasure and annoyance as they’d waited at the station. Whoever had been supposed to meet them was late. Up until that point, she’d been elated by the trip and at some moments had even been kind, as if she cared about him. He had wondered if, like the people, she too would be different outside of Ireland, but still he held back from asking her too much. Soon she’d reverted to blaming him for everything, annoyed when he needed desperately to go to the toilet, complaining about him leaving her alone in a strange country, but eventually she had let him go inside the station.
When he’d returned, she was like a different woman. Even before he’d got to the platform, he’d heard her high-pitched voice sounding excited – the unmistakable way she spoke around men. The man she’d been talking to wasn’t like any priest or religious person he’d seen before. His garments, despite the heat of the day, had been intricate and ornate, in vibrant reds and purples, but very much at odds with the large straw hat he was wearing, like the men in the pictures with the gondolas. He’d escorted them to the front of the station, where his car was waiting. When he’d taken off the hat in the car, the man had revealed a fat, bald head, sweating with the remaining strands of his hair. William had disliked him instantly.
He’d kept his silence in the back of the car all the way to Suvereto. The drive had been hot and clammy, with only a small breeze coming in from the windows at the front. He remembered feeling pleased he’d changed his clothes at Ciampino airport, putting on a new white shirt and navy shorts. The only thing that had bothered him was his milk-bottle-white legs, which had looked odd next to the tanned complexion of the man his mother referred to as ‘the bishop’. His mother hadn’t changed her clothes and was still wearing the heavy ones from home. She had discarded her jacket on the back seat beside him. Little by little she had pulled her skirt up well past her knees, undoing the top buttons of her blouse. Bishop Antonio had reacted the same way most men did. When she placed his hand on her right knee, he left it there. Applying her bright red lipstick, looking into the dusty vanity mirror on the passenger’s side, his mother had sat back, satisfied.
He left his memories and turned his mind back to his reading and research, while almost automatically switching on the afternoon news on the radio to keep up with events. The main coverage was still about the murdered girls. There was one difference, however: it was the first time they had mentioned the ribbons or the plaiting. Taking out the Polaroid image of Caroline from his jacket pocket, all he felt now was sadness. The similarities to Silvia were undeniable. His mind began drifting again, thinking about the room with the windows, the heat of the Italian sun beaming through the stained glass. He could still see, in the corner of the room, the rocking horse, its brown mane brought over to one side, swaying back and forth as if the rider had just left the room, the horse carrying on, believing someone was still sitting in the saddle.
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Sunday, 9 October 2011, 2.00 p.m.
THE MORE KATE LOOKED AT THE IMAGES FROM THE Tuscan burial site, the more convinced she became that if the killer was linked to this death forty years ago, either directly or indirectly, he had carried the memory of it with him all his adult life. Something had acted as the catalyst, prompting him to take action now, but the impetus, although important, wasn’t the key. The answer lay somewhere between this young Italian girl’s death and the death of Caroline Devine, and Amelia Spain, forty years later.
O’Connor, who was talking into his phone, something which had seemed permanently attached to his ear since she’d got there, looked up when she stood in front of him. She waited for him to finish his call.
‘What was it you said, O’Connor, about Caroline and Amelia being polls apart?’
‘Amelia was extrovert, confident. Other than the swimming and her looks, she was a very different girl from Caroline Devine.’
‘So we can deduce that his attraction to Caroline became stronger because of the type of girl she was. Like Amelia, she was athletic. The assailant was physically fit, which makes sense, similar attributes. He was looking for someone not unlike himself. But unlike Amelia, who may have come across as overconfident, Caroline appeared vulnerable and sensitive. She was a listener, wanted to help others, and her appreciation for books could have given her more depth in his eyes.’
‘Where’s this leading, Kate?’
‘Well, if the killings are linked to the Tuscan burial, it means the key to our killer’s motivational needs began early, sometime in childhood.’
‘So?’
‘So we now have a possible third victim, Silvia Vaccaro.’
‘You’re not saying he killed her too? As you said, he could only have been a child.’
‘It doesn’t matter right now who killed her, what matters is that if I’m right, irrespective of the catalyst behind his current killing spree, he may well be seeking to turn back time, and Silvia is the key to all of this.’
‘Keep going, Kate.’
‘We know Caroline was driven, an excellent student according to her mother, ambitious, wanting to prove herself.’
‘I’m still not getting you.’
‘His progression, O’Connor – all the time, he is looking for the ideal girl. If he is recreating the Tuscan burial, he could well be trying to replace Silvia, or his memory of her – but we must study the victim’s behaviour too, it is just as important as studying the killer’s. He befriended Amelia, was drawn to her physically, but soon lost interest, her personality was unsuitable. Then there was Caroline; the more he got to know her, the more he studied her, the more emotionally connected to her he became, the more her behaviour convinced him it was the right time to make his move. It was a calculated risk, but one he was prepared to take. When Caroline reacted badly, he would have blamed her because he believed she’d failed him. He had taken risks for her, and she had let him down.’
‘It still doesn’t answer who will be next.’
‘No, it doesn’t, but he will move on. Whatever the reason for him crossing the line, he is not going to stop now, but next time he will change things, just like he changed from Amelia to Caroline.’
‘Change how?’
‘It could be someone older.’
‘Older?’
‘Well think about it. His selection process is adapting. Initially it was looks and general interests, and then the girl’s personality traits became the decision-maker. Things turning out badly with Caroline means he won’t make the same mistake again. You have to remember, O’Connor, in this man’s eyes everything he is doing makes absolute sense. The girls are failing him, not the other way around. If he’s looking for a Silvia replacement, then it would explain the age of both victims, but as you said, he would have been a child himself forty years ago. If Caroline was close to perfect, but her behaviour disappointed him, he coul
d well attribute it to her age and adapt his mindset. None of us can reinvent the past, at least not exactly.’
‘So what happens when he chooses his next victim?’
‘He may have chosen her already.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He repeats, takes comfort in the familiar. Remember the locations of both girls. He didn’t move far. He’s a creature of habit, likes to stay within set territories, doesn’t want to move far away from home. Jessica may be right about him being local, but he uses a car. Statistically, serial killers with vehicles travel six times as far as those who get to their victims on foot. He’s working out of Dublin, but he could be anywhere in that geographical area. The point is, his scope is nevertheless restricted. As I say, he stays close to home. His next victim will already be known to him. She might have slipped under the radar before this, but now his needs are changing, she’ll become more important to him.’
‘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.’
Beachfield Caravan Park
Sunday, 9 October 2011, 3.40 p.m.
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.’
Mervin Road
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.
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