by Andrea Mara
Yeah, a prank or someone local with a grudge. Anyway, I’m getting an alarm and going to pay more attention to security, I replied.
That never stopped the Blackwood Strangler!
Neil again. Fuck off, Neil.
That sounds smart, Judith typed, ignoring Neil, and it’s not surprising that you’d feel a little worried when you think about the kinds of cases we’re looking at. Not everyone’s ideal bedtime story.
Indeed it wasn’t, and I did wonder about the wisdom of it all as I settled down to read about stalkers and footprints and unsolved murders.
CHAPTER 43
On Wednesday morning, as I was leaving for work, I grabbed a book from the living-room bookshelf and placed it just inside the front door. I rolled my eyes to show the universe I knew it was silly – but what harm could it do? And just because I’d had three uninterrupted nights didn’t mean he was gone for good.
My phone pinged with a private Facebook message from Barry.
Hi Marianne, just wondering how you’re getting on with the footprint cases and thinking since two heads are better than one, it might help to meet up and swap notes? Always easier to go through things in person, instead of typing everything out on FB f And I’m only up the road from you in Dun Laoghaire – we could meet in my flat on your way home from work some evening? If it suits f Let me know? Barry
Oh good Lord. This was the last thing I needed. I swiped at my phone, pushing the message away, and braced myself for the icy road to Dublin.
Sifting through work emails ninety minutes later, I found one from Asta, with bad news about Fru Hansen.
She’s been very ill, and now seems to have given in, Asta wrote, she’s even found religion which is a sign, I guess – my mom told me she asked to see a pastor. I called in to her yesterday and she was so frail, it was sad to see.
I did a quick calculation in my head – I reckoned Fru Hansen was in her mid-eighties when I met her, so mid-nineties by now. Our encounter had been brief, but it was sad to think I’d probably never see her again. And another connection to Hanne would be lost.
I replied, asking Asta to send my love to Fru Hansen, but it felt empty and redundant and lonely.
Still brooding an hour later, I decided to try phoning Linda. I’d caught her at a bad time last week, maybe now she’d be able to chat. She picked up after two rings – a good sign, I figured – until I heard the unmistakable sound of irritation.
“Hi. Marianne? Sorry, one sec.”
Muffled sounds of children and TV drifted into the phone. Then she was back.
“Sorry. Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah – all good here, I was just ringing to say hi.”
“Right. Sure.”
Silence.
“So how are you?” I tried.
“Oh you know, the usual. Sadie! Get down! Sorry. Jesus, she’s a nightmare at the moment, climbing on everything.”
“I can imagine,” I said, with a small laugh.
Linda didn’t join in. “How’s work?” she said mechanically, and suddenly all my plans to tell her about Jamie’s sort-of-invitation for drinks disappeared.
“Grand – actually, I’m calling from work and my boss has just given me a look – I’d better go.”
“No worries, I’ll give you a call at some stage,” she said, and that was that.
I put down my mobile, and sat staring at it. How had we come to this?
Traffic was worse than usual as I crawled from the city centre towards the motorway that evening, and that was why I decided to detour into Stillorgan Shopping Centre to pick up dinner – or, at least, that’s what I told myself. It took no more than ten minutes to choose a steak from the butcher’s along with some salads from the deli and then, like a moth to a flame, I was inside the warm glow of the bookshop. In crime, I picked up an old Jeffery Deaver novel I’d read as a teen, and a newer book about a woman whose husband has just murdered someone.
“That one’s very good,” said the lady behind the till. “Brilliant opening line. You like the darker stuff, I see!”
I laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know why I keep doing it to myself – I should probably try something light or funny or just less bloody at some point.”
“Ah, I like crime too,” she said, scanning my purchases. “If it’s happening in a book, it’s less likely to be happening in my life, that’s my theory anyway. You know the author’s doing a talk in the library in Dun Laoghaire in a few weeks?”
“Is she? I must keep an eye out. I’m going there this Friday to see Julia Land being interviewed.”
“Love her books. Especially the early detective ones. Now, do you need anything else today?”
“I’ll take this too,” I said, picking up a roll of Sellotape from a stationary stand by the counter. I cleared my throat. “Actually, do you stock The Sophisticate by Ray Sedgwick?”
“We do, and that’s funny, because there was someone else looking for it last week. It’s been out for years and we only have one copy, but the other customer just wanted to see it, so you’re in luck!”
She came out from behind the counter and moved to the A to Z Fiction section, returning moments later with the book. I took it from her, because that’s what she expected me to do, and stared at the familiar image on the front cover.
“Have you read his other books?”
I shook my head. I had read some of his earlier books, back when we were first together, but I found it hard to connect with them, and Ray never seemed to mind that I didn’t read them all. In fact, he’d told me not to at one point, saying I’d probably found them boring. For the first time, it struck me that what I took to be self-deprecation was in fact a snobbery of sorts – it wasn’t that he didn’t think his books were good enough for me – I wasn’t good enough for his books.
The lady was behind the till again, waiting, as I continued staring at The Sophisticate.
“Will I ring it up for you?”
“I might leave it for now, and come back,” I said, putting it aside. “The other person who was asking about it – I don’t suppose you remember what he looked like?”
She gave me a curious glance, and I rushed on.
“I’m buying it as a present for my uncle – he mentioned he liked it and I’m wondering now if that was actually him looking at it in here – maybe he didn’t like it after all!”
“Ah, I see. Well, the man who asked about it was probably a bit young to be your uncle – he was in his late forties, I’d say.” Then she laughed. “Sorry, that’s very rude, I’m making assumptions about your age!”
I brushed it away. “No, not at all, I get you. And yeah, my uncle is much older than that,” I said, conjuring up an imaginary, white-haired relative.
“Also, the man who came in had an American accent – is your uncle American?”
My stomach gave a small lurch. “No, definitely not him then. I’ll leave the book till another time.”
I paid and walked into the cold evening chill, certain now that Ray was back, but none the wiser why. Would he come looking for me? My stomach lurched again. I wouldn’t be hard to find.
As I slid into the jeep, my phone pinged with another message from Barry:
Just to say, no hard feelings at all if it doesn’t suit to meet – it was just a thought. I’m not offended! I probably wouldn’t want to meet with me either f
Argh, awkward. I clicked into the message to reply, but the right words didn’t spring to mind. Instead I put the phone on the passenger seat and pulled out into traffic.
Nothing stirred in the dark garden or the road beyond. The only sounds came from me, as I pulled strips of tape from the roll. It wasn’t wide enough to properly cover the window frame, but it was enough. If someone opened the window while I was out, I’d know. What if he spots the tape and replaces it? I shook the thought away. There were only so many What ifs I could cover. The tape was a precaution. Sensible.
But that night, as I lay awake, alert to every creak and rustle, I
couldn’t help wondering about the line between knowing and not knowing, and if perhaps it was better before I knew. Before the snow.
CHAPTER 44
Thursday morning’s alarm pulled me from a deep, dreamless sleep with a suddenness that left me dizzy and confused. I lay, blinking at the ceiling, assessing, testing how I was feeling. Glad. Definitely glad of another uninterrupted night. No knocking, no noise, no face. But low and gloomy too, I realised, because I wasn’t going into the office. On edge, facing a day on my own.
With no reason to get dressed, I made coffee, and stood for a while looking out the kitchen window, the lino cold under my feet. The sky was a giant blanket of grey nothing – the kind of day that wasn’t going to brighten up, and before I was halfway through my coffee, the chill in the kitchen had soaked through my skin, right to my bones. I moved into the living room, switching on the light and sitting down with a heavy sigh to open my laptop. That’s when I realised my folder of work notes wasn’t in its usual spot on the coffee table – I’d left it in the jeep when I brought in the groceries and books the night before. And the Sellotape. I should probably check the tape was still in place. Pulling on an oversized cardigan and a pair of boots, bracing myself for the rush of cold air, I opened the front door.
But something stopped me from stepping forward: on the doorstep sat an apple. Peering down, I could see it was on top of what looked like an old book – perched like a stock image of an apple on a teacher’s desk. Only not shiny and red like the ones in the pictures – wizened, brown skin encased shrunken flesh, and tiny holes told of insect-foraging. Hunkering down, I tried to read the title of the book beneath. An old brown hardback cover, frayed at the edges, faded gold lettering on the spine spelling out Hansel and Gretel.
I reached towards the rotting apple, to move it aside and see the book better, but the top half came away in my hand, separated from the lower part along an incision I hadn’t seen. Inside the half still resting on the book, there was movement. Fat brown maggots slipped and slid where fruit flesh used to be, shiny and pulsating, disturbed by sudden light. Jerking back, nausea swilling through my stomach and up my throat, I stood. And as I stared, as my fingers gripped the other half, too late I felt the slippery movement against my skin. Dropping the infested fruit, I screamed, loud and unrestrained into the grey morning emptiness. Loud and unrestrained and unheard.
Fuck. Sweating now, breathing fast. Where was my phone? I needed a photo. In my bedroom, as I scooped my mobile off the nightstand, every inch of me wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over my head, like I used to as a kid, when Hanne’s story got too much. But that’s the shitty thing about being a grown-up, no more hiding under the covers.
The morning sky was still too dark for a proper shot – I turned on the porch light and tried again, and imagined showing it to Patrick and Geraldine. They were going to think I was losing it. My breathing slowed. I forced myself to focus the screen on the still-squirming maggots and the fruit carcass on which they feasted. But what the hell did it mean? A jumble of images rushed through my mind – Snow White’s poisoned apple, Eve and the forbidden fruit, silver apples and moons – something from a poem we’d learned in school. And the book – a children’s fairy story, but not one that featured apples, as far as I remembered. Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods. Witches and cages and bones flickered through my mind. Was it random, intended to confuse and freak me out, or was it some kind of message?
Having taken four or five photos, and certain I wasn’t going to touch the rotten fruit again, I left it there, on top of the book. My work file was still in the jeep, but as I looked across the shadowy garden, I decided I could manage without it.
At lunchtime, still unsettled, the need for escape and for human contact clanged too loud to ignore. Plus I had no fresh food in the fridge – there was something ironic about an apple on the doorstep when I had no fruit of any kind in my kitchen, I thought, as I opened the front door.
Only the apple wasn’t there any more, nor was the book. I stood and stared at the empty space they had occupied just hours earlier. Could the wind have blown them across the garden? My eyes scanned the grass and the driveway. It was gusty out, enough to blow half a rotting apple away, but not a hardcover book surely? If it wasn’t the wind, there was only one other possibility. Someone had been here while I was inside working. Heart thumping loudly in my chest, I stepped across to my bedroom window and made myself check the tape. Still in place. I let out a jagged breath, and ran to the jeep.
Wrapped in worry, I didn’t see Jamie until I’d driven past him. He half lifted his hand in salute, and I pulled in to offer him a lift. My voice sounded shaky and Jamie gave me a funny look as he hopped into the passenger seat, but he didn’t comment. Alan had taken the Land Rover, he said, and the car they shared was being serviced – he was on his way to pick it up. The thumping in my chest began to subside. It was a relief to have company.
“So Alan was gone somewhere all morning?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone. I stared straight ahead, focusing on the road, conscious Jamie was looking at me.
“About an hour ago, himself and the dog – why?”
“Just that it must be a pain for you, stuck there with no transport.”
“Oh listen, story of my life. You know my da – he does what suits him, and wouldn’t think about whether or not I need a lift now any more than he did when I was ten.”
It was true – Alan had somehow managed to be an absentee father, despite literally working on the grounds of their farmhouse and being the only parent Jamie had. If it wasn’t for Mrs Townsend, I don’t know if he’d ever have had a hot meal after school.
“Yeah, true,” I said. “I guess he was always so caught up in the farm, he didn’t think beyond it.”
Jamie laughed, but it was hollow. “You’re being kind. Most of the time, he just didn’t care all that much, and he was as caught up in whiskey as he was in the farm. Remember the time I went home from yours and the house was all locked up?”
I did. Jamie had waited in the freezing cold for over an hour, and eventually shut himself into a shed Alan used for storing old furniture and animal feed. We found out about it when Alan came banging on our door at ten o’clock that night, shouting for Jamie to get home. When my dad explained Jamie had left hours earlier, Alan looked irritated, not worried, and it was my dad who instigated the search. They found Jamie asleep in the storage shed, on an old mattress. And instead of showing relief or remorse, Alan berated him for not coming when he was called.
“But surely things have improved over the years?” I asked, indicating to turn onto the main road to Carrickderg.
“Oh absolutely,” Jamie said, smiling. “I have my own key now.” He paused. “So, c’mere, it’s good to reminisce about the bad old days – are you on for that drink we were talking about?”
Still looking straight ahead, I nodded. “Sure – I think this is the bit where I’m supposed to make it sound like I’m really busy most nights, but I’ll skip all that – when suits?”
“Tonight?”
And suddenly, as I nodded yes again, I found my mind rushing through my wardrobe and my fingers rushing through my hair, and I wondered if this was really just two old friends catching up and, more than anything, I wanted to talk to Linda.
CHAPTER 45
Still not sure what they’d make of my imminent report, I called into the Garda Station and asked to speak to Patrick or Geraldine. They were both there, and both came to the front desk at the same time. It was obviously a slow morning for crime in Carrickderg.
Two expectant faces and two sets of folded arms waited for my latest instalment, and I got ready to be humoured.
“What’s up, Marianne, is it more footprints?” Geraldine said. “Did you get that curtain I told you to get?”
“I did, thanks, Geraldine,” I said, like a schoolgirl eager to please the teacher.
“Right. So what is it now?”
“Well, I was
here on Sunday to tell Garda Maguire about a chalk letter R that someone drew outside my house . . .”
She nodded, slowly and deliberately, making it clear in one movement that Patrick had filled her in, and that she wasn’t about to call in the nearest SWAT team over my chalk letter.
“Then this morning I woke to find someone had left an apple and a book on my doormat, and later they both disappeared.”
Two sets of eyebrows went up simultaneously.
“I know it sounds silly,” I went on, “but the apple was rotten, full of maggots.” Remembering their touch against my fingers, I shuddered. “On top of the chalk letter at the weekend and the other stuff last week, it’s freaking me out.”
“Well, yes . . . but what does it mean? And why does it have to be something bad?” Geraldine asked. “Maybe whoever left it didn’t realise the apple was rotten? Were they just trying to leave you a present? What was the book?”
“Hansel and Gretel.”
“The story of the kids left in the forest by their stepmother and father? Witch, gingerbread house, all that?”
“Yes.” I could feel my face colouring. It sounded silly.
“Hang on,” Geraldine said, “could it be someone with a crush?”
“Sorry?”
“Hear me out. Someone came to your house the night of the snow, but chickened out of knocking on the door. So he tried to leave you a message – the doll, the chalk letter, and now the book as a gift!”
She was so pleased with her deduction she was almost hugging herself. Patrick looked sceptical but said nothing.
“I see where you’re coming from,” I said carefully, “but the footprints were under my bedroom window, not at my front door. And look, here’s a photo of the apple – nobody could have mistaken it for anything other than rotten.”