The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  “God, I hope not,” he said, grinning. “My da would have a heart attack.”

  I was worried about more than Alan’s hypothetical heart attack, but then Jamie didn’t know the full story.

  His grin suddenly disappeared as his attention was caught by something over my shoulder.

  “This is fierce cosy – what are you two prattling on about?” came Alan’s voice from behind me.

  “Books,” Jamie said quickly.

  “Yeah, we might start a book club,” I said.

  Alan looked from his son to me and back to Jamie again, all the while scowling beneath his ridiculous hat. The smell of stout wafted towards us.

  “Jaysus, ye’ve little to be worrying about. I’m going now, so you’d better come if you want a lift.” He looked at me and added with a sneer, “Unless you have a better offer?” He walked off, muttering something about keys and patting his pockets.

  Jamie rolled his eyes and showed me the car keys in his hand. “Let the battle commence . . . I’ll see you soon, Marianne, take care.” He touched my shoulder as he passed, and followed Alan out of the shop.

  A pointed look from the manager prompted me to hurry up with my shopping – at that stage, there was only one other customer left in the supermarket. Walking towards the till, I realised it was Geraldine – all muffled up in a giant navy padded jacket and a pink bobble hat.

  “Gone to weigh my salads,” she said, nodding at the empty cashier chair. “I always forget to weigh the salads. So, Alan still causing trouble?”

  “Ah, he’s a harmless old eejit. Never happy unless he’s giving out about something.”

  Geraldine said nothing for a moment, focussing on lining up a rolling grapefruit behind a rolling bottle of wine. She looked at me.

  “Yeah, he comes across as the gormless eejit alright, but don’t be fooled. There’s a cruel streak to Alan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Nothing criminal, mind, he’s always been careful about that. But he wouldn’t hesitate to leave you out in the cold. If you were on fire and he had a bucket of water, he’d try to charge you for it. You know?”

  Her metaphors sounded mixed though the message was clear. But then Alan wasn’t the only one who caused trouble while skating on the right side of the law. I wondered how much Geraldine knew about what Ray did, before he stepped over the line.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “that’s all – don’t underestimate him. The biggest troublemakers I see in my line of business aren’t the ones who signpost it all over themselves – it’s the sneaky ones, the ones hiding in corners and under beds, pretending to be harmless.” She lowered her voice as the salad-laden cashier returned to the till. “Or pretending to be nice.”

  We switched to weather-talk as she paid for her groceries, and she waited while I paid for mine. Together we walked outside and were about to go our separate ways when a noise from across the street, down outside Delaneys’, stopped us.

  We looked over to see Alan, half–in, half-out of the driver’s seat of the Land Rover, and Jamie trying to physically pull him out.

  Geraldine shook her head. “Jesus, I’m tempted to let Alan start the engine,” she muttered. “He’d be sorry then.”

  She started down the street, and I followed, curious to see how this would end. But before we got there, Patrick arrived, coming from the other direction. Geraldine and I stopped, still across the street, and watched as Patrick took over from Jamie. He didn’t touch Alan, but whatever he said seemed to work – Alan got out of the Land Rover, flung the keys in the gutter, and stalked off to stand outside Delaneys’, searching for a cigarette. Jamie bent to pick up the keys, and stood to talk to Patrick.

  “How does he put up with him?” I said to Geraldine, or maybe to myself.

  “I don’t know. My own father had a thing for the drink, God rest him. And God forgive me, but sometimes it’s a relief he’s gone.” She turned to me then. “Sorry, Marianne, that was insensitive – I know you still miss your dad.”

  I made a no-worries gesture.

  “At least he was a good dad to you,” she went on. “I sometimes think losing a good parent might be better than only ever having a bad one – is that a terrible thing to say?”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond – was she talking about her own dad or Alan?

  “I suppose,” I said after a moment. “I guess people who have tough upbringings have a much harder road in life.” It was a nothingy answer, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Then again, he had a rotten time of it by all accounts,” she said, lowering her voice and nodding over to where Jamie was still talking to Patrick, “and he turned out okay, didn’t he?”

  “True. I wonder why his dad ended up the way he did though.”

  She looked at me, as though weighing up how much I knew.

  “I don’t know the full story and it’s probably not my place to say, but I know you won’t repeat it, Marianne.” She lowered her voice further, though there was no way anyone could hear us. “I believe he was in the army at one point and got discharged for some fairly serious infraction. It hit him hard, and he turned to drink. And, sure, it was all downhill after that. Then the mother – as far as I know anyway – thought what happened was all her fault, and it spiralled even further downhill. Depression, social services, care home, the works. He doesn’t know I know about it.”

  I hadn’t known anything about a care home, or the army, or any of it, but suddenly I remembered the charred photo – Jamie on his mother’s knee, and Alan in his army uniform. But why dump the clothes in our garden? I still had no idea. Ray had remained tight-lipped, not responding to my few tentative enquiries. And was there some link with the army jacket I found in my garden last week?

  I watched Alan across the street, sucking on his cigarette, and now I could picture him so easily as the wounded soldier, frustrated and humiliated at being discharged. No doubt losing his wife so young had a huge impact too. Then again, my dad lost Hanne, but was still a good father. Unexpected tears welled up and Geraldine squeezed my arm.

  “Ah, sorry, Marianne. Listen, you head on home – looks like Patrick has this sorted, so I will too.”

  I nodded and walked to my car, as Patrick joined Geraldine, and Alan, a great big sulky face on him, got into the Land Rover with Jamie.

  Back home, with The Late Late Show on TV and fish cakes in the oven, I poured a glass of wine and opened Facebook to read a message from Judith.

  I hear you and Barry met up to discuss the case! He is very fired up about it and hopes to meet again – I thought I’d warn you!

  Oh God, he was broadcasting it already.

  How did you know – did he say it in the group?

  Yes, in the group, she replied, and he messaged me privately to tell me too – that’s how excited he is. Best of luck, Marianne, you’ve got yourself an admirer!!

  I clicked into the group to see what he was saying and found an entire post dedicated to telling the others we’d spent time going through cases in his apartment and both felt it was the best way to move the research along.

  I messaged Judith again.

  Oh my God, talk about two ways of looking at a story! It was pure chance we met, and I wasn’t in his apartment for more than half an hour. We never said we’d do it again either, at least I don’t think we did. Damn, what have I done!

  As Judith typed her reply, I got my fish cakes out of the oven.

  He means well,she said. He seems a nice man, a little needy perhaps, and doesn’t seem to have many friends. You made him very happy – it can be your good deed for the day!

  True. I’d just have to use work as an excuse to avoid future requests to meet.

  And exactly at that moment, a message from Barry pinged through.

  Great night, Marianne, we make a good team! Same again next Friday?

  Oh God, this was going to hurt.

  Another message came through then, but on text this time, from Linda.
r />   Hey, if you’re in Dublin in next few days, could you go to Petit Pois on Grafton Street and collect something for me? Sadie lost the teddy you bought her when she was born – they have them in stock and they’re holding one for you. She’s distraught! I’ll Paypal you the money xx

  I stared at it. Was she for real? Tears pricked my eyes as I closed the message. After months of next to no contact, she was back in touch when she needed something, like my only purpose in life was to be the handy godmother, available to pick up in an emergency, unnecessary beyond that. A thousand responses came to mind but, in the end, I put the phone aside and didn’t reply at all.

  CHAPTER 49

  The alarm installation wasn’t scheduled for another fortnight, but if I wanted lights and cameras they needed to know which ones and how many. So on Saturday morning, I found myself outside my house, looking for suitable spots for cameras. The corner above my dad’s old bedroom would be ideal, I figured – it would show me if someone was standing at the front door. Or crouched at my bedroom window. My stomach lurched as a memory of the white, staring face flashed up. I pushed it away. It was a reflection, a trick of the light. Nothing more.

  The consultant had recommended one motion-sensor light for the back of the house and one for the front. With the brochure tucked under my arm, I looked up at the eaves and wondered where the best spot would be – the corner above my bedroom maybe? Or would it be too bright when I was trying to sleep? But then it wasn’t supposed to be on all the time – only if someone was moving around outside. I shivered. What the hell would I do if the light suddenly came on in the middle of the night?

  I stepped forward to get a better look at the spot, putting my hands on my bedroom windowsill. As I stepped back again, I noticed something scratched in the paint. My breath quickened as I took it in. Etched into the windowsill, was the distinct outline of a hangman.

  I stared until it started to blur. How long had it been there? Was it there when I’d put the tape on the windows? Or the morning of the footprints? I tried to remember if there had been snow on the windowsill, but I couldn’t. Was the hangman old or fresh? I had no idea how to tell. Fuck. I took three quick photos, moved inside, locked the door, and phoned the Garda Station.

  Patrick picked up, sounding sleepy, reminding me it was just after eight.

  “Hey, it’s Marianne. Again.”

  “Hi, Marianne, what’s up?”

  “I need to caveat this by saying it’s going to sound like kids again.”

  “Okay – what is it?”

  “Someone’s scratched a hangman on my bedroom windowsill.”

  Silence on the other end of the phone, and I pictured him shaking his head at the madwoman from the cottage on the hill.

  “I know that it’s not the crime of the century. But taken in context with the footprints, the chalk letter, the apple, it all goes back to the same thing – someone is coming into my garden when I’m asleep.”

  “Did it happen last night?”

  “I don’t know when it happened. It’s not very big so you wouldn’t see it unless you were looking at the windowsill.”

  “So could it be there a long time – like even years?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “I remember once me and my pals scratched our names into the paintwork on the wall at the end of the garden at home – my ma went nuts! Could it have been something you did yourself years ago when you were a kid?”

  “No, definitely not. I’d remember.”

  Even as I said it, I wondered. Would I remember?

  “But I suppose the cottage would have been painted since then?” he went on. “When was the last time, do you know?”

  I paced up and down the living room, trying to recall.

  “Not since my dad died, so not in the last thirteen years.” Silence again. “Look, I get that it could have been done any time, but it’s just a bit weird along with all the other things. And–” I paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s back to these serial killer stories, about the Blackwood Strangler.” I could hear a muffled sigh, but I ploughed on. “There was that case in Denmark where a chalk hangman was drawn in a woman’s driveway and she wound up dead – remember I told you that when I found the letter R?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And then there was this other case in Poland, where a couple found random letters scratched in the paintwork of a windowsill. They were murdered . . .” My voice trailed off on the last words.

  “So let me get this straight,” Patrick said. “Someone found a hangman in chalk, someone else found letters scratched in paint. You have it the other way around – a letter in chalk and a hangman scratched in paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s similar, but not quite the same.”

  “Well, yes, but kind of scarily similar, don’t you think?”

  “Or are you seeing connections because you’ve read so much about the cases?”

  I closed my eyes. “I know how it sounds, and I see that there are differences,” I dug my nails into my palm, wondering how many times I’d have to say it before I’d be taken seriously, “but even putting aside the other cases, the bottom line is someone has been coming into my garden and someone has been looking in my bedroom window while I sleep.”

  “You got the new curtain, right?”

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  “Yes. I got the curtain.”

  He must have heard something in my voice.

  “Okay, one of us will pop up later to take photos and have a look around, and obviously we have a log of everything you’ve reported, so we’ll keep adding to that, and we’re still looking into the army jacket. We’ll send a car tonight too, to drive past. That should put him off. Does that sound okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Marianne?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Driving down to the village that afternoon, I spotted Jamie walking in the same direction and pulled in beside him.

  “Is the car gone again?” I asked through the window. “Do you need a lift?” Then I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, I was supposed to drop you down yesterday to pick it up! Please don’t tell me it’s still there?”

  Jamie stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned at me, for all the world the same kid he was when we were ten.

  “It’s grand – sure you were busy in your detective buddy’s apartment. And it’s not like my da couldn’t have taken me down this morning if he’d wanted to. The walk gives me a break from him.”

  “I’m so sorry. Here, get in and I’ll drop you down.”

  He walked around and sat in beside me, still grinning.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “The irony of it – we both know there’s no love lost between your family and mine, and Da’s a bit rattled about our drink the other night, but if he’d just given me a lift, or stayed off the pints yesterday, I wouldn’t be here now.”

  I smiled too. There was something very appealing about giving the middle finger to Alan. And something nice about being in it together with Jamie. Like the old days, but different.

  “So what’s new, Nancy Drew?” he asked as we snaked down towards the village on roads still sparkling with overnight frost.

  “You mean with the whole footprints thing or just generally?”

  “Either or.”

  “I found a hangman scratched into the paint on my windowsill.”

  “What do you mean a hangman? A guy who executes people?”

  “No, I mean like the word game we used to play on the blackboard in school – technically I suppose it’s the hanged man not the hangman, since it’s the guy who’s dangling from the gallows.”

  “Nice.”

  “I know.”

  “And I didn’t mention this before but someone left a maggoty apple on my doorstep on Thursday morning. Well, Wednesday night, I guess
.”

  Silence.

  “What do you think?”

  “How come you didn’t mention the apple when I saw you on Thursday?”

  I glanced over at him then back to the road.

  “I don’t know, I guess it didn’t come up.”

  “You still think this is something to do with Alan,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t know what to think. He’s my nearest neighbour and he’s done it before.”

  “But, Marianne, the stuff with the dead fox and burning the notebook – that was all to get at Ray. Once Ray left, it was over. Why would my da suddenly start picking on you?”

  Why indeed, I thought as I drove down Main Street looking for parking. Nothing had changed – I hadn’t done anything to antagonise him, at least as far as I knew. But then, Alan had never been the most rational person.

  “What if it’s because he’s annoyed that we’re . . . spending time together?” Oh Christ, what an awkward way to put it.

  More silence. I couldn’t tell if it was because we were discussing whether or not his dad was stalking me, or the fact that Jamie and I had sort of gone on a date. Suddenly I really wanted to get out of the car, but I still couldn’t find somewhere to park.

  “Well, yeah,” Jamie said eventually. “As I said, he was unimpressed by our trip to Delaneys’ the other night. But the footprints at your house came before that, right? So that doesn’t make sense. And my da, difficult though he may be, is not a stalker.”

  There was an edge to the last words, a reasonable reminder to rein it in. Jamie could slag off his dad, but they were father and son at the end of the day. The complexity of relationships between adult children and their parents was not my area of expertise.

  I nodded and drove on past the library, still looking for parking. As I did, something caught my eye. A poster on the library door, with a familiar book cover.

  I parked and as Jamie went off to pick up his car, I walked back to the library to read the cheery announcement on the poster: Coming soon to do a talk about his most famous book on its ten-year anniversary – Ray Sedgwick, author of The Sophisticate.