Red Ribbons Read online

  O’Connor had already mentioned to Donoghue that he was not happy with DI Gunning remaining as part of the team, but Donoghue, had agreed with Nolan. Gunning may have been a thorn in O’Connor’s side, but Donoghue knew that if you wanted someone to play hardball then Gunning was the man, and it was better to have him in rather than out.

  Having got everyone’s attention, Donoghue set about his task like the seasoned master of proceedings that he was.

  ‘Job 11. O’Brien, what’s the update on CCTV?’

  ‘We’re still going through everything sent over from Rathmines. We’ve new tapes just in from Gunning, along with fresh local stuff.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Shops and businesses down at the main junction, security footage from the GAA club and church grounds, and a couple of the bigger houses on the way up the hill have their own CCTV cameras.’

  ‘Right, I want a complete overview by tonight’s meeting for O’Connor here. McCann, you’re next: house-to-house, who saw or heard anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘First-round statements taken, all given over to Pringle, but we still need to catch up with a couple of stragglers, especially Matt Long, owner of the land where the girl was found.’

  O’Connor nearly jumped from the top table in frustration. ‘Why? Where is he? What’s the delay?’

  ‘The man is nearly a hundred. He’s been unwell, bedridden.’

  ‘But he’s at home?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Send Hyland up there immediately. We need a statement from him, and with Hyland’s medical background it should be a doer. Just make sure he takes it nice and slow.’

  Donoghue, who was busy recording the next job number to Hyland, looked to Pringle. ‘What’s the story with the statement from the woman who saw the car at the canal?’

  ‘Statement says she remembers being annoyed when she had to walk out on the road in order to pass a navy Toyota Carina parked on the footpath. It was parked on one of the smaller roads off the canal, around the time the girl was last seen. She’d noticed it on another occasion, earlier that same week, but hadn’t seen anyone in it. She was positive it was a Carina because she used to drive the same model, but hadn’t taken note of the registration plate.’

  ‘Anyone else notice it?’ Donoghue looked out over his glasses.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, is she the only person with eyes?’ He turned from Pringle to McCann. ‘Look at the times when she saw it, we need to know who was at home, who else could have seen it. Maybe someone else might remember more.’

  ‘Before you do, McCann, let me have another look at that house-to-house sheet.’ O’Connor looked over at Donoghue, who noted the request. ‘We’ll need to put something more specific in there about unfamiliar cars parked in the area.’

  Chief Superintendent Nolan turned to O’Connor. ‘Right, bring us up to date before we start the visuals.’

  ‘Okay,’ O’Connor said, standing up so everyone could hear him. ‘We’ve extended the search area, but it’s still too early to send in the tracker dogs. Hanley and the tech team need time to make sure they’ve picked up everything. The photographs, which will come up now in the visuals, reflect the general terrain, access roads to and from the area, Montpelier, Glenasmole, all the way up to Military Road. We are concentrating the search in the area to the left of the main Bohernabreena Road, the side the girl’s body was found.

  ‘A cast impression has been made of the boot print found at the scene, using the usual Crownstone. The size of the boot is between a nine and a ten and, judging by the depth of the impression, our guy is in and around the twelve stone mark, certainly not too heavy on his feet. Other points about it – tiny particles of gravel, more than likely built up over time, were found in the indentions or grooves on the sole of the boot. We’ve checked with the sheep farmer, Murphy, the only other person who walked in the vicinity, and the print is not his. The impression is from a left boot, showing excessive wear on the left-hand side, meaning the wearer had an inclination to lean more on the far left of his left foot. Pattern not unusual, could be found in many makes of hiking boots, but based on the cast taken it is likely that this boot was put to frequent use.’

  ‘Update on forensics?’

  O’Connor turned to Nolan. ‘Yeah, sorry, Boss. Hanley has confirmed that we are probably dealing with a secondary crime scene, no blood splatters found. As of right now, the body is giving us very little. We’ll know more when Morrison does the postmortem this evening, and we have a better handle on the whole thing.’

  ‘O’Connor, put pressure on the labs if you have to,’ Nolan ordered. ‘We’ll need those toxicology reports pronto, you know how they like to take their time.’

  O’Connor turned to Gunning. ‘Caroline’s friend, Jessica Barry – what’s the story with her?’

  ‘I interviewed her when the initial missing person’s report came in, and she’s been interviewed again today by one of McCann’s team, both times with mother present. So far, she knows nothing other than the details of the last sighting.’

  Nolan pushed his chair back and the castors creaked into motion. ‘This is starting to sound like an investigation where nobody knows anything. We have to get the information in guys, pull the people, neighbours, the postman, anyone on that CCTV footage, get talking to them all, we need to ask the right people the right questions before the Chinese whispers start taking hold. O’Connor, are you listening?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘What’s the story on known paedophiles?’

  ‘I’m going to handle that line myself.’

  ‘Good. Now, Matthews, pull those blinds down and let’s look at these visuals. O’Connor, you have a captive audience.’

  When the room darkened, everyone knew what to expect. Ordinarily the slide show would start with images and data from the main crime scene. But with no primary crime scene, the first of the images came from the burial site, taken at bird’s-eye-view level, including mapping and markings done by the forensic team. This would create a three-dimensional reproduction of the crime area – in this case, the burial site. This was O’Connor’s starting point.

  ‘Hanley examined a number of ways of gaining access to this area. It’s open terrain and the bad weather has probably eroded any clues that could have led us to the likely entry point the killer used. In the final analysis, Hanley concluded that there was no way to establish with certainty where the perpetrator gained access to the site. This had delayed things considerably, as his team had to use galvanised steps to examine the area, minimising any potential damage to possible entry points.’

  ‘Who was deployed to examine the roads leading to the scene – the main roads and walking tracks?’ Nolan looked to O’Connor, but Donoghue already had it covered.

  ‘Burke, anything of interest turn up there?’

  ‘No CCTV up that far. You reach a point halfway between the turn off for Friarstown and the climb towards the Military Road, and there isn’t even any road lighting. There was a guy hanging out at one of the lay-bys, sleeping rough in a car for a time earlier in the year, but he’s well gone.’

  O’Connor moved on to the next set of images, those taken from the grave area, with the young girl still lying in it. There was a concentrated silence as everyone in the Incident Room maintained what might appear to others as a cold, clinical approach to the evidence, but it was an approach that they had been trained to apply. O’Connor paused for a couple of seconds before continuing, knowing everyone was taking in the image of the schoolgirl dressed in her uniform. In death, her slim arms and tiny legs made her look even younger than she had been.

  O’Connor cleared his throat. ‘I don’t need to remind anyone here that even though the general public will never see these images, they will be imagining them, and I cannot overemphasise how high the stakes are. The abduction and murder of this young girl has understandably generated a huge outcry from the public. It has also brought an enormous interest from
abroad, including a very high media presence, which is growing by the day.’ O’Connor looked over at Rohan, and got a nod back. ‘Just to say here, there is absolutely no direct evidence of any sexual assault on the young girl, but I don’t have to tell you, the jury is still out as to what the killer’s real intentions were.’

  When O’Connor had finished, Donoghue, as bookman, had the last word. ‘You don’t have to have a young family to think about how this girl will never get a chance to grow up, or how she might have suffered. We are at the height of this investigation, guys, and everyone in this room, including the much-appreciated support from Harcourt Square’ – he nodded to the guys from the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation in the corner – ‘knows what’s needed. Now, let’s get some answers, before there are too many more bloody questions.’

  Meadow View

  IT HAD BEEN SIX MONTHS SINCE HIS MOTHER’S DEATH, and he had returned to work at Newell Design, and the stupidity of his co-workers was now a constant irritant to him. He felt relief each evening when he finally turned the key in the lock of his two-up, two-down townhouse and closed the door on the world.

  The house was small and of little consequence. Looking at it from the outside, one might consider it bleak, situated as it was at the end of the street, with none of the decorative frivolity of many of the others. He detested the exterior of the neighbouring houses, having no time for window boxes, door knockers with the face of lions or the diverse range of window dressings on display, from cheap lace to every variation of bobble and blind, including the latest addition of the wooden Venetian kind. He liked things to be uncluttered, hygienic and, at the very least, purposeful. Nothing existed in his house outside these guidelines. Ornaments were something he had a specific disdain for, being of no value other than to gather dust, along with his fervent aversion to fine bone china and a complete loathing of any form of waste. Olive oil bottles were turned upside-down, jars and tins cleared out with methodical knife-scraping, and tubes, especially toothpaste tubes, were flattened to perfection.

  He had decided to buy Number 15 Meadow View four months previously. He had made up his mind that his childhood home at Cronly Lodge would never be suitable as a permanent residence. He didn’t care much for the name of the street; he failed to understand why it held the title when no meadow, or view of one, existed. Perhaps at some point the square patch the house was built on had been part of a meadow, but if that were true, he felt a terrific irony in the fact that none of the houses on the street possessed so much as a front garden.

  Once inside the house, with the door shut firmly behind him, he relaxed. He was still getting used to the liberating feeling of living in his own place, with the freedom to have things just as he wanted them. He had rented since starting work in Dublin, but it had been tiresome, always having to be concerned about how the landlord felt regarding arrangement of furniture or decorative changes. It had limited him. Sometimes, like now, he would walk around in the dark, remembering being a boy, roaming the corridors of Cronly at night, or those warm clammy evenings at the castello. It was important to remember the past. When he did turn on the light, he took solace from everything being just as he had left it. In fact, he never left without preparing the house for his return. If, for example, he left the house in daylight but knew he would not return until late evening, he would close the curtains. If, on the other hand, he left the house at night and knew he would not be back until morning, he would do the opposite. He had no time for people who didn’t prepare or plan. After all, most things in life were predictable and capable of being forecast, if you put your mind to it.

  Although visitors to Number 15 were very few indeed, the house was at all times impeccably clean and tidy. Opening the kitchen cupboards, he noted the consumables sorted into their relevant categories, the earliest sell-by dates to the front. Taking down the small tin chest of Mokalbari tea, he felt an immediate sense of pride, delighted with this little find from the nearby Indian shop. The tea not only tasted of malt but had a very distinct and splendid hint of elderberry.

  The house was quiet, other than the low hiss from the boiling kettle. Being situated at the end of the street meant very few people ventured all the way up to the top of the cul-de-sac. The only living thing other than himself in the house was Tabs, the cat. Tabs was the last in a long line of cats called Tabs from Cronly, an unwanted but necessary bequest from the big house. Despite having no particular affection for the animal, it was nonetheless a tolerable pet. The cat demonstrated traits that he found matched his own – predatory by nature, incredibly selfish and, for the most part, kept himself to himself. As well, of course, as being impeccably clean.

  As he poured the just-boiled water over his tea leaves, he watched with amusement as the cat cleared his bowl of milk. Tabs reminded him of Jarlath, both of them had skeletal-like frames. Indeed, on closer examination even their eyes looked similar – strained and watery, with a keen sharpness about them. Jarlath looked liked someone in need of a good meal, or at the very least some physical exercise to build him up a bit. He himself enjoyed his keep-fit routine, believing it was an essential part of a good life balance. He knew many viewed him as something of an intellectual, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take care of his body too.

  Of course, this had not always been the case. When he was younger, like Jarlath, he too could have been thought of as sickly. If he had had siblings, he most probably would have been described as ‘the runt’ or ‘the weakling’, something that in another species of animal would be considered for extermination. It was only after finishing his studies at college that he set about improving himself physically; a change of image part of his fresh start. Most exercises he did alone, like walking, running, hill climbing. He enjoyed swimming too, usually early morning or late evening, times when most people would be someplace else.

  He emptied his cup of Mokalbari as diligently as Tabs cleared his bowl, and his mind wandered to events earlier in the day. At work, little had changed from before: Susan was still there with her sniffles, and Jarlath was just as enthused about Pascal’s unfinished work on the Pensées.

  He had wondered if any of them would have guessed at his little secret, or did his quiet disposition still fool them into thinking he was harmless? The thought brought a smile to his face. In part, he liked being a man of mystery, it allowed him to deflect questions, surprisingly enough, rather than answer them. No, he was quite certain that none of them thought there was anything unduly strange about him – even of late, when life had proved so challenging. After all, he didn’t look like the type of man to do anything out of the ordinary. Even his ongoing, uninvited visits to other people’s homes would be laughed at as ridiculous. Visualising him going into places he was not supposed to was not an image that would spring immediately to mind.

  The first place he’d broken into was the sacristy of the local church. Not that he considered it breaking in, more childish curiosity than anything else. He had obsessed for a long time about the place where the priest prepared himself for mass, wondering what rituals and mysteries would be involved. Was there a mirror in which the priest could admire himself in his colourful robes? Were there treasures hidden in this priestly place, things specifically for the ordained and not for mere mortals? He took his opportunity one Sunday after mass. His mother had engaged Fr Mahon in the type of conversation that didn’t allow interruption, making it easy for him to slip away unnoticed. His curiosity about religious customs was aroused well before his and his mother’s trip to Suvereto later that same year.

  The moment he was inside the sacristy, his excitement rose. He had stood leaning with his back against the door, taking in all around him, as if he’d just entered a cave full of treasure. The room had smelled of candle grease and incense and was filled with heavy, dark furniture, which he had suspected had been there long before Fr Mahon. There had been old papers too, hardback books, mostly of a religious nature, and a tall mahogany unit in the corner with carvings on the
front depicting a scene from the Garden of Eden. The unit had been locked, but the key was in the door. He’d turned it, forcing it a little, his nervous excitement rising as he’d felt the bolt release itself, and the door opened.

  Inside, the vestments had hung like a line of coloured soldiers. He’d moved his hand along the top, stroking the embroidered garb, like he might have touched a painting in an art gallery that he had been forbidden to lay a finger on. At first, he’d worried that someone might come in and find him, or that the heavens would strike and punish him for committing such a sin. His palms had felt sweaty as he’d looked all around him, thinking the very walls could alert others to his misbehaviour and, just for a moment, he had been sure he’d be paralysed to the spot. It was then that he’d noticed the large crucifix hanging above the doorway. The sight of the crucifix should have scared him more, but it had encouraged him, as he’d realised that neither the walls nor the crucifix had any power over him. Alone, he’d been free to move at will, so when he’d found the biscuit tin with the altar bread inside, he had not hesitated to pick up the wafer bread, place it high above his head and, facing Jesus on the cross, say, ‘Hoc est enim Corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradetur’ –‘This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ At no point had he felt any guilt – even afterwards when his mind had rambled now and then and he’d worried about being punished. Those feelings had soon passed; the lack of retribution had strengthened his delight that he had got away with it. After that, he often broke into places – after all, it was perfectly natural to be inquisitive, even if he carried out his curiosity in a way others would not have done.