The Sleeper Lies Page 3

  My breath quickened. “Jesus. Where the hell’s it gone?” I looked down in the footwell, and on the other side too, though it could hardly have moved by itself.

  “Are you sure it was there – could it have been something you thought you saw, a shadow, or a bag or something?”

  “No, I was right up here beside it, as close as I am now.”

  “Did you have the jeep locked?”

  “No, I never bother – I’m so far away from everyone up here.”

  “Ah.”

  He didn’t need to say anything else – I heard the admonishment in that one ah.

  I shut the jeep door and clicked the key-fob to lock it, stable doors and bolting horses dancing through my head.

  “Right, I’ll take a look around the premises,” Patrick said, walking towards the back of the house.

  I followed, because it was preferable to waiting on my own as darkness slipped across the snow.

  A few minutes and no stalkers later, he asked if I’d like him to check inside too.

  “I searched it this morning and was there most of the day working – there’s nothing out of place. I’m certain he wasn’t inside.” Almost certain. “You go on back down – it’s getting dark out now and the snow is on its way again. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded. “If you’re sure. Give us a call if there’s anything else, won’t you?” He handed me a card, though like every other person in Carrickderg I had the Garda Station number saved in my phone.

  “Will do, but what are you going to do without the car – cycle up here to rescue me?”

  He laughed and I waved him off.

  I went inside and shut and locked the door.

  That night, once I’d eaten, I checked all the windows and doors again, and perched on the edge of the couch, listening. The house was far too quiet. The living-room light bulb flickered, reminding me to get the wiring checked – my dad had been brilliant with all that stuff, but now it was just me. And someone creeping up to my house at night. Fuck.

  Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to talk to Linda.

  I picked up my phone and clicked into Favourites to pull up her number, but at the last second something stopped me. It was seven o’clock in the evening – peak getting-the-kids-to-bed time from what she’d told me. The last thing she needed was a phone call from me and, admittedly, the last thing I needed was a distracted, one-sided conversation. I’d try her mid-morning instead.

  Still on edge, I pulled my laptop onto my knee, and clicked into the Armchair Detective group where I found a discussion that came up at least once a month. Neil, a particularly prickly member, had been asked why he investigates old cases, and how on earth he thinks he can solve something if the police can’t.

  It’s not as if I tease someone about their hobbies – why do people feel it’s ok to question mine? Neil was typing, still smarting over his encounter.

  I know! My mum spends her entire day watching crime on TV, but thinks I’m wasting my time with web-sleuthing,answered Cheryl, a perennially cheerful university student. I spent an hour last week telling her about that case we solved but then I realised she wasn’t listening at all – too busy watching Inspector Morse!

  “That case” – a missing person who’d been found via online detective work – was our poster child for winning any argument about the value of armchair-detecting, though to say “we” solved it was an overstatement – it was solved by a member of iSleuth, the US forum on which we’d all originally met. But it summed up how we felt – armchair-detecting was a virtual hobby that could yield real-life results.

  Whatever about the UK, I don’t think the Irish would get it at all – would they, Marianne?Barry said, tagging me. Again.

  Ah, I think most people here are very “live and let live”, I replied, though it wasn’t strictly true – I’d had my fair share of raised eyebrows.

  Ignore them, Judith said to Neil. It’s not hard to understand if people really think about it. Most of us grew up reading detective novels and watching TV shows about fictional murders – now we’re looking into real murders, something we could never have done before the internet.

  I glanced at the photo of my parents on the living-room shelf – him smiling like I never remember in real life, her laughing, her blue eyes sparkling, her blonde hair so like mine, but faded by the decades since the photo was taken. I’d grown up reading detective novels too, but my interest in true crime came from somewhere else entirely. Suddenly chilled, I closed the laptop.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke with a jolt. Eyes wide open. White noise in my head shouting at me, telling something was wrong. Black all around. Middle of the night. Middle of nowhere. My breath stayed stuck in my chest, my limbs deadweight on the bed. A creak. The house moving. I waited, still no breath, lying motionless. My head fixed on the pillow, eyes to the ceiling. Slowly, I moved my eyes around the room, adjusting to the darkness. The bright green digits on my clock radio showed 4:11, the screen casting a tiny glow from my bedside table. The bedroom door tightly shut, just as I left it. The window, covered in black plastic sacks, pinned up with thumbtacks. Nobody would see in tonight.

  A creak. Not the house moving. Coming from outside. Coming from the window. A fox. My friend the fox. Had to be. Stomach churning, nails digging into numb palms, I forced myself up. Slipping from bed to ice-cold floor, I pushed one foot in front of the other. Don’t think about it. It’s a fox.

  At the window, my hand out. Keep going. It’s just a fox. Another creak. It’s just a fox. My fingers fumbled, unpicking tacks. One, and another, and another. Enough now, enough to see. To see the fox.

  Fingers wrapped around the edge, I pulled it back. Sharp. Quick. Rip off the plaster.

  But there was no fox.

  There was a face.

  A white face, pressed to the glass.

  Staring in. Staring at me.

  I screamed and tripped, falling backwards onto the floor. Scrambling, crawling. Not looking at the window. Yanking open the bedroom door, I threw myself into the living room. Slammed the bedroom door shut. Curled in a ball, in the corner, because brave people get up and fight, but I am not brave.

  CHAPTER 5

  When the alarm went off I was confused – it sounded far away, like a distant church bell. I shifted in the bed, and suddenly realised I wasn’t in bed at all – I was on the couch, under a throw. Wearing my jacket.

  With a rush, it all came back. The bin bag tacked to my bedroom window, the white face outside looking in. Jesus Christ, how had I managed to sleep at all? Sitting up and swinging my feet to the floor, I put my head in my hands. Groggy and sick. I felt like I’d fallen into a deep sleep two minutes before the alarm went off. The alarm that was still going off. Christ, I’d have to go in there. I wasn’t cut out for this.

  At the bedroom door I reached out and grasped the handle, ready for another pull-of-the-plaster but I was too slow. The what-ifs seeped in. What if he’s in there. What if he’s waiting for me behind the door. What if he’s still at the window staring in.Breathe. Deep breaths. Listen. No sound. Nothing. No breathing but mine. And it’s daylight. There’s nobody there. Pull the plaster.

  I pulled.

  Inside, it was dark but not quite black. And empty. I hit the button to make the alarm stop and stood, staring at the window. The bin bag had flapped down where I’d pulled it aside but I knew in a million years I couldn’t go over there and look out again. The memory flashed up – the porcelain-white face, no expression, no colour. Staring. Close to the glass. Not a face, but a mask. No way to see who or what was behind it. And no way to look now, no chance. Not brave.

  Back in the living room, I looked in the mirror. My face was pale, almost ghostly, even my lips, the only hint of the colour the purple circles beneath my eyes. I shook myself.

  Could it have been my own reflection in the window last night? Distorted by sleep and snow and unease?

  I stood in the middle of the room, trying to remember. Focussing on deta
ils. But every time I brought up the image, it slipped further way.

  I looked at the front door, but I wasn’t ready. Instead I walked to the living-room window and, biting my lip, pulled the curtain to one side.

  A blanket covered the outside world, a sea of white, drifting high against the wall at the end of the front garden. And no footprints. No human footprints. Fox prints, yes. And little birdlike indentations. But no humans. Maybe the prints had been covered by fresh snow? I let out a ragged breath. Or maybe the face was mine.

  In the kitchen, I pulled my cardigan around me while I waited for the kettle to boil and stared out the window. The snow was up to a foot high in places – there would be no trip to the village today. My phone, my window to the outside world, told me a curfew would be in place from 4:30 PM. I wasn’t going anywhere anyway. As the kettle rumbled on without speed or enthusiasm, I spooned coffee into the cafetière, and hugged myself for warmth. Minus two degrees according to my phone, but it felt colder in my kitchen. When it was finally ready, I drank the coffee in my marginally warmer living room and, only then, emboldened by caffeine and the certainty – the almost certainty – that I’d imagined the masked face, did I open the front door.

  And there they were.

  Footprints.

  Just like yesterday, all the way from the gate, across the garden and up to my bedroom window. I swallowed. Only not just like yesterday – because they hadn’t been there when I’d looked out fifteen minutes ago. My skin prickled and I took an instinctive step back from the door. Jesus. While I was in here making coffee, someone had been outside.

  Locking the front door, I moved to the window and pulled back the curtain. Maybe the prints had been there all along – maybe I’d missed them when I looked out earlier? Wrong angle, too far away? But no, they were clearly visible now, tracking all the way across the garden, and ending under my bedroom window. Jesus Christ – where was he now? I stared across at the prints, and that’s when I saw there were more – leading away from my window, but not back across the garden. My breath quickened as my eyes followed the trail along the front wall of the house and around to the side, out of sight. A surge of nausea swelled inside my stomach. Was he at the back of the house?

  Pushing one foot in front of the other, I made my way towards the door to the kitchen. As I touched the handle, I paused, remembering something I hadn’t thought of in years. I didn’t stop to worry about whether it was the right decision or not – in three quick strides I was in my father’s old bedroom, pulling out the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Awkwardly lifting the shotgun, I marched through to the living room and braced myself to open the kitchen door. The gun was heavier than I expected and I wasn’t sure it would actually work anymore, or if it was loaded, but it might be enough to scare off an intruder. What would I do if I found someone looking in the back window? Before I could talk myself out of it, I yanked the handle and pulled open the door. Through the window above the sink, there was nothing but grey sky and white grass. No face. No mask. Nobody. I sagged against the doorjamb.

  But where was he now? If he’d been here in the last twenty minutes, he couldn’t be gone far. Was he somewhere on the grounds? I stepped towards the window to look out. There they were. Footprints trailing all the way across the back garden as far as I could see.

  My hand shook as I scrolled for the Garda Station number. Geraldine answered, and I explained what had happened: the face at the window (mine? not mine?) and the footprints (definitely not mine). She’d send someone up to look around, she said, and in the meantime I should lock the doors and windows, and make myself tea with extra sugar. Silently I shook my head, and thanked her. How was sweet tea going to help?

  My first conference call of the day was about to start and I thought about crying off, but the alternative – sitting worrying myself to death – didn’t appeal either. I dialled in. As each participant announced his or her name, for the first time in a long time I wished I was in our busy city-centre office and not out here in the middle of nowhere.

  I sat cross-legged on the couch with my phone on speaker and my laptop on my knees, only half-listening as each person gave their update. My eyes were fixed on the living-room window. Who was out there? What did he want with me? It couldn’t be the drunk tourist Patrick had mentioned – he was apparently on his way back to the States. Or was he? Maybe that was just an assumption the gardaí had jumped to. Maybe it was someone who lived outdoors, looking for an empty house to shelter from the cold? Years ago, Alan used to have people staying in his sheds and outhouses during the winter, though he was charging them for it, the tight-fisted git. Ray soon put an end to that.

  The thought of my ex made me sit up, suddenly cold. It couldn’t be anything to do with Ray, could it? As far as I knew, he was back home in New Jersey. And anyway, if Ray ever came back, he’d . . . my hand went instinctively to my cheek. I shook my head. I couldn’t see him creeping and spying, no matter how much sneaking around he did back then. A memory surfaced. Dead-animal eyes, rusty, matted blood. On my doorstep, once upon a time. I closed my eyes.

  Someone from the office was asking a question. I gave the answer, and slumped against the couch, staring out the window. Last time I googled, Ray was safely back in New Jersey, working on his next book. It couldn’t be Ray. Then who?

  CHAPTER 6

  The knock, sharp and unexpected, made me jump. From my spot on the couch, I could see out the living-room window, but not who was at the front door, not without getting up to walk over. Frozen, I waited, as a familiar high-pitched whirring inside my head took hold.

  A second knock, sharper now, and a voice – a familiar one.

  “Marianne, it’s Sergeant Breen and Garda Maguire.”

  Geraldine and Patrick.

  Relieved, I opened the door and led them in, babbling about what had happened as I showed them through to the kitchen window. The footprints were gone, obscured by fresh snow, and the futility struck me as I turned to see Patrick exchange a look with Geraldine.

  “There were prints out the front as well, as far as my bedroom window,” I said, “just like yesterday. They’ll be gone now too . . .”

  Patrick nodded. “Sure show us anyway, no harm.”

  We walked out to the front of the house, and I pointed to where the footprints had been. Another look exchanged.

  “You didn’t take a photo of them by chance, did you, Marianne?” Patrick asked, as Geraldine peered through my bedroom window.

  “No. I will if it happens again.” Christ, was it likely to happen again? Something stirred in my memory, something I’d read somewhere, but when I tried to grab hold of it, it disappeared.

  “And this is the window you were at,” he said, running a hand through his barely-there hair, “when you saw the face?”

  The face. I shivered. “Yes. I had a bin bag tacked to the window last night, and I pulled it aside and it was just there. A white face, looking straight in at me.”

  Another look exchanged. They either thought I’d been dreaming or seeing my own reflection. Maybe I had.

  “Would you think about getting a better curtain?” Geraldine asked, turning to look at me, her dark hair escaping a loose ponytail. She reached to tie it up again but was defeated by the wind. “Like, you can see straight through that net thing you have there at the moment. He’d be able to see you asleep in the bed. Why do you have something so flimsy anyway?”

  Geraldine didn’t go in for the soft and cuddly approach.

  “I know. But I like waking with the natural light, and since there’s nobody around for miles, it normally doesn’t matter that you can see in.”

  “Well, nobody around for miles except some stranger who’s been staring in at you,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “And what about Alan Crowley and his son?” Patrick asked. “They’re not far away.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that but, despite everything that’s gone on over the years, I can’t see why Alan would suddenly st
art creeping up to my bedroom window.”

  Patrick nodded, but didn’t look convinced. Geraldine was still thinking about my sub-par curtain.

  “Like, you could get something nice in that new homeware shop in Arklow – doesn’t have to be heavy, just enough that every Tom, Dick or Harry walking past can’t see you in your nightdress.”

  Patrick tried to hide his smile. Geraldine was no-nonsense at the best of times, and clearly baffled at my choice of window-covering.

  “You’re right. I’ll keep putting up bin bags for now, and I’ll head into Arklow as soon as this stuff clears,” I said, kicking at the snow. “But listen, what about that tourist – the guy who was causing trouble in the hotel?”

  “He’s well and truly gone,” Geraldine said. “He’s not staying in the Carrickderg Arms and nobody could stay outside in those temperatures overnight. You’d freeze to death. I’m guessing he’s knocking back the contents of a minibar in some Dublin hotel.”

  So we were at square one. I had absolutely no idea who was sneaking up to my window and neither did Patrick or Geraldine. When they left, I locked the door. Now that I’d reported it, perhaps that would be the end of it.

  But it wasn’t the end, or at least, not in any way I anticipated. Logging on to iSleuth that night, hoping for distraction from the creaks and gurgles in the walls, I forced myself to read some new articles. And it worked like nothing else ever could – soon I was slipping from one post to the next, tumbling down rabbit holes, lost in a world of unsolved mysteries. At some point, oblivious now to my surroundings, I clicked into the Blackwood Strangler sub-forum and found a fresh article someone had posted. Only it wasn’t fresh – it was from five years ago, and I was halfway through when I realised I’d read it before. I was about to click out, when I saw something that stopped me cold.