Even if he’d never heard of her before, the one thing obvious to Ollie was that the woman wasn’t in any normal state. He hadn’t planned to be putting his rescuing skills to use again so quickly but, knowing it wouldn’t take him long to get her back to Cronly Lodge, he’d done just that. As far as he’d known, she lived on her own, with Mrs Flood the housekeeper going in and out during the week. As it was a Saturday, he hadn’t been sure if anyone would be at the house when he got there, but one thing had been certain, if he hadn’t got her off the beach, he’d have had another death on his hands, and Fitzsimons would be having even more of a canary about things.
Walking to the Lodge, there hadn’t been a whole lot of words between them; being friendly was the last thing on his mind. What he’d wanted was to get the crazy woman somewhere she could be someone else’s problem. She hadn’t got her keys, or a bag, nothing other than what she was wearing, so when they got to the drive, he was relieved when someone opened the front door. The guy had been a stranger to him, but he’d turned out to be her son, or at least had introduced himself as such when they’d got within shouting distance. Ollie had got the distinct impression that he wasn’t particularly pleased to see either him or the old woman. When he’d introduced himself to Ollie, it was in as uppity a voice as Ollie had heard tell about the mother. It hadn’t been a particular surprise – like mother, like son and all – but still, it had been clear enough to Ollie that the woman wasn’t in her right mind. The look of emptiness on her face down at the beach and all the way back to the house hadn’t changed.
The young master hadn’t taken too kindly to Ollie passing remarks about her needing a doctor; the only thing that had been clear was that he was very keen to get rid of him, like an unwanted piece of shit on your shoes.
From what he’d found out after, head wise, that was the start of the woman going downhill, and if what Hughes had said to him was true, Alison Cronly had been missing a few marbles ever since.
The conversation with Steve Hughes the previous day was still bothering him, and had done so non-stop from the beginning. At the time of the fire, there had been no talk of the son at the house, and even though Ollie had seen him the night he took Alison Cronly home, that was a while after the fire all the same. He had no good reason to think anything other than the son had arrived afterwards. But then, he had a photograph of the girl. There was no denying that. Ollie knew that if the man had such a photo, there must have been a bloody good reason for it.
He thought about walking up to the Lodge, as if the house itself might have answers, but he had no intention of following in the footsteps of Steve Hughes and breaking into the place. He just wanted to give his head a chance to work things out. If William Cronly had been visiting his mother at the time of the fire, he couldn’t have been there for long. Mrs Flood would have told the neighbourhood about the prodigal son returning, unless, of course, the guy had kept himself out of the way. But sure, what would have been the point in that?
The more he thought about things, the more he didn’t like the answers he was coming up with. The fire had happened a long time back, but with Steve Hughes’ interfering, Ollie needed to work out the best course of action. If Steve was of the mind to call to Ollie about what he’d found, then he would be of the mind to talk to a whole lot of other people as well. He’d been right to tell him to put the photograph back. Even if it proved to be nothing important, he was happy that at the very least he’d told Steve to do that.
Ellie
DR EBBS LOOKS MORE AGITATED THAN USUAL, OR maybe I’m thinking this because of how I feel.
‘Good morning, Ellie. How are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you not sleep well?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to talk about that?’
‘No.’
‘You look pale, are you unwell?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you upset?’
‘No. I’ve heard stuff, seen stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s to do with what I told you the other day, about what really happened to Amy.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s about the girls who got killed.’
‘The girls from Dublin?’
‘Yes, I think … I think whoever killed Amy killed them as well.’
‘You’re talking about this man you saw in Wexford again?’
Why isn’t he shocked? He looks strained, puzzled, but not shocked, definitely not shocked.
‘Yes.’
‘And what makes you so sure?’
He’s staring at me, talking at me, like I’m some form of idiot, his tone almost patronising.
‘Everything, the ribbons, the plaiting, the crucifix.’
‘What about the crucifix?’
‘Amy had one. She had it in Wexford.’ My voice sounds fast, desperate. ‘They said in the reports this morning that one of the girls was still wearing her crucifix when she was found.’
‘You didn’t mention anything about a crucifix before.’
‘I didn’t think it was important before.’
‘Ellie, lots of people wear crosses.’ He sighs.
‘I tell you it’s him. I know it.’
‘Okay, let’s just calm down, shall we. It’s very understandable that you’re thinking this way.’
‘What way?’
‘The case is so similar to Amy’s.’
‘Did you see the images of the first girl? Do you think she looks like Amy too? ’ Maybe he understands after all.