The Doll's House
‘A cracker of a novel, highly recommended, a phenomenal debut’
Arlene Hunt
‘
Red Ribbons
is an absolutely brilliant book … spine-tingling with loads of twists and turns. A debut novel from a great writer who will soon be up there with the likes of Patricia Cornwell’
Stafford FM
‘Dark, spooky, but believable’
Irish Examiner
‘
Red Ribbons
has been getting rave reviews, especially for the insight it offers into the emotions of a mother who has lost her child’
Irish
Mail on Sunday
‘The pace of this book is spot on, revealing information from the killer’s past bit by bit to keep the reader turning the pages’
Novelicious
Born in Dublin, Louise Phillips returned to writing in 2006, after raising her family. That year, she was selected by Dermot Bolger as an emerging talent in the county. Louise’s work has been published as part of many anthologies, including
County Lines
from New Island, and various literary journals. In 2009, she won the Jonathan Swift Award for her short story
Last Kiss
, and in 2011 she was a winner in the Irish Writers’ Centre Lonely Voice platform. She has also been short-listed for the Molly Keane Memorial Award, Bridport UK, and long-listed twice for the RTÉ Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition.
In 2012, she was awarded an Arts Bursary for Literature from South Dublin County Council. Her debut novel,
Red Ribbons
, was shortlisted for Best Irish Crime Novel of the Year (2012) in the Irish Book Awards.
Also by Louise Phillips
Red Ribbons
@LouiseMPhillips
www.facebook.com/LouisePhillips
THE DOLL’S HOUSE
Copyright © 2013 Louise Phillips
The right of Louise Phillips to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Ireland in 2013 by
HACHETTE BOOKS IRELAND
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and places in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. All events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real life or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1444 743 074
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Ocean House, the Quays, Dublin
Harcourt Street Police Station
Incident Room, Harcourt Street
Harcourt Street Police Station
Harcourt Street Police Station
The Mansion House, Dawson Street
Macquay’s Bridge, Grand Canal Street
Incident Room, Harcourt Street Police Station
Harcourt Street Police Station
Incident Room, Harcourt Street Police Station
Harcourt Street Police Station
Harcourt Street Police Station
Interview Room 22A, Harcourt Street Police Station
Harcourt Street Police Station
74 Strand Road, Sandymount, Dublin
Harcourt Street Police Station
For Jennifer, Lorraine and Graham
The tide is coming in; familiar sights and sounds seem strange to me. My seven-year-old legs wobble, feet sinking into the sand, seaweed between my toes. In my arms I hold a doll, with curly blonde hair and sea-blue eyes. It is neither night nor day; the light is white, sparse, as if, like memory, it can be whisked away. A cold breeze batters my face, exploding into my ears. Against the sea and the sky he stands, trouser legs rolled up, chalk-white skin. He is smiling at me, the centre of my canvas. I wonder about his voice. I try to hear him, even a whisper, but I hear nothing. I scream, the wind cutting out the sound, swallowing my sobs. I’m not alone. Someone stands beside me. The man with the smiling face turns away, looking into the ocean. He has his back to me as the ice-cold water eats his feet. The further he walks away, the smaller he becomes, just like a figure from my doll’s house.
Kate scanned the crime-scene photographs for the umpteenth time. The bruised body of Rachel Mooney lost none of its horror the more she studied them. Her jaw had been smashed, her nose broken in two places, and she’d lost both front teeth. All of her injuries were imprints of her attacker’s rage. It was a miracle that she had survived. Anger in rape wasn’t unusual, some men having developed a hatred of women, or a type of woman, which made their victims little more than targets for their pent-up aggression. But in Rachel Mooney’s case, the more Kate connected the pieces, the more her concentration shifted from the level of violence and assault to the demonstration of power her attacker had shown his victim.
The DNA evidence taken had matched two similar offences in Dublin, but still the police hadn’t a suspect. The earlier victims had been attacked outdoors. Rachel Mooney had been attacked inside her home. As a criminal psychologist, Kate knew that every change in pattern meant something, whether it was based on an escalating desire in the attacker, a willingness to take greater risks or simple opportunity. She also knew that the significance of the victim to the offender took on a different perspective when dealing with sexual assaults. Sexual gratification wasn’t always the primary motivation. It was more complicated than that. Rachel’s attacker wanted to demonstrate his power through control and violence. The sexual act was merely an extension of this need, his victim becoming little more than the facilitator.
The three women had similar profiles: all had been successful career professionals enjoying what seemed happy lives. Unlike the previous
two victims, Rachel Mooney had been married. In Rachel’s case, the offender had certainly had opportunity: Rachel had left the front door of her house open while her two children played in the garden. However, both children had been inside when the attack had taken place. The attacker had pulled Rachel’s blouse over her face, wrapped a tie tightly around her eyes, then secured her hands behind her back. When he had instructed her to walk upstairs, she had done so without fuss, not wanting to scare her children in the downstairs living room, unaware of her plight.
The similarity in victim profile meant that none of the women had been chosen at random. His level of control prior to the violent attacks, and subsequent sexual assaults, conveyed that power was paramount to him. But with Rachel, the attacker had moved on. He had invaded her home. It was too early to tell whether this had been opportunistic or was connected to Rachel being the first married victim.
Since she had worked with DI O’Connor on the Devine and Spain murders, Kate had become more involved with the Dublin police force in profiling offenders. The perpetrator in this crime hadn’t arrived overnight: he’d offended before, including physical assault, breaking and entering. This was a well-travelled path for him. If he wasn’t on the Irish PULSE database, he would come up somewhere else.
Locking the photographs of Rachel Mooney in her desk, Kate checked the time on the wall clock. Ten minutes to two. Her appointment with Imogen Willis was for two o’clock.
Although police investigations took up more and more of her time, Kate’s work was still primarily based in Ocean House, working within the Counselling and Reintegration Programme. Over the last few months, through weekly counselling sessions, she had developed a strong relationship with Imogen, a teenager who very much needed her help and with whom Kate had every intention of following through on.
Officially, O’Connor’s dark shadows and baggy eyes would be put down to the previous months of operating nights. They say working outside the daily routine of other fellow mortals alienates you from reality. That wasn’t so with O’Connor. To him, doing the ghost shift had brought him far too close to reality: his own.
Harcourt Street station was the hub of the Dublin police force, but to O’Connor it felt like a bigger version of the suburban Rathfarnham station where he had worked for the previous six years. In other ways, Harcourt Street was a whole different ballgame. It got you closer to the stench of the city, the bigger players and the lowlife who performed their menial tasks. Most of the bums were barely out of nappies, destined for two things: crime and a very short life.