Dark Mirrors (11 page)

Penny, wearing that same guilty expression that always gave her away when they were kids, made the polite introductions: “Detective Sergeant Maloney. Garda Burke.”

Esmée nodded as she took each invited hand firmly in her grasp, recognising Detective Sergeant Maloney as the Garda who had turned up the previous night. The mental mist was beginning to clear.

“How are you this morning, Mrs Myers?” The detective sergeant’s query seemed genuine enough.

“Esmée, please,” she insisted before sitting on the edge of the sofa opposite them. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Penny took up a position on the sofa arm beside her and laid a protective hand on her shoulder.

God, he’s ugly, Esmée thought maliciously, but he probably thinks he’s gorgeous. He’s the kind of geek that kisses his own reflection and prances around naked, admiring himself in the mirror – just like in those really cheesy movies. A Mel Gibson wannabe, but not the cute, modern Mel Gibson, but Mel as he was in the days of the first Lethal Weapon. He was utterly naff, with his highlighted blond hair and that aged brown-leather bomber jacket with the rolled-up sleeves and, oh my God, were they cowboy boots under the legs of those jeans? Ughhhh!

“We’ve met before,” she realised as she sized him up. “Before last night, that is.”

“You’re right,” he affirmed with a knowing smile, apparently fully aware that she was giving him the once-over. “I called to your house a couple of weeks ago. You thought you’d had a break-in.”

“Ahh, that’s right!” Esmée recalled, raising her head slightly, recollecting their previous, fairly nondescript, encounter. How hadn’t she noticed those boots back then?

“I met your husband that night too, although he didn’t seem too happy to see me and my partner.”

Esmée nodded in reply, remembering the inexplicable uproar Philip had caused having found the police in the house when he’d got home that evening.

“Would you like to tell us what happened last night?” he went on. “You didn’t seem up to talking when we called.” He looked to his partner for silent confirmation.

Esmée’s response was polite, practised and above all cautious. “My husband and I are having some difficulties.”

It felt strange to use the word husband in the context of this obviously guarded conversation in which she was participating only to appease her sisters, reluctant to explain to these strangers the mess she had created.

“My sisters shouldn’t have bothered you,” she apologised, casting a reproachful glance at Penny. “Really, it’s nothing. It got out of hand. We argued. That’s all.” She felt Penny’s grip shift and tighten on her shoulder.

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Maloney responded, eyeing the fresh dressing on her forehead.

Aware of his stare, she raised her hand instinctively to her head, unable to control the red hue that seeped into her cheeks. “I realise it must look awful but I just tripped on my way to the car, that’s all. I stormed out, you see.” It seemed a plausible answer.

“Really? And your neck?” he questioned, his sceptical tone telling her he wasn’t convinced.

Her eyes jerked up to meet his. Either she was being completely paranoid or he was actually mocking her. Who the hell did he think he was?

“I saw it last night, Esmée. Looked pretty sore to me.”

Shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, unconsciously rubbing the base of her neck, she felt the tender ridge beneath the soft fabric of her shirt.

“We called to your house after we left here last night,” he continued, not waiting for her to answer. “We found these outside.” He extracted from his pocket her mobile phone and purse. “You must have dropped them when you, eh, fell.”

She leant forward to retrieve them – she hadn’t even noticed them missing. Well, why would she? He gripped them moments longer than was necessary, catching her eyes as he did so, willing her to be aware that he knew she wasn’t being honest.

“You must have been in quite a hurry?”

She really didn’t like him and she found herself getting angry at his accusatory tone. Time to take control.

“Like I’ve already told you I stormed out – an angry wife’s prerogative, Detective Sergeant,” she retorted defiantly, noticing his left hand’s naked ring finger. “Now, really, you’re wasting your time. This is a personal, private issue between Philip and me. An issue which we will deal with, together, as a married couple. Now, if you please . . .” She stood up, indicating their exit path with her hand. “I have things to do. My children need collecting and I have shopping to get in.”

Maloney shrugged and got to his feet, the other detective taking the lead from him.

Esmée followed them to the front door.

Probably used to always getting in the last word, Maloney turned before releasing the latch.

“In case you’re wondering, we didn’t get to speak to him – your husband that is. He wasn’t home. Or . . .” he stopped and turned to look at her before continuing, “if he was he wasn’t answering.”

Garda Burke, who up until now had remained silent through all of this, exited the house behind Maloney but, before moving further towards their thankfully unmarked car, she turned and handed Esmée a plain white printed card.

“My number’s on that,” she said gently. “Call me if you change your mind.”

Esmée stood at the door and watched them go.

* * *

Detective Sergeant Gregory Maloney heard the hard slam of her front door over the din of the idle engine. It had been a long shift and he was looking forward to getting home. He should have gone home that morning but this was one he wanted to follow up. He hadn’t liked Philip Myers the first time he met him and he liked him even less now.

“What do you make of it?” Garda Sarah Burke asked as she got in.

“I’m not sure.”

“She’s an awful eejit, sticking up for him like that. Some women are nuts.”

He looked at her. “Do you think? Have you not considered that maybe she’s more embarrassed than anything?”

“Snotty, more like. I just don’t understand women like her. I’d want to lynch him, not make out it was all my fault.”

“You’ll learn,” he predicted.

Back at the station, he felt truly exhausted. Hopefully he'd be able to sleep when he got home. Greg hated the night shift. He could never sleep during the day, his dreams were too vivid. He thought about her while he drove home and was still thinking about her when he sat drained in front of the television, his boots strewn on the floor beside him. She was hot and wasted on that gobshite. He didn’t think she was stupid – misguided perhaps, but not stupid. High maintenance definitely, the feisty ones always were. That’s why he’d stayed single. Didn’t have the patience for it.

He was curious about what had gone on there, not only last night but before then. Her sister, the previous night, had given him a short debrief, describing what sounded like a good reason for a scrap – but for him to slap her round like that? That wasn’t on.

He recalled their last encounter. It was only some weeks back. He was on lates that evening too and she had returned home thinking the house had been burgled. Burglaries weren’t normally his thing but there had been very little action that night so he had no problem answering the call.

Something had definitely gone down in that house, of that he was sure, not only because of the suggested physical evidence at the scene but mainly because when the husband turned into the driveway he went ballistic with both her and them. The first memorable thing Philip did was to charge straight into the house and up the stairs and when he came down he was calmer, like the panic was over. He had something to worry about and, whatever it was, it appeared to be still safe. Greg remembered Philip’s defensive but almost cocky reaction when he tried to get further into the house and the disparaging arrogant reprimand he gave his wife for calling them in the first place.

“For God’s sake, Esmée, you never listen, do you? I told you I’d be home as quick as I could. What did you call the police for? They’ll only make shite of the place!”

He also recalled the embarrassed blush on her pale cheeks and the quick but apologetic look his partner Dougie gave her. Which was unusual in itself because Dougie “The Bulldog” Masterson usually didn’t give a crap.

Philip had shown no concern for their kids or for the potential danger they could have faced had the
intruder still been in the house when they arrived home, nor would he allow Greg and his team in to investigate further or take any prints. Now what could a man like Philip Myers have to hide?

At the time her reaction to his bizarre behaviour was blasé: she was obviously used to it. So to see her now, out of the house, was satisfying.

He liked her. A lot. But she was sharp, had an edge to be reckoned with and sharp wasn’t his type, although that didn’t stop him fantasising about how she might look in his arms, how she might taste, might feel or the methods she might use to keep him on his toes. Hmmmm . . . He usually went for a more submissive type, the smaller delicate flowers, the kind that needed protecting which, of
course, he was good at, and at that his reputation preceded him.

In his heyday he was dark and dangerous: dark, drunk and dangerous. Back then, against regulations, he supplemented his meagre wages by part-time work as a bouncer in a not-so-salubrious pub on the other side of the city, far enough away for him not to be recognised. He’d stand tall, proud and powerful at the door and depending on the mood he was in he might, or might not, let you in. His boss turned a blind eye to the nixer and the hangover – everyone was at it until they got caught and he was caught rapid. The pub was raided on his last Saturday night there, for class A drugs. He had to think on his feet but he didn’t run. To his credit he never knew what was going on, being too distracted by the varying degrees of ‘skirt’ that flirted and offered him endless delectable pleasures.

But his boss liked him, knew his father, was there the day he was shot by a rogue bullet fired by one of his own. A sad day.

“Clean up your act, boy,” was the advice. “Your father would turn in his grave.”

And he did clean it up. The episode had scared him shitless. He ditched the job, the booze and the coke, but kept the girls; they were his only vice, to which he still felt entitled.

And despite her edge, he was curious about Esmée. There was something vulnerable about her, something fragile that he felt he should preserve. Yep. He’d keep his eye on this one, he thought. As for the husband . . . at the time of the break-in he’d made a mental note to do a few follow-up checks: there was something not quite right. But he never did, obviously distracted by something else that came along. Now, however, he was going to make it his business to find out what was up.

Chapter 9

“Ponce!” Esmée hissed venomously at the door as it slammed after them.

“Who the hell does he think he is, coming in here with that stupid haircut and those ridiculous boots?”

Forgetting herself she sank forcibly into the couch, grimacing with the pain that juddered through her head like a chainsaw as she landed.

Penny, still seated on the sofa’s edge with her mouth agape, appalled by her sister’s behaviour, shook her head in disgust and then stood to look down on her with obvious disdain.

“You must be nuts! They wanted to help you and you behaved – well, words fail me!”

“You sound just like Mum!” Esmée retorted defiantly. “And just so you know it, I don’t want their help.”

Choosing to ignore her sister’s childish response, Penny closed her eyes to mentally push the words, firmly rejected, over her head and stood with her hands on her hips, looking as well as sounding like her mother.

“And what happens if Philip turns up at the door to have another go at you? What then, smart-ass? Didn’t think of that, did you?”

Furiously taking the last word, she turned and marched out of the room.

Esmée remained on the couch, rebellious, defiant and unfazed.

“He doesn’t know where we live now, does he?” she whispered churlishly, leaning forward to pick up her mobile from the table. It appeared to have escaped its ordeal unscathed. Pressing the power button at its base, she waited for the screen to light up. She keyed in her PIN and listened to the familiar tone as it connected to her network. Returning it to the coffee table, without taking her eyes from it, she leaned back into the couch and waited, silently counting: one, two, three . . . By the time she’d reached fifty and it still hadn’t vibrated she knew there were no messages. He hadn’t called. Maybe he had but just didn’t leave a message? Had it been damaged in the fall? Standing up she picked up her phone, walked to the telephone by the window, dialled her number and then waited patiently for the long seconds to pass before it rang in her hand.

In an instant Penny rushed from the kitchen, panic in her face, looking around to see where her sister had got too, anxious about the potential caller.

“Relax! It’s only me,” Esmée said, slightly amused, replacing the phone into its cradle. “I just wanted to see if it was still working.”

“No message then?”

“Nope,” she replied, trying hard to conceal the disappointment in her voice, embarrassed at being caught checking her own messages.