Dark Mirrors (22 page)

Esmée tried to keep track of what he was saying but the missing links in his oratory defeated her.

“I’ve got friends, I do. Every bleedin’ where. All over the gaff. He didn’t reckon on that now, did he? And here’s me trying to help out. Sort out his problems. Even tried to teach him a thing or two, ungrateful fucker!” His words brought moisture with them as they were spat out. “But he fucked up good ’n’ proper!” The rise and fall of his schizophrenic tone transformed again into a menacing growl. “And whatever scam he was running in that posh fuckin’ job of his didn’t come through and he comes runnin’ to me like some selfish fuck. ‘Oh help me, oh help me!’” he mimicked with a ridiculous squeak, “and I did and look where it got me. Last fuckin’ time I’ll do that I’ll tell ya. Fourteen fuckin’ years it cost me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, willing him to stop. This was not something Philip would be involved in. He wasn’t the person this rabid lunatic was describing.

“Because . . .” he returned resolutely, casting a knowing glance at her cheek before shifting slowly to the open pile of notes that lay ominously by his side, “you’ve earned the right to know what class of a bollix your husband really is, or . . . possibly . . .” he paused tilting his head and raising his eyes in mock respect, “was.”

“And what makes you think I won’t go to the police?” she asked.

He leaned in close. “You’re not a stupid bird, are ya? Not like that last bitch he had. Jesus, she was some howler, I’ll tell ya. Lovely bird but a stupid bitch. Not like you though. You’re different.” He moved in close, his face looming dangerously near. “An’ anyway, you want those lovely curls on that boy’s head to stay like that, don’t ya?”

She pulled back, burying herself as far into the back seat as the fabric would allow, shaking her head vigorously, understanding perfectly what he meant.

“I just want a little favour. Teeney-weeney.” He paused, lifting his hand once again to grasp her face in the palm of his hand. Turning it to him, he locked eyes with her.

It hurt, not his grasp or his fingers as they pressed on her skin but the intense brutal warning in his eyes as they bore into hers.

“I want you to tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”

Esmée nodded her assent furiously. “But what if he doesn’t? Come back, I mean.”

“Oh, he’ll be back all right . . .” he said, his mouth close to hers. “You’re a beaut.”

She could almost feel the excitement vibrate through him, taste the testosterone as it oozed from his every pore on his disgusting lecherous body.

“And if there’s one sure fuckin’ bet, somethin’ we can all fuckin’ count on, it’s his addiction to chance, one last stake – and you, my sexy lady,” the pressure of his fingers clutching either side of her face intensified, “you’ll be his biggest risk yet. And when he’s there, right there in front of ya, you tell him I’m lookin’ for him. You tell him Jim Brady has his number.”

Chapter 16

Jim Brady. The name. It slammed through her like a careering juggernaut. He was there when her father was shot. He was the one they jailed. Her father died, killed in cold blood, on a Wednesday morning in June. Fourteen years ago. She was eighteen years old and Interrailing across Europe with Fin and the rest of the college crew. She would never forget the night she called home to tell her parents about the beauty of the Sistine Chapel that they had queued all day in the blistering Italian heat to see. But she never got to tell them any of it. To this day she had never described the beauty of her experience to anyone. How could she share the feelings of extreme passion and nerve-tingling happiness when possibly in those very same moments her father was breathing his last breath in a cold city hospital? He would have understood them. He was her kindred spirit. They were so alike, had so much in common. He would have felt that excitement too. She knew it. But she never got to share her feelings and she never got to say goodbye.

* * *

When they left her back to the same spot outside the school she was quiet and numb. Leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running, both men got out of the car and walked calmly towards the main street, leaving Esmée bewildered and drained in the back seat with her bag still weighed down by the money by her side. And in her head the tireless mélange of accusations and questions and fears and answers and conclusions all mixed dangerously together, threatening to detonate if she didn’t shut them down. She clutched each side of her head, hoping to stop the spinning, whimpering silently. How had she got here? This wasn’t what she had ever intended to happen. Had she started this? Was this of her making? The rhetorical questions served only to feed her self-pity. She knew it. Even in his absence he made her feel inadequate. She couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let her world unravel like this. It had to stop. She had to make it stop. If this was of her making, then the undoing was hers to administer also.

* * *

They sat in a triangle of silence. Although the story was told, Fin’s mouth still hadn’t closed. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Aghast. Terrified.

“So go through that last bit one more time,” Tom directed, getting up to pace the room.

“He said to tell him that Jim Brady has his number.” Esmée was now tired and her head hurt like hell.

“That fucking bastard!”

“Tom!” Esmée pleaded and not for the first time, pointing meaningfully to the kids in the next room.

“Sorry, sis, but this is crazy shit,” he excused himself, turning on his heel to work the rest of the room. “That asshole! What the fuck? What the fuck was he playing at?”

Esmée knew he was referring to Philip who had shifted in Tom’s opinion to the aggressor, no longer the victim.

“Tom, I’m sorry but you’re hurting my head,” she pleaded.

“For God’s sake, Tom!” said Fin. “Will you just sit down and stop shouting? It’s not helping and frankly it’s annoying!”

Her put-down struck hurt across his newly infatuated face, the chemistry between them undeniable.

Exhausted but focused, Esmée had hoped that between them Fin and Tom would help her make sense of the pieces she had been fed and deduce the bits she hadn’t. But now, staring at the agitated faces in front of her, she wondered if she had made the right choice and wished she had called Lizzie instead.

“It was him? You’re sure?”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Tom! Of course I’m sure. He told me his bloody name, for God’s sake!” Exasperated, she let her head fall into her clasped hands.

“Maybe he’s confusing him with this ‘Bobby’ bloke, whoever he is?” said Tom.

“I don’t know. I don’t bloody know!” She was reaching the end of her tether.

“You have to go to Maloney,” said Fin.

At last. The voice of reason. Fin had mostly remained quiet, listening calmly as Esmée recounted the events of the morning.

“There’s something else,” Esmée admitted to her captive audience.

“Oh God . . .” Fin’s head collapsed into her paint-covered hands.

Esmée shifted round to reach for her shoulder bag and upturned it onto the centre of the table. “This,” she said, pointing to the notes covering her floral plastic tablecloth.

“Holy shite!” Fin exclaimed, her hand moving involuntarily to cover her mouth. “What the fuck? Where did you get this?”

Always so proper, foul language sounded odd coming from her best friend’s mouth and for a split manic moment Esmée almost laughed out loud. Controlling herself, she recounted the story instead.

“Jesus Christ, Esmée, what on earth has Philip got himself into?”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Dad?” she asked, looking at her now noticeably quiet brother.

“It would want to be one hell of a coincidence if it didn’t,” he said. “Maybe it was meant for Brady – maybe this is why he grabbed you?”

“I don’t think so,” Esmée reasoned, “otherwise he would have taken it, wouldn’t he?” Her mind was working overtime trying to understand what had just happened.

“I don’t know, Es. It’s bloody peculiar, isn’t it?” Tom argued. “One day your husband disappears, then you find this heap of cash in a box and the next day you get nabbed by Ireland’s answer to Don Corleone who just happens to be the guy they jailed for our dad’s murder – seems like a bit of a no-brainer to me.”

“I’m not getting you. Explain, Sherlock!” Fin challenged.

“They have to be connected . . . Jesus, I don’t know . . . maybe Philip was trying to protect you. Maybe he was paying Brady to stay away, you know . . . Ah shit! I don’t know!” He shrugged as his train of thought derailed.

Fin, still captivated by the money toyed with the bundles and asked, “How much do you think is in here?” Mirroring Esmée’s action of the day before, she lifted one to her nose, only to put it down quickly with a grimace.

“There are one hundred five-hundred euro notes in each bundle,” said Esmée. “And fifteen bundles.”

“Hmmm . . .” Always the man for the numbers, Tom took a moment to calculate. “That’s seven hundred and fifty grand.”

Fin’s eyes almost burst from their sockets. “You’re kidding!”

“So what do we do?” asked Esmée.

Both women looked to Tom for an answer.

“Fin’s right,” he said. “We have to take this to the station and let the police do their job.”

“Now?” asked Fin.

“Yes. Now.”

“God, Tom, I’m not sure I can cope,” Esmée sighed. The thought of going back to the egg-yolk interview room made her feel instantly nauseous. “This day has been . . .” But she couldn’t finish her sentence. She had no words left.

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Esmée,” he said. “You really don’t have a choice. This isn’t some small-time anonymous petty thief. This is Jim Brady we’re talking about and Philip. Look at us, like eejits trying to work out what happened. They need to see this and we need to let them do their job. Anyway, this isn’t about coping, this is about doing what’s right – and, besides, I’ll be there all the way, so don’t panic, okay?”

His words were weak assurance, but enough to get her going.

* * *

Maloney listened intently to the story as she told it. Esmée thought it odd that he didn’t take notes or call anyone else in to listen.

He waited till she was finished then sat back in his seat, taking a moment to observe the two siblings before him: Esmée tense and exhausted, Tom enraged but outwardly calm. He could tell she’d had enough. Her eyes were cheerless and her shoulders slightly hunched. If it wasn’t entirely inappropriate, he would love to take her hand, he thought, watching Tom’s mouth move but without hearing his words. He wished she’d stop fiddling with her hair – it was too distracting watching her twist and curl the thick brown lock around her fingers.

Focus, Gregory, he told himself in a silent voice that in his head sounded remarkably like his father’s.

Brady hadn’t wasted much time in tracking her down. He needed to think carefully about the next steps, knowing that the potential for the situation to spiral out of control was considerable. But she had a right to know, he felt, they both did, although others didn’t quite agree. Would this change their minds, he wondered as he sat forwards, bringing his hands to the table.

“Okay. Look, I need some time on this one,” he said.

“You should have informed us that Brady was released,” Tom accused him firmly.

“Yes, yes, we should have,” Maloney agreed, “but we don’t always get things right and this is one of those times.” He took a deep breath, feeling a little cornered. “I can’t explain right now what’s going on but –”

“So you have something?” Tom cut across him.

There was no point in him denying it, but he could delay it.

“Yes, I have some information but I can’t share it with you just yet.”

“We have a right to know!” Esmée interjected. “I need to know!”

“I agree you do, but there is some sensitive information involved here and we need to make sure we have all the facts first.”

“You’ll need to do a little better than that, officer!” she snapped, her words meant to patronise, hoping to insult him, her patience exhausted.

“James Brady was released three days ago,” he stated.

“I thought he got fifteen years!” said Tom.

Maloney shrugged nonchalantly. “Slightly early release, yes. He behaved.”

“He behaved?” Esmée’s words were woven with laughter. “He shot my dad!”

“Hold on there, Esmée, that’s not the case. He wasn’t the one who shot your father.”

“But he knows who did.”

“Maybe, maybe not. And if he knows he’s not telling us, but that’s not the point.”

“You’re defending him now?”

“No. For God’s sake, no. But you have to remember the facts here. You’re treading very sticky ground here so you need to be careful.”

“And what about the money? And the things he was saying about Philip?” she demanded. “Was he right? Is that what was going on?”

Maloney shook his head, more out of frustration than ignorance.

“Well?” she growled. “Is there anyone here who knows what the hell is going on? I am completely in the dark, I’ve no idea what’s going on and to be honest I’m not sure you guys are any wiser than me.” She caught Maloney’s glance and held it, mustering as much authority into her returning stare as was possible. “Do you have any idea what happened to me today? Are you actually putting all this together? The man who was in one way or another responsible for our father’s death as good as kidnapped me today. I was threatened and – and – molested by this filthy disgusting creature, and you sit there telling me to be careful, to remember the facts?” She rose as her temper flared along with her voice. “You need to do better than this!” His silence was infuriating. Her fist slammed hard on the table. “How dare you sit there and tell me to be careful! You need to tell me what the bloody hell is going on or I’ll find someone else who will!”