Dark Mirrors (34 page)

“So we’re agreed, that’s what you’ll need to do,” Lizzie concluded, placing a professional hand on her sister’s arm.

“What? Sorry. I was miles away.”

Exasperated but sympathetic, Lizzie repeated the conclusions from the last twenty minutes of conversation which had apparently passed Esmée by unheard.

“You and I will go to see that garda fellow, what was his name again?” She turned to Tom.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Now was a good time to come clean and tell them that Maloney already knew, but he daren’t. He didn’t have the nerve. Together his sisters were an indomitable force and he knew Esmée would kill him, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Maloney.”

“Right – Maloney, that’s the man.”

“What, now?” Esmée interjected.

“No time like the present.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Ahhh, hang on! I-I’m not ready” she stuttered, stumbling over the words, feeling cornered by the decision she had no part in making.

“Ready for what? All you’ve got to do is tell him what happened and anyway I’m in court in the morning so it’s either now or tomorrow night and I’m not sure waiting will do your case any good.”

“Can Tom not go with me?”

“As your lawyer, for the moment anyway, I’d like to be with you. This is pretty serious stuff, Esmée, and I want to make sure you don’t land yourself in it.”

“I can’t go now, Liz, I’m wrecked. I need time to think, get my head straight.”

“I’m sorry, Es,” Lizzie stated formally, “but in order to lessen the impact of what you have done you need to go as soon as possible.”

Esmée took a deep breath and quickly flashed through what exactly it was she had done. In summary, all she had done was stand up for herself and, actually, she thought as she surveyed the four perturbed faces gazing back at her, she needed to do just that again, right now.

“Guys,” she said firmly, “I know you all mean well but before I tell them and they bring him home, which we are all agreed they will, I need to make sure we’re protected and ready. So we’ll go to the police when I’m ready. And not before. But I promise it will be soon.”

Lizzie opened her mouth to object but was faced with the raised palm of her sister and the calming hand of Fin on her arm.

“Fin! Tell her! She really must do this, and do it now!”

“Lizzie, let it lie. Now isn’t the time. She’s exhausted.”

With no other option, reluctantly Lizzie gave up. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” she warned and closed over her pad.

“I won’t, I promise,” Esmée smiled, hoping to reassure her younger sibling.

Waving them off, Esmée felt a chill down her spine and hugged her cardigan closer to combat the feeling of foreboding: there was a storm coming, of that she was sure, and she needed to batten down her hatches.

Although exhausted from the day’s and yesterday’s events, she wasn’t able to sit still either. A tremendous sense of urgency motivated her to move and to act quickly. As far as she was aware, she and now her siblings and best friend were the only ones who knew that Philip was alive, so she needed to act before the truth came out. On top of that, there was also the as-yet-unconfirmed investigation into the missing cash that was still to come. And then there was Brady: the less she thought about him the better. Her solution was full separation. She had to distance herself from him in all senses of the word.

She had contacted a solicitor named Paul Collins some weeks back. He appeared to be a gentle, soft-spoken man but, Lizzie claimed, was a Rottweiler in negotiations. When they met first the conversation had been about Philip’s assumed death. Now that he was alive, things needed to take a different turn. She was tired of being the victim, tired of the endless cups of tea, the war councils and family conferences that all centred round her and her issues. Enough. It was time to take control. She had the advantage of advance warning and needed to use it as a lever and be prepared for what was to come. She might not have been the architect of her past, but she would make damn sure she was the architect of her future.

Now she lifted the phone and told Paul Collins she needed to see him as a matter of urgency.

* * *

They met in his office and, once Paul confirmed that as her solicitor everything they discussed, outside of money laundering or criminal assets, would be protected by client confidentiality, Esmée told him everything: from Brady to Spain, she left nothing out. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it but listened intently without interruption, every now and then lifting his pen to jot down some notes.

Finished, she sat back, tiredness beginning to consume her. Her lids were heavy and her head lightheaded.

“Well,” he proclaimed, “this really changes things, doesn’t it?” He smiled warmly. “Esmée, you have nothing to worry about. You will get through this in one piece and with your dignity intact.”

She could have fallen asleep there and then, she was so relieved by her confession and comforted by his words. He, Paul Collins, was going to take care of her.

And Paul had been busy. He’d completed all his discreet enquiries, quietly gathering the facts but without giving his strategy away to anyone who cared to take an interest in what he was doing. Although the DPP had been naturally tightlipped about how they planned to run the case, a “reliable source” close to the case was able to advise a little on the allegations of fraud and based on that was able to speculate, hypothetically of course, what might be coming down the line.

Paul was also able to tell her that because Philip was Robert and Robert was still alive and by all accounts still married to Julie, Esmée wasn’t his wife in the eyes of the law, so she had no responsibility regarding his actions or liabilities. He talked through Philip’s properties, drawing little sketches and diagrams on his notepad to help explain and link all the pieces. He listed the bank accounts held in his name and the amounts in each. There were five in total and they were all more or less empty. Except for one: the only one in their joint name, which held the princely sum of seven thousand euro and which she could legitimately access. But Esmée wanted none of it. And even though she was absolutely entitled to at least a fifty percent beneficial interest in the house, the home, in which they had lived together as a couple, she just didn’t want it. She had already moved out and now wanted out fully. And as for the money, well, she she’d cope. She would find a job and survive. She just wanted ties severed and a clean slate to start again. She knew Lizzie would have something to say and was likely to preach about what was rightfully hers, but Esmée wanted nothing more out of the relationship except separation. She didn’t expect Lizzie to understand, but could deal with that eventuality in her own time.

“And there is also a safe-deposit box which is held in . . .” Paul checked his notes “the ABAW Bank.”

“A safe-deposit box? I didn’t think banks still used them?”

“Apparently so.”

“Why did he have that?”

“That, Esmée,” he replied sympathetically, “I cannot tell you.”

“Well, how do I get into it?” she asked, curious about whatever it was Philip held so dear and so precious – or so incriminating – that it had to be kept in secret.

“You can’t, well not immediately anyhow.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he replied matter-of-factly, “you need either the body or the living person to do so.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she asked, getting impatient with Paul’s cryptic witticisms.

“It means Philip needs to be pronounced dead for you to have access, and even then you would need to apply to the court for permission. You are no longer,” he reminded her, “his next of kin.”

“But that’s crazy, can we not just go into the bank and ask for it?”

“I practise the law, I don’t write it,” he smiled back in response.

“A safe-deposit box,” she muttered to herself. “What was he up to?”

“Again, Esmée,” Paul replied with a shrug of his shoulders, cupping his hands to the skies.

Esmée smirked at this. It wasn’t his fault Philip was a devious bastard.

“Do you know how long he’s had it?”

Paul lifted the sheet and scanned it.

“It appears he took it out in 1996.”

Esmée did the quick sum in her head. “He can’t have,” she challenged. “He was still Robert then. Philip Myers only came to life by my guess around 1999.”

“Well, that’s what it says right here,” he replied. “See for yourself.” He handed her the page.

“Holy shit!” she whispered as she scanned it. “I’m now completely confused. Philip Myers, you have me stumped!” She handed it back to him, stating defiantly, “Well, I need to get into that box if only to find out what the hell he was involved in. He has taken me for a fool this long . . .”

“Well, then I suggest you go bring your non-husband back because that’s the only way you’ll be able to do that,” Paul offered, closing the file on his desk.

She left the office not so much in a daze as in a trance, over and over asking herself the same questions: What was he doing? What had he got that he wanted no one else to see? And how can I get into that box?

The beginnings of an idea flickered in her head as the doors opened into the foyer. Logic and reason tried to bat it back to the depths of her mind from where it was spawned, but stubbornly it refused to die. It gathered momentum as she walked down the street in the damp and blustery autumnal day.

It might work, it could work, she reasoned with her common sense and conscience. Risky but possible.

Teetering on the edge of conviction she quickened her pace, plucked her phone from her pocket, searched for the number then dialled Julie’s mobile, determined to put an end to Philip’s manipulation.

On the day she and Julie first met Esmée hadn’t revealed her identity or relationship to Robert. She didn’t think she had to, but that had now changed. Now she needed Julie. But whether Julie wanted to be part of it was a whole other question. They hadn’t spoken since that day, so this call was likely to seem more than a little strange.

Julie answered after four long rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Julie, it’s Esmée Myers.”

“Oh. Hi, Esmée. How are you?”

“I’m good – you?” she responded, bursting with a need to just get on with it.

“Great, thanks. What can I do for you?”

“Are you around today? I need your help.”

Esmée declined the initial suggestion of coffee around the corner from where Julie worked – it wasn’t an appropriate place to reveal herself completely.

“Why don’t I call round to you this evening?” she suggested.

* * *

When they met that evening and had settled with mugs of tea in Julie’s kitchen, Esmée introduced herself properly. She told her everything. How Philip and she had met, how they dated, then married and then how their life together had fallen apart. Telling her was as much therapeutic for Esmée as it was awkward. It helped that she and Julie were connected by their experience: they were both victims of Robert’s manipulation, but likewise they were both survivors.

Julie’s reaction was one of stunned but distant shock, like she had built up a Robert-proof blockade around her and was impervious to any pain either instigated or directly caused by him. Esmée both admired and doubted her resilience, not convinced that anyone could be that anaesthetised. But she drew encouragement from it and could see a glimmer of hope that she might indeed to able to persuade Julie to help her in cracking open the safe-deposit box.

* * *

A week later Esmée and her companion entered the old-style high-domed banking hall for the first time. Like something from Mary Poppins it hummed with the quiet hush of the daily activities.

“I can’t believe Mom finally agreed to this,” Harry whispered to Esmée as they approached the counter that circled its perimeter.

“Me neither,” she whispered conspiratorially in return. Her legs shook, her stomach churned and her voice quivered. She couldn’t believe she was doing this herself. Where was the cautious, risk-averse woman who only last week would have balked at an idea like this, never mind concoct it? “But what’s the worst they can do? Arrest me?”

“Ehh, yeah!” Harry replied, his stomach jigging with nervous excitement. “But don’t worry – we’ve got this covered. Trust me,” he promised confidently.

“Are you sure you understand what happens if this goes pear-shaped?” she asked. “It’s not too late to say no. We can always turn around and leave.”

“We’re here now,” he said, as they reached the counter.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Esmée, but I can’t agree to it. I hardly know you. And I’m not sure I appreciate you even suggesting it,” Julie said from her stool at the breakfast bar.

“Suggesting what?” Harry asked suspiciously, entering the room.

Both women turned and looked at the young man, blessed with his father’s good looks.

“Nothing,” Julie said firmly, giving Esmée a look that told her the conversation was over.

“Mum,” he asked again, this time with more purpose, “what’s up? What’s happened?”