Dark Mirrors (19 page)

Running her hand across the smooth walnut surface of his desk, she asked herself if she really thought he was alive. For sure, she wasn’t entirely convinced that he had taken his own life and the absence of any idea as to what exactly he was running from both scared and infuriated her immensely.

She sat into the oversized leather chair that squeaked for want of oil as she moved herself from side to side. Dwarfed by its vastness, she inspected his lair.

He has a great vantage point from behind his desk, she thought, surveying the entire room and out of the window from just that position. The black state-of-the-art flat LCD screen sat to the left of the desk, the keyboard to the right and the telephone more towards the front, leaving an open expanse in the middle for ‘stuff’. But there was nothing on it except for the leatherbound blotting mat that hadn’t so much as a scribble on it. She gently swept her hand across its top, checking her fingers for dust. If this were her desk, she thought as she rubbed non-existent particles from her fingers, she’d have bits
and pieces everywhere – papers, pencils, books, pictures: stuff.

She had bought his last year’s Christmas present, the antique chess set that now sat hardly touched on a top shelf, on eBay.

Her attention shifted to the computer. She pressed the silver power button on the hard drive perched underneath and listened as it whirred into action, powering up the slim display in front of her. As always strings of numbers and meaningless words flickered on and off the screen. She watched patiently as it went through its normal start-up procedure, waiting for the familiar blue-sky picture to pop up before her. Every now and then she would browse the Internet while she was in the study. If Philip knew she’d been dropping in to play with his equipment he’d have gone nuts! She went to meticulous lengths to conceal her presence, always careful not to touch anything but the computer and to delete the history of her electronic journey before she logged off.

But as she sat there, waiting for it to go through its normal motions, she was alarmed as the screen went through a new sequence, one she didn’t recognise. She sat forward cautiously. If she were a dog her ears would have cocked, to listen more closely to its innards chug until the screen eventually took on its familiar vibrant blue colour but with a luminous white rectangle in its centre.

“
Password
,” it said, its cursor blinking at her from the white box.

Stunned by the simple yet unexpected communication that flickered mindlessly she sat back into the chair, processing the consequences of this unforeseen request, too afraid to respond but equally afraid to turn it off. It had never asked her for a password before. Shit. Her immediate and instinctive reaction was panic: Philip will know I’ve been messing here.

It took only a few moments to remember his absence, which incredibly she remembered with relief. No need to panic. Then she felt guilt.

The ring of the doorbell broke the guilty spell. She couldn’t turn the machine off quick enough so she unplugged it from the wall and, leaving the room she closed the door, leaving Philip’s world behind her.

She was tired. She didn’t have the energy to keep asking why? Why he left the door open. Why he encrypted his computer. Why he tidied up so well. Why he took off his shoes. Why he jumped off the cliff. Emotionally, she was shot.

She had wanted rid of him, wanted him out of her life, and now that her perverse fantasy had come true she had no place to turn for comfort.

The doorbell rang again. Maloney, she assumed. Coming down the stairs to answer the now-persistent ring, she noticed a box tucked into the alcove beside the empty coatstand. It was open and filled with some of her things: perfume, an old hairbrush, some odd ornaments, the pink pashmina Philip had bought her for one of their anniversaries. It sat inconspicuously, ready for her to fetch. She didn’t remember filling it, but assumed nonetheless that she had and had forgotten it in her rush to leave.

She opened the door to greet her visitor, who was not alone.

Alarmed by the sight of two officers standing behind Maloney, she froze and stood there holding on to the door. Had they found a body?

“Don’t panic,” Maloney assured her. “This is just routine. We just need to take some prints that will help us identify Philip. Nothing more.”

Relieved, she let the two men, on Maloney’s instruction, go upstairs to the bedroom. Picking up the box at her feet, she led Maloney through to the kitchen and placed the box on the counter beside her car keys to make sure she didn’t forget it again.

Then Maloney was offered tea and a stool at the breakfast bar.

They sat opposite each other, taking their first sips of the hot tea in silence.

“So. How have you been?” he asked finally, his words breaking the nervous tension that seemed to fill the otherwise sunny kitchen.

“Fine, I suppose,” she replied, slightly distracted by the fresh-washed smell of him that filled the room. “Just trying to get on with things.” She shrugged.

He nodded his approval.

She got up to stretch over the sink and open the window.

“This has been weird though,” she added, indicating the house with a broad sweep of her hand.

“How so?”

“Well, coming back. The last time I was here wasn’t that sweet.” Her mocking tone was directed at him rather than herself.

“Sorry. I only meant . . .”

“I know. I’m just being facetious. It’s hard, you know, since they stopped looking.”

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“It’s like I’m caught in some strange state of limbo. I don’t know what to do next. It’s not like I have someone to bury. He’s just gone. But not gone, if you know what I mean. He’s still here really and I can’t really get on with things. I can’t actually visualise things without him.”

The sudden rise of his eyebrow told her that he had misunderstood.

“No,” she protested, blushing at the implied suggestion, “I don’t mean like that. I’m not after some emotional reconciliation! I mean, he always figured in my imagining of how this new phase of my life might go. He’d be here. Not in a good way – he’d just be here.”

She could feel the pressure of a week’s worth of uncried tears gather force at the back of her throat. The last thing she wanted to do was cry now. Not with Maloney. He was fishing. Regardless of how decent he was being by listening, she could tell he was after something and, recognising the threat, she shifted focus back to him.

“Have you found anything helpful?” she asked.

There was a fleeting pause, but it was gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it.

“Not yet. But we’re working on it. I wanted to see if there is anything here that could point us in a direction. Does he have a PC here?”

“Yep. Upstairs in his study.” She blushed as she remembered her panic earlier.

“Is it okay for me to take a look? See if there is anything on it that can help?”

“Certainly.”

“And is there a safe anywhere in the house?”

“Jesus!” she responded, slightly startled. “I don’t think so – unless he has one concealed in his study. How very James Bond!”

His look in response suggested there was something more to the task than just “routine procedure”.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked.

“Okay, let’s get this done,” he responded, ignoring her question. He stood up and placed his mug in the sink. He gestured to the ceiling and unnecessarily asked her permission. “May I?”

She nodded her assent and left him to it. Her tour was done. But she followed his progress anyway from the safe distance of her kitchen, tracking the sound of his footsteps as he walked about the study and bedroom.

He took longer than she expected. Eventually he and the others came back downstairs. After a few quiet words in the hall, the other two left and Maloney joined Esmée in the kitchen.

“You have a lovely home,” he remarked.

“This is not my home,” she retorted firmly, standing up from the stool. “Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing really. No safe anyway. I would like to take the computer with me though.”

“You’re welcome to it.” She thought a minute before casually commenting, “It’s tidy up there, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he shrugged.

“Odd, don’t you think?” she questioned, testing to see how he was thinking

“Why so?”

“Well, is it not a bit too neat?”

“I can’t answer that,” he replied. “I don’t know how you like to keep things.”

“Not me. Him!” she barked, with a pointed finger directed upwards towards the absent person in the study. “I haven’t been here, remember?” she stressed, her animosity towards him refreshed, negating the apparent friendliness of earlier. He really was such an asshole.

“Well, he did strike me as a bit anal when we met before.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Forget I asked!” she said, feeling stupid as well as annoyed at how unhelpful and obtuse he was being. “I thought you were a detective or something.”

“I am,” he interjected calmly.

“Well, go do your job,” she snapped back. “Go detect or whatever it is you do. This just isn’t making any sense and you’re not helping. Give me something. Anything that tells me you know what you’re doing, because right now I can’t see it.”

“Look, Esmée,” his tone was firm in response to her outburst, “you need to start thinking about the frame of mind he was in. People like him do funny things before –” He stopped dead.

“
People like him? People like him what?
” she shrieked. “People like him like to clean up dishes before they die? Freaks like him do their laundry and make beds? Losers like him run away without a trace? Assholes like him leave without so much as a ‘seeya’? Is that what they do before they bugger off? Tell me, because I’ve not done this before. I don’t know!” She was outraged by his lack of perception. “For all we know he could be out there. Somewhere. Laughing at us. At me. At you,” she spat, her face souring with disgust.

“For God’s sake, Esmée, calm down. Okay. Yes, I agree, it is a little odd. Yes, it does warrant further exploration. And, yes, we will look into it, I promise. We’ll find out what happened – we always do . . . well, most of the time anyway,” he clarified almost to himself.

The sudden twist of her head combined with her disgusted expression suggested he might have gone a little too far. All she wanted was answers, he understood that, but she had to see that there were still too many questions. “Oh, for God’s sake, Esmée, we’re looking at every possibility, possibilities that haven’t even crossed your mind. We’re doing our job, Esmée.”

“Well, tell me,” she pleaded. “Tell me what you think happened.”

“I can’t, because I don’t know.” He was trying to be firm without snapping at her. “You have to understand that I can’t just jump to conclusions – it’s my job not to. We need to find out everything we can, every bit of information and only then can we start to build a picture and then . . .” He watched with mixed emotion as she visibly shook, shrugging her shoulders in disappointed defeat. He felt pity for her ignorance, sadness for her loss, anger at her audacity and disappointment at her arrogance. But the trained professional took the higher ground and, despite his dwindling patience, assumed a softer calming tone.

“Look, Esmée, you know if he’s alive we’ll find him.” He moved his head to search out her gaze. “You don’t think we’re that incompetent – not to explore every avenue – do you?”

Not wishing to insult him, she didn’t answer.

“I know you think he couldn’t have done himself any harm and we’ve checked the airlines and the ferries. If he’s alive then he’s probably still in Ireland because he didn’t leave by any commercial route and he won’t get into any other country without being noticed. His face will be all over the security network by now.”

He stopped talking and studied her overwhelmed posture.

“Esmée?” he enquired slowly. “Have you heard from him? Has he made contact?”

“No!” she hotly denied, raising her face to look at him. “No, he hasn’t!”

“Good, because if he does you need to tell me immediately.”

She nodded.

He wanted to make her feel better, wanted her to know that she could trust him, rely on him even. Taking a step closer, he smiled a reassuring smile and reached out to place a soothing hand on her arm. But the spark that transferred on contact with her soft skin was electric, propelling him to disconnect instantly. She felt it too. He could tell. She blushed and her hand immediately replaced his on her arm.

“Right!” he announced unnecessarily, the colour in his face matching hers. “I’ll take the computer and get out of your hair.”

She heard him leave the room then bound up the stairs.

When he returned to the kitchen he placed the computer and a form on the counter.

“You’ll need to sign this,” he said. “I’ll get the computer back to you as soon as we’re done.”

She signed it without caring if she ever saw the machine again.

Outside, the two officers were waiting, leaning against Maloney’s car. One of them opened the boot and Maloney put the computer inside.