Dark Mirrors (20 page)

Esmée watched them drive away and around the corner, Maloney’s parting words ringing in her ears: “You have my number, so if he does turn up . . .”

She put the box from the house into the boot of her car and set off for home.

It was only lunchtime but already she was exhausted and incensed, not to mention more than a little disconcerted by their brief but intimate encounter.

She was thankful when she returned after collecting the kids that they had the rented cottage to themselves. The last few days had been non-stop questions. She needed time to herself to think. Or not to think.

* * *

That evening she spent longer than usual putting Matthew and Amy to bed, reading and chatting with them until their lids were heavy and sleep was near. Comforted by their presence, she stayed with them long after they were asleep.

She hadn’t watched telly in ages and for the first time in this house sat down to indulge in the wide screen and vibrant image on her own. She channel-hopped for a while, flicking through the soaps, current affairs programmes and documentaries, settling finally on an old war movie
– but it wasn’t enough to capture her full attention.

For all her wishing to be alone, now that she was she was lonely, and picking up the phone she dialled Fin’s number. She just wanted to chat, see how she was getting on with her exhibition pieces, but it went straight to voicemail. It was too late to call her mum, Penny was on nights and Lizzie was away with work. Putting the phone back in its cradle, she had no option but to settle for her own company and, deciding on an early night, was just about to lock up when she remembered the box in the boot of her car.

She nipped outside in her stocking-feet to retrieve it and once back inside turned out the lights, put on the alarm and took the box up to her room. Perched on the edge of the bed, she opened it up and began unpacking its contents, trying to remember when and why she had packed them.

It quickly became apparent that although these were her things it wasn’t her box. Well, she hadn’t put the things in it. With most of its contents strewn over the bed she came to a layer over which lay a sheet of folded newsprint, its edges neatly tucked into the corners to make it fit. She removed it cautiously. Having been moulded so carefully to fit the shape of the box it had to be so for a purpose. With the paper discarded, curiosity along with her heart-rate was raised by the book-shaped packages placed in neat rows at the bottom of the box. Moving it to the floor to get a better vantage point, she knelt down and leaned in cautiously to examine the packages further. The bundles were hard to the touch but flexible all the same, each wrapped in plain white paper and tied with an elastic band. Taking one out, it was surprisingly light. She held it for a while, scared by what it might be. She had seen plenty of pictures on TV of the dark parcels of cannabis and heroin and this was just the right shape. Drugs, she thought, sitting back on her heels. He’s a bloody drug dealer, that’s what he’s running from, she thought, her heart-beat beginning to race at the discovery. And he used her stuff to disguise it. The prick. How bloody dare he!

She breathed deep, hoping to steady her racing heart, and control the excitement mixed with fear at the thought of getting some kind of answers at last.

Ready to face the reality, she slowly unpeeled the wrapping from the corners, expecting to see a dark soil-like substance just like they showed on the news. But she was disappointed.

The white paper was now on the floor but in her hand she held thick stiff wads of purple paper. Wads of purple five-hundred-euro notes packed tightly together and bound with thin white strips of more paper.

There were fifteen bundles in total.

She opened the first and counted: one hundred five-hundred euro notes were now loose and burning in the palm of her hand. The fourteen remaining bundles, she guessed, were about the same size and probably held the same number of notes. There was now more money on her bedroom floor than she had ever seen in one place at any one time. Ever.

For some bizarre reason she lifted one of the thick piles to her nose. The notes weren’t new and smelt as dirty as they felt. Filled with sudden contempt, disgust and disappointment, instinctively she cast it aside, as if it was diseased and contagious. The binding split as it hit the floor, scattering the notes all over the carpet.

Shock engulfed her. What on earth was she supposed to do with these? How had they got here?

Drugs? You fool! she chastised herself. You naïve idiot! It’s not drugs, it’s money!

Dirty money too by the looks of it, literally and figuratively speaking. But money from where? What was she supposed to do with it now? Philip had packed the box. He had left it for her to find. He had left her this money, probably thinking that she’d need it now that he was gone. His guilty conscience.

“Jesus Christ!” she swore in stunned disbelief. “Holy Mary Mother of God and Holy Saint Joseph!” she cried out into the empty room, not caring that she sounded just like her mother, slowly enunciating each syllable as if her precise diction would make it all disappear. But it didn’t.

Where would she put it? She couldn’t keep it here. Quickly she set about gathering up the scattered notes, their filth stinging her flesh at every touch. Did he expect her to keep it? Did he expect her to be relieved by it? Did he want her to be reassured? Why did he think it was okay to keep her guessing?

Regardless, she knew this was bad, bad money, its presence already offensive to her and, by leaving it for her, Philip was implicating and tying her into whatever it was he was doing. What the hell was he up to? Whatever it was she wanted no part of it. Not one stinking euro of it. She checked the time. It was too late to do anything now – it would have to wait till morning.

She piled the money as best she could into the box. Taking it downstairs, she put the cumbersome lumps into two plastic shopping bags, one after the other, opened the back door and stepped out onto the deck. Scanning the small yard she searched for a place to put her foul fortune. She didn’t want it in the house or anywhere near her. Lifting the lid on the coalbunker, as good a place as any, she buried it in amongst the black lumps and shut the lid tight.

There was no need to tell anyone except the police about it, she decided, as she scrubbed her hands over and over again, trying to rid them of the soiled feeling and grubby smell. Maloney would know what to do. He could figure out where it came from. For all she knew, maybe he already knew and was keeping it from her. God, maybe they thought she was part of it! What a frickin’ mess.

Chapter 15

Esmée spotted him on the bright Wednesday morning. Maybe it was the long leather coat he wore on such an unusually warm late-spring day that made him stand out. More likely though it was his stance beneath the overhanging horse-chestnut trees opposite the school that made him conspicuous, apparently relaxed but with his eyes darting wildly, watching everything but focusing on nothing, lacking the intent and protective look of the parents who dashed through the finely tuned drop-off procedure.

There he was again on the Thursday and she was sure she’d seen him in the supermarket car park earlier that day and again in the shop itself, but when she went to investigate further, pushing her trolley from aisle to aisle, he seemed to disappear somewhere between the fresh fruit and the delicatessen. So when she spied him in exactly the same spot, opposite the school gates, on Friday morning, the morning after her illicit find, she made a point of tracking down the school headmistress, Mrs Jones.

“I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but I’ve noticed a man the last few days watching the school from across the road.”

Always a woman of action, Mrs Jones beckoned to Esmée, pushed up her ample schoolteacher bosom with folded arms and marched off with that scary kind of authority that only a headmistress on a mission could possess. Her Cuban-heeled shoes click-clacked furiously on the hard linoleum floor while her wide hips swung like a pendulum from left to right and back again.

“Where exactly did you see him, Mrs Myers?” she interrogated as together they arrived at the window of a front-facing classroom.

Despite the fact that Esmée and she would meet in the corridors every other day they still hadn’t crossed, nor were ever likely to cross that line between formality and familiarity.

“Just over there,” Esmée pointed across the street to the now vacant spot amongst the scattering of tiny white horse-chestnut blooms.

Even though the man had disappeared, not even the tiniest doubt crossed Mrs Jones’ mind that Mrs Myers had actually seen this man. Of all the parents she had got to know over the years this was one lady who was reasonable and level-headed. Taking Esmée at her word, she thanked the observant parent, promised to be extra vigilant and immediately set about notifying the staff and the local garda station.

Satisfied and reassured by her responsible action, Esmée left the school and walked briskly back to her car which was parked only a little way down beyond the school gates. She checked her watch: it was almost ten past nine. The drag of her bag weighed heavily on her shoulder, laden down by the burden, both emotional and physical, of the sooty package.

She had called Maloney first thing, only for him to tell her he was in court all day and probably couldn’t make it to the house till after six.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Why? What’s up? Are you all right? Has Philip –”

“I’m grand,” she interrupted. “I found something, that’s all, and I need you to take it as soon as possible.”

“What is it?” he asked, his interest aroused.

“It’s . . .” She paused, paranoia setting in. “Look, I’d rather not say over the phone.”

“Right. So could you drop it in to the station?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Okay – well, Doug will be at the station from about eight – give it to him – he’ll look after it for me.”

She had wrapped the money up tight, binding it in sheets and sheets of the kid’s coloured paper before putting it at the bottom of her bag.

Now, eager to get rid of it, feeling vulnerable with it in her possession, she quickened her pace, fishing the car keys from her pocket as she walked and beeping to open the car. She wasn’t prepared for the tap on her shoulder and the deep voice that said her name.

He stood tall over her as she turned and raised her head, taller by about a foot, his broad bulk close, too close for comfort. Instinctively she took a step backwards, almost losing her balance as her foot missed the edge of the kerb, the car blocking her fall.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, one hand instinctively clutching her chest, startled by his close and intimidating presence. “You scared the life out of me!” She laughed uneasily, aware that she had just reported this man as a potential stalker. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m Esmée Myers. Can I help you?”

She tried to step around him and re-establish the comfort of her personal space. He took steps to regain intimacy and, again putting less than a pace between them, placed a disarming and forceful hand on her elbow.

“Get into the car,” he instructed quietly and politely, steering her firmly by the elbow to the rear passenger door.

“I beg your pardon?” Her protest was ignored as she tugged hard to try and free her arm from his grip.

Thinking she was being mugged she called out, frantically glancing to her left and right, looking for someone, anyone who might help her, but the streets were empty with all the parents scattered in their various directions before the school bell had even rung. Panic pumped adrenaline through her veins and triggered the futile kicks that made contact with the ankles and calves of her assailant to no avail. He tightened his grip and pushed her backwards. She had nowhere to go, jammed tight between the cold metal of the car and the firm chest of her would-be assailant. From nowhere it seemed a second man appeared and jumped into the driver’s seat as she struggled pointlessly.

“Don’t make a fuss,” the first man whispered close to her ear. “Just get into the car and you won’t get hurt.”

The force of his words was thick and menacing as he pulled open the rear door and pushed her towards it.

“Take the car!” she offered, scared and confused. “Go on, take it – my wallet too – there’s money in it. Take it!” Her captured hands made a feeble push towards him, her eyes pleading with him, begging him to let her go.

Catching a look in her terrified stare, he too, if only for a split second, appeared confused, but it passed quickly as he registered what exactly Esmée thought was happening. His eyes sparked with the power her fear gave him and reflected venomously in his slow smile. Sensing her inhale deeply in preparation to scream, he leaned in tighter and pushed against her, closer this time, his laughter vibrating moistly on her earlobe while his fingers and thumb dug deep and sore into her flesh.

“If you want to collect little Mattie in one piece this afternoon then get into the fucking car!”

She felt his spittle slip warm and viscous down the side of her neck as he spat the command through his yellowing teeth, challenging her, willing her to disobey. With shaking knees and lurching stomach, she did as he asked and stumbled into the back of the car. He sat into the seat after her and, snatching the car keys from her grip, threw them to his companion who, with only a silent glance, started the car and pulled off quickly.