Dark Mirrors (35 page)

Esmée was tempted to speak but decided against it. Julie had already decided and there was no point in pushing it. She was right anyway. It was a ridiculous idea, an irresponsible, reckless, risky and illegal act that if they were caught at could land them both in jail.

Julie was standing now and Esmée took it as a signal for her to leave.

“I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a stupid idea and I’m sorry.”

“Mum?” Harry prompted.

“Just leave it, Harry, please!”

“If you don’t tell me now I’ll just follow her,” he pointed towards Esmée who was ready to leave with her coat on and her bag slung over her shoulder, “and make her tell me!”

“Just go,” Julie said, turning to Esmée, disappointment evident in her eyes.

True to his word, the key was hardly in the ignition when Harry knocked on the car window.

“Tell me,” he said firmly.

“Sorry, Harry, it was a preposterous idea. I shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have even considered it in the first place. Your Mum is right. And I can’t tell you without her permission.” She put the car in gear. “You’ll need to ask her,” she said with finality, released the brake and drove away, feeling dense and humiliated.

What an idiot, she told herself, banging her fist on the steering wheel.

* * *

Just after she had put the children to bed, their story read and lights out, her phone rang.

It was Julie’s number but Harry’s voice.

“I’ll do it.”

Esmée smiled down the phone, his gesture warming her heart.

“Harry, you’re a good man, really you are. But your mother is right. I had a remarkably dangerous notion that I have now dismissed. But thank you anyway.” She could imagine Julie having a complete meltdown – she would if the roles were reversed. No matter how strong or how urgent the need to see whatever was in that box, was it really worth the risk to her and to Harry?

Julie came on the phone.

“He wants to help. He’s sure he can do it.”

“Thanks, Julie, but I can only imagine the fight he’s put up. You’re his mother. You trust your instinct. I appreciate his offer, but I shouldn’t have even considered it in the first place.”

“Yes, there was a . . . discussion, of sorts, this afternoon,” Julie confirmed. “But he really wants to help you – he likes you,” she said, giving an unconvincing chuckle down the phone. “But he said some things to me today that he has never expressed before. There are a lot of demons inside of him, all centered around his father. This may help him face a few of them. Make him feel like he’s doing something, setting things to rights, finding justice.” Her voice quivered on the last words and she paused for a minute, obviously overcome.

“But, Julie, we both know it’s a crazy idea. If we get caught . . .”

“I know. And he knows. But it’s his decision now. He’s old enough, so he says, to make it.”

Esmée felt nevertheless that she should make the right decision for all of them and refuse to go ahead. But then they would never know what was in that box . . . and it could be something that would make a significant change to all their lives.

“Okay. May I speak to Harry again, please?”

“Hi.” Harry was back.

“Let’s agree to make you up. But if both your mum and I aren’t convinced you look the part, we back down and call the whole thing off. Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

They dressed him in a beige cord blazer, polo shirt and chinos.

“I look like some kind of throwback to the eighties!” Harry objected.

“It makes you look comfortable,” Julie argued, fixing his hair, recently styled to look like Philip’s, with flecks of grey appearing now at each of his temples.

“I don’t see what was wrong with the suit.”

“It was trying too hard,” she reasoned. “This has to be natural. Think George Clooney in
Ocean’s Eleven
.”

“I can do that,” he grinned but then glanced back at himself in the mirror. “But not like this – I look like shit!” he moaned, poking at the bags under his eyes from an instructed sleepless night. “But I could live with this,” he added, stroking the week’s worth of facial hair that had been cultivated across his mouth, cheeks and chin. Neatly clipped and trimmed it gave him an all-important look, distinguished and mature.

Costume complete, he came down the stairs for a final inspection.

Neither Esmée or Julie said a word, as both were thinking the same thing: he was so like his father. Tears welled in Julie’s eyes but never spilled. They were convinced.

The picture in Philip’s passport that Maloney had only a fortnight ago returned to her was about seven years old so the age gap, visually, was not extreme. The biggest risk would be if the bank staff actually knew Philip – well, then they were stuffed. However, Esmée believed that risk was slight. The statement Paul had given her didn’t show any transactions against the account connected to the box, and he had no other accounts with that bank, so the risk, they all agreed, was worth taking.

Esmée voiced what they were all thinking. “Only one way to find out!” She handed him the brown leather attaché case. “Don’t forget this – it’s a vital part of the operation.”

* * *

“Can I help you?” the man standing tall behind the counter, dressed in a navy-blue suit, asked.

It wasn’t too late, Esmée deliberated, her heart palpitating dangerously. She had to keep her hands clasped to stop them from shaking. They could just turn around and leave now, no harm done.

“Yes,” Harry said quietly, expecting his voice to echo. “I’d like to access a deposit box. Please,” he finished, minding his manners.

“Certainly, sir, and your name is?”

“Myers, Philip Myers,” Harry said slowly and clearly.

“Thank you, Mr Myers. If you could bear with me, please, just one moment?” He again smiled and both Harry and Esmée smiled back, watching him slip behind a screen to a cluster of desks.

Harry took the opportunity to check on his accomplice.

“You doing okay?” he asked quietly.

He was remarkably calm, she thought, scarily so. Confident and charming, just like his dad . . . a compliment she chose to keep to herself.

“I’m good,” she lied as the bank official returned, still smiling.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Myers. Can I ask you to take the lift – just down that hallway there?” He pointed to a narrow corridor to their right. “If you go to the lower ground floor, Imelda at the desk will take care of you from there.”

They thanked him in unison then turned and made their way to the lift.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the brightness of the banking hall to the dull corridor and the even darker lift.

Harry pressed the button. The lift whirred loudly and stopped with a jerk.

“Just remember,” he instructed quietly as the doors opened. “I’ll take the lead.”

The doors opened straight into a waiting area where a golden deep-pile carpet with dark-red walls and an oversized teak desk greeted them. A long comfortable sofa was positioned to the right matching timber side-tables at each end. Massive table lamps straight out of a five-star hotel lobby cast a warm hue over the discreet space.

A curly-haired young woman smiled expectantly at them from behind the extravagant bulk of the desk. She was well turned out, her shirt pristine and the bow in her bank-issue cravat-style scarf perfectly folded and sitting neatly just in the hollow of her neck.

“Mr Myers,” she greeted. “Mrs Myers?” she asked as much with her eyes as her tone.

Esmée nodded.

“I’m Imelda. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to access my safe-deposit box,” Harry stated confidently, placing his attaché case on the countertop.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place anyhow,” Imelda returned with a professional well-groomed smile. “May I see your account number and your identification?”

“Certainly,” Harry replied, opening both latches of the attaché case with an abrupt click. He took out the statement Paul had given Esmée and Philip’s passport and handed them to the still beaming Imelda. Both he and Esmée tensed as they waited for her to inspect the documents.

Then, as practised back at the house the day before Harry turned to Esmée and asked her quietly, “So, Es, what time is our appointment with Dave?” His familiar tone and the use of Philip’s pet name for her sent shivers down her spine. They hadn’t practised that.

From the corner of her eye Esmée watched Imelda open the passport and glance up briefly at Harry.

“Eleven, we’re meeting him at Luigi’s,” she replied to Harry, ignoring the sudden urge to vomit.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”

The meaningless words sounded casual enough, she thought. They were performing well. Harry launched into his rehearsed response while she watched and waited.

Imelda had pretty hands, Esmée thought, with beautifully manicured nails and long slender fingers. Weird the things that pass through your mind as you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you. Her knees threatened to give way, the suspense killing her nerves. She steadied herself against the desk and watched. She could feel Harry beside her but couldn’t hear a sound. Was he even breathing?

“You have your key, Mr Myers?” Imelda asked politely, bringing Esmée back to reality with a slight start.

“Yes, of course,” Harry replied, immediately taking a set of keys from his pocket and selecting the smallest on the ring – the one Esmée had noticed on Philip’s keyring that evening in the car. She didn’t recognise it then, but knew instinctively on leaving Paul’s office what it was for: the key to her very own Pandora’s box.

“That’s perfect,” the lovely Imelda claimed, laying a document on the countertop. “If I could get your signature here – and here,” she said, pointing to two ‘x’s.

Harry took the pen and signed Philip’s name. Almost perfect, Esmée noted, seeing the familiar loop of letters.

“
If I could ask you to be patient just a little while longer, we’ll get your box ready for you. Please take a seat.” She indicated the comfortable couch. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee
? Water?”

“No, thanks,” Harry declined. “We’re grand.”

Careful not to give it all away, they shared a discreet gleeful glance to celebrate but no more. They were nearly there.

Intensely curious about the contents of the box and aware that the reason for its surreptitious concealment was not likely to be a good one, Esmée was nevertheless distracted by the thought of Philip and his likely return. Although happy that by the time they managed to find and repatriate him he wouldn’t be her problem any longer, there was still a worry about how he would react when he realised she still didn’t plan on having anything more to do with him. She doubted he would take it well and, if his behaviour in Spain was anything to go by, it wasn’t going to be an easy journey. Part of her, a not so savoury part, wished that he’d stay right where he was, not come back at all, and found a bizarre irony in the fact that not so long ago she was willing him to turn up alive and well. But his presence now, given all she knew, was likely to cause her more grief than his absence. Maybe she wouldn’t say a word at all: she could just leave him there. He’d never be able to come back here, not with Brady looking for him, whatever about the authorities. But they were fleeting thoughts, ridiculous notions arising from an even more ridiculous predicament.

A serious-looking young man, dressed in a pristine charcoal-grey suit, sky-blue shirt and a deep-blue tie decorated with a neat pattern of the bank’s circular emblem, eventually emerged from behind a thick door clad with timber panels to conceal its secure fabrication. They matched, he and Imelda, their uniforms perfectly co-ordinated. He was hardly out of school, and with such a serious face Esmée wondered what made such a handsome young man look so surly.

“Mr Myers, Mrs Myers, I’m Andrew,” he said without so much as a smile “Please follow me and I’ll take you to your cubicle.”

In a booth no bigger than a toilet she and Harry stood and stared at the box laid in the centre of the table. A small thing, no bigger than a shoebox but stronger, formed out of some kind of grey metal.

The door gave a quiet thud as it closed and the room acquired a claustrophobic oppression. They both remained standing and stared at it for a while, Harry relieved he’d got away with the deception and Esmée nervous of what was contained in the box. Slowly she reached her hand forward and placed it on the metal lid. It was cold to touch but very smooth. She circled her fingers cautiously then taking its edge lifted it only inches at first to peek inside, afraid of what might jump out at her. When nothing moved and her nerve grew, she opened the hinged top fully.

There were two things inside: a notebook bound in black leather and an object wrapped in what looked like a white cotton tea towel. She put her hand in and lifted it slightly and, as soon as she touched it, felt its weight, recognised its shape beneath the rough cloth, she knew just what it was. Aware of Harry looking at her eagerly she cast him a glance to which he responded with a slow nod. She removed the bundle from the box and undressed it slowly, holding her breath as she removed the folds of cloth. The gun sat black, solid and menacing, dangerously alluring against the white cotton fabric. She knew what it was and exactly what it meant. The ramifications of the find and conclusion she reached about its association settled with repugnant certainty.