Chapter 24

Esmée’s very own war council met late on the morning of her return. Though ignorant of the presence of her inconspicuous travelling shadows, Esmée had suspected the consequences of her Spanish liaison would not move well in her favour. Unable to think clearly, the commotion of her thoughts creating pandemonium inside her head, she had called her brother for help. How she ended up with this ‘family reunion’ she wasn’t quite sure.

“You never were good at secrets,” she’d proclaimed in disgust, assuming that the inclusion of her sisters in this tryst was her brother’s only treacherous indiscretion.

“Don’t!” he’d warned with a raised finger. “This involves all of us and you know it. Anyway, they’d have killed me if they ever found out I’d kept this from them.”

The meeting was headed at the top of the table by Tom, spinning a pen between his thumb and index finger, Lizzie on his right scribbling furiously, Penny on his left looking at Esmée like a lost bird, Fin next to her, solid and calm.

Esmée faced them all, numb and weary, and recounted the encounter with Philip.

“Right, so,” Lizzie announced. “Let’s just go through this one more time . . .”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Lizzie, do we have to do this again? I’m tired, I’ve been up all night.” Her head flopped heavily into her cupped and clasped palms.

“Yes, yes, we do. Whether you like it or not, you need to be prepared.”

“For what?” she challenged. “What are they going to do, arrest me?”

“Don’t be facetious, Esmée,” Lizzie rebuked her. “You have to go to the police and, yes, they very well might.”

“What for?” she argued. “I didn’t know it was him.”

“That may well be,” said Lizzie, “but they may just as easily argue that while you weren’t sure, you had a fair idea . . .” Her raised eyebrows begged a further retort.

Lizzie was only trying to help, Esmée knew that. It was her job as a lawyer to ascertain the facts. But going over and over the same details was mind-numbing and frustrating. She wasn’t even sure she knew herself what had just happened. The lack of sleep and emotional energy was severely impairing her ability to think straight.

Having spent months wondering ‘Alive? Dead? Dead? Alive?’ the answer was troubling. She had spent so many hours living the moment in her head, the moment when she could face him, could ask him all the questions that had been stacking up. She had rehearsed her ‘How dare you?’ speech in the mirror because deep down she always knew she would see him again. Call it denial or defiance or just plain stubborn, she had never fully accepted that he had committed suicide. And now that the anxiously anticipated episode had passed, she couldn’t tell if she’d done it justice. Reviewing the conversation didn’t help much either as she only found fault with the bits she had said and the words that ultimately failed her. She should really have slapped him, kicked him hard where it hurt most, and was truly disappointed she hadn’t. And now, here she was: stuck in the same time warp, right back where she started, at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in her hand, surrounded by Fin and her brother and sisters.

And now? What next?

Somewhere outside the realms of her consciousness they were discussing consequences – her actions, his actions, his probable return – because the authorities were bound to bring him back. And like a plague he was bound to spill his malodorous poison upon her children and sully their lives, just as they were beginning to be comforted by the warmth of a new life, a good life, a much better life than before. They were happier. Yes, they missed him, but freakishly the man they missed no longer existed. The night he left his car on the cliff the persona of Philip Myers really had drowned. Christ, how was she going to explain that one when they were old enough to be told? A wave of nausea engulfed her as the weight she had been carrying shifted from fear of his death to fear of his life.

“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?”

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.

“Holy shit!” Harry exclaimed. “What the fuck?”

“Come on,” she said, the air in the room beginning to thicken around her, the breath tightening in her chest. “I need to get out of here or I’m going to suffocate.” Re-wrapping the gun, she placed it and the notebook in her bag.

Harry took her hand as they marched down the steps of the bank.

For a fleeting moment Esmée had almost felt sorry for the lovely Imelda as she waved them to the lift. She would be in some mess when eventually it was discovered that someone other than Philip Myers had breached the bank’s thankfully pretty-damn-lax security systems.

“Are you okay?” he asked, squeezing her hand gently.

“Not really.”

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“I have no idea. Just please don’t tell your mother.”

“Don’t worry, Esmée. I understand the implications of our find. I’m not going to tell anyone. Especially not my mother – she’d have a breakdown. She says she’s okay, but she’s not. This might push her over the edge. I have to think about Beth too – she mustn’t know. I’m not going to say anything. You have my word.”

She had no option but to trust Harry. He was no threat, his focus being his mum and protecting her.

* * *

Julie was waiting for them when they arrived back.

“Thank God you’re okay! You made it!” she cried, relieved they had returned alone and without a police escort.

“He was brilliant,” Esmée enthused, following behind. “I literally couldn’t have done it without you both! Thanks.”

“Well?” Julie asked expectantly, looking at Esmée. “What was in it?”

“Not what I was expecting, that’s for sure!” Removing only the notebook from her bag, she handed it to Julie. She and Harry had already examined it in the car and could make nothing of it. Inside the pages were filled with names and dates and a series of disjointed words.

“Yeah, a complete waste of time and effort!” said Harry.

“I was expecting so much more,” Esmée said sadly.

“Like what?” Julie asked.

“I have no idea,” she shrugged, “but just something more than this.”

Julie was flicking through the pages of the notebook. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“A code?” Harry offered.

“Absolutely no idea,” Esmée replied, not caring one bit about the black book. She just wanted to get out of there. To be alone. To think.

“What do we do about this?” Julie asked, waving the book. “It must mean something to someone?”

“We can’t do anything,” Esmée said. “If we do they’ll know we got into the box.”

“Right,” Julie signed. “Duhhh!” she laughed, relieved that the ordeal was over.

* * *

Robert watched the mayhem unfold as Tommo walloped the guard and Brady yelled at him.

“What the fuck did ya do that for?” he shouted, pointing at the unconscious guard and whimpering Mike, bloodied after the kick to his head.

“He was goin’ for me,” the aggrieved Tommo complained.

“For fuck sake! We agreed no shit would go down today! And you morons have already done damage to yer woman and maybe her kid.” Brady whacked him hard across the face.

Tommo dropped the gun as he struggled to remain standing. He put a hand to his face and just as he turned his head to object he saw her reaching out. Amanda had freed her hand and was straining towards the panic button fixed to the underside of the table. Tommo yelled and lunged forward but Brady got to her first.

“You stupid cow!” he yelled, grabbing her wrist.

In the ensuing panic nobody noticed Robert pick up the gun and didn’t heed when he left the room and closed the door. He hurried to the window and checked through the blades of the blinds if anyone had heard the shrieks.

Frank Gill was walking across the small asphalt car park. He’d done the cash run a few months back and Robert recognised immediately who and what he was. Why was he here? Could he hear the commotion inside?

Robert panicked as the undercover garda leaned down to the window of the silver Golf, their supposed getaway car, glistening in the glorious sunshine, and looked towards the bank.

He was coming over. He’d be at the door in minutes to investigate the delay with the delivery, to see where the helmeted men with the empty steel cases were. He’d see. He’d ruin it. Ruin it all. Silently he willed him to turn around and leave. He wished him away but he kept coming.

“Turn around – turn around,” Robert whispered.

The alarm bells shattered the morning air.

Ironically it was Brady himself who had set them off. Having successfully stopped Amanda’s attempted lunge for the panic button, he had stood upright and as he fixed his flopping hair looked down with contempt at the cowering woman. He didn’t heed Mike sitting behind him, his back to the wall. He didn’t notice as Mike raised his leg and foot, pulled back, aimed then pushed forward to reach the target of Brady’s backside. Instinctively Brady’s hand reached out to brace his fall and grasped the edge of the table, his thumb pressing against the discreet little white button underneath.

“Fuck,” Brady whispered to himself.

The loud bellow of the alarm erupted into the early morning, causing everyone to jump, including Frank Gill who stopped for only a brief second before putting his hand to his hip. Robert mistook the reach for his phone as a reach for a gun. Adrenaline rushed to his head. Rushing to the door he unlocked and yanked it open it a crack, raised his arm, gun steady in hand, and pulled the trigger. No one was going to screw this up for him, especially some curious Pig. No way. There was still time, they could take what they needed. The gun fired and the projected bullet reached its target. Clean. Decisive. Deadly.

The banking hall was empty. All the activity was out the back. No one saw him do it. Firing from inside the door, he was out of the line of vision of Maurice Mahon, the driver of the undercover police car, who didn’t even hear its loud recoil with the banging din of the bells. He watched him fall and cursed the silver Golf as it jerked into gear and accelerated away. The gun. What to do with it? Where would he hide it? He scanned the room quickly, looking for a spot. He knew they’d search the bank, then he’d be snared without doubt. An immediate calm, an almost psychotic moment of clarity, came over him: he was still the victim, he was his own cover. He quickly pulled up his trouser leg and pushed the gun into the leg of his sock, firmly wedging the nose into his shoe. He was still the victim. They’d not search him. And he was right. They didn’t. His decision to keep the gun was a calculated one. He might need it again. It had both Brady’s and Tommo’s prints all over it: good security, if needs be.

* * *

Through the night she sat on the floor, her back to the wall, watching her children sleep soundly. She couldn’t sleep. How could she? This was where she felt safest. She didn’t want to be alone but couldn’t call anyone. Philip had destroyed her and there was no way she could tell anyone that she had, albeit unintentionally, brought her father’s murderer into their fold.

As soon as she’d left Harry and Julie, no longer buoyed up by their company and the excitement of their joint enterprise, her spirits had taken a plunge. Now, vulnerable and alone, she sat out the dark hours with tears streaming unrelenting down her face. She had reached the bottom of her endurance reservoir, with nothing left to give. She prayed for an epiphany, the moment where a solution would appear like an apparition to set everything right.

When it did come, there was no blinding flash of inspiration but rather a dispassionate logical reasoning that made perfect sense.

The sun was rising when she powered up her computer and Googled his name. She had come across a wealth of information about him before so she knew what she was looking for. He was a dangerous man, but Esmée knew that this was the best thing, the only thing to do. Terrified, but focused, she played out the morning as usual, taking the children to school, and then booked herself a cab, leaving a handwritten note on the kitchen table, in case she never came back.

“Where to?” her driver asked as she climbed into the back seat, his eyes meeting hers through the tinted rear-view mirror, dark but smiling.

She felt in her bag for the comforting bulk of her gym weight, foolish protection she knew, but reassuring all the same.

“Town, please.”

“No problem, love. Grand day, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, great to see the sun for a while.” Deep breaths, she told herself, settle into the journey and when we’re halfway in, then ask.

She could feel his eyes on her reflection and worked hard to combat the magnetic urge to look back. She needed to pee.

“Going anywhere nice?” he asked as they passed through the third set of lights.

“Eh . . . Nowhere special really, just a trip into the shops, that’s all.”

“My wife loves the shops, she does,” he enthused. “She’d spend all me cash in those posh boutiques if she had her way. Does your hubby not mind ya visiting shops in the middle of the week?”

The mere mention of the word hubby and her heart skipped. A coincidence? Probably. Possibly not.

“Do ya not have a taxi company of your own out this way? It’s a fierce journey all the way out here then back again. Gonna cost ya!” His head shook. He was laughing at her.

It was too soon, she knew, but she came out with it anyway.

“Actually, I like, I mean prefer, this company. A friend of mine owns it.”

“A friend, you say?” This time she caught his eyes flicking at her. “Are ya sure ’bout that? You don’t look like the sort to be hangin’ out with my boss, and I’ve known Jimmy a few years now, I’ll tell ya!” He held her stare for seconds that went on for hours.

“I haven’t seen him in a while.” The shake in her voice a dead giveaway. Her knees trembled and her heart ticked like a time bomb – any more and she, if not her bladder, would burst. “I wouldn’t mind catching up with him again. Is he about?” She held her breath.

An electric silence prevailed for another three sets of lights. Red, Red, Amber. He didn’t reply.

“Well, if you do see your boss, tell him I’ll see him, today, same place as last time at twelve noon.”

He dropped her, as requested, at the corner of O’Connell Street, taking her fare, and a considerable tip. She watched him drive down the quays then made her way to the station to catch the train home. She could hardly believe what she had just done. Her own audacity amazed her while the quake in her knees threatened to topple her altogether. Calm yet scared, she wondered what kind of a fall she was setting Philip up for, or herself if it all went wrong.

* * *

It felt odd to be in the park without the children. Rogue hollers of “Mum” triggering the instinctive reflex of her head while she sat on the same bench as last time, patiently, waiting. She had no idea if he would turn up, didn’t know if she’d given him enough time. He was obviously a busy man. Her sudden empathy disturbed her.

She sat down on the bench in the middle of the playground and waited. Almost half an hour had passed when she spotted the taxi driver from her morning trip standing at a distance from her. Hands in his bomber pockets, he nodded to her and then walked in the direction of the exit. Assuming he expected her to follow him, she got up and followed him to his cab.

He was already sitting in the front seat with the engine idling – waiting for her, she supposed. This time she sat into the front seat. The door wasn’t even fully closed when without a word he shifted the car into gear and hit the road towards the city centre.

The entire journey was travelled in silence. She sat still, with her hands clasped nervously in her lap. She kept him in her peripheral vision but he didn’t so much as sneak even one curious glance at her.

Twenty minutes into the trip, he indicated and pulled into the car park of a pub on the outskirts of the city, in a landscape dominated by industrial units and vast open waste ground.

“Come on,” he said, getting out of the car, and waited for her to join him before walking towards the entrance. “You’ve got some balls,” he commented, shaking his head as they crossed the car park then walked ahead, not waiting for a response, and held the door open for her to pass through.

Her eyes took some time to adjust to the subdued light inside the bar which was a reverent throwback to the mid-seventies. Like an aging hooker, years beyond her libidinous glory, dressed in faded red-velvet embossed wallpaper and sporting crimson crimplene wall-lamps with dripping red-tasselled pleated shades, it cast a tone, a devilish hue, of what you might catch if you stayed too long.

The smell of stale beer, vomit and disinfectant turned her stomach as she ventured towards her host, perched on a high stool at the brown painted bar, highball in hand. Whiskey, she assumed. He drank long from his glass, putting it down, empty, on the bar as she approached. He didn’t stand up.

“I’m not sure I like surprises, Mrs Myers.” His eyes took their fill of her from top to bottom, predictably lingering momentarily on her chest. “Still lookin’ good though.” He intended to intimidate and reinforce his power.

But Esmée, quaking on the inside yet calm on the outside, stood tall in front of him, with her thumbs hooked into the back pockets of her jeans. She let him look. She’d known he would. She didn’t care.

“So. What’s the story? You’re not missin’ me, are ya, Es?” He let his laughter fill the vast but empty open-plan pub and watched her discomfort intensify.

He leaned over the bar and nodded to the shadows from where a skinny lad appeared, in jeans and a white T-shirt.

“Sorry about this, Es, but ya can’t be too careful.” Using his hand he swept the boy towards her.

Fleeting cold panic filtered through her like sand through a sieve as the boy swiped his hands across her body, under her arms, creeping between her legs and down her spine, leaving nowhere untouched. This was his job and he did it without so much as a smile.

“She’s clean.”

“Good man, Des. Now the bag.” And as the heavy satchel was taken from her shoulder he got down from his stool and led her to one of the booths that wrapped the perimeter of the room. “Drink?” he offered, releasing his grip on her elbow so she could slip into the leatherette seat, then sitting opposite her.

She wanted nothing, but her performance demanded that she accept. To get out intact she needed to display some strength of character and, despite the urgent desire to decline and run, she met his eyes and replied firmly, “Gin and tonic would be good,” willing her voice not to give way to the coward fighting to escape inside. Leaning forward, she rested her folded arms on the chipped veneered table.

He snapped his fingers and a barman appeared who took his order and departed. Brady waited for the drinks to arrive, which they did almost instantly, before he spoke again.

“So. I’ll ask ya again. What’s the story?” His tone was firm but lacked the degree of menace she had experienced before. He eyed her curiously.

The relationship had changed. By searching him out, she had traversed the void from victim to informant and with that Esmée was rewarded with a fragile element of control. Her stomach and its contents tumbled like a cement-mixer. Conscious of her precarious position, she wanted to choose her words wisely and well. Now was not the time to be verbose.

“I’ve seen him. He contacted me.”

“Ahhhha! Just like I knew he would!” Like a wicked wizard, his hands clapped loudly with glee. “So, where is he then?”

“Spain.”

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me! Es-fuckin’-spana?”

Esmée nodded.

“What did he want, or need I ask?” His smutty smirk defied an answer. “Did you tell him I was askin’ after him?”

Esmée nodded twice.

“And? What did he say?”

This was the point she had been dreading. The news that Philip didn’t seem to give a shit about Brady had the potential to incense the beast before her, to her detriment. Cringing inwardly, she gave it to him like it was.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? That fucker said nothing?”

She didn’t know whether to shake or nod, but he wasn’t after any further answer.

“The little bollox. Who the fuck does he think he is?” he said, his pitch increasing dramatically as the sentence progressed, punctuated by the slap of his fist on the table, so hard their drinks, and Esmée, hopped.

He saw her fear, noticed her cower. Incensed, he leaned over the table to shout into her face. “Does he really think he can fuck me over, play dead and get away with it?” His words were wet with disgust. “Not bleedin’ likely!” He stood up and went to the bar. She watched him grip its rounded edge, lean towards it then push back to slap his palms down with a loud thunderous crack. Taking a moment to gather himself together he wiped the flyaway stands of hair back across his balding head and nodded to his right. As before, as if from nowhere, the lad appeared from the wings. Brady leant over and muttered something into his ear that made him move and disappear swiftly through the double doors between the optics.

Brady paused before turning back to retake his seat. Esmée watched with trepidation as his shoulders squared up and his chest broadened only to deflate slowly as he, chewing on the information, observed his guest quivering opposite him like a newborn lamb.

“And why are you telling me?” he asked.

There it was: the question she had been asking herself all afternoon. Why was she telling him? What did she hope to achieve? And what exactly did she want in return?

All through the night the mood of her thoughts had been one of rancid incredulity. How could she have let this happen? She had been the subject of such a gargantuan ruse: a sustained act of subterfuge that reeled her in and spat her out. How could she have let it happen? How could he have allowed their children become a heartbreaking consequence of that colossal sham? What kind of a twisted sick bastard was he? He was responsible, start to finish, conception to delivery, for the death of her father, for the lie they were living and now for tarnishing of their beautiful, innocent children’s future.

She was and always had been nothing more than an extremely good cover for what he had done. It wasn’t the guilt that drove him to find her, but fear of being found out: fear of being uncovered as the murderer of Frank Gill. If he had a conscience at all he wouldn’t have allowed children become part of his lie. But he had. And they were. And that’s why she was sitting in this dive with this particular character. It was an age-old cliché, but yes, she was doing it for the children. She would keep Philip’s secret. She would maintain his charade. Not only that, she would guarantee that his violation would never, ever be uncovered. And after that all she could do was hope that, when the time came for Matthew and Amy to be told about their father and who he really was, they would understand and forgive her.

But that was none of Brady’s business; he didn’t need to know her reasons why, so instead she played to his ego.

“This evening my sister, as my lawyer, is taking me to report my evening with Philip to the Gardaí.” She paused, lifting her head to make direct eye contact with him. “So I figured you’d find out about it pretty soon after.”

“I’m flattered,” he responded, accepting her unintentional compliment.

“With all due respect, Mr Brady, I took your threat –”

“Easy does it there now, tiger!” he interjected, raising an admonitory hand.

“Sorry, your advice, I took your advice seriously and, well, I’m not willing to put myself and my children in jeopardy, and frankly, you scare me more than my husband does.”

“Again, I’m flattered.” He paused with a short bow as he sat, judging her and her motive. “So, where exactly is he?”

“Before I give you this information I need you to promise to stay away from us. That we are done.” If she was standing her knees would have given way. She was petrified but adamant that the parts she could fix she would.

He smiled, raising his eyebrows in a mix of admiration and respect. Nodding slowly he scrutinised her face, deciding whether or not to agree, deciding whether or not to slam her cheek. But she had guts. He liked that. And that prick Bobby was no friend of hers now either by the looks of things. So he took a little punt, lifted his hand, spat in it and offered her his word. She contemplated his extended hand with its now moist palm and measured the implications it presented: to take it meant she was in bed with the devil. To decline closed the door on any chance she and the kids had at a normal future. Better the devil you know, she mused and took a firm grasp of his hand and shook.

She took a piece of paper from the front pouch of her bag and handed it to him, holding on to it a little longer than she expected to, before finally letting it go.

“That’s where I met him – he’s around there somewhere.” She took a gulp of her drink, the first and only, but she needed it. Putting it back on the table, she stood up. “I’d like to go now.”

He watched her cross the faded and pockmarked carpet, calling her name when she reached the door. She stopped, turned and waited for him to speak.

“No message for the hubby then?” he called, his sharp smirk betraying his intentions and for a fleeting instant she feared she’d made the wrong move. Eyeing Brady for the last time, she allowed the moment to pass.

Rather him than us, she justified to herself, then turned and left the building without uttering another word, wiping the palm of her hand off the leg of her jeans.

Chapter 25

Writing his name in urine before his supply expired was about the most exciting thing Dougie had accomplished in the last three weeks. Not even the sound of the crickets in the heat of the night sounded exotic any more. Proving his ability for the hundredth time, only this time adding his middle initial to demonstrate his prowess, he smiled, pulled up his fly then returned to his colleagues in the van, wiping his hands on the legs of his trousers as he walked.

Tio, having returned with coffee and pastries only minutes before, objected vociferously to Jorge’s lack of hygiene as he selected but returned two cakes to the cardboard tray before settling on a temptingly flaky almond cookie. Dougie was no linguist, but even he didn’t need a translator to interpret the foreign expletives uttered through flailing gestures. Smiling to himself, he concluded that the basic principles for stakeouts were the same worldwide regardless of rank. This was his twenty-fourth day in Spain: having drawn the short straw, literally, he had dropped Maloney back to the airport almost two weeks previously and been left to liaise with the team locally. If he never saw another jug of Sangria for the rest of his days he’d be happy. Inspector’s exam or not, this wasn’t what he’d worked his way up the ranks to do.

“Well, someone has to do it!” Maloney had teased just before he’d headed off, back to the reassuring chill and drizzle of Dublin.

Dougie had spent the majority of the twenty-four days sitting outside the villa shrouded in beautifully tended shrubbery on the east side of the town, just watching. In alternating shifts they observed and documented the movements of the suspect, Robert Toner, aka Philip Myers. They were monitoring his calls, photographing his encounters and tracking his every move. And it was as boring as hell. As far as Dougie was concerned there was no ‘second man’ or even an accomplice and this was just a massive waste of everyone’s time and money.

Villa Mena was a prime piece of property. Rented in the name of an apparently fictitious Julio Martinez, with excellent, but also fictitious, credentials, the villa was perched high in the hills with a magnificent view of the valley and sea beyond. There was only one viable entrance route to the front of the house with a side entrance that led from the kitchens, wrapping itself around the property and back onto the street about fifty metres from the main gate, serving as easy access for the housemaid and waste disposal and collection. A twin garage with automatic doors faced onto the street, its roof doubling as a patio for the guest bedroom, which gave access to the teak balcony that cantilevered majestically over a lush, tiered and carefully tended landscape. But the foremost striking feature had to be a most inviting infinity pool carved into the ground with sweeps and curves, spilling over the edge as if down into the valley below. Toner aka Myers was a lucky man and, it transpired, a creature of habit: getting up at the same time, jogging for an hour before returning to shower, then Continental breakfast in Los Billares – like clockwork, every morning. During the day he toured the local resorts, ate in neighbouring towns or topped up his tan by the pool at the villa. By night he frequented a few of the local bars and restaurants – alone, to start, but often he would stumble home late with a companion or two. Each guest was photographed and scanned through the database for recognition, with no luck so far. For over three weeks now they watched him gallivant with little contact with either the “real” outside world or the underworld.

Munching on his cake, Dougie wondered just how long more of this he’d have to endure, deciding to make contact in the morning with Maloney to arrange for his return to Dublin pretty damn quick. For the moment, though, all he could do was watch the outside of the house and listen to the incessant bickering inside the van.

Tonight, it appeared, Philip, once again, had company. According to the roaming unit, he’d picked her up in La Palmera, a popular disco bar in town, consumed more than a few drinks with her, danced badly, then obviously invited her home. They fell intoxicated out of the taxi outside the villa, their drunken stumbling and laughing making it next to impossible to get a good picture of her. Under the cover of a blanket of long silky black hair and the fake-fur collar on her short jacket, her face was obscured. The image was crap and collectively they agreed they’d get a better one when she left. Like randy schoolboys they swapped fantasies, in poor English for Dougie’s benefit, using hand gestures and mime, about the antics and acrobatics likely to be performed in the villa that night. Between sniggers and guffaws the monotony of the hours was endured, only interrupted by the heavy trudge of the refuse van and the calming whoosh of the road cleaner. When the morning shift team arrived, Dougie had had enough and was glad to go back to his meagre albergue to sleep and dream of his return home.

While he slept, the refreshed surveillance team waited outside the villa for the anticipated departure of Philip’s guest. And they waited. But by ten thirty there was still no sign of either Philip or the girl. They called headquarters. At eleven fifteen a parcel was deployed for delivery. By eleven thirty the courier was banging on the door of an empty house.

* * *

Picking him up, she was told, would be easy. He preferred vivacious brunettes and liked to drink Bourbon, straight, with ice. She was given a recent photograph, a list of his favourite haunts, a heavy sedative powder and fifty per cent up front.

They were right. He was easy. Within an hour of spotting her mark she was sitting knee to knee with him at his table, having danced the Lambada and established a shared love of Jack Daniels. He was surprisingly good company. She didn’t have to work too hard – in fact, she kind of enjoyed his company and kissing him was thrilling. If she could only enjoy all her nixers this much. Pity she had to put him out: she suspected he’d be great in bed.

Another life, she mused, dancing provocatively against his hips, disappointed by the idea that in this one she wouldn’t get to follow through. So she was happy to gyrate a little longer, but when he suggested they leave, she didn’t protest. They laughed the entire journey home and literally fell out of the taxi at the heavy gates that opened onto paved steps up to the villa door. Aware of the van, she manipulated her hair, arms and hand gestures so that her face was never in clear sight. Inside the door he was putty in her hands.

“A drink?” she suggested.

“Sure. Champagne?”

“Only the best!”

The powder effervesced to nothing almost immediately. Not a trace. Although she imagined she could taste it on his lips. Turning on the music, he invited her to dance and they sashayed over the short-pile rug, moving well in the beginning of the synchronised seduction, while he nibbled at her sweet-smelling neck only to, little by little, stagger and lurch clumsily as the drug took hold. His wandering hands missing their target, flopping limp by his side, as her neck morphed from nectar to night nurse. Sleep followed a blurred stupor and then he was cold. Stroking his face tenderly, she gave him one last kiss before turning on the TV, draining her own glass and waiting for her signal to leave.

The text came no more than an hour later and, as instructed, she left from the kitchen and followed the path that led past the pool to the bottom of the garden, where a faint track guided her towards the back wall of the garden next door. Taking a deep breath, she gingerly walked the narrow rough trail between it and the steep drop into the valley below. She felt rather than saw the track even out and, reaching out to her side, felt leaves instead of stone. Bending to her hands and knees, she tentatively felt out the discreet gap in the shrubbery she had been assured was there and, shimmying through it, found herself in a large garden and in no time was back onto the road, out of sight of the van she knew she had to avoid. Scanning left to right, she fixed her dishevelled skirt then walked the distance into the town centre to pick up a cab home. She was tired and had an early start in the morning.

Laying her head on her pillow before switching off her nightlight she wondered about poor Philip and what might become of him. She had learned not to ask. He didn’t get another moment’s thought and she was, in minutes, sleeping like a baby.

* * *

Like smoke they arrived, filtering without a sound, slowly spreading their deadly touch as they swept the house. Fully clad in black from head to toe, with soft soles and gloves, they moved through the villa, six in total. They crept through the house like ninjas, silently and methodically wiping every surface of all evidence of both its tenant and his guest. Without words they moved from room to room, communicating with their hands in a sharp military language learnt at a camp deep in the countryside.

When they were sure that all traces were eradicated they turned their attention to Philip, sleeping soundly now, on a plastic sheet in the centre of the living-room floor, naked except for his Armani boxer shorts. He was picked up and thrown over a shoulder and carried towards the back of the house, through the kitchen out to the rear yard, and placed carefully into the tall black-plastic waste bin. One of the intruders pushed the heavy container towards the side passage and down toward the service gate where he positioned it and then waited, deadly still but listening.

Inside the house the collected items were bundled into black rucksacks and positioned comfortably on the backs of the remaining ninja sweepers, leaving hands free, just in case. Then they walked to the service gate where they too waited.

They felt the truck first though their feet, then heard its trundle as it rode slowly over the uneven surface of the road, pausing every few minutes to pick up its next load. As the decibels increased and the vibrations intensified, one moved forwards and silently unlatched the gate, as another pushed the bin forward, then retreated around the corner and again, waited.

The refuse truck coasted slowly past the surveillance van, coming to a stop at each villa gate to collect the bin. The occupants of the van did not heed the faces of the grimy council workers as they lugged the heavy vessels to the truck, hooked them to the mechanical arms and watched as they were hoisted and tumbled in mid-air, meeting the ground again with a heavy thud. Nor did they heed the bin that was lifted but never returned, nor the bins beyond Villa Mena that were never collected.

The shadowy figures left the way they had come, moving gracefully despite their heavy loads along the perimeter hedge, blending into the shrubbery and down the cliff face into the valley and the awaiting Land Rover.

Chapter 26

Not for the first time the security guard ran the kids off the land. These abandoned sites had become their playgrounds through the recession. Between them and the scavengers hunting for valuable trash, he had his work cut out for him. At one time there was money in these wastelands with long-since-forgotten machinery and equipment fetching hundreds, sometimes the odd thousand, euro. But these were nothing but material graveyards now, their wealth long since plundered. There was nothing left but relinquished dreams and unfinished grey and seamed concrete skeletons.

Wandering aimlessly, doing his rounds in the blistering heat, he lamented the good old days when opportunities were plentiful and dreams actually came true. In the far right corner, a wet patch, like an oasis in the desert, caught his eye. He couldn’t explain to the authorities later what made him investigate – maybe it was his naturally curious spirit that instinctively told him something wasn’t quite right – but whatever it was that lured him to it, he soon found himself digging away wet clay and loose rubble that filled a deep perimeter trench. The sun beat down on his sweating back as he cleared the hole to find, at its bottom, what looked like an old white chest, face down, its edge piercing an old water main. The trench had obviously started its life as a small hole, made bigger over time as the water seeping slowly out gradually eroded the disintegrating cast-iron pipe. The chest was heavy, but not so much that he couldn’t move it, and heaving it slowly about he realised it was an old fridge. He let it drop back onto its proper base then stepped back for a breather. The force of its drop as it hit the ground and bounced a little broke the seal to let the old door open to a crack. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he put his foot to the door, fitting the steel toe of his boot between the door and the frame, pushing its rusted hinge with little difficulty. The stench that followed pressed hard into his chest, stealing his breath. Falling back, putting his hand against the dirt trench walls to steady himself, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the contents that spilled out in lumps over his feet. The heat, combined with the moisture, obviously had been a pure breeding ground for the array of insects that poured like lava from the sarcophagus that had remained shut for months. His screams carried well in the still shimmering heat of the afternoon air, all the way to the village. Heads turned briefly in the direction of the echoing hills only to turn back again, disinterested, to the activity at hand.

The dismembered body tumbled from the box as he clambered from the hole, shrieking like a banshee. He had never experienced anything like it, not in his forty-five years, nor was he likely to see anything like it again. The image would haunt him: the sight of the decomposed body parts, putrid and decaying, and among them a band of rotting elastic bearing the name of Armani.

Chapter 27

One year later

Matthew stood like an angel on the altar of the church. His hands were held in prayer and his eyes were closed in semblance of deep concentration as he waited for his name to be called in the roll call of First Holy Communicants. He opened one eye, just a bit, to see if his mum was watching and seeing that she was smiled a big grin down at her. As his name was called he snapped shut the peeping eye and promised God to be a good boy. He looked so grown-up standing up there in his navy pinstripe suit – his choice, wanting to look just like James Bond – with his hair perfectly brushed and white rosette gleaming on his lapel. He was so handsome and such a great kid. Esmée felt so proud she could have burst. He had coped so well these last few months and had, through school and his First Holy Communion classes, appeared to have found solace in God, which, given his age and her own feelings on the Catholic Church, she found difficult to deal with. She supposed it was because through his innocent faith he still felt a connection to his father who was now, apparently, an angel in heaven, or so Matthew insisted. If only he knew. Matthew prayed to his angel father each night before bed and each morning as he rose. It repulsed Esmée to listen to his gentle mumbling but, despite her disquiet, she couldn’t and didn’t discourage this one comfort he had found.

“I wouldn’t worry, sis – it’s just a phase – he’ll grow out of it,” Penny had remarked when Esmée mentioned it to the girls. “It could be a boy thing too, you know – girls tend to be more open and talk about their feelings.”

“I’m not worried, really, it’s just an . . . observation more than anything else.”

“Would you two ever leave the boy be?” her mother scolded, listening to them chatter. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with him – he just misses his dad who, you two need to remember, in his own little world was perfect.”

Looking at him now beaming down at her, she agreed with her mum: she didn’t need to worry. He was doing just fine. Thankfully Amy was just that little bit younger and more interested in her Barbie than what was going on around her.

She felt awkward sitting in the pew. The last time she sat in a church had been for Matthew’s First Confession. How ironic, she thought to herself: confession! She felt uncomfortable then and even more so now. She could almost feel the crucifix vibrate overhead. But the shameful thing was that she felt no guilt. She wasn’t sorry at all. Defiant in the face of her spiritual accuser, she was more than happy to justify her actions. Sitting there watching her son and seeing how like his father he was, both in looks and mannerisms, she thought about Philip. It used to be that she thought about him several times each and every day, mostly in anger. But that had passed and he had only recently stopped being her most frequent thought of the day. After her encounter with Brady she knew he’d turn up, one way or the other, but she didn’t think it would take as long as it did. For three long months she had waited for news. Every knock on the door, every ring of her phone set her nerves on end. When word eventually came it was a relief.

* * *

As soon as she opened the door to him, she knew why he was there. Even though Maloney had become a regular visitor to the house, finding one excuse after another to call on her, this time his body language gave it away. Everything screamed ‘sorry’ from the get-go: from the stiff upright crane of his neck to the submissive lowering of his eyes. Before he’d even opened his mouth she could tell his first words were going to be “I’m sorry” and he didn’t let her down.

“I’m sorry, Esmée, but it’s not good news. Can I come in?”

Then it was over. Philip was dead. For real this time. Like she knew he would be. She didn’t ask how but she knew why.

He mistook her tears as those of grief rather than relief, and instinctively went to wrap her in his arms, but her impulse was to jump and pull back. Maloney wasn’t subtle, his intentions were becoming more than a little obvious . . . but she couldn’t go blundering into any relationship just now . . . she needed time to find her bearings, to heal.

Humbled by her rebuff, Maloney faltered and offered only a brief description as to where they had found him, thinking she didn’t need to know the gruesome details, but when she did eventually ask weeks later he told her what he knew. She felt nauseated at how he had ended up and disturbed by how little remorse she actually felt. She was responsible. But, she justified, Brady would have found him regardless sooner or later – she had just cut short the wait. Was she really that kind of person, the kind who could commit hideous acts but still sleep at night without feeling culpable in any way? If she was, then really she was no better than Brady, although her motives were far more noble, and she had two: Matthew and Amy. They were the antidotes to her remorse; she just needed to remind herself of that as often as she could.

“Does Julie know?” she had asked Maloney that evening as they waited for Tom and the girls to arrive to “comfort’” her.

“Dougie is on his way there now,” he replied, still feeling foolish from her earlier rejection.

* * *

The day after receiving the news that Philip had been found dead she had gone to see Julie, who’d opened the door with a weak smile.

“I was thinking about you this morning,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They shared a brief hug, a small gesture to their token grief, which neither really felt but both were obliged to pretend.

“There isn’t anyone else I can talk to about Robert,” Julie said after they had settled down in the living room with coffee. “Do they know how it happened or who did it?”

“No,” Esmée replied, afraid to look up. “But they think Brady may have had a hand in it.”

Had Philip been a good man, an upstanding citizen, a pillar of the community there would have been outrage over his death. An Irish man murdered in the South of Spain and in such hideous circumstances? How could this have happened? But Philip wasn’t any of those things. He had defined his path, so people weren’t surprised it had come to a bad end.

And now, with his death, real this time, both Esmée and Julie had some bizarre decisions to make.

“I can’t bury him twice,” Julie told her with an apologetic but resolute expression. “As far as I’m concerned he died years ago and I’m happy with that. I’m happy now. What he did to us. What he did to you, your children . . . I’m glad the bastard is dead.”

But Esmée wasn’t ready to let him go that easily.

* * *

It was an unusually cold day, but then it wouldn’t be Ireland if it wasn’t unusual. Only Esmée stood in the chapel of the crematorium, looking tall and elegant in a black shift dress, heels and her black mac, the same one she wore the day she met him in Spain. She wore a cerise pink scarf around her neck, a splash of colour, a gesture to represent life after his death. She held her arms crossed in front of her with her hand resting clenched against her mouth.

The priest stood embarrassed before her. He’d never done this before: presided over a funeral with only a single mourner. He had to insist on even this small ceremony. “The dead deserve to be forgiven,” he had told her, a final act of humanity before sending them on their journey to the next life. He coughed politely, ill at ease but determined to do his duty whatever this man’s sins.

“Dearly Beloved,” he began, looking at her, the only member of the congregation, but she wasn’t listening.

Esmée couldn’t take her eyes off the simple, unadorned timber coffin. He was gone. She remained standing throughout the short service, the words and readings merging into one long murmur that made no sense at all. And when it was finally over the haunting guitar and flute combination of Gabriel Fauré’s Pavane accompanied the casket as it rolled slowly back and only when the two sumptuous scarlet curtains met did she take her seat. There were no tears and no prayers; she was numb. She let the evocative notes play out their elegant but humble finale then stood up and left the chapel. Outside in the cemetery in the half-hearted sunshine there was no ignoring the white outhouse adjacent to the main building, its chimney billowing a light grey smoke up to the skies. She sat on a bench intended for serene meditation and watched him burn.

Where had the Esmée of last year gone? When had she become so hard?

* * *

A firm squeeze from Fin on her leg yanked her back to reality where the Communion congregation was getting to their feet to celebrate in song. So happy. So optimistic, and thankfully infectious. The church burst into applause as the hymn came to an end and her handsome boy along with all the other children made their way back to their seats.

“You were fantastic,” she told him as she bent down to cuddle him and kiss the top of his head.

“Mom!” he protested indignantly.

Outside in the courtyard there were photographs and smiles. The entire family had turned out to celebrate, including Julie and Beth. Harry wasn’t quite ready to make that leap, but Beth was curious about her little half-brother and sister. And they were welcomed by Esmée’s family with open hearts, minds and deep curiosity. Sylvia hugged first and spoke after.

At Matthew’s request they were having “a barbeque feast” back at Granny’s. And it was just that, with Tom at the helm wearing an apron and a grin. Rarely in control in a kitchen, barbequed spare ribs and marinated prawns were his culinary saving grace. Sitting in the heart of the gorgeous garden, they ate the delicious food, drank chilled beers and homemade lemonade and laughed. Lots. Conversation flowed freely and banter rolled as Julie was welcomed into the fold through hilarious tales and intimate confessions of a family growing up. Esmée took pleasure in watching the barriers come down as between them. Her siblings cajoled and encouraged Julie until she could see her shoulders relax and her smile reach her eyes. At that moment she herself was more relaxed than she had been in months. There was real joy in her life and although Philip, despite his true passing, would always feature in some part in her conscience, she had closure.

* * *

That closure had come on a cold and windy Monday morning. She had driven to the cliffs, parked and made her way down the shale slope to the dirt track that wound its way like a belt around the cliff face. She, just like Philip, knew this trail like the back of her hand and she had mentally picked out the best spot, where the drop was most sheer. Was this, she wondered, how Philip had planned his disappearing act, working out the time, the day, the detail in advance? Only he never actually got this far down. She met no one as she made her way along the undulating path, envious of the seagulls as they effortlessly rode the air currents. The wind picked up spray from the waves, which crashed against the rock face below, and carried it up to pepper salt on her face. She could taste it on her lips when she stopped. This was the spot. This wasn’t a ritual, but she needed to take a moment to think. Admiring the wilds of nature around her, she committed Philip’s memory finally to the depths he had pretended to go to.

Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she took from her bag a small but deadly bundle. Unwrapping it from its cloth bandage, she drew back her arm as far as she could, then putting all her energy into her swing cast her arm forward, letting go of the black weapon with a jolt. She watched it fly and followed its trajectory, happy that she had given it enough thrust to see it well over the edge to be swallowed by the sea below.

It was gone and with it any chance of Philip being exposed as her father’s murderer. The enormity of what she had just done was patently clear to her, but if there was a chance that she could spare her family more humiliation and pain then she would take it. She didn’t want her kids growing up with that stigma. For that she would do time herself. And if her brother or sisters were ever to find out what she had just done, not only would they not understand but they would never forgive her. But they would never find out. She would never tell and she trusted Harry would keep silent too, to protect his own family.

* * *

The ring of the doorbell interrupted the afternoon.

“I’ll get it!” Penny sighed when no one else moved.

Tom looked at Esmée with a raised eyebrow as a casually dressed Maloney followed the grinning Penny through the French doors and out into the garden.

“Don’t say a word!” she warned, handing Tom her plate, and went to greet her guest.

With a hand at her waist Maloney bent to kiss her on the cheek.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“You’re welcome!” she responded with a smile.

“Where’s Matthew?” he asked, waving the obligatory sealed envelope in his hand.

“Money Bags is under there,” she replied, indicating the underside of the table where her son was quietly counting and re-counting his day’s earnings.

“A true banker in the making!” He smiled wryly.

“Maloney!” Matthew erupted from under the table, his eyes fixed on the tell-tale envelope.

Laughing, Maloney handed it over and Matthew, rewarding him with a big grin, dived under the table again.

“I see I’m not the only guest,” Maloney noted, looking towards Julie.

“I know,” Esmée beamed. “She’s great! And Mum loves her! Come on, I’ll get you some food!” Leading him to the table, she offered him the spare seat opposite Julie before heading back to the smoking barbeque.

“You really need to sort that out,” Fin warned her from beside Tom.

“God, I know,” Esmée shrugged, filling a plate for him. “He’s a good guy, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see . . .”

“Have you kissed him yet?” Tom asked devilishly.

“No!” Esmée said quietly, looking over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t heard.

“And why not?” he asked, and she replied with a look that warned ‘don’t push it!’

“Leave her be!” Fin retorted, digging him in the ribs with her elbow, only to repeat his question: “So, why not?” Then she and Tom broke into immature sniggers.

Grinning, Esmée grabbed a slightly incinerated burger, turned and walked away, her head held high.

The remainder of the afternoon came and went. Esmée sat and observed the characters around her, enjoying the mood and relishing the smiles. She had done the right thing, of that she was sure, and that is what made all of this possible. From behind she felt a hand squeeze tight on her shoulder.

“All right?” she asked as Fin threw herself into the empty chair.

“Jesus, I’m wrecked!” Fin moaned, kicking off her shoes. “And my hair stinks of smoke. It’s hard work, this barbeque lark!”

“Thanks for helping out today – you two played a blinder!” Esmée responded while stroking her young son’s hair as he snuggled into her lap, fast asleep.

“Anything for you, m’dear!”

“For me or for him?” Esmée grinned, nodding towards Tom who was munching away on the last of the prawns.

“Whatever!” Fin responded with a smirk. “He’s all right, is your brother!”

“You’re not so bad yourself!” Esmée said.

A blushing Fin swatted the compliment away with her hand. “Ah, stop now!”

“No, seriously, Fin, thanks for everything these last months – you’ve been so good to me.”

“You don’t need to thank me! I’ve only done what any friend would do. You’d have done the same for me.”

“Yeah, except you wouldn’t have been so thick as to end up in my situation!”

“Ah, for God’s sake, Esmée, cut yourself some slack! You weren’t to know. And you’ve done an incredible job, you know that, don’t you?”

Esmée shrugged, but had to admit as she surveyed the scene in front of her that she’d done all right.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” she replied gracefully.

Fin reached across, took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She didn’t let go, but held onto it and they sat in silence letting the conversations around them filter in and out.

“Look at that,” Fin said after a while, nodding towards the centre of the garden where Amy sat cross-legged on the blanket while Beth brushed her hair and was introduced to each of her twelve almost identical Barbie dolls.

“She doesn’t know herself,” Esmée mused, smiling affectionately at her chattering daughter. “She thinks Beth is just hers.”

She sat and contemplated the two girls, Fin’s hand still covering her own, and whispered, more to herself, than anyone else: “From darkness comes light.”