Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  It takes fifteen minutes for us to get to speak to a teller. The one we get is a guy in his early twenties, and I can tell by the lack of emotion in his greeting that he’s less than ecstatic to be here. Teller Boy wears enough hair product to pollute the Pacific Ocean and his beard may well thicken out in a decade. Or two.

  ‘I’d like access to my safety deposit box please.’ I hold up the key in case he’s too dumb or disinterested to understand my words.

  The lie that the box is mine isn’t the worst one I’ve ever told and I’m not sorry for it. The last thing I want to do is draw the bank staff’s attention to me, and whatever Ms Rosenberg may have left.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll have to get Mr Nolan.’

  He levers himself off his padded stool and approaches a door. He knocks, opens it, and walks through it, without waiting for an answer.

  Taylor and I take seats as instructed. Now that we’re this close to finding out what’s in the box, I start to doubt myself. It’s not that I think I’m wrong; more that I begin to wonder if I’m going to be left looking stupid when the key doesn’t open the box.

  Another part of my brain imagines a different scenario. One that has me and Taylor bundled into the back of a panel van by a bunch of gun-wielding hoods. Ms Rosenberg’s secret will be taken from us, and Taylor and I will be sent to sleep with the fishes.

  I know I’m jumping at clichéd shadows but, after hearing Halvard’s story, I can’t stop thinking that every person looking our way is a mafia spy watching us.

  I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds. If the mafia were watching this bank they’d know more than just the branch details.

  None of this does anything for my jitters though. I can fight, I’m good at it, and on primal levels, I enjoy it, but there is a world of difference between tossing drunks and fitting people with concrete overcoats. Sometimes in life, you have to recognise your limits.

  I see a man emerge from behind the counter. He’s dressed the way a bank manager is expected to dress. His shoes are buffed to a glossy finish and his suit is sharper than anything that’s ever been in my cutlery drawer, let alone my wardrobe.

  It’s his head that lets the side down. He probably imagines that the stubble makes him look cool; instead it makes him look uncouth. Coupled with the horseshoe of hair that hangs to his shoulders, it destroys everything his clothes set out to create.

  ‘I’m Nolan, the manager.’ He proffers his hand for a shake. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, ma’am.’

  Nolan’s hand is rough and his grip strong. I now have a mental image of him dressed in denim and leather, sitting astride a Harley. In the pillion seat is a wrinkled woman with more tattoos than teeth.

  Nolan leads us through a side door, taking care to make sure we don’t see the number he keys in. We’re in a short corridor with four closed doors. He takes us to the door at the end of the corridor and repeats his secretive number pressing.

  When Nolan opens the next door he reveals a staircase. The cloying smell of decay and age wafts up at us, making me think that the door hasn’t been opened in a long time.

  He sets off down the stairs and I gesture for Taylor to go after him. When we get to the bottom, we are confronted by the kind of huge door I’ve seen in a thousand heist movies.

  Nolan spins the dial on the front of the door through a series of clockwise and counter-clockwise turns, until there’s a faint clunk. Next he grips what looks like a ship’s wheel and spins it. The whine that accompanies his exertions makes me think this door is rarely opened.

  The door doesn’t creak when he hauls it open, but I can see beads of sweat covering his forehead as he battles against unoiled hinges.

  ‘Which box number is it, sir?’

  I read the number on the key and watch as his eyebrows rise.

  ‘Interesting.’

  He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t make anything of his comment. Instead, I wait for him to take me to the actual box.

  His interest is intriguing to me though. I’m guessing he and his staff have wondered about this box many times. The fact it’s lain untouched for forty years will probably have puzzled them and led to wild speculation. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he, or a previous manager, has had a peek at the box’s contents out of curiosity. I know it’s unfair of me to malign bank managers this way, but they are a section of society I’ve never felt able to fully trust. To my mind they are money-grubbers, whose main aim in life is the collection of other people’s assets.

  Nolan leads us into the vault and I see a range of different sized safety deposit boxes. Some are like drawers in a dressing table and others are large enough to be used as football lockers. If Ms Rosenberg has one of the larger boxes and it’s full, there’s no way the backpack I’m carrying will suffice.

  Nolan stops before a column of the smaller boxes, points at the third from the bottom, and steps aside. ‘This is the one.’

  I could blame the dusty air and the confined space for my dry mouth and shortness of breath, but it would be a lie. This is the moment of truth. I’m about to find out what’s in the box.

  I look at Taylor and get a nod as confirmation that I should open the box. Nolan, to his credit, has retreated to the door and turned his back.

  The key doesn’t slide into the lock with ease; I push it a little. Not hard enough to jam it, but with sufficient power to force it through decades worth of dried oil.

  It’s the same when I try to turn it. The key goes a fraction clockwise then stops dead.

  I press a little harder, fearful that the key will snap in the lock.

  It doesn’t budge, so I turn it counter-clockwise until it is back to its locked position. I draw the key out and use my fingers to remove the fragments of dried oil.

  The key slides in easier the second time, but it still won’t turn past that first fraction.

  A touch on my arm alerts me to Taylor. She’s holding the miniature bottle of perfume that she keeps in her purse.

  I get her meaning at once and remove the key, clean it with my fingers again, and give it a liberal spray of perfume. I scoosh a few squirts in the lock and try inserting the key again.

  This time, after a few gentle twists in either direction, it rotates through ninety degrees.

  I pull on the box’s handle and the drawer slides open with a tortured screech.

  The lid lifts with ease. All I can see is a large brown envelope and, while it doesn’t look full, there are enough papers inside to give it a bulge.

  I lift the envelope from the box and slide it in my backpack. Whatever it contains has waited forty years for discovery. Rather than open it in front of Nolan, I decide that its secrets can wait another few minutes until we’re somewhere private.

  When the safety deposit box clangs shut, I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I draw in some air and leave the dusty vault, which now has a hint of summer flowers from Taylor’s perfume.

  As we leave, I hand the key to Nolan and tell him that we have no further need for the safety deposit box.

  22

  Taylor sends me to the bathroom while she orders coffee. I don’t need the bathroom; we both agree I should open the envelope somewhere private. The coffee shop was her idea.

  I also think she’s making sure I have plenty of fluids, although I’m already energised by coffee after spending half the night either drinking or thinking. I still haven’t told her that Alfonse has given me an address for my father.

  I tried to assess my feelings about meeting him, as an adult, but didn’t get very far. The whisky that was still in my system had me oscillating between wanting to punch his lights out, and hoping he would break down in tears, proclaiming that leaving Mother, Sharon and me was the biggest mistake of his life.

  Now I’m sober again, I know that hitting him isn’t the best idea when I need his help, or should I say, my half-brother needs his help. Nor do I believe he’ll show any degree of repentance. If he had wanted to connect with me or Sharo
n, it would have taken one call to my grandparents to find out where we were. That call may have happened, but whether it did or not, he never turned up on my doorstep with a hangdog expression and a mouthful of apologies.

  When I spoke to Grandad on the phone, I was on the point of asking him if he’d kept my father updated on my life, when something stopped me. Looking back, I think it was the fear of Grandad telling me that Father had never asked about us. Whatever else happens when I confront him, I know I’ll be guarding myself against the pain of further rejection.

  A cubicle becomes free so I enter and concentrate on not breathing through my nose.

  When I pull Ms Rosenberg’s envelope from my backpack, I see a signature has been scrawled across the sealing flap.

  I take a close look at the signature and see the envelope has remained unopened. Either Nolan and his predecessors are unworthy of my distrust, or they’ve been deterred by the signature.

  I’m not. I tear the sealing strip back and fish out the contents.

  There are some pages that have been torn from ring-bound notebooks, two typed pages, six black and white photographs, and a small envelope.

  The envelope can wait. I look at the loose notebook pages first, but see nothing except a series of indecipherable squiggles. My best guess is that it’s shorthand. With luck, Taylor will be able to translate it for me.

  Next, I look at the typed statements. After reading them, the reason I’m holding my breath has nothing to do with the cubicle’s previous occupant. What’s on these pages is huge. Not quite earth-shattering or world-changing, but still huge. I now know why Ms Rosenberg had feared for her life. In her place I’d fear for mine.

  Except, I am now in her place. I’m the one who holds damning proof.

  I tear open the small envelope and find a key to a post office box. There’s no mystery to this one. Just a scrap of paper with an address.

  I don’t know what it contains, but if it’s as incendiary as this envelope, the country will be rocked by the level of corruption.

  The people in the pictures aren’t anyone I recognise, but I’m sure they were recognisable when they were taken.

  Taylor’s face is expectant when I join her at the small round table in the centre of the room. Nobody is paying us any attention – other than a pair of city workers who’re probably entranced by Taylor’s beauty.

  Regardless of our anonymity, I’m nervous about bringing Taylor up to speed in a place where so many people could overhear us. I lean towards her and whisper that I’ll tell her everything as soon as we’re alone.

  We take a walk after finishing our coffees. Half a block along from the bank we find a children’s playground. We sit on a bench with graffiti scratched into its paintwork and I let Taylor see the contents of the envelope.

  When she’s finished reading she looks at me and gives a grimace. ‘It’s a long time since I learned shorthand, but I can make out most of what Ms Rosenberg has written. We can pick up a notebook on the way to that PO box.’

  I’m so pleased by her willingness to help, that I could kiss her. So I do.

  She breaks after the kiss. ‘Maybe we’ll get some mints for Mr Whisky Breath before you get your usual ideas.’

  This tells me I’m forgiven for last night’s mistake. Sex hasn’t been on my mind this morning, but it is now. With luck, we’ll get to the PO box, retrieve its contents, and be back at our hotel soon.

  It’s then that I remember my father’s address. It’s within striking distance of New York. Any romantic thoughts will have to be shelved until I’ve met the last person I want to introduce myself to.

  23

  Taylor brings me a coffee, takes a seat and sips at her water, leaving a smear of fuchsia lipstick on the glass. On the table in front of us is a great sheaf of envelopes that we’ve retrieved from the PO box. Some are yellowed with age, whereas others are crisp and bear postal stampings with recent dates.

  We’ve kept them in the order they were put into the PO box, and we start with the first. It’s a newspaper cutting with notes about the people mentioned, and their involvement in the crime Ms Rosenberg had uncovered.

  I’ve known the secret for over an hour now and I still can’t get my head round it. I’ve read the evidence Ms Rosenberg had compiled, more than once, but I’m still struggling to take it all in.

  Taylor’s expression tells me she’s going through the same thought processes I am. Neither of us follow politics with any great attention to detail, but we’re both aware of the major issues.

  ‘This is amazing, isn’t it?’

  Taylor’s voice is low, but she needn’t worry. The dive bar we’re in isn’t the kind of place where people care about the conversations of others. There’s two guys sitting at opposite ends of the bar, drinking themselves stupider, and what I presume is a hooker, numbing herself ahead of her working day.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  She looks at me, all hazel eyes and prominent cheekbones. ‘To think he’s built his campaign on exposing his opponent’s links to organised crime, and this …’ – she waves a hand at the envelope-strewn table – ‘… this just proves that he’s worse than they are. We have to expose him, Jake. There’s no way he can be allowed to become Mayor of New York.’

  ‘You’re right. The thing is, the minute we put our names to exposing this, we’ll be painting huge targets on our backs.’

  Taylor looks scared. She should; it’s not some random bunch of thugs or bad guys who’re involved in the mayor-elect’s corruption. It’s the mafia.

  The mafia cannot ever be allowed to identify us as whistle-blowers. If that happens, Taylor, Alfonse and I will die. Their numbers and contacts are too great for us to believe that exposing their links to the mayor-elect will lead to their incarceration – and that of anyone who may exact revenge on their behalf.

  Every envelope we open is filled with details of the mayoral candidate’s career, first as a lawyer, then a judge. Specific cases are highlighted with examples of links between the defendants and organised crime.

  Three of his rulings as a judge, favoured what Ms Rosenberg had revealed as shell corporations, owned by known mafia individuals.

  This case may have cost Ms Rosenberg her job and a life with Halvard, but it was quite obviously never been one she could stop building. Her dedication to compiling evidence crosses the line into obsession.

  It’s going to take a while for Taylor and me to collate all the evidence, then we must find a way of duplicating it all, so it can be shared with as many news outlets and law enforcement agencies as possible.

  I’m not sure if this should go to Homeland Security, the FBI, the police, the NSA, or some other three-letter organisation. Although I am sure that it should go to as many as possible to ensure it gets into the right hands.

  For someone to get into office as the mayor of New York with such a corrupt background is unthinkable.

  I need to speak to Alfonse. He needs to know what we’ve got, and I’m hoping he’ll come up with the best way to distribute it without putting a noose round our necks.

  24

  Cameron has everything in place. All he needs to do is transfer the money, wait until it’s been verified as received, and he’ll be able to start his new life. Or as he likes to think of it: his final new life.

  He logs on to the site and keys in all the necessary passwords. A minute later, he’s ready to make the transfer.

  Seven million dollars are moved from his employer’s account and into the account of the dealer.

  He reckons that by the time he turns up at the dealership, the money transfer will have gone through and he’ll be able to escape with his purchase.

  He only needs an hour or two head start and he’ll be home and dry.

  Everything he needs is in his car apart from one bag, which is sitting by the door ready for collection.

  The only way his plan can go wrong, is if his employer checks his bank account before he gets to the dealership. C
ameron knows the odds of this are small, as it’s his job to manage the accounts for them.

  He throws the bag over his shoulder and opens the door.

  There’s a man standing on the porch, with his hand raised as if he’s about to knock. The man looks uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  None of that matters to Cameron.

  All that matters is that he recognises the face.

  It’s the face he used to see in the mirror many years ago. This version has a cut lip and scrapes synonymous with received punches, but it’s still the same face.

  ‘John? Is that you, John?’

  ‘I’m Jake. Your firstborn son.’

  Cameron doesn’t know what to say. All of a sudden, his legs are weak and he’s aware of his breath shortening.

  Despite the fact he’s kept moving around, and has changed his name on several occasions, he’s always feared the day that one of his children would turn up unannounced.

  He finds his voice, but still isn’t sure what to say.

  Jake is looking at him in a way he can’t fathom. Cameron isn’t sure whether his son is getting ready to punch or hug him.

  To say something, and break the silence, he looks at the woman with Jake. ‘Sharon, my little girl, you’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman.’

  ‘This isn’t Sharon. This is my girlfriend. She’s called Taylor.’

  Even when Jake speaks, Cameron struggles to gauge his mood. Right about now, Cameron could use a stiff drink. And if his son hadn’t picked the worst moment in the last twenty years to show up, he’d damn well have one.

  He knows he needs to get this unwelcome reunion over and done with so he can make his escape. Every minute spent playing happy families, is a minute stolen from his getaway.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t the best of times for me. Perhaps we can arrange to meet somewhere later?’