The tragic victims in all this, the cuttings testified, were the young families affected by crime: Detective Gill’s grieving widow and children and Robert Toner’s distraught wife and young son.
She hadn’t ever really given them a second thought: the Toners. She’d never wondered what became of them, was never curious about the little boy and his mother. Glancing now, however, at the yellowing picture in her hand, which showed them leaving their house, she did wonder. They were being hounded by journalists and photographers. The little boy’s arm was being yanked by a frantic mother trying to get them both out of sight, his short legs trying to keep up and his little face scared and confused. With almost fifteen years’ distance she could empathise. Julie and Harry. She narrowed the search by adding "robbery", “crime” and “prison”. She wondered how they felt about Jim Brady. Did they know about his release? If she hadn’t, why would they?
She took down her laptop, fired it up and launched straight into Google.
She typed ‘James Brady’ into the box and watched the long list of hits that quickly formed. She then narrowed the search by adding "robbery", "crime" and "prison". She scrolled through each item methodically. The news stories showed very little about his release, a small commentary about the return of a reprehensible crime lord to his lair the most interesting. Stepping into his world was like delving into the mouth of a savage animal, the particulars of his activities bringing with them an indescribable surge of anger and fear.
On the face of it, he had always been an upstanding citizen, paid his taxes and earned an honest living running a small taxi firm and a bar on the outskirts of the city. This obviously didn’t account for his lavish lifestyle but he covered his tracks well and was always, frustratingly, one step ahead of the police. A well-respected neighbour, he lived “in harmony” in a small community on Dublin’s west side, where people regularly had been “astounded” by the accusations made against such an apparently “lovely, caring man who helped so many people in the community.”
But beneath the fortified surface, if the published reports were to be believed, were bountiful indictments of illicit deals, robberies and assaults, of punishment beatings and repugnant attacks on whosoever crossed his path. Despite being incarcerated, he still held the Gangland crown. An involuntary shiver washed through her as she remembered the touch of his fingers and the smell of his breath.
She typed ‘Julie Toner’ into the search box. Fewer results returned but she clicked on one of the familiar pictures from her cuttings. The image of Robert Toner himself filled the screen. His light brown hair falling in layered waves over hands that covered his face. Wrists tied together and shoulders hunched, he was being led away by a guard, flanked on either side by two suits who she assumed were his lawyers. But it was impossible to make a judgement about the man himself without seeing his eyes. Once again she wondered what might have made him do it. The unknown side to his story: the one that drove him to betray his family and friends.
The ring of the doorbell made her jump. She’d been waiting for him to call all afternoon. Maybe now he’d tell her what was going on.
* * *
On the other side of the door a nervous Maloney inhaled deeply, not looking forward to what he knew was coming. Rarely did he feel like this – dread his job – but there was something about Esmée that drew on his emotions. And while she was so anxious for information, he was sure what he had to tell her now wouldn’t make her any happier.
The morning after Esmée was attacked by her husband he had sat at his computer and begun his research. If there was something to know he’d find it, of that he was sure. Initially Philip Myers turned up a complete blank. Sure, he was there in the database but only just. Apart from the registration of the car, the insurance and a driver’s licence, Philip didn’t exist. He had no parking tickets – ever. Had never been stopped or had his insurance checked. He’d never got a speeding ticket or a summons, which at his age was quite a feat. So he brought it to his regular partner Dougie for some inspiration.
“If he’s clean, he’s clean,” Dougie offered. “Always the cynic, Maloney, eh?” he said, taking a playful swipe at his friend.
“There’s just something about this one . . .” Maloney muttered.
“Yeah, big tits and long legs more like!” Dougie retorted, not so playful.
And a week later Philip was gone.
“You need prints,” Dougie suggested. “Get his fingers and then we’ll see who he is and what he’s been up to.”
The “routine procedure” line worked and allowed him to bring forensics into the house without protest from Esmée.
“Why not just tell her?” Dougie asked, intrigued by his partner’s reticence and apparent new obsession.
“Because if she knows something she could wipe the place clean.”
“Do you think she does?”
“No, but I want to be sure. Besides, if she hasn’t a clue, I don’t want to freak her out either.”
“Don’t go getting all soft on me, bud,” Dougie warned, his double caution not lost on the wary Maloney. If Esmée knew what he was up to that morning in the house she would have had an even bigger meltdown. But he’d got his prints and answers with them.
At the weekly operations meeting they had planned on telling her along with the rest of the family about Brady’s release but Brady was quicker off the mark.
“Snooze ’n’ you lose,” Maloney told his boss, with a told-you-so nonchalance, furious that this mistake had placed him so firmly in Esmée’s line of fire and, boy, did she shoot! His ego still smarted at the memory of the insults hurled. The hardest part was that he had no option but to take it. They had missed their opportunity and were now uncomfortably on the back foot. This latest development placed them embarrassingly at an even further disadvantage and, it seemed, it was his task to catch up.
* * *
Maloney was nervous. Esmée Myers was making him so. Her long luxurious hair was falling simply about her shoulders, the waves resting against her shoulder blades. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a T-shirt. The unconscious sway of her behind as it moved was alluring and the outline of her breasts magnetic. He needed to focus, but his eyes were charged. This is crazy, he told himself, watching her as she checked on the kids.
Refusing both the tea and the seat, he rested himself against the kitchen counter, a folder in his hands. He then asked if there was anyone else in the house.
“Just me and the kids – Tom is on his way back here now,” she replied cautiously. “Why?”
“We can wait until he gets here before we start,” he proposed apprehensively.
His concern triggered alarm bells once more: Maloney was fast becoming the Messenger of Doom.
“No. I’m happy that we can get going without him. Frankly I just don’t have the patience to wait any longer.”
“Please, Esmée, trust me. Give your brother a call and see if he’s close.”
Complying, she called her brother, then reported: “He’s just a minute away. Now please can we get on with this?”
“Let’s wait.”
“No. You need to tell me now what the bloody hell is going on!”
He locked eyes with her but was the first to drop his gaze.
“Believe me,” he said. “It’s best if we wait for your brother.”
“Now. Tell me now or get out.”
Well! She’s asked for it, he thought as he cleared his throat. “Sorry, Esmée, there really is no easy way for me to tell you this . . .” He paused and braced himself.
“Oh God, just spit it out, will you?”
He drew a photograph from the file he had in his hand. Placing it on the table, he looked at her with apologetic eyes.
It was a photo of Philip.
“I’m sorry, Esmée, but Philip Myers, your Philip Myers, doesn’t exist. That’s not his real name.”
And taking a large brown envelope from the folder, he extracted from it a photograph, placed it slowl
y on the table and pushed it towards her.
Tom arrived just in time to catch her as she fell.
Chapter 17
Esmée watched from the car. It was a familiar scene, one she had enacted herself almost every day. Fifteen years on and the little boy, it appeared, had become a man and a handsome one at that. Julie looked tired, she thought, observing the routine from the safe distance of the road. She wondered if he still lived at home, maybe got a girlfriend? Or was he in college and home for the weekend? He’d be about twenty-one now. And so handsome. His strong angular features so unusually striking: just like his father’s. A young girl got out from the back seat of the car, her head firmly planted in a book, her long blonde hair tied back in two plaits. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her slender delicate frame reflected that of her mother.
“Excuse me, young lady!” her mother called.
Esmée smiled to herself at the familiar tone.
“Don’t go inside with one arm as long as the other – help, please!”
Reluctantly the girl complied and with her book in one hand and what Esmée guessed to be the smallest of the bags she huffed her way into the house.
They weren’t what she had expected. They seemed normal enough, even happy as they went about their business, unaware of their observer only a short distance away. But then Esmée wasn’t sure what she had expected. Someone like her perhaps? They, the kids, were so much older – as good as a whole generation older than her own. Nervous now, the hopeful abundance of courage having languished to almost nothing, she debated just staying in the car to watch. What exactly did she believe she could accomplish? Why was she here? But, getting out of the car, she knew she hadn’t driven the two-hour journey to turn back.
She locked the car and made the short trek towards the pretty suburban semi-detached house, clutching her bag close.
Julie was just about to close the front door but paused cautiously on seeing Esmée approach.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely.
Esmée stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t thought of what to say as an opener and now, faced with the dilemma, she was stumped.
“Ehh. I’m Esmée, Esmée Myers.” Her name as it tripped from her mouth sounded absurd. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?” A moment of your time: where the hell did that come from she reproved herself silently, cringing from the inside out.
At five foot two to Esmée’s five seven, Julie visibly grew: defensively her long slender neck craned upward and her chin extended outwards, her beautiful features belied by the scowl that washed over her face as her demeanour mutated from affable to hostile.
“I wondered how long it would take.” Her disgust was apparent from the venom held in her voice. “I told you people before: I have nothing to say to you. Have you no shame?”
Esmée held the door just as she was about to slam it, recognising her mistake immediately.
“I’m sorry, Julie, you misunderstand – I’m not a reporter. I promise . . .” the idea of a wasted journey having come this far made her breathless. “I just want to talk. My dad was Frank Gill.” She paused, hoping the name would garner a different reaction.
For a split second Esmée thought she saw fear in the woman’s eyes. But it seemed to disappear as she released her grip on the door and her face began to relax, a slight flush rising on her perfect cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Esmée, I didn’t realise.” She lowered her eyes for a minute as if to gather herself together. “We’ve had some unwanted ‘guests’ hanging around these last few days and I thought you were the first to venture to the door. What can I do for you?”
So Julie knew about Brady’s release.
“Can I come in for a minute?” Esmée asked, reluctant to talk on the doorstep.
Assenting, Julie stepped aside and pulled open the door to let Esmée into her home.
And it was a beautiful home. She followed her down a narrow hall and into an extended open-plan living space. Esmée was blown away by the bright and beautiful room. Straight from a magazine, it was styled with strength and confidence. The oversized canvases and colourful furniture screamed sophistication to completely contradict the assumptions that Esmée had prematurely made about Julie: this was not the home of the quiet put-upon woman she remembered in the courtroom all those years ago. Julie had grown up.
Dressed in patent heels, a dark-grey pencil skirt and sparkling white shirt, with her naturally blonde hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, Julie was a reflection of her environment: sophisticated and elegant. She offered Esmée one of the comfy chairs in the lounge part of the room.
Slightly intimidated and feeling a little on the frumpy side, Esmée wished she’d made more of an effort beyond her jeans and striped cotton jumper.
“Tea? Coffee?” Julie offered, making her way to the granite-topped counter, her voice reverberating off the gleaming black surface.
“Tea, please,” Esmée replied, self-consciously fixing her runaway hair and at the same time absorbing the incredible surroundings. “You have a beautiful home,” she said, taking in the light that spilled from the Velux windows overhead, and the contrast it created on the surfaces it touched.
“Thanks. It’s taken me years to get right, but I’m happy with it now. After it all happened,” she gestured with her hands, waving back to what ever had gone before, “I went back to college to study interior architecture and this became my pet project. Therapy, if you will!” Her comfortable laugh advocated that her past was very much disconnected from her present.
“Well, it’s truly amazing!” Esmée enthused, genuinely impressed with the result. “Probably cost you a lot less than the medical kind!” she joked foolishly.
But Julie didn’t laugh in response.
“So!” she exclaimed, placing a tray on the coffee table and handing Esmée a mug before taking the seat opposite. “What did you want to ask about?”
Esmée fumbled for words in panicked response, unprepared for Julie’s apparent willingness to talk. She had assumed at the very least that she would refuse to start and need some emotional persuasion.
The door to the kitchen opened and the tall young man appeared again, head first around its edge. Closer now, Esmée was eager to take him in: his long and thick brown hair, trendy with a heavy flick to the front, the breadth of his shoulders, the size of his hands and the long slender fingers that wrapped around the door.
“You okay, Mum?” he asked, looking pointedly at Esmée.
“Yes, Harry, I’m fine.”
“I’m just in the study if you need me,” he replied, his tone unmistakably spiked with warning, then he closed the door as he left.
“I’m sorry, Julie,” Esmée apologised, indicating her now-absent son. “I didn’t come here to cause any trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it – he takes his role as the head of the family very seriously – he remembers a lot,” she said by way of an explanation, obviously proud but equally protective of him. “So, Esmée?” she prompted again.
But Esmée didn’t quite know what to say. She felt an uneasy need to befriend this woman, but at the same time wanted to punish her for the ever-so-slight impatient tenor in her attitude. Did she think that she was the only one hurt by what happened all those years ago? What exactly gave her the right to patronise? Did she really think it was that easy to move on? How could she assume that the past would never catch them up? She couldn’t possibly presume that knocking down a few walls and sticking up a few paintings would make everything all right. Impossible.
Looking at the striking and obviously strong woman in front of her, waiting with a smile for a response, Esmée knew she had the power to rock her world. Would she? Could she?
Originally the objective had been to come to the house and inspect this woman face to face: just to see who she was. Perhaps warn her about Brady if she didn’t know already. Telling all wasn’t part of the plan – after all, why would she wilfully refresh the pain? But now the pungent ra
ncour welling inside her like infectious bile was threatening to consume her and blind her ability to reason.
The ring of a phone broke the malevolent progression of her thoughts.
Smiling apologetically, Julie got up to answer it.
What the hell are you like, Esmée? Cop on and relax. This isn’t her fault. Pinching herself hard, Esmée fought the compunction to purposefully destroy this family further.
“Sorry about that,” Julie said, sitting back down. “So, you were saying . . .”
“Well . . .” The inward battle raged as Esmée swallowed hard, ruing her decision to come here in the first place. Left with no option, she launched in. “We never met, you and I, but I’ve seen your pictures a hundred times. I suppose with Brady being released it brought everything back and I just wanted to . . . I don’t know . . . speak to you, see how you were doing.”
They sat in silence for what seemed like eons, each getting used to the other’s presence, each trying to fathom silently what she should say next.
“So when did you hear he was out?” Esmée asked.
“They came and told me about it the day before yesterday.”
More than I was afforded, Esmée thought to herself. “Do you mind me asking about Robert?” she asked, taking a lead from Julie’s directness and getting straight to her point.
Julie shifted ever so slightly in her seat and thought for a moment. “Robert? Well, actually, I suppose I do. I haven’t talked willingly about him to anyone in a long time and frankly I’m not sure I want to start now.”
“Sorry. I know. I suppose I just wanted to know where he went. I know he went away under a witness protection programme but . . .”
“He could be anywhere: South Africa, Canada, the States . . . anywhere. I have no idea. We weren’t told and I didn’t ask.”
“And you didn’t go with him?”
“Us! God, no. After what happened? Are you insane?” She looked at Esmée, slightly perplexed. “You do know what happened, don’t you?”
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