“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 t
hat 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. Turn
ing 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.
Dark Mirrors Page 28
