‘How’s work?’
‘Eh… grand. Y’know, the usual.’
‘You seemed quite busier than usual earlier when I rang you.’
‘It’s been a bit of a different day alright, sweetie. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.’
Sally makes an interested huff sound down the line.
‘Okay cool. Will you be coming by the house to pick me up before the meeting or will I see you at the school?’
Lenny opens his eyes wide, then squelches his entire face in to an ugly gurn. He places both hands over the phone, holding it away from his face, them mouths a quiet ‘bollocks’ to himself. He lifts one hand from the phone, stares at the screen to catch the time. 14:17.
‘I eh…’ he stutters as he blinks rapidly. ‘I eh… got caught up in a job. I don’t think I can get to the boys’ school for three p.m.’
He winces in anticipation of Sally’s response. But he doesn’t get one; both ends of the line deathly silent.
‘Sweetie,’ he says eventually.
‘You’ve let me down. No, no… hold it: you’ve let us all down. Me, Jacob, Jared.’
Then a dead tone sounds.
Lenny kicks the pavement again. He immediately begins to fumble with his phone, then holds it back to his ear, a ringing tone sounding.
‘Go on… explain yourself then,’ Sally says upon answering.
‘Sweetie… I can’t tell you exactly what is going on right now. I will when I get home, but I’m on a very delicate job that I can’t discuss over the phone.’ Silence. Again. ‘It’s good news, baby. I got big money for this gig. A guy gave me a grand just to do a tiny bit of snooping but it’s ended up with me out in Clontarf now and I’m just not going to get back in time for the school meeting. I’m sorry. I really am.’
‘The grand that was transferred into the account this morning?’
‘Yeah… yeah, that’s it,’ Lenny says.
‘You told me that was for some older job.’
The line goes dead.
Lenny thumbs his phone, calls the home number again. No answer. Tries again. Same result. He stares at the big old house in front of him and then tips his head back, all the way back so that the light rain begins to fall against his mouth. He’s unsure what to do; whether to take a taxi back home or to follow through on his investigation. Sally has always been his priority, always will be. He should go home, give up the ghost. He spins around, faces the coastal road and begins to nibble on the butt of his phone. He thinks about his wife, about his two sons. About their sad existence.
‘Fuck it,’ he says, bringing his phone down to thumb at it again.
Sweetie I’m really sorry. Please don’t do anything stupid. I’m doing this job for us… for the whole family. Trust me. Call me back when you can. I love you. x
Then he spins on his heels and heads straight for the rickety wooden gate in front of him. He’s beyond intrigued now, the thought of making an impact in Ireland’s biggest ever missing person’s case overriding the concerns he has for his wife. He can barely bring himself to imagine what kind of attention he would get if he solved – in the space of a few hours – a mystery that has plagued the country for seventeen years.
Instead of heading for the front door, he walks to the side of the house, towards an old Volkswagen Beetle, the grass growing thick around all of its deflated tyres. He cups his hands to stare in through the window but sees nothing but darkness. Then he paces around the back of the house, notices that it’s even more unkempt than the front. The grass must be at least three foot in height, going all the way up to Lenny’s waist.
‘Jesus, this place could be so fucking gorgeous,’ he whispers to himself.
He walks further into the back garden, wading through the blades of grass and then peers in through the back window from a distance, noticing a massive, modern kitchen. He squints again – not sure what to make of the place. But he’s enjoying playing detective; his heart rate working at a pace he seems to revel in. He rummages through the long blades, picks up some litter, examines it as if he’s doing something worthwhile and then releases it from his fingers. He picks up dirty ice pop wrappers, empty plastic bottles, a broken picture frame with no photo inside it, an old oil-stained T-shirt and then the arm of a doll.
‘What the fuck?’ he says, staring back at the house. His pulse quickens. He wants to examine further, to go deeper into the mass of land at the back garden, but decides he needs to get inside. He’s not going to find Betsy out here. If Guus Meyer has her, he has her locked up inside his home. Lenny puts the doll arm in his jacket pocket, creeps back through the grass, past the Beetle and then finds himself at the large front door. He looks for a bell, can’t find one. The only thing noticeable on or around the door is a sign reading: ‘No unsolicited mail.’ Then he clenches his fist and rattles on one of the door panels. Nothing. He knocks again. Nothing. Lenny paces backwards to take in every window of the front of the home, to see if any curtains are twitching. But the house seems dead.
‘Bollocks,’ he says to himself. He contemplates ringing De Brun back, letting him know he’s outside Guus Meyer’s house and that he is growing in certainty that she may be inside; the arm of a doll enough evidence to suggest Betsy wasn’t killed by a car on the day she went missing; that she’s been holed up in this gaff all that time. But he knows he’d be laughed at. De Brun would have to be here in person to comprehend the creepiness of it all. It’s only when Lenny looks up to allow more rain to fall on his face that he realises it has stopped raining.
Then his jacket pocket begins to vibrate. He parts his lips, sighs a little and then reaches for his phone, mindfully preparing himself for his apology to Sally. But it’s not Sally ringing. Lenny’s eyebrows rise as he jabs at the answer button.
‘Jesus, Gordon, what took you so long ringing me back?’ he says.
‘Never mind that; what’s the news you have for me?’
Lenny pauses, takes a deep breath and then composes himself.
‘There was another suspect in Betsy’s disappearance – somebody De Brun never told you about.’
Lenny can hear the shuffling of bed clothes, assumes Gordon has got out of bed and is now on his feet anticipating news he has waited seventeen years to hear.
‘Who?’ he says.
‘Now hold on, Gordon… I want to know that you will abide by the deal we made a few hours ago. If I am to give you information on Betsy’s disappearance that you’ve never heard before, you will leave me your home in your will.’
‘Who?’
‘Gordon, do we have a deal?’
‘Who the fuck is it?’ Gordon says, his voice rising in both volume and frustration.
‘Gordon – I need you to—’
‘Of course you can have my fucking home if I die… tell me who the other suspect was. It’s Jake Dewey, isn’t it? The cops always told me they didn’t look into him, but they did, didn’t they? The dirty fucking—’
‘Gordon, it’s not Jake Dewey. Dewey didn’t have anything to do with Betsy’s disappearance. I spoke with De Brun and then to Frank Keville, do you know who he is?’
‘Frank Keville, the journalist guy?’
‘Yep… he told me there were four initial suspects in the case. You were one. Keating and Barry Ward the others.’
‘And?’
Lenny pauses, and for the first time imagines how Gordon is going to take this news; that his best friend and business partner for many years looks likely to be the person who abducted his daughter. Then the green door creaks open and a man, dressed in a crisp white shirt, peers through the crack.
‘Who, Lenny?’ Gordon continues to bark down the line.
Lenny holds the phone down by his side, stares at the stranger.
‘Who?’ Gordon continues to yell.
‘What’sh going on – why are you shnooping round my property?’ the stranger asks with a broad accent.
Lenny holds the phone back up to his ear, just in time to hear Gordon speak.
&nbs
p; ‘Guus… Guus… Is that Guus Meyer?’
Six years ago
Betsy
‘Hmmmm. That was good,’ I say to Bozy as I put down my copy of a book called Agatha Christie: An Autobiography. She was an incredible woman. I must read some of her books sometime. I don’t really read too much fiction these days, but I’d love to read some of hers.
Some of the words in her autobiography were a bit difficult for me. But I managed to read it all and thought it was really good. I just wish I could write as many books as her.
I climb down off my bed and sit against the wall and pick up my copybook. I flick it open to where my pen is – right at the start of chapter 21. Chapter 20 was all about me seeing out of Dod’s window for the first time. Chapter 21 was supposed to be about the stories of the people I see when I look out the window. But I was thinking last night that I should begin to write about the newspaper articles I find up in Dod’s bedroom instead.
I look up at the crack beneath the door at the top of the steps and when I am sure that Dod is nowhere near, I go over to my shelf, pick up my Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone book and open it. Then I pull out the newspaper article I took from Dod’s room two nights ago. I read it again. It’s an article about how a detective called Ray De Brun has been under pressure to find me. At the top of the newspaper page it says the date was sixth of September, 2006. I went missing in January 2002 according to another article. This isn’t the best one I’ve read. And it doesn’t have any pictures of me either. It’s just a small bit of writing down the side of the page with a headline that says: De Brun Feeling the Heat.
It is weird when I see pictures of myself in the newspaper pages. I never think they look like me. But I guess it is difficult for me to remember what I looked like when I was four years old. It always seems to be the same picture; me with a little smile on my face wearing a navy jumper. I don’t remember that jumper at all. I don’t remember much about who I was or what I did before Dod took me. I just know that he took me and that there is a big detective out there looking for me. I really want to read all of the newspaper pages Dod has in his room. But it is not often that he leaves me alone up there. When he does, I open that drawer under his wardrobe, take one of the newspaper articles out and shove it down my pants. This is the fourth newspaper article I’ve taken and I think I found them for the first time nearly a year ago. I like reading them, even though they scare me a little bit. They also make me hate Dod a little bit because he took me from Mummy and Daddy. But then he will just walk into my basement and hand me a brand new book. And suddenly I don’t hate him anymore.
He can be so good. And yet he is so bad. I guess that’s why there is a good Dod and an angry Dod.
I hear the key turn in the door and then it swings open. Oh no. I put the newspaper article inside the Harry Potter book and snap it closed really quickly. This is the first time Dod’s come down to the basement without me having a newspaper article I’ve stolen from him hidden safely. I hear my heart thump louder than it normally does. I stay silent, don’t even look up at Dod when he comes down the steps. I don’t know where to look or what to do.
‘Hey – what’s wrong with you, moody pants?’ he says. I finally look up at him and then shrug my shoulders. He probably has a little present for me. I should be feeling excited about it. But I don’t. I feel really scared. I stare down at the Harry Potter book, then back up at him.
‘I’ve got you a little something,’ he says.
I get to my feet, walk over towards him.
‘Close your eyes, put out your hands.’
I do.
‘No peeking.’
And then he puts something into my hands. It feels a little cold. Hard and cold.
‘Okay, and open.’
A Kindle. A Kindle!
‘Is this for me?’ I ask.
He laughs.
‘You betcha.’
I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him really hard.
‘Thank you so much, Dod.’
He laughs again, tosses my hair with his hands.
I look up into his eyes and smile a really, really big smile.
‘Well, I figured we wouldn’t have much room for many more books down here.’
He turns around and points at my shelves.
‘How many do you have now?’
‘A hundred and thirty-three,’ I say.
‘Well a hundred and thirty-three in this,’ he says, touching the Kindle I have snuggled into my chest, ‘won’t take up a whole wall of your basement, huh?’
I laugh.
‘Ah… and this one still is one of your favourites out of all one hundred and thirty-three, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Huh?’
My heart thumps when I look to him.
He bends down and picks up my Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.
‘Y’know – I know I’m an old man at this stage, but I really should try these out.’
He smiles, looks at me. Then his smile goes away.
‘What’s wrong with you, Betsy? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I hug my Kindle, step back a few steps and just nod my head. My heart sounds like a train. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk.
‘Betsy. Betsy.’
He calls out my name as he takes a step towards me. I try not to look at the Harry Potter book in his hands. But I can’t help it. He holds a hand to my forehead.
‘Your temperature seems fine. Why don’t you just hop into bed? Take some rest today. Maybe you can read your Kindle. I have two books loaded up on it for you. I can teach you how to download newer ones too. I’ve set up an account for you.’
I sit on the edge of my bed. Dod then lifts my feet, turns me into the bed and pulls the sheet up over me.
‘Do you not like the Kindle?’ he says. ‘Hold on – you just want books, huh? You prefer paper.’
I don’t say anything. I just stare straight ahead.
‘What’s wrong, Betsy? Why have you gone really quiet?’
I’m not quiet. My heart is being really loud. Really, really loud. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk.
‘You’d rather read a paper one like this, huh?’ he says wiggling my Harry Potter book.
Then I see it fall out. The newspaper article floating slowly from my Harry Potter book, and sailing in the air until it finally reaches the ground. I stay still.
Dod crouches down, picks it up and opens it. Then he stares right at me. As if he wants to kill me.
14:15
Gordon
I sit up sharply, whip the sheets away from me and throw my legs over the side of the bed.
‘Who?’ I say.
‘Gordon, do we have a deal?’
My palms begin to sweat. I suck a sharp breath in through my grinding teeth.
‘Who the fuck is it?’
‘Gordon – I need you to—’
‘Of course you can have my fucking home if I die! Tell me who the other suspect was. It’s Jake Dewey isn’t it? The cops always told me they didn’t look into him, but they did, didn’t they? The dirty fucking—’
‘Gordon, it’s not Jake Dewey,’ Lenny says and then my world seems to almost stand still. ‘Dewey didn’t have anything to do with Betsy’s disappearance. I spoke with De Brun and then to Frank Keville, do you know who he is?’
My eyes flicker around the ward.
‘Frank Keville, the journalist guy?’
‘Yep… he told me there were four initial suspects in the case. You were one. Alan Keating and Barry Ward the others.’
‘And?’
The line pauses. For way too long.
‘Who, Lenny?’ I bark.
Silence again.
‘Who?’
Then I hear a quiet voice. A voice I haven’t heard in years. The Dutch lisp still strong.
‘Guus… Guus… Is that Guus Meyer?’
My eyes widen. I pace around the room, my feet slapping against the cold floor.
‘Yes, Gordon. I’m
at Guus Meyer’s home. I’ll ring you back in a few—’
‘You will in your bollocks ring me back… I wanna know exactly what’s going on.’
For some reason I find myself in the toilet cubicle, then outside it. I perch on the end of my bed, then pace over to the far wall. I can’t stay still. My whole body is sprinting just as quickly as my mind is.
‘Gordon, I know this has come as a major shock to you. But please just calm down. I am going to get answers and then I am going to ring you straight back.’ I hyperventilate down the line, can actually hear my heavy breaths reverberate back into my own ear. ‘Gordon, just get that will signed and I will deliver on my promise. I am about to have news for you that you have never heard before.’ The line goes dead.
I lean back against the wall, slide down it until my ass is sitting on the cold floor. I don’t think it takes long for my head to snap out the spin it’s been in. My eyes focus on the bed rail in front of me. I lift the phone back up to my face and press at Lenny’s number. I remain focused on the bed rail, my eyes in no way interested in even blinking. Bollocks! The phone rings out. I get to my feet, try again.
‘Answer the fucking phone, Lenny,’ I pant just as my ward door opens and Elaine walks in. Her face contorts seeing me strolling around with the phone to my ear.
‘Gordon!’ She paces over to my bedside cabinet, drops a tube of Fruit Pastilles on top of it, then folds her arms under her tiny breasts and sighs at me.
I hold the phone down by my side, hold her stare before I finally speak up.
‘Elaine, my PI found something new. My best friend, can you believe it? He thinks my best friend took Betsy.’
Elaine doesn’t react; she stands still, her arms still folded. The silence is almost deafening, both of us deep in thought.
‘I need to ring him back. I need to ring him back.’
I bring the phone to my face to redial and just as I go to press on Lenny’s number Elaine finally makes a move, stepping towards me and grabbing my wrist.
‘Mr Douglas will not go through with your surgeries if you make that call,’ she says. She’s gripping so hard it actually hurts. ‘You promised me you would keep that phone turned off, promised me you would relax. I’m trying to keep you alive, Gordon Blake. Whatever your PI has to say to you, he can say it to you after you recover from your surgeries.’
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Page 19
