‘Fuuuck!’ I don’t screech it this time. I scream it. I tilt my head; stare over at the door handle in anticipation of it being pushed downwards. But it remains upright. Nobody’s coming to soothe me.
My breathing grows heavier. Flashes of Betsy’s pretty little face consume me. At first she’s smiling. Then crying. Gagged. Suffocating. I shake my head to get rid of her. This is nothing new. I’ve been doing this almost daily for the past seventeen years. I consciously try to slow my breathing, then rest my head back on to the pillow.
I remember a college lecturer – many years ago - asking me a question that relates to the situation I seem to have found myself in right now.
‘If you had just hours left to live, what would you do?’
I think I answered by saying ‘sex’ or ‘bungee jump’ or some other adrenaline-filled piece-of-shit activity. She was trying to get across the concept of bucket lists and positive thinking. But that’s a load of bollocks. I’ve never had a bucket list. Unless finding your daughter is applicable to being on a bucket list. That’s the only thing I want in life. To see her face again. To hold her. To apologise to her.
A tear squeezes itself out of my left eye. I shake my head again. Not to remove the tear, but to remove the image of Betsy from my mind. Then I grip my mobile phone; scroll into my contacts list until I see the name Ray De Brun and stare at it. I picture his chubby little face; bet he’s all fat and old now. Useless prick. I touch his name and then hold the phone to my ear. That annoying high-pitched tone you get when a number is out of use pierces through me. I grip the phone firmer in frustration, let an audible sigh force its way out of both nostrils. I scroll through the screen of my phone again, into my Internet browser and search for ‘Kilmainham Garda Station’. The phone number appears instantly. I press at it, bring the phone back to my ear.
‘Hello, Kilmainham Garda Station.’
‘I need to talk to detective Ray De Brun.’
‘Just one second, Sir.’
I chew my bottom lip while I’m on hold. What I’ve been told this morning is too mammoth to fully comprehend. But I’ve just realised I’m not my greatest concern. Betsy is. And always has been. My greatest fear may play out today; I may very well die without ever knowing what happened to my daughter.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, Detective De Brun is not on duty today. Is there anybody else who can assist you?’
I speak slowly.
‘My name is Gordon Blake. Betsy Blake’s father. De Brun knows who I am. I have his mobile number but it seems out of action – has he changed it?’
‘Oh, I’m not aware of that, Mr Blake. Detective De Brun is in semi-retirement now. Our lead detective is Detective Marshall, shall I see if she is available to talk to you?’
I fall silent. Marshall. Never heard of her.
‘It’s an emergency. I need to talk to De Brun right now. Please pass me on his mobile number. He won’t mind. I’m dying… may only have hours to live.’
‘Eh… hold on just one second, Mr Blake.’
A tipple of piano music plays. Doesn’t last long.
‘Hello, Mr Blake – this is detective Marshall. How can I help you?’
‘Marshall… De Brun was the lead detective in the case of my missing daughter over seventeen years ago. You may be familiar with it.’
‘I am indeed, Mr Blake. But you are fully aware that case is closed, right?’
I turn my face away from the phone and gurn. Nothing annoys me more than being told the case is closed. It’s not fucking closed! It won’t be closed until I’m holding my daughter again.
‘Mr Blake, the case was closed in 2009. Elizabeth was announced deceased and—’
‘Listen, Marshall,’ I shout, my patience already stretched. ‘Firstly, her name isn’t Elizabeth okay, it’s Betsy. And secondly, she’s not fuckin dead. How can she be announced deceased when you and your colleagues never found a body?’
‘Mr Blake, I can call up the files for you later and—’
‘I don’t have later, Marshall!’ I snap. ‘Listen, can you please just get me in touch with De Brun. I need to speak with him as urgently as possible. I’m in Tallaght hospital. I have to undergo emergency surgery in a few hours time and there’s a huge chance I won’t wake up from it.’
The line falls silent. All I can hear is my own breathing reverberating back at me.
‘Please,’ I say, sounding desperate.
‘Mr Blake, Detective De Brun is in Galway – he’s semi-retired, has a home out on the west coast and spends an awful lot of his time there. He—’
‘Please.’ I say it even more desperately this time.
‘Tell you what. I’ll give him a call and let him know you are looking for him. I can see your number here on the screen. I’ll ask him to ring you as soon as possible. But… I must inform you, Mr Blake, Detective De Brun goes to the west coast to get away from phones, to get away from work. He may not have it switched on. There’s no guarantee I can reach him imminently.’
My eyes twitch, flickering from side to side. Maybe I’m going mad. I’ve been seventeen years searching for Betsy, with possibly only five hours left. What makes me think I can get to the bottom of this today? I allow a long sigh to force its way out of my nostrils.
‘Just ask him to ring me as soon as he can. It’s an emergency.’ I hear my voice crack as I say that. Then I hang up. The tear that dropped out of my left eye is now hanging from my chin. I swipe it off with the palm of my hand, almost cutting my fingertip against my sharp stubble. Then I lie flat back down on the pillow.
Maybe I should ring Michelle. Tell her my terrible news. Though I’m not quite sure what that would achieve. Douglas said it’s imperative I relax ahead of my surgeries, says that having a positive mind-set could be key to success. Having Michelle come up to me will only cause me stress. Us stress. She gets more worked up than I do. She can’t stand the fact that I can’t let go; that I haven’t accepted that Betsy is gone. And I can’t stand that she gave up; that she’s happy to accept the cops’ theory.
And that’s all it is; a fuckin theory.
No. Fuck her. There’s nothing I can achieve by ringing Michelle.
But I can’t lie here and do nothing. I pick up my phone, scroll into the Internet search browser again.
10:00
Lenny
Lenny can feel Claire’s knees vibrate against his. It isn’t a shivering of her knees that is causing the vibration. It’s the constant swiping of her palms against her thighs. She’s trying to rid them of sweat; is all too aware that she’s about to receive an answer to the mystery that has engulfed her for the past six months.
They’re both sitting at Lenny’s tiny desk, inside his tiny office. Calling it a desk is exaggerating; it’s no bigger than the type of table you would find on a train. And calling it an office is probably exaggerating too; it’s no bigger than a laundry room in a modest home. But it’s all he can afford. The office just about has enough space for the desk, two chairs and one tall, skinny filing cabinet, which can’t fully shut due to the amount of paperwork desperate to jump out of it. Most of the paperwork is redundant, but sorting it out isn’t high on the list of Lenny’s priorities. It’s not as if the day doesn’t afford him ample time to sort it out, he just couldn’t be bothered. He’s more interested in finding new assignments than pouring over the contents of old ones.
He finally stops typing, then turns his laptop screen to face Claire. She sucks in a sharp breath, then holds a finger to the tip of her nose; her attempt to halt the tears from loosening their grip from the tips of her eyelashes.
‘He’s… he’s my line manager at work,’ she whispers into her finger.
‘Have you any idea why he would be doing this to you?’ Lenny asks.
Claire begins to drum the tip of her finger against her lips as she sinks into her thoughts. Then she shakes her head slowly.
‘I mean… he tried it on with me at our Christmas party last year,’ she says, finding volume. ‘But�
�� that’s about it. I can’t think why… Derek! Derek Murray. I don’t believe it.’
Lenny closes the lid of his laptop and looks up sympathetically at Claire. He’s been in this position many times before; not really knowing what to say next. The job she offered him had reached its conclusion, yet he understands Claire will have a thousand questions racing around her head right now.
‘Do you know why… why he is doing this to me?’ she asks.
Lenny scratches at his temple. He always feels awkward when he has the opportunity to upsell.
‘Well that’s another job. If you would like me to confront Derek, get those kind of answers for you, I can indeed do that but…’ Lenny shrugs his left shoulder.
‘I eh… I eh,’ Claire stutters, ‘I don’t really know what to do next.’
‘Tell you what. Now that we’ve found out the who, why don’t you take a step back and think it all through. If you want to find out the why, get in touch. I’ll be here for you. For now, I recommend going home, having a nice hot cup of tea and thinking all this through before contacting me again. I’m at the end of this phone anytime you need me,’ he says, picking up his clunky mobile from his desk. ‘Y’know, perhaps you have enough information now to see if the cops would be interested – now that you know who has been stalking you they may look at it differently.’
Claire throws her eyes towards the stained ceiling, then stares back down to her fidgeting fingers on her lap. She’d taken that road before. The cops didn’t want to know; they didn’t even hide the fact that such a complaint was beneath them either.
‘I’ll think it through, Lenny. I’ll go home, have that cup of tea, and eh… thank you so much for all of your help.’
Both Claire and Lenny stand up at the same time. Lenny holds his hand out for his client to shake, but she squashes it between them both as she drags him in for a hug.
‘Allow me,’ Lenny says after they release. He pulls his door open, then steps aside so Claire can squeeze her way out.
‘I’ll send my report on to you by email, but eh… just so you know, there’ll be no H in the report. This old thing,’ he says, slapping the lid of his laptop, ‘it’s getting old. The H key came off and…’
Claire offers Lenny a thin smile and then nods her head once before turning around. She’s still in a sterile state of shock as she slumps down the corridor, her head bowed. Lenny doesn’t watch her leave. He’s too bothered chasing the sheet of paper that has floated into his office. He tuts, picks it up and then paces down the corridor himself, turning left before he reaches the stairs Claire is now making her way down. He walks past two doors, all equally battered as his, then knocks on the third one he comes to.
‘Sorry, Joe,’ he says, after opening the door himself. ‘Any Blu Tack?’
‘Again?’
Lenny holds the sheet of paper towards Joe as an answer.
‘Fuck sake, mate… can you not get a proper sign? Won’t cost much.’
‘I keep meaning to, it’s just…’ Lenny shrugs his shoulder again, then blinks his eyes rapidly.
‘Didn’t you have a client in with you just there? She was alright lookin’ wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah, nice girl really – job’s all done.’
‘She paying you?’
Lenny nods.
‘Well then buy a fuckin sign,’ Joe says as he lobs a marble-sized blob of Blu Tack towards Lenny. ‘Or at least buy some of your own fuckin Blu Tack.’
Lenny looks around Joe’s office space. It’s not much bigger than his; probably longer. It’s more rectangular in shape, but still only fits a small desk, two chairs and one filing cabinet – though Joe’s filing cabinet is a little chunkier than Lenny’s.
‘Thanks, man,’ Lenny says before closing Joe’s door and plodding back down the corridor. He grips the sheet of paper between his teeth while pulling at the blob of Blu Tack, dividing it into four separate smaller blobs. Then he removes the sheet from his teeth, stabs a blob onto each corner and slaps the paper to his door before rubbing his thumb repeatedly over each corner firmly. He knows that no matter how many times he rubs his thumb over the corners, the sign is still going to fly away again. But he might at least try. He stands back, stares at the sign as if it’s the first time he’s ever read it.
Lenny Moon – Private Investigator.
It’s written in black felt-tip pen on a blank A4 sheet of white paper.
Pathetic.
He closes the door behind him and sinks back down into his Ikea office chair. Aside from the laptop, the chair is the most expensive thing in the room. A hell of a lot cheaper than the chair on the other side of the desk; a fold-out seat his mother used to use in their old home to help her reach the top shelf in the kitchen.
Lenny opens a Word document on his laptop labelled ‘Claire Jennings’ and types the word ‘complete’ at the bottom of it, all in capital letters. Then he highlights what he has just typed and changes the font colour to red before slapping his laptop shut and resting the back of his head on to the top of his chair. He always pictures his wife when he does this. Imagines her staring at him; her lips turned down. It’s almost impossible for him to picture her smiling anymore. When he’s intent on picturing her smiling, he has to close his eyes even firmer. By the time the lips in his imagination have turned upwards, Sally’s face will have turned into something else. Somebody else. He barely tries to imagine her smiling anymore anyway. He’s just content to picture her. To know she’s still around. Still alive.
The noise of the phone vibrating on his desk brings him back to the real world. But he knows it’s not a massive deviation. The person ringing is most likely the person he has just been thinking about. Either that, or someone is ringing about work. The chances of that are slim, though – about twenty-five per cent. Only one in four phone calls are work related; the rest of the time it’s Sally calling. She rings three times a day.
‘Hey, sweetie,’ he says.
‘Busy?’ she asks. She always asks this. He always answers the same way; by sniffing a short laugh out of his nose.
A silence rests from both ends of the line. This is not unusual. Sally mostly calls for no reason, other than routine.
‘You okay?’ Lenny asks.
‘Yeah – today’s a good day. I think. Been cleaning the house; put another load of washing on. Jesus, Leonard, do you have to change your boxer shorts so regularly?’
Lenny sniffs again, but then stays silent. She’s often asked this question. It’s best he doesn’t answer, best he doesn’t try to justify that he changes his underwear every morning like most people do. Like most people should. Because if he did try to justify it, he’d get barked at. It would turn Sally’s ‘good day’ into a ‘bad day.’ And that’s the last thing he wants.
‘Spoke with Jared’s teacher this morning when I dropped them off… says he’s been doing well in class lately.’
‘Oh… good, good,’ Lenny replies. ‘Was that the classroom teacher or the SEN one?’
‘Eh… the short one.’
‘Yeah – Ms Moriarty,’ he says, ‘it’s Mrs Morrissey we need to get information from. She’s the one who keeps track of him on a daily basis. We must arrange a meeting with her soon.’
‘You’re always saying that.’
Lenny nods his head. He’s well aware that he’s always saying that.
‘Okay – just thought I’d see how you were doing,’ Sally says.
‘Thanks, sweetie, talk to you later.’
Sally hangs up after repeating the word ‘bye’ seven times, like most Irish women do when finishing a phone call.
Rather than rest his head onto the top of the chair Lenny opens his laptop, scrolls down to the Solitaire icon at the bottom of his screen and opens up a game he had begun playing when he first entered the office just before nine o’clock this morning. He’s good at Solitaire is Lenny; gets lots of practice at it. But his meeting with Claire Jennings consumed his mind this morning and he didn’t get a good enough start
at the game. And getting a good start at Solitaire is everything. He checks the clock ticking away at the bottom corner of the screen. Thirty-eight minutes.
‘Pathetic,’ he whispers. And he’s right. It is pathetic. Especially for someone who plays the game almost every day. His meeting distracted him. He wasn’t sure how Claire would react when he revealed to her that it was her line manager at work – Derek Murray – who had set up two fake online accounts to stalk her. The poor girl has been on edge for the past three months, even left home to live with her sister because of the fear it was causing. She turned to the cheapest Private Investigator she could find after the Gardaí told her there was nothing they could do about the fact somebody was bullying her online. Lenny liked Claire, felt sorry for her. He’d be intrigued to follow up the investigation, to confront Derek, ask him why he was reducing himself to such juvenile behaviour. But he won’t follow it up until Claire instructs him to do so. He needs the upsell. Needs the money.
The phone vibrates again.
Fuck sake.
‘Yes, sweetie,’ he answers.
‘Sorry?’ a man says.
‘Oh… no, no, I’m the one who’s sorry.’
Lenny sits upright, resting both of his elbows on his tiny desk. ‘I thought you were my wife. Eh… Lenny Moon, Private Investigator – how can I help?’
‘Is this Lenny?’
‘It is, Sir.’
‘Oh, good. I thought I’d get your secretary.’
Lenny’s head pivots around his pokey room, wondering where a secretary would even sit. Atop the filing cabinet perhaps.
‘My name is Gordon Blake. My daughter went missing seventeen years ago. I’m dying. May not have long to live. How soon could you get to Tallaght Hospital?’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 25
