by Marian Keyes
But even I wasn’t prepared for what she did: she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly round him in a great big hug.
‘Your trainers are great too,’ she said.
‘Hey …’ He gave a shocked little laugh. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘And your hair …’ She took a fistful of his dreads and gave it a good hard tug. ‘Is it a wig?’
‘No … all mine.’ He wore an uneasy smile and tried to step back from her.
‘No, no, no.’ She tightened her hold. ‘You need a hug for being so sweet about my trainers.’ Her eyes were sparkling and twinkling with devilment.
‘Yeah, but …’
A small crowd had gathered and was gleaning great pleasure from his discomfort.
‘That’ll teach him,’ I heard someone say. ‘Him and his equals. Maybe they’ll think twice in future before pestering us.’
‘Pestering us? Bullying is what they do!’
‘That’s right, bullying,’ a third person agreed. ‘They’re bullies, there should be a law.’
The charity guy began to try to peel the girl’s arms off himself, but she clung like a monkey, and even I was starting to feel sorry for him by the time she eventually decided to free him. He hurried away up Grafton Street, plucking at his red Wheelchairs for Donkeys tabard, desperately trying to take it off.
‘Where are you going?’ she yelled after him. ‘I thought you were my friend!’
An impromptu bout of applause rippled through the observers and she laughed, a little proud, a little embarrassed. ‘Ah, no, stop.’
I waited until her admirers had dispersed, then I went up to her, the way you would in nursery school, and said, ‘I’m Helen.’ It was a blatant attempt at friendship.
She looked at me for a minute, coolly taking me all in, and obviously deciding she liked what she saw because she broke into a very pretty smile and said, ‘I’m Bronagh.’
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I wanted her as my friend but didn’t know how to go about it. I seemed to find it hard to make friends, proper friends, that is. For a lot of my life I’d had to make do with my family, inadequate though I found them, simply because they couldn’t run away from me. For a long time my sister Anna had been my best friend, even though all I did was make fun of her, but then she legged it to New York and left a big hole in my life.
‘Are you doing anything right now?’ I asked Bronagh. ‘Would you like to go for a Diet Coke?’
She frowned, a little disquieted. ‘Are you a lezzer?’
‘No.’
‘Grand, so.’ Another great big smile from her. ‘A Diet Coke it is.’
11
I climbed the stairs and went into Mum and Dad’s ‘office’ (Claire’s old bedroom) and switched on the computer and the scanner. All my stuff – my work equipment and surveillance tools – was scattered randomly around the house, some in my bedroom, some in the dining room and some in here. Maybe when I’d organized it a bit better I’d feel more – hard to say the word, hard to even think it, it was so badly annoying, Shovel List annoying – I’d feel more grounded.
At least this house had broadband and wifi. A couple of years ago I’d bullied Mum and Dad into getting them and I was never so glad. I did a quick search for ‘Gloria’ and got a million Google hits, none of them useful. Did you know that Van Morrison sang a song called ‘Gloria’? Must have been before I was born.
I checked my emails. There was nothing back yet from the two I’d sent earlier, but it was the middle of the night. Something would come in the morning. No text either from John Joseph giving me Birdie Salaman’s number. That would come in the morning too.
Next I Photoshopped the picture of Wayne and Birdie, disappearing Birdie and making Wayne bald. It would be handy to have photos of what he actually looked like right now with the shaved head. Sadly it didn’t come out so great (his head had gone a slightly funny shape), but it would have to do. I’d print a few copies in the morning, when I’d connected my printer.
I had better luck with Birdie Salaman – there she was on Facebook. Being cagey, giving out no info, but there was a photo; it was definitely her. I dithered about sending a friend request. Should I wait until John Joseph had given me her number? He might even be able to smooth the way for me. But I was so bad at patience that I sent the friend request anyway, I simply couldn’t stop myself.
While I was at it, I Facebooked Wayne. Even cagier than Birdie, he was, with not even a photo. I sent him a friend request too. Because you never know.
Then I rang his mobile; it was unlikely that he’d answer at this time in the morning, but once again you never know. But it was switched off and I didn’t leave a message.
Meanwhile I’d love an address for Birdie, a real-life address, not just a virtual one – in the unlikely event that John Joseph didn’t get back to me with her number. There were a couple of sites I could try. Then I had a brainwave: why didn’t I just look in the phonebook? The best ideas are always the simplest. My directory was buried in one of the several cardboard boxes I’d packed my life into, but there was bound to be one in this house.
I found it sharing a kitchen cupboard with dozens of cans of tinned pears and at least two hundred Club Milks – Mum and Dad seemed to be stockpiling for Armageddon – and within seconds I’d located Birdie and had an address and a landline for her.
She was living in Skerries, in North County Dublin, out by the sea. Nice. Maybe that was where the Abercrombie and Fitch-y photo had been taken. I was dying to ring her right now, but one sure-fire way to alienate someone is to call them at four in the morning.
One final search. I did a – perfectly legal – trawl through the Land Registry, and, unless he was hiding behind a company, Wayne didn’t own a second home, at least not in Ireland or the UK, so he wasn’t hiding out there.
There was nothing more I could do tonight; I’d have to go to bed. I plugged my phone into its charger and with it lying beside me – a friendly presence – I shut my eyes.
12
So. Artie Devlin. The first time I met him was a good while back, about eighteen months ago. I was working a matrimonial and struggling to make sense of a cheating husband’s complicated financial dealings when someone suggested I talk to Artie Devlin. ‘He’s in some high-level anti-fraud squad; he’d understand this multiple account scenario.’
I wasn’t really interested because I preferred to sort things out myself – what was the point of being a sole operator if I had to keep asking people for help?
A few days later his name cropped up again and I still paid it no heed because I didn’t believe in coincidences, I didn’t believe in fate, I didn’t believe in a benign universe with a master-plan.
Then he was mentioned for a third time, so I said, ‘Who the hell is this Artie Devlin that everyone keeps trying to foist on me?’ Apparently he was a policeman but – people were super-quick to reassure me – a far cry from the rasher-fattened rank and file. He worked for an elite anti-swindle squad with some innocuous name that belied the weightiness of its remit. He did hard sums and investigated big-style frauds, tax dodges and embezzlement, bringing high-net-worth, white-collar crims to justice.
He didn’t wear a uniform and he didn’t have a truncheon. Instead he followed paper trails, understood balance sheets and had an MA in taxation law.
‘He’s a great guy,’ I was told. And, more pertinently: ‘He’s very good-looking and really, really sexy.’
The general opinion was that he was a class bit of law enforcement, and of course, with so much respect and admiration washing his way, I was put off him before I ever met him.
But the days passed and I still couldn’t get a grip of the cheating husband’s tangled financial set-up, so in the end I rang Mr Artie Devlin and said I was looking for a favour and he said he had an hour free the following Thursday.
We met at his workplace, which was not a police station or anything like it, but a big open-plan office filled with casually dressed types sta
ring hard at screens of figures. Tomes on taxation law and other accoutrements of accountancy abounded, but these people (mostly men, I have to admit) were fit and muscular, sort of like accountancy Superheroes. (‘Send for SpreadSheet Boy!’) (‘If only Algorithm Guy could be here!’)
Artie had a glass-walled office in a corner. He was big and good-looking and reserved – extremely particular about the words he used to convey information, the way coppers are, even those without truncheons. Despite his professional air, there was something untamed about him, call it an edge, a potential wild side, or maybe he just hadn’t ironed his shirt.
He asked me if I’d like a coffee.
‘I don’t believe in hot drinks,’ I said. ‘And we’ve a lot to get through. Let’s go.’
He looked at me for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
I hefted my big file of documents on to his desk, and he patiently went through it and explained about off-shore banks and shadow account holders and other nefarious practices.
It was complicated stuff but after a while something clicked and I got it. Instantly I became a bit giddy. ‘So tell me,’ I said to Artie Devlin, ‘do you go to the Cayman Islands a lot?’
He looked up from the pages, fixed me with a blue, blue gaze and eventually – reluctantly – said, ‘I’ve been there once.’
‘Did you get a tan?’
After a pause he said, ‘No.’
I took a good long look at him. He didn’t have that terrible Irish colouring that never tans and instead just ups its freckle quotient (I speak as one who knows). On the contrary he had beautiful Swedish-style skin that goes an even golden colour. ‘Wasn’t it sunny?’ I asked.
‘I was working,’ he replied.
Then I was distracted by a photo on his desk. Three fair-haired children, who looked just like him.
‘Your nieces and nephew?’ I asked.
‘No, they’re my kids.’
It was a big surprise (category: very unpleasant) to find out he had children. No one had told me. And he didn’t look the part. The reverse. ‘You look a bit … Doctors Without Borders.’
He didn’t display a flicker of interest but I told him anyway. ‘You know what I mean: fond of adrenaline, like you’d be happier in a makeshift tent in a war-zone front line, amputating limbs by the light of a storm lantern, than in a suburb raising kids.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Never amputated a limb.’
There was a funny little silence and I was just working my way round to taking my leave when he became unexpectedly garrulous. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve always thought those Doctors Without Borders people must have a bit of a death wish.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing they’re doing, a very good thing, but what’s the problem with wanting to live in a suburb and raise kids?’
‘Lots,’ I said. ‘Oh, lots.’
‘No.’ He was quite insistent. ‘It’s got to be better than wanting to spend your life sewing people back together while bullets are whizzing over your head.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Yes.’ Frankly, between his chattiness and his forcefulness, I was suddenly and badly smitten.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘because I simply have to know. What’s the status between you and the mother of your children?’
‘We’re divorced.’
‘A recent split?’ I tried to sound sympathetic.
‘A few – two? – years ago now.’
‘Aaah. A good long while. Plenty of time for the wounds to heal.’
He looked at me, looked and looked and looked at me, and finally he shook his head slightly and gave a quiet little laugh.
I really, really, really, really fancied this Artie Devlin. I’d have liked forty-eight hours in a locked hotel room with him. But that was all. I didn’t want complications. I didn’t want agonized discussions at two in the morning about ‘making this thing work’. I didn’t want the needs of his children to matter as much as mine.
Because that’s what you got when you got a man with kids.
(A hard thing for any woman to admit, for fear we’ll sound selfish, and God forbid that a woman might be selfish.)
I’d limited my exposure to single fathers because I knew what they were like – worried about their children and their stability and how they couldn’t be introducing new girlfriends to them every five minutes. The sort of mindset that was no fun if you were in the market for commitment-free spontaneity.
And, of course, there was only one thing worse than a man who worried about upsetting his kids and that was a man who didn’t give a shit.
So I thanked Artie for his help, assured him that if I could ever repay the favour, I would and – with a little sadness – went on my way.
Over the next several weeks I had lots of cause to think of Artie. The explanations he’d given me turned out to be extremely helpful because they unlocked my understanding of the case. Which meant I was able to tell my client how much money her cheating husband really had and she was able to front him up and get what she was entitled to. So basically it all worked out and it wouldn’t have happened without Artie Devlin.
When I received the final payment from my grateful client I decided it was only fair to send a thank-you gift to Artie. Nothing big, nothing fancy, but something that was in some way meaningful. I thought about it and thought about it and I hit on the perfect present: a scalpel.
Several people tried to dissuade me. A bottle of whiskey might be more appropriate, they said, their voices high with alarm. Or a box of biscuits. But I was insistent – a scalpel was just the ticket. It would remind Artie of me, of our discussion about Doctors Without Borders. I was certain he’d love it.
So I purchased a small, glinty scalpel and, in an uncharacteristic bout of health-and-safety consciousness, put it in a box, wrapped it in an acre of bubble wrap and then wrote ‘Careful now!’ on an acid-yellow Post-it, which I attached to the parcel. Satisfied that no one would accidentally slice off their finger, I wrote a short but heartfelt letter thanking Artie for his help, and despite Claire, Margaret and even Bronagh asking me if I felt all right in the head and reminding me that it wasn’t that long since I’d come off the antidepressants, I was positive that I’d done exactly the right thing.
However, four days later a parcel appeared on my desk, and when I opened it up I discovered that the scalpel had been returned to me.
I stared at it, feeling surprisingly deflated. Disappointment was what I felt, disappointment in Artie for not getting the joke, and I felt unexpectedly rejected. Then I read the accompanying note:
Dear Helen,
Delightful as this is, and the pleasant memories it evoked of the time we spent together, I’m afraid public servants can’t accept gifts. It is with great regret that I return it to you.
Yours,
Artie Devlin
I liked the tone of the note and the look of his handwriting – especially the fact that he hadn’t drawn a smiley face over any of his ‘i’s. It all came rushing back, how ridey he was in that buttoned-down reserved sort of way and how much fun it might be to open him up, so, despite him being a father of three, I considered giving him a ring and perhaps pestering him a bit.
But then fate (even though I didn’t believe in it) intervened. The next day, the actual very next day – can you believe it? – I met Jay Parker and, hard though this is for me to believe now, all thoughts of Artie Devlin were banished from my mind.
13
The thing about private investigating was that proper missing persons’ cases were rare. Of course, the job sounded wildly glamorous when I talked about going to Antigua and Paris, but actually a lot of my work was very mundane, involving a phenomenal amount of fact checking. Indeed, only last year I had two of the dullest months of my life when I popped up on the radar of a group of rich Americans of Irish descent who wanted their family trees reconstructed and I had to spend countless dark dusty days in the tedium of the Births,
Deaths and Marriages Registry.
Mind you, tedious and all as it had been, I’d been grateful for the work.
How Ireland had changed. Back in the heyday of the Celtic tiger, people were pawing around, desperate to find something new to spend money on. I’d got a lot of matrimonials in those days: men or women, but mostly women, wanting to know if their partner was up to bad business with someone else. Some of the women had genuine grounds for thinking they were being cheated on but a lot of them were only doing it to be in the gang. They had the highlighted hair, the thousand-euro handbag, the investment properties in Bulgaria, and if the woman next door was getting a private investigator, well why the hell shouldn’t they have one too?
My motto is to use my powers for good not evil, so I always told matrimonials to go home and think about it, because no matter how sure they were that they were being cheated on, getting the proof could be devastating. But they always wanted to go ahead – the genuine cases because they were at their wits’ end being told they were imagining things, and the non-genuine cases because they wanted what everyone else was getting. Sometimes the ‘me too’ mob got more than they’d bargained on and they found themselves with video evidence of their husband enjoying trysts with women who weren’t them.
I was only the messenger. It wasn’t my business to hold my clients’ hands and let them sob on my shoulder while they envisioned their cushy life dissolving as they were shunted aside in favour of someone new and younger. Sometimes they clutched at my clothes and beseeched me to tell them what they were to do now. And the thing is, whatever people might think of me (especially my sister Rachel, who once admitted that she thinks there’s something wrong with me, that I have a bit missing), I don’t enjoy delivering bad news. But in my job you had to harden your heart. If I were a different kind of person, say like my sister Anna, I’d be sitting there crying along with the betrayed women, pouring them a chamomile infusion and agreeing that their husband was indeed a bastard who had taken the best years of their life and destroyed their pelvic floor.
