by Marian Keyes
‘Thanks, love.’
‘No, it’s for my book club. Could you read it by Monday and tell me what it’s about?’
‘I’ll try my best but with Helen seeing vultures and eating nothing and your father going deaf …’
‘Ah, whatever. I don’t know why I bother. All we do is drink wine and complain about our husbands. We never talk about the books. So we’re unpacking for Helen?’
Something scuttled over my soul. An unease. A different sort of unease to the unease I’d been feeling since I woke up. I rummaged through my thoughts and found the cause: somewhere in those cardboard boxes there were photos. Compromising photos. Of Artie. Naked and unafraid, if you get me.
I should never have printed them out. I should have just kept them on my phone and been happy with that.
But they were hidden. Wrapped in a T-shirt, in a box, in a bag. No one would ever find them.
‘I just need to hop out and get some pasta flour,’ Claire said. ‘I’ve people coming over this evening and I’m making orecchiette, but you can hardly get pasta flour anywhere in this kip of a country. There’s that Italian place at the bottom of York Road. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
With a swish of her hair she was gone.
‘Do you think she’ll come back?’ Mum asked, a little plaintively.
‘It doesn’t matter. Margaret will be here at some stage.’
‘Who cares!’ Mum declared. ‘Here’s Jay Parker!’
I looked out the window.
It was Jay Parker all right, in his usual uniform of skinny suit, white shirt and black skinny tie, and so cocky he was practically strutting.
‘Look at him,’ Mum said, in open admiration. ‘He has tremendous … what’s the word? Pizzazz, is it?’
She thundered down the stairs to admit him and I followed at a slower pace. To my great surprise (category: alarming), Dad appeared in the hall – in an event that was nothing short of miraculous, he had surgically separated himself from his chair in front of Setanta Sports and come to say hello to Jay.
‘We’ve missed you round here.’ Dad had loved Jay Parker.
‘We have, we have,’ Mum agreed, as enthusiastic as a child. Mum had loved Jay Parker too. Everyone had loved Jay Parker – my sisters, Bronagh, Bronagh’s husband, Blake, everyone.
After a few minutes of guff, Dad took his leave. He couldn’t be away from the telly for too long or something bad would happen. He was like the person who had to press the numbers in the hatch in Lost.
‘Come and see us again soon,’ Dad said. There followed a dreadful moment when it looked like Dad was going to attempt to man-hug Jay but, after a second of wavering that seemed to last an eternity, their parting passed without incident.
Jay Parker turned his attention to me. With great ceremony he presented me with a key and a small piece of paper. ‘Key and alarm code for Wayne’s.’
I looked at the figures Wayne had chosen for his alarm code – 0809 – and wondered at their significance because no one chooses something entirely at random, even when they try.
‘And my fee?’ I asked Parker.
‘I was just getting to that.’ He had the audacity to look a little wounded, as if I was implying he was the type to try to weasel out of paying his bills. He produced a thin bundle of twenty-euro notes. ‘There’s two hundred yoyos there. That’s all the cash point would let me take out today.’
I glared at him: he’d agreed to pay me upfront for a week’s work.
‘I can get another two hundred tomorrow,’ he protested. ‘And the day after. And the day after that. There’s no shortage of money, it’s just the bloody machines.’
‘What about the money you had last night?’
‘I gave most of it to you. And I have other expenses, lots of expenses.’
He could go to the bank and make a withdrawal. But who goes to the bank? Is it even possible to go to a bank any more? Didn’t everything bank-related happen out of underground call-centre bunkers the size of football stadiums?
‘I could just do a transfer for the whole amount into your account,’ he said, giving me a sly look. ‘But I was sort of guessing you’d prefer to be paid in cash.’
He’d got me. I had to get paid in cash. I was so overdrawn that any money transferred into my account would just disappear.
‘So what’s going on?’ Mum asked Jay. ‘What work is Helen doing for you?’
‘It’s confidential,’ I said.
‘If I could tell anyone, Mammy Walsh …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘… it would be you.’
She looked at us, wondering whether or not to press the point, then she let it go. ‘I’m really looking forward to Wednesday’s gig,’ she said with gaiety.
‘It’ll be a night to remember, Mammy Walsh, a night to remember.’
Mum pressed herself closer to Jay. ‘Tell me, is it true that Docker will be making a surprise guest appearance?’
‘Docker?’ I asked. ‘Where the hell did you hear that?’
‘It’s all over the forums. That he’s coming for one of the three nights. Is it true?’
Obviously it was complete news to Jay. But he rallied so fast you could practically see the wheels turning. What better way to send the country into a frenzy and drive ticket sales through the roof than to put about the rumour that Docker, aka the Talented One, might show up at the gigs?
‘The five Laddz back together again,’ Mum said.
‘Ahahaha! Yeah! Maybe. Saying nothing. But you know yourself –’ Jay tapped the side of his nose – ‘that information is classified.’
‘Don’t,’ I said to him. ‘It’s cruel.’
There was as much chance of Docker, or Shane Dockery as he’d once been known, turning up at a Laddz reunion as there was of pigs flying. For years and years now, Docker had been a world superstar. He wasn’t even a singer any more; he was a Hollywood actor – an Oscar-winning actor, for God’s sake – and a director. He lived in a different universe to the Laddz. He flew about in private jets, he was godfather to one of Julia Roberts’s children and he was always doing good works, promoting Fairtrade edamame bean farmers and political prisoners and whatnot. Even John Joseph, with his medieval nobleman’s hall and career as a producer, looked pitiful next to Docker.
‘I need to talk to you about a couple of things.’ I shifted Jay out of the hall and into the privacy of the front room. ‘I might be able to get Wayne’s phone and bank records. But it’ll cost because you’ll be paying for two sets of intel – an outstanding bill from an old case of mine as well as the new stuff.’
‘Why should I pay someone else’s bill?’
‘Because the someone else won’t and the outstanding’s got to be paid before there’s any chance of me commissioning any new work.’
‘How much?’
I told him.
‘Christ,’ he said, clearly shocked. ‘I’m not made of money.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
He had a good long think. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If I got the money, and I’m not saying I will, but if I got it, how long would the info take?’
‘If it’s possible to get it, and I’m not saying it will be, but if it’s possible, three or four days.’
‘That long?’ He counted out the days on his fingers. ‘Today’s Friday. So it mightn’t be until next Tuesday.’ He looked at me in alarm. ‘Do you really think Wayne won’t be back by then?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
He sighed. ‘Can’t you just break into his computer? Bypass the password? Seriously, don’t you know any tame hackers?’
I used to know one – the usual, a computer science student, delighted to help me out in exchange for drinking money. But last summer she’d graduated and suddenly acquired a good job and a fear of being arrested and since then I hadn’t found a satisfactory replacement. God knows, I’d tried. It was an on-going project. Every couple of months I did a trawl of the Technology College in CityWest, buying drinks for IT students and trying to asses
s their intelligence and corruptibility, but nothing had worked out: the smart ones weren’t corruptible and the corruptible ones weren’t smart.
In exasperation, Jay said, ‘I could get in my car and go up to the Technology College and in five minutes I’d have found some computer student to break Wayne’s password.’
‘Seeing as term ended two weeks ago, I doubt it, but off you go,’ I said. ‘Good luck to you.’
In silence he looked at me.
‘Or,’ I continued, ‘you’re welcome to employ another PI. I don’t give a shite. Frankly I’d be glad to not have to deal with you.’
After a long pause he said, ‘Do you think we’ll ever get past this? Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?’
‘Me?’ Champion grudge-holder and inventor of the Shovel List? ‘No.’
He flinched, as if I’d hit him. A lesser woman than me might have felt a little pity for him. But, of course, I am not a lesser woman.
Briskly, I said, ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time, Jay Parker. It’s Friday, and we need to organize bank transfers today. Else it’ll be the weekend and we won’t be able to do anything until Monday.’
‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll get the money transferred within the hour.’
There was still no guarantee that Sharkey or Telephone Man (the ‘names’ of my mystery contacts, or at least the names I knew them by) would work with me, but there was a far better chance once they had their fee. And if they didn’t? Well, Jay Parker would be out of pocket with nothing to show for it and that could only be good.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m going over to Wayne’s to see what I can find.’
19
Wayne’s car was still in the same spot. I knew it hadn’t been moved because I’d put a piece of paper under the left back wheel – the old ‘hair in the door’ trick. Wayne probably hadn’t come back to the house but I rang the bell eight times anyway, just to be on the safe side, then, using the key Jay had given me, I let myself in. Instantly, nearly taking the head off me, the alarm started screeching – I’d made Jay set it when we left last night – and in a mild panic I consulted the little piece of paper bearing the code and keyed the number into the pad.
The jagged lines of noise ceased and I savoured the sudden, merciful silence. And, of course, Wayne’s beautiful home colour schemes, which hit me anew with their daring wondrousness. Gangrene, without a doubt his hall was in Gangrene, and it made me feel momentarily peaceful.
I started feeling my way through the place. Nothing useful had come in today’s post and there were no new messages on the landline. I replayed the last few messages, listening again, with great interest, to Gloria. Who was she? What was the good news? I had to find Gloria, because when I found Gloria, I’d find Wayne. I knew it.
Gloria’s message was the second last. The last call Wayne had received on his landline was a hang-up. It was from a mobile number and I felt it could well be from a taxi driver. Because he hadn’t taken his car, there was a good chance that he’d gone wherever he’d gone by taxi – assuming, of course, that his disappearance was voluntary, or that he hadn’t been picked up by a friend – and nowadays taxi drivers always ring to say they’re outside because they’re too lazy to actually get out of the car and walk the necessary four feet to ring the front doorbell to announce their arrival. No wonder we’re a nation of fatsos.
I pulled out my phone and called the number. After five rings it went to voicemail. A man’s voice, oldish, a bit rough round the edges. ‘Digby here, leave a message.’
‘Digby, it’s Helen.’ I made myself smile while I spoke, a hard thing to pull off at the best of times, but worth it. When you’re cold-calling a stranger, act as if you already know them; it often fools them into thinking that you’re friends and that they have to help you. A very hard job for the likes of me, but the thing is that if I really did have a sunny personality, I wouldn’t be a private investigator. I’d be working in PR, wearing high heels and a white smile, making everyone feel special and getting paid appropriately. ‘Listen, Digby, when you did the pick-up on Thursday morning from Wayne Diffney in Sandymount, from ah …’ What was the actual bloody address? I pawed around looking for today’s post. (A fan letter addressed to ‘Lovely Wayne, Near the sea, Dublin, Ireland.’ That wouldn’t do. I found another one, a proper letter.) ‘From number four Mercy Close. That’s just off the sea road round there in Sandymount. Anyway, he’s after losing something and he thinks he might have left it in the back of your car and he’s offering a reward. A small one, mind, don’t be getting too excited, you won’t exactly be relocating to Saint Barts …’ I choked out one of my sea-lion laughs and my ribs throbbed. Really, I’d have to learn to laugh for real or just stop this fakey stuff, it was damaging me. ‘So give me a ring back, Digby, on the QT. You have my number.’ He didn’t, of course, but if I told him he did, he’d think that we must know each other and that he’d just forgotten, that maybe he had early-onset Alzheimer’s. ‘In case you’ve mislaid it, it’s …’ I rattled out my mobile and all I could do now was wait.
He might ring back. Most people love the idea of a reward. Unless Digby was wise to scams. Unless he knew there was nothing in the car and he was afraid of being accused of pocketing stuff. Or unless Wayne had paid him well over the odds to keep his mouth shut about where he’d dropped him off. There were endless kinds of permutations and all this was based on the assumption that Wayne had disappeared voluntarily. And maybe he hadn’t. And if he hadn’t, I’d better find out where he’d gone.
I took another admiring look around Wayne’s living room. Beautiful. I wouldn’t malign it by calling it ‘cosy’ but it certainly wasn’t one of those over-male rooms with hard, square edges and brown leather Eames chairs. (So yawnsome, Eames chairs, so utterly unimaginative.) No, this perfectly judged space had a wonderful sofa, neither too male nor too female, and two armchairs, in different but harmonious fabrics. There was a fireplace – had to be original – and a high, metal-framed window – again, had to be original – covered with a Venetian blind.
On the right-hand side of the fireplace there was a built-in shelf and drawer unit. It was very attractive, of very high-quality workmanship, and painted – a guess, of course a guess, but I’d have staked my life on it – in Holy Basil’s Poor Circulation.
However, as seems to be the way with men, one entire wall was covered with CDs. I should have started pulling them out, seeing if they could give me any clues about Wayne, but I just couldn’t be bothered. I have no interest in CDs, no interest at all in music. It bores me homicidal. And I’ll tell you something else – in my heart of hearts I don’t believe any woman likes music. I’m always suspicious of female musos. Being frank with you, I just don’t believe them. All that hanging around gigs and reading The Word and talking about ‘jangly guitars’ and ‘meaty bass-lines’ and such shite. I feel they’re only pretending, just to get a boyfriend. Then, the minute they land one, they crawl under their beds and retrieve their Michael Bublé poster and blow the dust balls off it and stick him back up on the wall and give him a big kiss.
I wandered down the hall. Things were urgent, urgent, urgent, but I was trying to feel Wayne. Christ, the kitchen, the beauty of it, the cupboards in Sinister and the walls in Frostbite. The man had impeccable taste. Impeccable.
The kitchen chairs were from Ikea, but Wayne had chosen well and they looked like they belonged in this Holy Basil Wonderland. I dragged one of them down the hall, to near the front door, then climbed up on it.
For a moment I was seized with a powerful wish that I’d fall off and bang my head and get bleeding in the brain and be dead before anyone noticed I was missing. After all, most accidents happen in the home. The home is very, very dangerous and you’re far safer out in the world by all accounts, jumping out of planes and driving fast cars on curvy roads. But with my luck I was bound to just break my ankle very painfully and spend four days in A&E, begging for painkillers and being ignored in favour of those lucky bastards
who’d caught their tongue in the J-hook of their bread maker and were in danger of bleeding to death.
I stood on the chair and attached a tiny little camera to the ceiling. When I say tiny, I mean it was no bigger than a pinhead. Almost invisible. And motion activated. Delicious! So if Wayne came home, say to collect a change of clothes, or whatever, the minute he came in the door – get this! – a text would be sent to my phone.
There were times, and not in the too distant past either, when a missing person case like this meant you simply had to park yourself in your car outside the subject’s house for days at a time in the hope that he’d eventually turn up. Now you’ve got this little beauty.
Next I nipped out and oh-so-casually, just in case anyone was watching, attached a tracking device to the side of Wayne’s car – because how embarrassing would it be if Wayne came back and hightailed it in his lovely black Alfa while I was mere yards away?
Like the camera, the tracker was a tiny little thing, held on by magnet, nothing to it, easy as pie. How it worked was that the minute the car started moving a text – yes, another one – would be sent to my phone, then I’d be able to follow Wayne’s every move on my screen.
I went back indoors and ten seconds later my phone beeped with a text telling me that a person had entered Wayne’s house. Adrenaline spiked through me, until I realized that I was the person and that every time I went into Wayne’s I’d get that selfsame text. But nice to know that the system was working. Surveillance technology, I really did adore it. New inventions were coming on stream the whole time and in the PI game you’ve got to keep up. But around two years ago, when the recession had really started to bite, I’d stopped being able to. At the time I was going head-to-head with a couple of big companies with plenty of moola so I lost several jobs. And less income meant less jingle to buy technology which meant less work and down we go.
Mind you, the recession had hit us all. Everyone had to drop their rates – big firms, lone operators, everyone was affected. But I was still bobbing along, still keeping my head above water, when, about a year ago, – and I’m not the only PI it happened to – things just went into free fall.
