by Marian Keyes
I got down some lever-arch files – bank statements, tax returns and invoices issued. Some stuff was easy to track. Royalties came in twice a year – September and March – from Laddz recordings. Can you believe it? Still! After all these years! Less and less every time, but it was a few quid nevertheless. Another lot of royalties also came twice a year from Wayne’s solo albums – far less than the Laddz money, pennies really. Then there were payments from Hartley Inc., which it didn’t take a genius to figure out was John Joseph’s company. They were sporadic and varied and could be cross-referenced back to invoices from Wayne.
Everything was clear and in order and all pretty modest. Wayne didn’t make big money. Same as what I would have got in a good year. But when I did a quick tot of all of last year’s various incomes, I noticed that the total wasn’t the same as the amount he’d declared on his tax return. I checked my sums, and when I got the same figure again my first thought was that he was cheating on his taxes – but no. In fact he’d overstated his income by roughly five thousand euro.
Strange. I flipped back through his deposit account statements and there it was, in May of last year, a deposit of five thousand dollars, which translated as roughly five thousand euro.
There was no indication of who or what the money had come from. Unlike the royalty income or the payments from Hartley Inc., all it had as a reference was a string of numbers.
And why was it a round figure? And in dollars?
I flipped back to the previous year and there, again in May, was a deposit for five thousand dollars. And again the previous year. At this point, I had to get another lever-arch file down off the shelf, but there we were again – five thousand dollars. Every May. Going back ten years and maybe more, but Wayne’s bank statements stopped around then.
Who was it from? All that was printed on the statements was a reference number, but someone – an accountant? A tax auditor? – had handwritten ‘Lotus Flower’ beside it on one of the statements and a quick Google told me that there was a record label by the same name and it was part of Sony.
So I rang Sony and pretended to be a civil servant jobsworth called Agnes O’Brien from the Inland Revenue, doing a ‘spot check’ on Wayne Diffney’s returns. Saying you’re the tax man usually has people sitting up and behaving, but I got shunted from department to department around the less glamorous backwaters of the company, accounts payable and the like, from Dublin to the UK and back again and it took me a while to realize that people weren’t being deliberately unhelpful, but that they were confused because the reference number didn’t correlate to anything in Lotus Flower’s records.
Eventually I gave up and sat on the floor of Wayne’s office, quite flummoxed. What should I do now?
Idly I flicked through the bank statements, some of the older ones, and noticed that although some helpful person had written an explanation beside that year’s five k deposit, the words weren’t ‘Lotus Flower’ but ‘Dutch Whirl’.
Reinvigorated, I picked up the phone again. I rang Maybelle in London because she’d sounded the least dopey of all the people I’d spoken to. Also I liked her cool name.
‘Maybelle,’ I said. ‘Agnes O’Brien from the Irish revenue here again. Does the name Dutch Whirl mean anything to you?’
‘Yeah. It was a label. But it folded years ago.’
‘Young lady, do you have immediate access to Dutch Whirl’s records?’ I was doing a clipped, monotonous Agnes O’Brien way of talking.
‘Mmm … let’s see.’ She clicked and hummed and I decided she sounded fabulous, like she had a huge Afro, aquamarine eye shadow and amazing nail art.
I, on the other hand, wore Ecco shoes and a bobbly navy cardigan. (In my Agnes-O’Brien-rich imagination.)
‘Okay, got it,’ she said. ‘Give me the reference number.’
‘Noughtttt,’ I said slowly. ‘Noughttttt. Noughttttt.’ I articulated each word very carefully because I felt Agnes O’Brien would be nothing if not methodical. ‘Or, as you young people say, zzzzzero, zzzzzzero, zzzzzzzero, ninnnne …’
‘Royalty payment,’ Maybelle said, when I eventually finished. ‘For “Windmill Girl”.’
Windmill Girl! What? ‘Windmill Girl’? The song that had propelled Docker to worldwide stardom. Windmill Girl, you blow me away.
In my excitement I almost forgot to do my flat Agnes O’Brien voice. ‘It’s not a royalty payment,’ I said. Because it couldn’t be. Royalty amounts varied depending on sales. Royalty statements came twice a year, in September and March. And crucially, why would Wayne Diffney be getting a royalty for Docker’s song?
‘There’s something weird about this,’ Maybelle admitted, still clicking.
Yes, exactly, Maybelle, there is something weird about it. You do a bit of digging and come back to me.
While she was off investigating in dusty old files, I Googled ‘Windmill Girl Wayne Diffney’, and to my surprise (category: pleasant), it brought up thousands of newspaper reports from over ten years ago. Scrolling down through them I noticed something interesting – in all the excitement of an Irish person (Docker) doing well in the US and news of the subsequent break-up of Laddz, was a much-overlooked fact: that Wayne had written the chorus of ‘Windmill Girl’. I’d known it and not known it, if you know what I mean. I mean, I’d known it but it had never seemed important to me.
The story went that Wayne and Docker had been messing around, strumming their guitars, putting together a song. Docker had come up with most of it but, in a moment of genius, Wayne provided the chorus. Under normal circumstances, they would both have retained rights over the song, but instead Wayne gave his share to Docker as a birthday present.
Next thing you know, Docker has recorded ‘Windmill Girl’ as a solo artist and it’s massive, right around the world. And there’s nothing Wayne can do; he’s relinquished all rights over it. But the weird thing was that Wayne didn’t denounce Docker and demand financial or artistic recognition.
And the even weirder thing was that no one said: God, isn’t Wayne Diffney a brilliant songwriter? Because he was. Say what you like about ‘Windmill Girl’ – and people said plenty, one commentator claiming that it was ‘jaunty enough to make you retch’ – it was irresistibly catchy.
I suppose Docker was so obviously a star that Wayne simply dimmed to nothingness beside him.
The rest of the story you know. ‘Windmill Girl’ was just the first step for Docker and his global success. Whereas poor Wayne went on to write countless more songs but nothing in the same league.
The bottom line was that, on a karmic level, Docker owed Wayne.
And Docker knew that he did – why else would he be paying royalties on a song to which he owned all rights?
My phone rang and it was Maybelle, confirming what I’d already put together – that the five grand annuity came directly from Docker. She tried to explain some technical stuff about Dutch Whirl being a subsidiary company of Sony’s that had been leased back to Docker, which is why the payment to Wayne was funnelled through the larger company instead of Docker simply paying it directly to Wayne, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need to understand the legal ins and outs because I got what was truly important here.
‘Thank you, young lady,’ I said, in my last act as Agnes O’Brien. ‘I’ll remember you in my prayers. I’m a great devotee of Padre Pio’s.’
I was shaking with excitement. This Docker connection opened up a whole world of possibilities. Docker had money and contacts and access to private planes. He could have got Wayne out of the country without a passport. Wayne could be anywhere on the planet right now.
Therefore, as a matter of some urgency, I needed to talk to Docker. However, I had as much chance of having a chin-wag with God.
Wayne’s phone records might help. I hopped up and found the right file on the shelf and quickly scanned through outgoing calls, specifically looking for 310, the code for Beverley Hills and Malibu. Nothing.
But there were several calls made to area code 212:
Manhattan. Magnificent. Who had Wayne been calling in Manhattan? Only one way to find out …
It was two o’clock here in Dublin, which meant it was nine in the morning in New York. Surely they’d be at work by now, in the city that never sleeps?
The phone was picked up on the second ring. Docker himself? Somehow I doubted it and I braced myself for a sunny, sing-song receptionist – you know the sort of stuff: ‘Docker Enterprises, this is April speaking, I love my job, I’ve just had the best mango and mint iced tea, the weather conditions are optimum here in New York City, and I’m simply dying to connect your call.’
Instead I got a man’s voice, deep and growly and, most surprising of all, speaking in a foreign language. I’d obviously dialled a wrong number. Quickly I hung up, then hit the numbers again, more carefully this time. Again I got the growly man. Something wasn’t right here.
I picked another Manhattan number from Wayne’s phone bill and this time I did get a girl and she did have that cheery intonation that receptionists the world over clearly have beaten into them. But, like the man, she was speaking a foreign language, the same sort of gutteral and throat-clear-y thing.
‘Hello,’ I said tentatively.
‘Good afternoon.’ It took her less than a heartbeat to switch to English. ‘Funky Kismet Group. My name is Yasmin. How may I direct your call?’
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘At my desk.’
‘I mean, what city?’
‘Stamboul.’
‘Is that the same as Istanbul?’
‘Yes.’
Istanbul! Right! They had the same city phone code as Manhattan. I’d actually known that and if my head had been working the way it usually did I’d probably have remembered. Obviously they had a different country code, which I would have noticed if I hadn’t been so dizzified at the prospect of talking to Docker.
‘How may I direct your call?’ Yasmin repeated.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Just tell me, did you say your name was Funky Kismet? What are you? A record company?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks. Er … inshallah. Over and out.’
Feck. So Wayne hadn’t been ringing Docker. He’d just been making work calls to Turkey. And a quick check on the other foreign numbers showed he’d done a lot of talking to Cairo and Beirut.
The only US number Wayne had rung regularly was in upstate New York and I was betting it belonged to his brother, Richard. Just to make certain, I rang it. A man’s voice answered and I said, ‘Richard Diffney?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Helen Walsh. I’m calling about Wayne.’
‘Is he all right?’ Richard asked with urgency. ‘Has he turned up?’
‘No, not yet. I take it you haven’t heard from him?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he is?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ You can never really tell on the phone, but, in fairness, he did sound very sorry.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I need to contact his friend Gloria.’
‘Gloria?’ He sounded genuinely baffled. ‘I don’t know her. I’ve never even heard him mention a Gloria.’
I swallowed back a sigh: it had been worth a punt.
‘Shouldn’t you be in work?’ It suddenly occurred to me.
‘Late shift today.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a chef.’
‘Are you? Rather you than me. Listen, if you hear anything from Wayne, could you give me a shout. These are my details.’ I rattled them off and hung up.
On a whim I decided to ring Wayne’s parents. No matter how ‘obvious’ it seemed, he might be with them. The phone was answered straight away by a softly-spoken woman.
‘Is that Mrs Diffney?’ I asked.
‘Yes …’
‘My name is Helen Walsh. I’m a –’
‘Yes! John Joseph has told me. Any word on Wayne?’
‘I need to talk to him. Get him for me, please. It’s important.’
‘But …’
‘I know you’re hiding him, but this is too important.’
‘I’m not hiding him …’ She sounded stunned. ‘I’ve no idea where he is. I thought you were hired to find him.’
I consider myself to be a good judge of liars. It’s better if I can see someone face to face but even with voices I can pick up on the gaps, the elisions, the tiny pauses that indicate that someone is spinning me a line. Mrs Diffney sounded as honest as the day was long (and they were very long at the moment).
‘Okay, then. But if you hear anything from Wayne, you need to contact me right away.’
‘Have you heard anything? Any idea where he might be? We’re … worried.’ She choked back what sounded like a sob.
‘Early days, Mrs Diffney. Don’t worry.’
‘What do you need to talk to him about?’
‘Oh nothing. That’s just a trick I use to unsettle people into telling me stuff they don’t want to.’
‘I see. Well –’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Diffney. Thank you for your time.’
Slowly I began to replace the lever-arch files on the shelves. I was deep in thought.
I was now properly convinced that Wayne’s family really didn’t know where he was and I was back to the suspicion that Docker was playing some part in all of this. Maybe he and Wayne had been in email contact. I gazed at Wayne’s lifeless computer; I really needed to get in there. What the hell could the password be? Could it be Gloria? Could it be Docker? Could it even be Birdie? They were all six characters long. But I didn’t feel certain enough of any to risk wasting one of my three precious chances. I’d have to keep waiting, trying to get inside Wayne’s head. Maybe something would come to me eventually.
I made a quick call to Jay Parker. ‘Listen, do you have a phone number for Docker?’
I knew he didn’t, but I wanted to shame him.
‘Docker? Worldwide superstar? That Docker?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Ahhhh … I’ll come back to you on that, yeah?’ Then he hung up.
Within seconds, quite literally, he rang back.
‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Text it to me.’
I was just rubbing it in. I knew he had nothing.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You’re not to ask John Joseph for Docker’s number.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he doesn’t have it. He’s a bit … sore about it and I don’t want him getting in a mood. Things are tricky enough.’
‘Is there bad blood?’
‘No. No blood at all. They lost touch years ago. It’s no big deal, but John Joseph feels …’
I got it. John Joseph thought he was Docker’s equal, that they should all be palling around together, partying on yachts and visiting bemused smallholders in Ghana. But despite John Joseph’s big-fish-in-a-small-pond success, Docker didn’t know he existed.
‘Any point asking Frankie?’ I asked. That was a joke. Frankie was up there with chocolate teapots in terms of usefulness.
‘You could try …’
‘Roger?’
‘Ah, I wouldn’t bother. Why are you asking anyway?’
‘I think Docker might be helping Wayne.’
‘Docker? Are you mental? He lives in a totally different universe to any of us. He wouldn’t know Wayne Diffney from a hole in the ground.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my friend.’ Awkwardly, I added, ‘I didn’t mean to say that. You’re not my friend. It just came out wrong.’
‘Look, Helen, we don’t have to be so –’
‘We need a contact for Docker,’ I reiterated. ‘Talk to everyone you know and don’t ring me again until you have something.’
‘Those payments have gone through,’ he said. ‘To the phone records people and the bank records.’
He was expecting me to thank him for organizing it. I mean, it was his case. It made no odds to me.
Just to be sure he was telli
ng the truth, I took a quick look at my emails. Yes, confirmations from both the sources that they’d got the money and they were on the job. It was a relief, to be honest, that such useful people were no longer blacklisting me. In fact a little tingle of excitement began to play around in my belly – these people were merciless in their leaving-no-stone-unturned devotion and who knew what kind of stuff would be in that info? Docker’s number could be the least of the wonders they exposed.
22
What now? It was ten to three. Digby, the possible taxi driver – the last person who had rung Wayne on his landline – hadn’t called me back looking for his ‘reward’ and I had a strong instinct that he wasn’t going to. There had been something in his voice. He’d sounded clued-up and a bit world-weary.
All the same, I decided to ring him again and this time I had the bright idea of ringing from Wayne’s landline; maybe he’d think it was Wayne ringing and he’d pick up. But once again his phone went straight to voicemail and quickly I gathered every ounce of my energy to leave a breezy, friendly message. ‘Digby, hahahaha, Helen here, friend of Wayne’s. Listen, give us a shout. You have my number, but just in case you haven’t, here it is.’ I forced out a few more exhausting laughs, then hung up and turned my attention to Birdie Salaman – another person who hadn’t got back to me.
You wouldn’t want to be sensitive in this job. Like, you wouldn’t want to take things personally.
Birdie might be away on holiday, she might be sick, but I had the feeling she was avoiding me. I’d better go and see her. However, I was reluctant to drive all the way out to Skerries on the off-chance that she might be in. She could be one of the few people left in the country to still have a job.
So I Googled her. Her name generated pages and pages of stuff about bird sanctuaries and salamander lizards, but I kept going, kept clicking to the next page, and suddenly, there we were! Buried about a hundred articles in was a one-line mention of a Birdie Salaman in a little known periodical called Paper Bags Today.
