The Mystery of Mercy Close (7 page)

‘Helen!’ Jay said sharply and broke the spell.

‘Oh … okay, right. Have you seen a phone charger anywhere?’

‘No.’

Neither had I. Which meant that Wayne might have taken
it with him. Which lessened the chances of him having left under duress.

‘What was in the post you illegally opened?’

‘Nothing. Nothing useful anyway. Couple of fan letters. Thing from his health insurance saying he’s up to date for another year.’

‘No scary letters from the revenue saying he owes a fortune in tax?’

‘No.’

So, not enough debt for Wayne to do a runner. But enough for the Laddz reunion gigs to be very welcome. Hard to draw any conclusions. I really needed to get into that computer …

‘Next,’ I said, ‘the bathroom.’

Oh, what a beautiful room. The walls were done in Howl and the ceiling in Christ on the Cross.

‘What’s with the paint colours?’ Jay asked. ‘It’s like a horror film in here.’

On the wash basin there was no sign of a toothbrush or charger, further proof that Wayne had probably left of his own volition. The windowsill and shelves were loaded with shampoo, conditioner, sunblock, after-shave balm and other metrosexual stuff. Impossible to say if anything had been recently removed.

I saved the cabinet for last. Razors, dental floss, mild painkillers and – aha! – a small brown bottle containing – aha! – Stilnoct. A popular (as it happened,
very
popular with me) sleeping tablet, except my doctor won’t prescribe them any more. I itched to slip this little dun-coloured jar of oblivion into my pocket but I couldn’t because I’m a professional. Besides, Jay Parker was hovering.

‘He has trouble sleeping,’ I said.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Guilty conscience, Jay?’

‘Keep it moving.’

‘Let’s try the kitchen.’ I raced down the stairs. ‘You go
through the rubbish,’ I said to Parker, because you could be bloody well sure I wasn’t going to. Wayne had one of those recycley bins with four separate containers: glass, paper, metal and the grim bin (i.e. leftover food).

I made for the fridge. ‘No milk,’ I said. ‘Good. I like that in a person.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Buying milk. It’s pitiful. What use is it?’

‘To put in tea.’

‘Who drinks tea?’

‘Coffee, then.’

‘Who puts milk in coffee? Who drinks coffee at all when they can have Diet Coke? Once you start buying milk, well … it’s a sign that you’ve just given up.’

‘God, Helen, I’ve missed you and your weirdo notions. Anyway Wayne might have bought milk and thrown it out before he did his runner.’

‘So have you found an empty milk carton?’

‘Not yet … Hey! Would you look at that!’

‘What?’

‘Cake!’ Parker produced the remains of what looked like a chocolate Swiss roll out of the grim bin. ‘He’s meant to be
carb-free
. He’s still got three kilos to lose.’

He glared at me with the irritation of a man who’d never had to worry about his weight. Jay Parker had a metabolism as fast as a Kenyan sprinter; no matter what he ate – and he lived on junk food, or at least he used to – he always stayed narrow-waisted and lean.

I was scanning the fridge shelves at high speed. ‘Cheese, spreadable butter, beer, vodka, Coke, Diet Coke, olives, pesto sauce. Nothing controversial in here.’ I gave the door a slam and started on the freezer. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Knocked on your neighbour’s door. He told me about your housing crisis. I thought you might have moved in with a friend. Then I remembered that you don’t have any. So I
rang Mammy Walsh who gave me the full story. Always fond of me, Mammy Walsh was.’

Bile washed up in my throat. He had no right to call Mum by her nickname. I couldn’t bear the way he sniffed out people’s nicknames – it usually took him about half a second, since he was constantly alert to any information that could be useful to him – and then he shamelessly used them, so that everyone thought he was part of the gang when he very much wasn’t.

And whose fault was it that I didn’t have any friends?

Grimly I pressed on with my search. The top drawer of the freezer had a massive bag of frozen peas. Why always peas? In everyone’s freezer? When they’re horrible? Perhaps they’re just kept for injuries, like when you fall down the stairs and break your thigh bone in three places. ‘Sit down there and we’ll put a bag of frozen peas on you and you’ll be back doing Extreme Zumba by Tuesday.’ The next drawer had four pizzas. Working my way downwards I found bread, cod fillets, spicey wedges. Nothing suspicious.

Next, the cupboards. Tinned tomatoes, pasta, rice. They couldn’t have been more normal if they’d tried.

‘Do you still have your Shovel List?’ Jay asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Am I still at the top of it?’

‘At the top?
You?
You’re nowhere.’

My beloved Shovel List contained things that mattered to me. I hated them, yes. Enough to want to hit them in the face with a shovel, hence the name. But they
mattered
. Jay Parker didn’t matter to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For everything.’

‘What everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Look, can’t we –’

I held up a palm to silence him. I needed to go back to the spare bedroom. I’d missed something. I didn’t know what, but my instinct was telling me to get back in there, and sure enough, behind the curtain (don’t even get me started on how magnificent Wayne’s curtains were), I found it. A photograph. Turned face downwards. Of Wayne and a girl. Their cheeks were pressed against each other and they were sun-kissed and smiley. There was a background impression of sea-light and sand dunes and marram grass. The whole thing was mildly Abercrombie and Fitch-y – they might even have been wearing pastel cashmere hoodies – but it didn’t feel staged. I’d say they’d taken the shot themselves, using the timer on the camera. His smile seemed like a genuinely happy one. The girl had windburned freckles, sparkly blue eyes and tangled sun-bleached hair. This was Gloria. I’d stake my life on it.

I brought the photo downstairs and showed it to Jay. ‘Who’s she?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Haven’t a clue. The mysterious Gloria?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’ I threw the photo into my handbag. ‘Come here, what kind of car does Wayne drive?’

‘Alfa Romeo.’

‘Okay. Let’s take a little stroll around the neighbourhood, see if we can find it.’

We’d barely passed three houses when Jay said, ‘There it is.’

‘You’re sure? There might be more than one black Alfa Romeo in Dublin.’

He cupped his hands around his face and gazed into the darkened car. ‘Definitely. Look, it’s got one of his stupid books on the seat.’

I took a look at the book. It was a perfectly ordinary thriller. Nothing stupid about it at all.

I approved of Wayne’s car. It was Italian, therefore stylish,
but eight years old, so not flash. It was black, which is the only real colour there is for cars. I don’t see the point in any other so-called ‘colours’. It’s just a plot to slow us down. Think of all the time wasted dithering between red cars or silver ones. If I ruled the world, my first act as despot would be to make it illegal to have a non-black car.

‘So if his car is still here, and if he’s left voluntarily, there’s a good chance he might have gone wherever he’s gone, by taxi.’ My heart was in my boots thinking of the utter tedium of having to butter up the controllers of the dozens of taxi companies in Dublin, trying to get them to divulge their records.

‘Unless …’ (On the one hand this was an even less pleasant thought …) ‘unless he went on the bus or Dart. Because Wayne’s cool with public transport, right?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t know. I just do.’ (… but, on the other hand, this meant I was starting to get inside Wayne’s head.)

Jay looked at me in admiration. ‘See. I knew you were the right person for the job.’

‘What now?’ Jay asked. ‘Too late to canvas the neighbours?’

‘Way too late.’

‘We could go to see John Joseph.’

‘It’s midnight,’ I said. ‘Won’t he be in bed?’

‘Hardly,’ Jay sneered. ‘Rock ’n’ roll never sleeps.’

‘My point exactly. John Joseph is about as rock ’n’ roll as prostate cancer. Anyway, the hour you paid me for is up. If you want me to go anywhere, you need to pony up with more jingle.’

Jay sighed, reached into his hip pocket and produced a fat bundle of notes. He peeled off several. ‘Two more hours, at your extortionate rate.’

‘
Thank
you. John Joseph, here we come.’

John Joseph was to be found in a newly built compound in Dundrum. An electronic gate manned by a uniformed security guard in a Plexiglas hut blocked our entrance.

‘Alfonso. Come on,’ Jay said, nudging the bonnet of the car at the gate. ‘Open up.’

‘Mr Parker? Does Mr Hartley know you’re coming?’

‘He will in a minute.’

‘I’ll just ring through.’ Alfonso picked up a peculiar brown phone, the type that you’d find in films from the seventies and Jay gunned the engine in frustration.

‘I thought you had the key to all your artistes’ places,’ I said.

‘I do,’ Jay said. ‘But only for when they’re not there.’

‘And then you do what? Sneak in and rub yourself with their oven gloves? Lick their cheese and put it back in the packet?’

The gate was sliding open and Alfonso was waving us through.

‘
Muchas gracias
,’ Jay called as we sailed by. ‘Some day, Helen,’ he said, ‘you’ll see I’m not the scumbag you think I am.’

‘Is that the garage?’ I asked, as we passed a building the size of a warehouse. The famous garage, jam-packed with vintage cars. ‘Let’s just look at the Aston Martin.’

‘Don’t mention the Aston Martin.’

‘Why not?’

Jay nosed his car into a parking bay beside a gigantic front door. ‘Just don’t. There goes your phone again. Popular girl, aren’t you?’

It was Artie again. Now wasn’t the time. Not with Jay Parker right beside me and a certain amount of momentum underway in this case.

It didn’t feel right, though, letting the phone ring out, knowing it was Artie, but I made myself chuck it back in the bag. I’d ring him soon as.

I looked up to find Parker’s dark eyes on me. I recoiled. ‘Stop … staring at me like a …’

‘Who was that on the phone? Your fella, was it? Keeps you on a short leash, no? Or is it the other way round?’

‘Jay, just …’ Fuck off. No one was keeping anyone on any sort of leash.

‘Serious with you two, is it? And there I was thinking I was the only man you’d ever love.’

Blood rushed to my head and my mouth got ready to launch some choice put-downs, but there were so many words fighting to come out that, like drunks in a raid in a crowded bar, they got caught in a tangle at the exit and none of them could escape.

‘Joking!’ He laughed into my paralysed, speech-deprived face, then jumped from the car. ‘I know how much you hate me. Come on.’ He bounded up the sweeping granite steps and a small Hispanic woman in a black dress and white apron
admitted us into an enormous entrance hall, at least three storeys high.

‘
Hola
, Infanta,’ Jay said, with a faceful of grins. ‘
Cómo estás?
’

‘Mr Jay!’ Infanta seemed delighted to see him. Obviously an astonishingly poor judge of character. ‘Why you not come see me for three days! I miss you!’

‘I missed you too.’ Jay grabbed her in a bear hug, then launched her into a waltz around the entrance hall.

I watched them as they danced. My hands were shaking and my face felt like it was sunburned. Anger, I supposed. If I took this job, I’d have to limit my exposure to Jay Parker; he had an awful effect on me.

‘Ooh, Mr Jay!’ Infanta drew the giddy whirling to a halt. ‘Mr John Joseph waiting for you in receiving room.’

‘You must meet my friend. This is Helen Walsh,’ Jay said, breathless and flushed from the high jinks.

Infanta regarded me with reverence. ‘We all love Jay Parker. You are lucky girl, be his friend,’ she said.

‘He’s not my friend,’ I said, and Infanta stepped back in evident shock.

‘Nice,’ Jay said. ‘Embarrass the poor woman.’

‘But you’re not my friend.’ I swung my gaze from his to hers. ‘Infanta, I’m sorry, but he’s not my friend.’

‘Is okay,’ she said, in a near whisper.

I had to go deep inside me to find the steel bar that was in danger of being slightly bent out of shape. I held on to it and let it infuse me with strength. It would take more than Infanta’s wounded little face to make me, Helen Walsh, feel guilty.

The so-called receiving room was
massive
. You could barely see John Joseph at the far end. He was standing at the fireplace and resting his elbow up on it, but it looked like a bit of a stretch for him. Granted, it wasn’t a small fireplace, but all the same.

The interiors look he’d been going for was (I think)
Medieval Nobleman’s Hall. Lots of carved wood panelling and wall tapestries and a ginormous three-layered chandelier made from the antlers of some sort of prehistoric beast. Two Irish wolfhounds slunk around the fireplace and candlelight flickered from lead wall sconces.

‘Jay!’ John Joseph bounded down the room towards us – for a moment I thought he was going to gallop on one of the wolfhounds – and despite him being a bit of a national joke, I couldn’t help but be star struck. Up close, he was like an elderly sprite. The doe-eyed face that had worked so well for a nineteen-year-old was a bit shrunken-headed and Gollum-y now that he was thirty-seven.

‘You must be Helen Walsh.’ He offered me a warm, firm handshake. ‘Thanks for coming on board so quickly. Sit down. What can I get you to drink?’

I have a habit of taking instant dislikes to people. Simply because it saves time. Also I can’t abide people who say ‘coming on board’, unless they’re sailors, but of course they never are. However, I wasn’t so sure about John Joseph.

He was friendly and pleasant and had an air of being in control. There were shrewd flickers going on behind the eyes and he ran his gaze up and down me, but not in a creepy way, just taking it all in. Definitely not the eejit I’d expected him to be.