The Mystery of Mercy Close (37 page)

Out in the street I rang Parker. He answered on the first ring.

‘Helen?’

‘Where the fuck are you?’

‘Television Centre at RTÉ.’

‘I’m on my way over to you for Wayne’s key. Sort it out so there’s a pass waiting for me on the front desk.’

‘What the –’

I hung up. I didn’t know what was going on, with Harry Gilliam and Jay. I was afraid and I was angry, which was unpleasant but, oddly enough, better than the way I’d been feeling when I’d been off the case.

Surprisingly they knew all about me at the reception of Television Centre. I was expecting a weary back-and-forth with some power-mad jobsworth, but a laminated pass was waiting with my name on it – misspelled, of course, so I was ‘Helene Walshe’ (someone liked their ‘e’s) – and after a quick phone call, a black-clad runner appeared to show me to ‘Hospitality’.

I’d never been in a green room before, and to my disappointment it looked just like a big sitting room. There were lots of couches and a bar in the corner, and about twenty people sitting in clusters and keeping their distance from the other clusters of people. Apart from the Laddz contingent, I hadn’t a clue who the other guests were. But I could take a punt. A chef who’d done a cookery book, maybe? A fake-knockered, fake-nailed woman who had slept with men in the public eye? The captain of the GAA hurling team who’d won the Munster final? Some crappy band with a single or a gig to promote. Oh, that would be Laddz, of course.

The Laddz contingent was in a tight-knit knot. Jay was there, obviously, and John Joseph and Zeezah, who were having a low, private conversation with each other. Roger St Leger had brought along the leggy, throaty blonde he’d met at the barbecue. They were both scuttered and lying on a couch, roaring with dirty laughter, drinking vodka, and liable to have sex at any moment.

Frankie was sitting rigid and uncharacteristically silent. Initially I thought it was because he was disgusted by Roger’s antics – the ‘man above’ certainly would
not
approve. But I realized that Frankie was in a complicated situation. At the moment his television career was on fire, and with the way things stood, as soon as Maurice McNice died, his job was Frankie’s. In the meantime, while Frankie was waiting for Maurice to die, it was a bit awkward to come and sing on the show. It could almost seem like
gloating
.

Jay was deep in conversation with a man who appeared to be one of the show’s producers.

‘But Wayne’s sick,’ Jay was saying. ‘His throat is killing him. No way can he sing.’

‘No one’s asking him to sing!’ the producer said. ‘No one ever sings on
Saturday Night In
. They always mime.’

‘Wayne’s in bed with a temperature of a hundred and two,’ Jay said. ‘He can’t even stand up. An interview with John Joseph and his beautiful new bride will be far better.’

I summed up the situation at a glance: before Wayne had gone awol, Laddz had been invited on to the show to ‘sing’ and now Parker was trying to retrieve whatever publicity chances he could by offering John Joseph and Zeezah as interviewees.

But the producer was not at all happy with this proposed arrangement because the show’s line-up included an interview with a newly married GAA hurling star. ‘We’ve already got a “beautiful new bride” interview,’ the producer said. ‘And
no
musical acts. There’s rules for light entertainment shows! This is all out of balance.’

‘That woman,’ Jay pointed at Zeezah, ‘is a massive worldwide superstar. It’s a coup to get to interview her.’

The producer got a gleam in his eyes. ‘Maybe
she
could sing.’

‘No!’ Jay saw the publicity opportunity for Laddz slipping away. ‘She hasn’t got her costumes with her. Zeezah can’t just hop up on a stool and start singing. She’s not Christy Moore.’

Producer guy’s walkie-talkie crackled with some urgent command, which had him jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got to sort something else out,’ he said to Jay. ‘But this isn’t over.’

As soon as your man had gone racing off, I hit Jay on the shoulder. He looked up at me.

‘So you’re back?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Just give me Wayne’s key.’

‘Tell me. What’s going on?’

‘Your friend Harry has persuaded me to keep looking for Wayne.’

‘Harry?’ Jay looked genuinely confused. But hard to know with him. ‘Who’s Harry?’

‘Yeah, whatever. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit. Just know this: you’ll still be paying me, no matter what the story is with yourself and Harry.’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ Jay said. ‘And I’m glad you’re back. But something you should know. When you resigned this afternoon, John Joseph hired another PI –’

‘Who?’

‘Walter Wolcott.’

I knew him. Older bloke. Very different working style to mine. Methodical. Unimaginative. Not above throwing the odd punch. Ex-copper, it goes without saying.

‘He’s already got hold of all the airline manifests, even from private airstrips. Wayne’s definitely still in the country.’

‘But we knew that. I found his passport, remember?’

‘He’s also checked ferries, smaller harbours, boat hire places. Wayne hasn’t used any of them.’

Wolcott would have been able to get all that intel from his old muckers in the polis without it costing him a penny. That blue-on-blue love thing is very powerful.

‘Wolcott’s checked all the big hotels,’ Jay said.

Again, one of Wolcott’s former workmates would have been able to arrange that for him.

‘But no sign of Wayne,’ Jay said. ‘Wolcott’s trying smaller places now, B&Bs and that, but it’ll take time.’

Especially because they wouldn’t be on any databases.

‘Maybe you should pool your resources,’ Jay said.

No way was I teaming up with an old flatfoot like Wolcott.

I didn’t want him working the case
at all
. It was unlikely that we’d go down the same route, but it could make things messy if we both showed up, looking to talk to the same person. Particularly if he got there first.

‘How’s he doing on phone and financial records?’ I asked. They were what really mattered and it was far less likely that Wolcott’s pals in the force would be able to get them for him. Producing airline manifests without just cause is only mildly illegal; phone records and financial stuff are in a different league – really
quite
illegal.

Jay shook his head. ‘Wolcott wasn’t able to get the info through his usual channels. He needed money and John Joseph wouldn’t authorize it. In fact he went mental when he found out how much I’d paid you.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Just how canny
was
John Joseph? ‘Has he paid Wolcott anything at all? Has he made him take the case on a no-find-no-fee basis?’

‘Yeah.’

For a moment I almost felt sorry for Walter Wolcott. Lean times for private investigators, as I well knew. Precious little bargaining power available to us. But what it meant was that I was still ahead of Wolcott. I had the phone and financial records coming to me down the pipe.
And
I was getting two hundred euro a day, mingy and all as it was.

The producer was back. ‘Okay,’ he said to Jay. ‘You’ve left me no choice. We’ll go with the “beautiful new bride” stuff.’

‘Thanks, man –’

‘And don’t ever call me again. Ever. No matter who you represent, no matter what you’re flogging.’

‘Hey, no need to be like that,’ Jay said.

The producer ignored him. ‘You two,’ he summoned John Joseph and Zeezah. ‘Time for make-up.’

Jay handed me Wayne’s house key but I decided to stick around in the green room for a little while longer. I told myself it was research but really it was just that it was fascinating.

‘Parker,’ I said, ‘what if Wayne isn’t found and the gigs don’t happen?’

‘The gigs will happen. If I have to go on and sing myself, they’ll happen.’

‘Seriously. Apart from OneWorld Music, who’s financing it? If it goes tits up, who gets the insurance money?’

He took a moment before he spoke. ‘That’s not something you need to know.’

‘Just tell me, who gets the money?’

‘Like I said, that’s not something you need to know.’

I stared at him hard. ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He turned away from me. ‘Look, you just keep looking for Wayne. That’s all you’re being paid to do.’

Fifteen minutes later John Joseph and Zeezah returned from make-up. Plastered in the stuff they were.
Plastered
.

‘So what’s the story?’ John Joseph said to me. ‘I hear you’ve unresigned?’

‘I have and you can get rid of Walter Wolcott.’

It was hard for John Joseph to terrorize as effectively as he usually did, on account of him wearing pearly pink lip gloss. Nevertheless he gave it a good shot. ‘I’m not calling him off,’ he said. ‘We’ve seen more results from Wolcott in three
hours’ work than we’ve had from you in two days and he hasn’t cost us a penny. I’m thinking that maybe
you’re
the one we should get rid of.’

‘Your friend Harry Gilliam is keen that I stay on the case.’

Was that a flicker? ‘Who?’

‘Harry Gilliam.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Course you haven’t.’

‘Look,’ Jay said hastily, trying to be the peacemaker. ‘The clock’s ticking down to Wednesday. The more resources on this the better.’

John Joseph gave me a long hard look. ‘Whatever,’ he eventually said. Then he turned away from me, fixed his glare on Roger and said, ‘Don’t drink any more, you’re making a show of us.’

We all sat in uncomfortable silence until a couple of runners came to take away John Joseph and Zeezah. They were the first item. This was a bad sign, an indication that they were the least important people on the show.

From the green room, we watched them on a monitor. Just before the interview went live, John Joseph blessed himself, which sent Roger St Leger into peals of scornful laughter. I was with him on that.

Maurice McNice described John Joseph as ‘a man who needs no introduction’ but gave him one anyway, just in case.

‘Tell us how you met,’ Maurice said, smiling from John Joseph to Zeezah, then back to John Joseph. He was Old School. Lobbed easy questions. If you were looking for controversial you wouldn’t get it here.

‘It was in Istanbul,’ John Joseph said. ‘Zeezah was singing at her friend’s birthday party. I hadn’t a clue who she was.’

Beside me, Roger St Leger roared with mocking laughter. ‘No, you hadn’t a clue who she was, had you?’

On the screen Maurice McNice said, ‘So you had no idea she was such a superstar?’

‘None,’ John Joseph said, and that triggered a fresh bout of drunken scorn from Roger St Leger.

‘Life according to John Joseph Hartley,’ he said. ‘What a wonderful world.’ Then he started singing it.

‘Shut up,’ the GAA hurling star said, ‘I’m trying to listen. And so’s my wife.’

‘Sorry, man, sorry. Sorry, Missus Hurling.’

Roger’s contrition lasted about half a second. As soon as John Joseph started speaking again, he creased with laughter.

‘I didn’t know she was a superstar,’ John Joseph said.

‘And I didn’t know
he
was a superstar,’ Zeezah chipped in.

‘That’s because he’s not!’ Roger said.

Maurice McNice ignored Zeezah. Like I said, Old School. Didn’t really think women should be allowed on the telly.

‘I believe you’re a great man for the classic cars,’ Maurice said to John Joseph. ‘I’m fond of them myself. Tell us about your Aston.’

‘Ah, she’s a beauty,’ John Joseph said smoothly.

‘“But not as beautiful as my wife”,’ Roger prompted.

‘But not as beautiful as my wife,’ John Joseph said, and Roger almost fell off his couch laughing.

‘Are you going to tell Mr McNice that you had to sell your Aston? For your “beautiful new bride”. To finance her career?’ Roger asked the screen. ‘No, I thought not.’

The interview was winding down. ‘Mention the gigs, you senile old fool,’ Jay muttered, gazing at Maurice McNice as if he could control his mind.

Credit where it’s due, Maurice made much mention of the reunion gigs. The days, the times and the venue were all given. And given
correctly
, which was highly unusual.

‘Still a few tickets left, I believe,’ Maurice McNice said – then gave an unexpectedly spiteful laugh, the implication being that not a single one had sold yet.

And that was the end of that. The interview was over, the show cut to an ad-break and a few minutes later John Joseph
and Zeezah were back in the green room, high on adrenaline, everyone hugging them and saying, ‘You were
amazing
. You were
fantastic
.’

Even I got caught up in it.

Zeezah hugged me. ‘I’m so happy you’ve changed your mind about finding Wayne. Please,’ she said. ‘You must go quickly now.’

Where should I go? It was ten thirty, so a bit late to start anything. I decided to go to Wayne’s house – the Source, as I was starting to think of it. I’d settle myself, regroup and see if anything came to me.

I drove the short distance to Mercy Close and parked about three houses down from Wayne’s. I got out of my car and slammed the door shut, and I’d barely registered the sound of running footsteps behind me before the blow came. Something hard hit me on the back of my head, sending my brain crashing into the front of my skull. I fell forward and the road rushed up to wallop itself against my forehead. As stars burst behind my eyes and puke rushed into my gullet, a voice said quietly into my ear, ‘Stay away from Wayne.’

The whole thing happened very fast. I knew it was urgent –
imperative
– to turn round to get a look at him, but I was too stunned to move. The footsteps were running away, pitter-pattering and getting fainter, then disappearing.

I wanted – I tried – to scramble to my feet to run after him but my body couldn’t do it. I knelt in the road on all fours and retched twice but didn’t puke.

Because it was so highly dramatic, I was sure that one of Wayne’s neighbours would come out of their house and ask me if I was okay, but no one stirred. In the end I suppose I just got a bit bored waiting for a ‘concerned person’ and, shakily, I got to my feet and tried to establish how damaged I was. How many fingers was I holding up? Three. But I knew that because I was the one holding them.