The Mystery of Mercy Close (6 page)

He’d done his walls with paint from Holy Basil. God, I
yearned
for their colours. I hadn’t been able to afford them myself but I knew their colour chart like the back of my hand. His hall was in Gangrene, his stairs in Agony and his living room – unless I was very much mistaken – in Dead Whale. Colours I personally
very much
approved of.

I made straight for the living-room sideboard – a beautiful built-in specimen in the alcove beside the dinky little 1930s fireplace – and started whipping open drawers. It took me roughly half a second before I slapped a little book on to the desktop and said to Jay, ‘Well, there’s his passport.’

Jay coloured. ‘How did I miss that?’

‘So he’s still in the country.’ Or at least in the British Isles.
They can say what they like about free movement of people in the EU but the fact is that if you’re not part of the Schengen Agreement you can’t get in anywhere without your passport. ‘That makes things a lot easier.’

‘What if he had a fake passport?’ Jay asked.

‘Where would he get a fake passport? You’re telling me Wayne’s an ordinary citizen.’

‘He could be a master criminal, a spy, a sleeper.’

But it was unlikely.

I checked out his passport photo. His hair – perfectly normal – was light brown and he was the good-looking side of ordinary. I liked the look of him. I threw the passport back in the drawer.

‘Who are these people?’ There were a few photos on the shelves above the drawers.

Jay scanned a speedy eye over them. ‘His mum and dad, by the look of them. Wayne’s brother, Richard. I’ve met him. And that’s his wife – can’t remember her name, might be Vicky. That other girl, she’s Wayne’s sister, Connie. The kids? Nieces, nephews, probably.’ He shook his head. ‘Nobody.’

‘Wayne’s probably with that lot.’ I was irritated and astonished that Jay hadn’t spotted the blindingly obvious. ‘They look close.’

‘They
are
close. So close that Wayne’s mum rang John Joseph earlier this evening, worried because Wayne wasn’t answering his phone.’

‘Why John Joseph?’

‘He’s thick as thieves with the Diffneys.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘The parents and the sister are in Clonakilty in County Cork, the brother’s in New York State.’

‘I think Wayne’s in Clonakilty,’ I said stubbornly.

Jay sighed. ‘Look, Wayne’s run away and he’s far from stupid. If he was with his family, he’d be too easy to find.’

‘Maybe I should drive down to Clonakilty and have a chat with Wayne’s mammy.’

‘I don’t care what you do, I just want Wayne found. Drive the eight-hour round trip to Clonakilty if you want.’

Now that Jay was agreeing with me, I wasn’t so sure. Clonakilty
was
a long way away. Also it was world-renowned for its black pudding and I didn’t think I could visit a town where they made black pudding, where they actually
boasted
about it.

I’d have a think about it …

There was a photo of Wayne with John Joseph Hartley, accepting an award that was covered with Arabic-y-looking writing, but none of him with any lady-friends, not even his ex-wife. Well,
especially
not his ex-wife, once I thought about it.

‘Does Wayne have a girlfriend?’ I asked.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Or kids?’

‘No.’

‘Where’s his landline?’ I spotted the phone across the room. There were twenty-eight new messages. The first four were from Jay, ordering Wayne to get in pronto for rehearsal.

‘This morning?’ I asked Jay.

He nodded.

The next was from a voice I half recognized.

‘You’ve got to come in.’ Whoever he was, he sounded very anguished. ‘John Joseph’s going mad.’

‘And that’s …?’ I asked.

‘Frankie.’

Of course! Frankie Delapp. The Gay One and everybody’s favourite.

Next message: Frankie again. He sounded like he was actually in tears. ‘John Joseph’s going to kill you.’

‘Ah Wayne …’ A new voice, speaking in a mix of exasperation and affection.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked Parker.

‘Roger.’

Roger St Leger, aka the Other One. No one could understand how he’d ever got into Laddz. He was just a load of blank nothingness in a white suit, only there to make up numbers. He was never anyone’s favourite. But in real life he’d enjoyed an unexpectedly dissolute existence. He had three ex-wives and seven – seven! – children. How was that even legal?

‘C’mon, buddy,’ Roger coaxed. ‘I know it’s hard, but take one for the team, yeah?’

‘Wayne.’ A young woman’s voice this time. She sounded disappointed and exotic.

‘Zeezah,’ Jay said. ‘John Joseph’s new missus.’

‘You must come to rehearsal,’ Zeezah scolded. ‘You are letting down the other guys and you are not that kind of person.’

On and on the messages came, from Jay, Frankie and Roger. Nothing from John Joseph, but why would he need to ring when he had everyone else doing it for him?

While I listened, I scrolled through the outgoing calls; Wayne’s machine kept a record of only the last ten numbers he had dialled.

I rang them to see if they’d give me some clue as to what Wayne had been doing over the last few days. Eating pizza, I soon discovered; the oldest seven of the ten numbers were for the local Dominos. The remaining three – all made this morning between eight and eight thirty – were to Head Candy, a hairdresser’s in the city centre. I got their out-of-hours recorded message. Could Wayne have been looking for an appointment to get his butchered hair tidied up? Or to buy a wig? Might he currently be roaming the streets decked out in a full head of auburn curls? I’d ring them tomorrow.

‘Looks very likely he was still here this morning,’ I said to Jay. ‘What makes you think he’s disappeared? How do you know he hasn’t just taken the evening off?’

‘He’s been working up to this for a good few days. Believe me, he’s gone.’

Suddenly a new voice spoke on the answering machine. ‘Hi, Wayne, it’s Gloria.’ She sounded sweet and delighted. ‘Listen, I’ve good news.’ Then she faltered, as if she’d realized that it mightn’t be a great idea to leave the details of the good news on a machine that anyone could listen to. ‘Oh … you know what, why don’t I just get you on your mobile?’

‘Who’s Gloria?’ I asked Jay.

‘No clue.’

‘What good news had she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why would he disappear after someone had just given him good news?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why you’re being paid your exorbitant fee.’

‘What number is she calling from? Quick, before it moves on to the next message.’

‘Unknown number,’ Jay said.

I didn’t believe him. I had to check for myself; but he was right. Unknown number. Feck.

‘What time did it come?’

‘Ten forty-nine a.m.’

There was one final message on the machine and it wasn’t even a message, it was just a hang-up from a mobile. It had come at 11.59 a.m. I took a note of the number. It might be nothing, but then again.

Finally – finally! – the automated voice said, ‘There are no new messages.’

‘Right!’ I took the stairs two at a time.

Into the bedroom – again, very nice paintwork, one wall in Wound, the other three in Decay, the ceiling in Local Warlord – there was an air of jangled energy. Socks and jocks tumbled out of a drawer, the wardrobe door was flung open and several hangers rattled emptily. In a corner under the
window was a small faint suitcase-shaped rectangle of dust. He hadn’t taken enough clothes to be away longer than a few days, but it looked like Wayne had packed some sort of bag.

Which made it less likely that he’d topped himself. Who packs a change of underwear when they’re off to fling themselves into the drink? (However, you
do
pack some other stuff, but we’ll get to that.)

It didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d been abducted, though. A kidnapper
might
have let him bring a change of clothes. Quite seriously, if you’re in the habit of making off with people, you could have learned the hard way the importance of keeping your prisoner fresh and fragrant. Without going into the grisly ins and outs, a change of underwear was often welcome.

Not that there was any obvious sign of a struggle. Wayne’s bedroom was neither messy nor untidy; it was just normal. His bed was made but the duvet hadn’t been tugged and smoothed to a perfect glassy OCD finish.

‘Does he have a cleaner?’ I asked Jay.

‘Haven’t a notion.’

Because of the faint dust on the floor I suspected he hadn’t, which meant one less person to interview, which could be good or bad, depending on how I wanted to look at it.

I yanked open the top drawer in the bedside locker; it contained the usual detritus: coins, hairs, crumpled receipts, leaking pens, elastic bands, old batteries, plug adaptors, two lighters (one plain green, one with a picture of the Coliseum in Rome), a tube of Bonjela and a few cards of medication – Gaviscon, Clarityn, Cymbalta. Nothing remarkable.

Speedily I scanned the bedside books. The Koran, no less, and the most recent Booker winner. I was starting to understand why Wayne and Jay didn’t exactly see eye to eye.

Jay boasts that the only book he’s ever read is
The Art of War
. Which is a total lie. He
bought
it, but he never read it.
Not that I’m one to criticize. I’m hardly a voracious reader myself. The only reason I recognized the Booker winner was because the author (a man) had been all over the telly and he had the most ridiculous lady-hair I’ve ever seen on anyone, male or female. It was blow-dried back from his face in countless mid-size curls. Rows and rows of them, like centurions, getting progressively bigger and fuller the further back they went. You’d think it was anatomically impossible for someone to have a head that extended so high and wide and so far behind them.

Artie was the person who’d alerted me to your man’s head and now our favourite thing was to lie in bed and watch YouTube and marvel at the curly extravaganza of it all.

Also on Wayne’s bedside pile was
The Wonder of Now
CD, one of the current hot new-age, spiritual-type things. I itched to pick it up and fling it against the wall. Very high on my Shovel List, that CD. I was slightly mollified to see that it was still in its cellophane, that at least Wayne hadn’t
listened
to it.

A couple of scented candles stood on the windowsill. Each was burned about halfway down. There were only two reasons a man had scented candles in his bedroom: either he had regular sex. Or he meditated. Which was it in Wayne’s case?

‘I hate this house,’ Jay said, eyeing the beautiful walls uneasily. ‘I feel like it’s … watching me.’

The second bedroom was small and unused-looking, all four walls painted in Quiet Desperation and the ceiling in 40 Days in the Wilderness. The wardrobe and drawers were empty. Nothing to detain me.

The third and smallest bedroom had been converted into a home office. The Holy Grail here would have been a diary, of course. God be with the days when missing persons had convenient pen and paper desk diaries sporting helpful entries in neat handwriting. Something like, ‘Local pub. 11 a.m. Meeting with international arms dealer.’ But all diaries are
electronic these days. A bloody nuisance. Whatever Wayne had been up to in the last short while had disappeared with him, inside his mobile.

A computer sat on the desk, tantalizing me with its secrets. I clicked impatiently, waiting for it to start up, all the while scanning the walls, the drawers, the files, looking for the little yellow Post-it that Wayne had thoughtfully written his password on.

But there was nothing and after a while the computer wouldn’t let me go any further.

I sat, tapping the mouse impatiently, Jay hovering frantically behind me.

‘Open his emails,’ he urged.

‘I can’t. Everything’s password protected. What would it be, his password?’

‘I dunno. Wanker?’

‘Come on. Think.’ I ran my eyes around the room, looking for clues. ‘What does he like? We only get three chances at this. After three wrong passwords, the system goes into lock-down and we’ll never get anywhere. So think hard. What’s important to him?’

‘Buns?’

‘It needs to be six characters.’

‘Doughnuts.’

‘
Six
, I said.’

‘No point asking me, I don’t know him well enough. You’ll have to ask the other Laddz. Hey, whose phone is ringing?’

It was mine. I pulled it from my bag and looked at the screen. Artie. I flicked a furtive look at Jay. I didn’t know why but I couldn’t talk to Artie with Jay listening. I’d have to call him later.

I threw the phone back in my bag and started pulling down lever-arch files from the shelves on the wall. Bank statements, credit card statements, and everything neatly filed – fair play to Wayne. Made a change from having to
root through someone’s wheelie bins looking for useful information, and let me tell you that even though there’re all these ads warning us about identity theft,
no one
shreds their stuff.

Wayne’s records made absorbing reading.

His mortgage? Paid up to date. Lucky bastard.

Overdraft? Modest.

Credit cards? Three of them, two maxed out, like any normal person’s; for the past ages he’d just been making the minimum payment. But there was room on the third one – most months he paid off the entire balance. Judging by what was charged to it, I reckoned he used this card for work expenses. There were flights and hotels – the Sofitel in Istanbul, for example – and cash withdrawals made in Cairo and Beirut.

Income? Sporadic. But it happened. A super-quick flick through the past two years seemed to indicate that he’d broken even, that he hadn’t really spent more than he’d earned. Odd. But there
are
people like that in the world, my sister Margaret being one of them.

At that point I had enough initial information, especially as the most recent statements were at least two weeks old and weren’t going to shed any light on what Wayne had done today, but I couldn’t stop reading.

God, I tell you, it was fascinating, seeing what he spent his money on. A subscription to
Songlines
magazine. A monthly standing order to Dog Shelter. Funnily enough, forty-three euro in Patisserie Valerie. You can recreate
an entire life
this way. His car insurance was paid, his house insurance was paid, clearly a solid citizen –