‘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.’
7
‘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 whisp
er.
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.
He was short. Not much taller than me and I’m five two, but shortness is no bar to being effective, even terrifying, or so I’m told.
A Diet Coke appeared from somewhere even though I had no memory of asking for it and a coffee was put in front of Parker. A well-run machine, the Hartley household. John Joseph sat next to me on one of the four very long couches.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Okay. First things first,’ I said. ‘Was Wayne into drugs? Or borrowing money from dodgy people?’
‘Not at all. He’s not a bit like that.’
‘You’ve known him how long?’
‘At least fifteen years. More like twenty. We were in Laddz together.’
‘I believe he does some work for you?’
‘A lot. Usually on the production end of things. We do most of our stuff in Turkey, Egypt and Lebanon.’
‘Assuming Wayne’s using ATMs or credit cards, the fastest way to find him would be to get into his computer. Any idea what his password might be?’
John Joseph put his head to one side and assumed a dreamy, staring-off-into-the-distance face. ‘I am actually thinking,’ he said. ‘It’s just the Botox that Jay made me have that makes me look like I’m brain dead. I’d furrow my brow if I could.’
It wasn’t enough to make me smile but I was amused.
After a short while he shook his head. ‘No. No idea. Sorry.’
‘It’s really important. If you think of anything, let me know. I’ll give you my card.’
I had to go through a dispiriting song and dance with a biro. ‘That office number doesn’t exist any longer.’ I crossed it out. ‘And that home number has changed.’ I scribbled out my landline number – my ex-landline number. God, it was heartbreaking. I wrote my parents’ number instead.
‘I should really get new cards printed …’ I said vaguely. There wasn’t a hope. ‘And can I have your number?’
He gave me a mobile number – just the one. People like him usually have at least four different mobiles and a plethora of home and office contacts, but one mobile was all he offered and, in fairness, I suppose that was all I needed to get in touch with him.
‘Right, John Joseph, you’re the last person we know of who spoke to Wayne. You rang him last night? Twenty-six hours ago? How did he seem to you?’
‘Not good … Finding the whole reunion thing hard. He said he’d moved on from all that boy-band stuff, that he was mortified singing the songs, that he couldn’t stick to the diet and he’d never fit into his costumes.’
‘So you weren’t surprised he didn’t turn up for rehearsal this morning?’
‘Actually, I was surprised. He’d made a promise to me last night that he’d show. I’d believed him.’
‘Are you worried about him?’
‘In what way? Do you mean, like, that he might …?’
‘Well, yes, you know, top himself.’ Call a spade a spade, I didn’t have all night.
‘God, no! He wasn’t that bad.’
‘Could someone have abducted him?’
John Joseph seemed astonished. ‘Who’d abduct him? He’s not that kind of person.’
‘What were his last words to you?’
‘“See you in the morning.”’
‘Not exactly illuminating. Obvious question, but any idea where he might have gone?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a clue. But it won’t be a luxury hotel or anything like that. Wayne’s a bit … quirky …’
‘I’ve already asked Jay and he didn’t know for sure, but you’d probably know the answer to this question.’
‘Work away,’ John Joseph said.
‘Does Wayne have a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
He was lying.
I didn’t know how I knew, maybe he’d answered too quickly or his pupils had contracted, but there was some sort of subconscious tell that I’d picked up on.
‘What’s the story?’ I asked.
‘No story.’ Hard to tell in the medieval-style lighting but John Joseph looked like he’d gone pale. Silence stretched between us and, going against all my training, I was the one to break it.
‘Gloria.’
‘Who’s Gloria?’ He was so blustery and defensive that I actually felt sorry for him.
‘You don’t know who Gloria is?’
‘I don’t.’
‘How about if I show you a picture of her? Refresh your memory.’ I rooted around in my bag and found the photo of Wayne and the girl. ‘There,’ I said.
He looked at it for half a second and said, ‘That’s Birdie.’
‘Who?’
‘Wayne’s ex-girlfriend. Birdie Salaman.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She’s a civilian. Not in the business we call show.’
No, no, don’t say things like that.
‘They split up – I dunno, maybe nine months ago.’
Nine months, eh? A long time ago and he still had a photo of her face-downwards in the spare room, radiating sadness.
‘You have a number for Birdie?’
‘I’ll find it. I’ll text it to you.’
‘And you really have no idea who Gloria is?’
‘Really no idea.’
There was definitely something there: a flicker, a twitch, too small for the naked eye to see, but it was there. I’d have to come back to it, though; I wasn’t going to get anything from him right now. After a while of doing this job you learn when to press things and when to park them. Time for a different tack.
‘You’ve been in touch with Wayne’s parents?’
‘His mum rang me around six this evening, wondering if I knew why he wasn’t answering his phone. His parents haven’t a clue where he is. He has a sister, Connie, also living in Clonakilty, and a brother, Richard, living in upstate New York. I rang them. He’s not with them either.’
‘Yes, but … if he has gone to ground with his family, they’d hardly shop him to you, would they?’
John Joseph looked confused. ‘But why would Mrs Diffney ring me? And you don’t understand! I’ve known them a long time and we’re very close; I’m almost like another son to them. They wouldn’t lie to me. Believe me,
he’s not with any of them and they’re as worried about him as I am.’
I’d have to verify that info for myself, but it had the ring of truth about it; I’d hold off on the epic trip to Clonakilty for the moment.
At least I could discard the brother in upstate New York; there was no way Wayne could have got into the United States without his passport.
‘I’ll need the names, addresses and phone numbers of the Clonakilty bunch.’
‘I have them,’ Jay called, from further along the couch. ‘Texting them to you right now.’
I refocused on John Joseph. ‘Does Wayne smoke?’
‘No. Gave up years ago.’ Right, so those lighters in his drawer were just for the scented candles.
‘Does he have a cleaner?’
‘No. Carol – that’s his mammy – trained him well. And he says he finds it relaxing.’
Jay Parker gave a contemptuous tsk and I turned my coldest look on him because, as it happened, I also found housework relaxing. I’d spent most of my life oblivious to filth. I would have quite happily lived in a ditch, so long as it had SkyPlus, but the moment I’d bought my own place I’d finally understood the allure of hoovering and polishing – the sense of satisfaction, the pride … But back to Wayne.
‘Does he have any medical conditions that might be relevant?’
John Joseph shrugged helplessly. ‘We’re men; we don’t talk about that sort of thing. He could have testicular cancer, his bollock could have fallen off and we’d still be talking about the football.’
‘Speaking of which, who does he support?’
‘Liverpool. But in a normal way, not in a, you know, mad way.’
‘I noticed he had some –’ I could hardly bring myself to utter the word, because I hate it so much – ‘spiritual sort of stuff in his bedroom. The Wonder of Now, that kind of shit.’
‘Ah, he’s always buying books and things from Amazon, but never reading them.’
‘Look, this is an awful question, but I have to ask it …’
John Joseph stared at me, very alert.
‘Did, does Wayne do … yoga?’
‘God, no!’ John Joseph seemed aghast and Jay was spluttering with shock.
‘Or does he meditate?’
‘No! He’s an ordinary bloke,’ John Joseph said. ‘Don’t mind those bloody books.’