The Mystery of Mercy Close (4 page)

Of course all that had been several lifetimes ago. Lots of water under the bridge since the number one hits. The original Laddz fivesome had become a quartet when, after a couple of years of success, the Talented One hightailed it. (He had then become a global superstar who never, ever, referenced his murky boy-band roots.) The remaining foursome had struggled on for a while and when they eventually split no one gave a shite.

Meanwhile Wayne’s personal life fell apart. His wife, Hailey, left him for a proper bona fide rock star, one Shocko O’Shaughnessy. When Wayne showed up at Shocko’s mansion, looking for his wife back, he discovered that she was pregnant by Shocko and had no plans to return to Wayne. Bono happened to be visiting his good pal Shocko at the time and was hovering protectively, and in all the upset Wayne (or so the rumour goes) hit Bono a clatter on the left knee with a hurley and yelled, ‘That’s for
Zooropa
!’

After so much misery Wayne decided he had grounds to reinvent himself as a proper artiste, so he lost the mad hair, grew a goatee, tentatively said ‘fuck’ on national radio and did a couple of acoustic guitar albums about unrequited love. Obviously, because of the runaway wife and the assault on Bono, there was a lot of public goodwill towards Wayne and he enjoyed some success, but it mustn’t have been enough because he was dropped by his label after a couple of albums, then fell off the radar altogether.

For a long time all was silent … but now it seemed that enough time had passed. The icy snows of winter had thawed and springtime had returned. Laddz’s original screaming tweenie fans were now grown women, with kids of their own and a yen for nostalgia. If you thought about it, the comeback gig had only been a matter of time.

So, Jay Parker told me, about three months ago he’d pitched to the four boys, offering himself as their new manager and promising them (I’m guessing, I know what he’s like) untold riches if they got back together for a while. They’d all gone for it and had received immediate orders to cut out carbs and to run eight kilometres a day. And to do a modest amount of rehearsing. No need to go mad.

‘There’s an awful lot riding on these gigs,’ Jay said. ‘And, if it goes well, we’ll tour nationwide, maybe get some gigs in Britain, a Christmas DVD, God knows what else … And the guys could do with a few quid.’

From what I gathered the Laddz were variously bankrupt, multi-married or addicted to classic cars.

‘But Wayne wasn’t into it,’ Jay said. ‘Maybe he was in the beginning, but for the past week he’s been … unreliable. In the last few days he’s stopped showing up for rehearsal. He was caught with a fig focaccia and a jar of Nutella … He shaved his head –’

‘What!’

‘He cried during prayers.’

‘Prayers!’

Jay waved a hand dismissively. ‘John Joseph sort of insists.’

That’s right. John Joseph Hartley – the Cute One, or at least he had been about fifteen years ago – was holy.

‘What sort of praying?’ I asked. ‘Buddhist chanting?’

‘Oh no. Old school. The rosary mostly. No real harm in it. In fact it’s probably a good bonding exercise. But there we were in the middle of the third sorrowful mystery and suddenly Wayne was in floods. Sobbing like a girl. Does a runner, doesn’t show up for rehearsal the next day – which was yesterday – and when I called round to his house I found him with chocolate stains on his T-shirt and all his hair shaved off.’

His famous hair. His re-wackied wacky hair. Poor Wayne. He must have really wanted out.

‘I mean, the hair we could deal with,’ Jay said. ‘And the carb-gut. He promised me he’d get it together, but this morning he didn’t show up again. Wasn’t answering either his landline or mobile. We decided to carry on with rehearsal. Let him take the day off to have his little protest, we decided –’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘Me. And I suppose John Joseph. So after we finished up today I rang Wayne and his mobile was switched off so I called round to his house
again
, like I haven’t enough to be doing. And he’s gone. He’s just … disappeared. Which is where you come in.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘There are dozens of private investigators in this city. All of them desperate for work. Go to one of them.’

‘Listen to me, Helen.’ He was suddenly passionate. ‘I could hire any old grunt to hack into the airline manifests for the last twenty-four hours. Hey, I could sit on my phones myself and systematically call every hotel in the country. But I’ve a feeling none of that is going to work. Wayne’s tricky. Anyone else, they’d be holed up in some hotel, getting room service and massages. Playing golf.’ He suppressed a shudder. ‘But Wayne … I haven’t a clue where he is.’

‘So?’

‘I need you to get inside Wayne’s head. I need someone who thinks a bit left-field, and, in your own unpleasant little way, Helen Walsh, you’re a genius.’

He had a point. I’m lazy and illogical. I’ve limited people skills. I’m easily bored and easily irritated. But I have moments of brilliance. They come and they go and I can’t depend on them but they do happen.

‘Wayne,’ Jay Parker said, ‘is hiding in plain sight.’

‘Oh really?’ I widened my eyes and looked from left to right and up and down and all around me. ‘Plain sight, you say? Do you see him? No? And I don’t either. So that blows that theory.’

‘All I’m saying is he won’t be
hiding
hiding, like a normal person. He’s hiding all right, and it won’t be somewhere obvious, but when you find him it’ll seem like the most logical place possible.’

Convoluted, or what?

‘Jay, it sounds like Wayne was … distressed. Shaving his head and that. I know you’re maddened with greed, with your visions of your Laddz tea towels and your Laddz lunch-boxes, but if Wayne Diffney is out there thinking of hurting himself, you’ve a duty to tell someone.’

‘Hurting himself?’ Jay stared at me in amazement. ‘Who said anything about that? Look, I’ve told this all wrong. Wayne’s just throwing a strop.’

‘I dunno …’

‘He’s sulking, is all.’

Maybe he was. Maybe I was putting the stuff in my own head on to Wayne.

‘I think you should go to the police.’

‘They wouldn’t touch it. He’s disappeared voluntarily; he’s only been gone twenty-four hours at most … And it’s got to be kept out of the press. How about this, Helen Walsh? Come with me to his house and see if you can get a feel for things. Give me an hour of your time and I’ll pay you for ten. Double rate.’

A voice in my head was saying, over and over, Jay Parker is a bad man.

‘Loads of lovely lolly,’ Jay said enticingly. ‘Lean times for private investigators.’

He wasn’t wrong. Times had never been leaner. It had been horrible watching the work slip away over the past two years, having less and less to do each day and eventually earning no money at all. But you know, it wasn’t even the lure of money that was sending my heart racing; it was the thought of having something to do, of having a conundrum to focus on, to keep me out of my own head.

‘What’s it to be?’ Jay asked, watching me closely.

‘Pay me first.’

‘Okay.’ He handed over a bundle of notes and I checked them. He had paid for ten hours, at double time, just as he’d promised.

‘So now we go to Wayne’s?’ he asked.

‘I’m not up for breaking and entering.’ Sometimes I was. It’s illegal, but what’s life without a little terror-induced adrenaline?

‘You’re okay, I’ve got a key.’

We went in Jay’s car, which transpired to be a thirty-year-old Jag. I should have guessed. It was
exactly
the sort of thing I’d expect him to be driving. Vintage Jags tend to be driven by ‘businessmen’ who’re always scheming and stroking and getting into ‘a spot of bother’ with the Inland Revenue.

I switched my phone back on, then peppered Jay with questions.

‘Did Wayne have any enemies?’

‘A lot of hairdressers wanted him for crimes against hair.’

‘Was he into drugs?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Had he borrowed money from any freelancers?’

‘You mean loan sharks? Haven’t a clue.’

‘How do you know he’s disappeared voluntarily?’

‘For the love of God, who’d kidnap him?’

‘You’re not keen on him?’

‘Ah, he’s all right. Bit intense.’

‘When was the last time someone spoke to him?’

‘Last night. I saw him about 8pm and John Joseph rang him around ten.’

‘Then he didn’t turn up for rehearsals this morning?’

‘No. And when I called round to his house this evening, he wasn’t there.’

‘How do you know? You went in? You went into another person’s home when they weren’t there? God, you’re shameless.’

‘You’re the one who breaks into people’s houses for a living.’

‘Not my friends’.’

‘I only did it because I was
worried
.’

‘How come you have his key?’

‘Performers. Need to keep a tight rein on them. I have all the Laddzs’ keys. Their alarm codes too.’

‘Where do you think Wayne’s gone?’

‘No idea, but I couldn’t find his passport.’

‘Is he on Twitter?’

‘No. He’s a little … 
private
.’ Jay’s voice oozed contempt.

‘Facebook?’

‘Course. But no posts since Tuesday. But he’s not one of those people who post every day.’ Again with the contempt.

‘If he posts anything – anything – you tell me right away. What was his last status post?’

‘“I’m not a Dukan person.”’

‘I see. I’ll need a recent photo of him.’

‘No bother.’ Jay tossed me a picture.

I took a quick look at it, then tossed it back to him. ‘Don’t be giving me this press release shite. If you want me to find the man, I need to know what he looks like.’

Jay flicked me the picture again. ‘
That’s
what he looks like.’

‘Fake tan? Foundation? Blow-dried hair? Desperate rictus grin? No wonder he ran away.’

‘There might be something in the house,’ Jay conceded. ‘Something a bit more real.’

‘What’s he been up to in the last few years? Since his reinvention failed?’ It’s something I’ve often wondered about – When Boy Bands Go Bad.

‘John Joseph throws plenty of work his way. Producing.’

John Joseph Hartley: no one knew how he’d managed it but in the last few years he’d shaken off the shame of having once been the Cute One in a boy band and had made a new career for himself as a producer. Not doing anyone you’d have heard of – let’s just say Kylie would never be calling – and he did most of his stuff in the Middle East, where maybe they aren’t so choosy.

But it seemed to be working out okay for him. In a dazzling explosion of publicity, he’d recently got married to one of his artistes, a singer from Lebanon, or maybe it was Jordan – one of those places anyway. A dark-eyed lovely called Zeezah. Just the one name, like Madonna. Or, as my mother said, Hitler. She took it hard that an Irish girl wasn’t good enough for John Joseph, despite Zeezah planning to convert from her native Islam to Catholicism. In fact herself and John Joseph had even honeymooned in Rome to show their good intentions.

Anyway, one-named Zeezah was absolutely massive in places like Egypt and John Joseph’s plan was to make her just as huge in Ireland, the UK and the rest of the world.

‘I believe,’ Jay drawled, signalling a change of subject, ‘you’re currently loved up with a new boyfriend.’

I clamped my mouth into a tight line. How did Jay know that? And what business was it of his?

‘Not that new, actually,’ I said. ‘It’s been almost six months.’

‘Six. Months,’ Jay said, filling his voice with fake awe. ‘Wowww.’

Something made me look at him. ‘You didn’t actually know, did you? You were just fishing.’

‘Sure I knew,’ he persisted.

But he hadn’t. I’d been fooled by him. Again.

‘We could triangulate his location from the mobile phone masts,’ Jay said.

‘Who? Artie? I could just give him a ring if you’re that keen to meet him.’

‘No. God’s sake. I mean Wayne.’

‘You’ve been watching too many movies.’

‘How so?’

‘You need a warrant for that sort of stuff. You need to go through the boys in blue.’

‘Can we find out where he’s used his credit card or ATMs in the last thirty-six hours?’

‘Maybe.’ I paused. I didn’t know if I was going to take this job. The less said the better. ‘You’d need to get into his computer. Any idea what his password is?’

‘No.’

‘Well, start thinking.’ Maybe Wayne was one of those trusting types who left their password on a yellow Post-it next to their keyboard. And maybe he wasn’t …

‘Don’t you know any hackers?’ Jay asked. ‘Some young kid, some genius in skateboard gear, who lives off the grid in a windowless room with eighteen computers and hacks into the Pentagon just for the laugh?’

‘Like I said, you’ve been watching too many movies.’

When people find out I’m a private investigator, they tend to be impressed, even a little excited, but they have it all wrong. It’s a rare day that someone tries to shoot me. In fact it’s only happened twice and, believe me, it’s not half as much fun as it sounds.

The fact that I’m a
female
PI is a double whammy. Everyone expects a gumshoe to be a man, a good-looking unkempt one, with a drink problem and three ex-wives, usually a retired copper who left the force in slightly dodgy – but fundamentally unfair – circs.

And while the private investigating world is regrettably thin on the ground with good-looking unkempt men, it’s overrun, indeed
riddled
, with ex-cops. It seems the natural way for them to go when they leave the force – they’re used to busy-bodying about and, if they’re still on good terms with their former colleagues, they have access to all kinds of info that’s off-limits for the likes of me.

If I want to know whether a person has a criminal record, that’s tough, I simply have to wonder and surmise, but for them it’s the work of a moment to ring their old mate Paudie O’Flatfoot, who gets into the system and gives them chapter and verse.

But in nearly every other way the ex-coppers are hopeless as PIs. Oh
woegeous
. I think it’s because they’re used to having the full might of the law behind them, where all they have to do is flash their badge and people have to do what they ask.