The Mystery of Mercy Close (52 page)

Telephone Man had provided
an entire transcript
of all the texts Wayne had received and sent for the full calendar month before he’d disappeared. There were literally thousands, and reading the back-and-forth between himself and Zeezah was as compelling as a soap opera. There were hundreds of other texts too – arrangements made, quick hellos and no end of random stuff: ‘wot about d apron?’ ‘haha! who ate my cheese!’ ‘watching it now! hard 2 beleve!’ ‘Mary Popins muz b spinin in her grave!’ ‘tink is 17’ ‘mudder o divine lol’.

Eventually I had to make myself stop because what was really important was the number that Gloria had called from. It was a Dublin number and its first three digits indicated it was probably made somewhere in the region of Clonskeagh or Dundrum.

I rang it and an automated voice said, ‘The person at
extension Six. Four. Seven. One. Is not available.’ Then a different automated voice broke in, and said, ‘The office is now closed and will reopen at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

What?
What time was it? I checked my phone: it was a quarter past six. Where had the day gone?

Okay. Basically everything was still grand. I’d just do a reverse search on one of my directory sites, where I put the number in and instantly Gloria’s full name and address would appear. So I did … but nothing happened.

Now I was worried, properly worried, because I knew what was going on: the telephone providers routinely sold bundles of numbers, under one umbrella number, to businesses. This gave the companies the ability to customize their phone system, so that they could set up internal extensions and give private lines to people. Obviously the company was free to release the private number to the public – but only if they wanted. Like, if they wanted to run an ad giving a number for their sales department or their HR department, or whatever. But if they decided not to, nothing would show up on a sneaky reverse search such as I was doing. The only number that would display a company name was the original umbrella number, the ‘head’ number that all the other numbers branched off from. If I could deduce that, I’d at least find what business Gloria had called from – my instinct was telling me it was either a car or a phone company. Maybe Wayne had bought a new phone the morning he’d disappeared …? What were the implications of that? I didn’t know, not yet.

I took the first three digits of Gloria’s number and added four zeros to it – that was often the format of an umbrella number. But it hadn’t been allocated to anyone. Christ. Again, I typed in a number – the first three digits, then one, zero, zero, zero. That hadn’t been allocated to anyone either. I kept trying, adding two, zero, zero, zero. Three, zero, zero, zero and so on, up to nine, zero, zero, zero. Nothing. All I could
ascertain about the number Gloria had called from was that it was part of a big organization.

Then I started thinking about things from the opposite direction: Wayne might have made a call to Gloria, which triggered the call from her. And sure enough, on Thursday morning at 9.17 a.m., Wayne had made a call from his mobile to a number with the same first three digits as Gloria’s number. The last four digits were different but I reckoned it was
definitely
the same company. I rang it and got another recorded message about the office being closed and that it would reopen for business at ten tomorrow morning. Just as I expected, the reverse search produced nothing.

For hours I fiddled around, reverse searching with different combinations of digits, trying to find the umbrella number that would unlock Gloria’s identity, but it never happened.

At some stage John Joseph rang. ‘Have they arrived? The phone records?’

‘Yeah, but there’s nothing in them. Well, obviously there’s loads, but nothing that helps.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Oh … okay …’

‘Forward them to Walter Wolcott.’

‘Okay.’

I would. Tomorrow.

I was woken at 7.01 a.m., by the sound of my phone ringing. It was Mum. She hardly ever rang me. Someone must have died.

‘Mum?’

‘Helen. Where are you?’ Her voice sounded packed full of stuff, like she was going to burst.

‘Nearby.’

‘You need to get over here right away.’

‘Why? Has someone died?’

‘No.’ She sounded startled, yet vague. Definitely weird. ‘It’s not like that. But you have to get over here right now.’

‘Are you in trouble?’ I had a sudden vision of one of Harry Gilliam’s ‘associates’ holding the point of a knife at her Adam’s apple.

‘Will you just, for once, do as your mother asks and get in your car and drive.’

‘Should I break the speed limit?’

‘Yes, certainly.’ Then she added, ‘But don’t get caught. And if you do, tell the guards it’s an emergency.’

An emergency. That was reassuring. ‘Mum! Tell me!’

‘Someone’s here to see you.’

Wayne
. Oh thank you, God. He’d finally come up for air and just in time.

‘Is it a man?’ I asked, just to be sure.

‘Yes.’

‘Is he aged between thirty and forty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he work in the entertainment business?’

‘There isn’t time for this, Helen!’

‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

I drove like the clappers, but I would have anyway. I don’t believe in speed limits. At least not on proper roads. Housing estates, grand. Places where children live, I’m perfectly happy, nay delighted, to go at 10 kilometres an hour. Do I want the guilt of killing a child loaded on to my already banjaxed psyche? No, indeed I don’t. But on proper roads, on the very rare day that Dublin isn’t seized up into total gridlock, I should be allowed to drive at a proper speed.

It’s a load of shit, speed limits. They were just invented by the guards because they love going out with their favourite toy, the speed-trap gun, and hiding round corners with it, especially early in the morning, and snaring the unlucky motorist who is savouring a very atypical opportunity to embrace the open road. It’s like a game to the guards; they play it instead of golf. They have a league to see who ‘gets’ the most people. They have weekly leader boards up in the staff room and the winner gets a keg of Smithwicks. Then once a month they all go on the piss with the fine money. They take a big envelope of it and put it behind the bar and say to the barman, ‘Keep bringing pints until it’s all gone.’ I know this for a fact.

Well, maybe not an actual fact, but I
know
it. Everyone knows it.

An unfamiliar car was parked outside my parents’ house. Some low-carbon-emission thing. That in itself should have been a clue to the identity of the visitor.

Mum was opening the front door before I’d even got my key out of my bag. Her face was strange. She looked like she’d seen a vision and wasn’t coping well with it. As if the Virgin Mary had mooned at her.

She took me by the arm and led me into the house.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘He’s in there.’ She urged me towards the sitting room, the ‘good’ room, but hung back herself. ‘Go on.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

It wasn’t like her to miss a moment of drama.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘My system isn’t able for it. I’m afraid I might have a stroke. Your father has had to go back to bed. His blood pressure has gone sky-high. We’ve both taken a beta blocker.’

‘Well … okay.’

I pushed open the door and walked into the room. Sitting in a flowery upholstered armchair and drinking tea out of one of Mum’s good cups was … not Wayne.

It was Docker.

One of the most famous, most handsome, most charismatic men on the planet. It was so incongruous, so unexpected, so surreal, that my body considered fainting but knew that that wasn’t dramatic enough. I was suddenly aware of every cell I had, every single little ball of energy, spinning and racing about wildly. Forgive my appalling crudeness, but for a terrifying few moments I was in danger of losing control of my normally iron-clad bowels.

‘Helen? Helen Walsh?’ He was on his feet, his radiant aura pouring out around him into the room. He extended his hand. ‘I’m Docker.’

‘I know,’ I said faintly, looking up into his suntanned, extremely famous face.

‘Sorry to arrive in on top of you like this, but your email was forwarded to me and I was in the area. I was in the UK –’

‘I know. It was on the news.’

‘And a mate was flying back to Dublin, so I hitched a ride with him.’

That was the most loaded sentence I’d ever heard in my life. Docker’s ‘mate’ was obviously Bono and clearly there were private planes involved.

‘I feel a bit –’

‘Yes, come and sit down.’ He guided me to the couch.

‘Will you sit beside me?’ I asked. ‘Just so I can say I sat on the same couch as Docker?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, with sudden fierce sincerity. ‘It must be dreadful for you, with people going into shock all around you.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It passes after a while. They get used to me.’

‘How did you know where I live?’

‘I asked around.’

‘Did you?’ Simple as that. God, what must it be like to be that connected?

‘So where is he?’ I asked.

‘Wayne? I don’t know. I’ve no idea.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I haven’t seen Wayne in a long time. Years. I haven’t even spoken to him.’

‘But you still send him five thousand dollars every May.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. From your company. A standing order. For the chorus of “Windmill Girl”.’

He stared at me. ‘I’d forgotten about that. But you’re right.’

I stared back at him. What would it be like to be so rich that you wouldn’t even notice five thousand dollars going out of your bank account?

‘And … if you don’t know where Wayne is, why are you here? And why are you here so early?’

‘Is it early?’

‘Ah … yes. It’s seven thirty in the morning.’

‘Sorry. Right, I get you. But I was up all night and maybe I’m still on Syrian time … you know how it is …’

‘Not at all.’ I gazed at him in earnest admiration. These international types. ‘But if you don’t know where Wayne is, why are you here?’

‘I want to help. Wayne was very good to me. I owe him. I’ve always felt a bit, you know … Things worked out so well for me.’

It was true what he said. ‘You’ve come a long way from white suits and synchronized dancing.’

‘But it’ll always be a part of me.’

‘I know you have to say that,’ I said. ‘But do you really mean it?’

He seemed taken aback. ‘Well … it was all so long ago. But it was great fun. The odd night, like maybe once a year, I dream about it, the singing and dancing, all the old routines. Life was so simple then.’

I gave him a heavy-lidded, euphoric smile. I seemed to have gone into a strange, elated state. Clearly, the shock.

‘The first concert is tonight,’ I said. ‘The other three lads need the money badly. If Wayne doesn’t show, the whole comeback thing is a no go. So if you know anything, if you’re protecting Wayne in any way, now would be a good time to give him up.’

‘I honestly haven’t a notion where he is,’ he said. ‘I really haven’t spoken to him, to any of the Laddz, in over ten years. But Helen, I’m giving you my private mobile number.’

‘Thanks.’ I was a bit deflated. I wasn’t thick. I knew the number he was giving me was just a fake ‘private’ number, one that was given to thousands and thousands. Docker himself would never answer it, just one of his minions.

‘No, really,’ he said, when he clocked my attitude. ‘This really is my private phone number, not just the one I give to most people.’

He made me input it into my phone, then got me to ring it. Right enough, the pocket at the front of his T-shirt began to ring. He fished his phone out and answered, ‘Hello, Helen.’ He gave me one of the devastating smiles he was famous for and sweat broke out on my forehead. This was just all way too strange.

‘See,’ Docker said. ‘I am for real.’

‘Oh my God,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I have Docker’s private phone number.’

‘And I have your number too,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We have each other’s number.’ As if it was an exchange of equals.

‘So,’ he said, his body language indicating that my audience with him was coming to an end. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help Wayne, just call me and I’ll be there in a heartbeat.’

‘What are you up to now?’ I asked. ‘Going back to LA?’

‘Tomorrow. Spending the afternoon in Dublin with some friends then getting a flight in the morning to LA. In the meantime, if I get wind of anything about Wayne, I’ll be straight on to you.’

‘Docker,’ I asked, ‘are you a good man?’

‘What?’ He seemed startled.

‘Are you a good man, Docker? I know you do lots of good works. But is that just you and your famous mates flying round the world, going to exotic places and having people show you the love? Or would you really put yourself out for someone?’

‘I am a good man. I really would put myself out for someone.’ Then he laughed. ‘Well, what else would I say?’

‘It’s a gift being able to help someone, isn’t it, Docker?’

His attitude suddenly switched to wary. He was wondering if I was setting him up. He was right.

‘It is,’ he said with some resignation, ‘a gift.’

‘You get more than you give, isn’t that right?’

‘Right.’ Said wryly.

‘Grand. Now that we have that straight, there’s something you need to do. You need to go to Leitrim.’

‘… okay.’

‘Cancel your afternoon with friends in Dublin and ring this number. It belongs to a man called Terry O’Dowd. He fixed your door for next to nothing and I promised him that if I was ever talking to you I’d ask you to visit him and his fellow Leitrim people.’

‘… okay.’

‘Nothing fancy, just tea and sandwiches in your house and
an open invitation. You don’t have to go to the ends of the earth to help people, Docker. Morale is very low in this poor country at the moment, people aren’t having it easy, and if you went to Leitrim you’d make their year. You’d really …’ I didn’t intend to sound sarcastic, I really didn’t. ‘You’d really
make a difference
.’