The Mystery of Mercy Close (9 page)

‘We could try Frankie,’ I said desperately.

‘At one in the morning?’

‘He and Myrna have just imported twin babies from Honduras. The whole house is probably awake.’

‘The word is adopted – they’re not a crate of bananas – and how do you know?’

‘The magazines. Between Mum and Claire they buy them all. Text Frankie.’

Frankie Delapp: the Gay One. Since Laddz had split up he’d had a lively time of it. First, he’d opened a restaurant, which went to the wall, owing thousands. Then he’d launched a beauty salon, which also failed. Then he’d been declared bankrupt. But the biggest scandal of all was when he came out as straight. His fan base was aghast and his popularity took a body blow. Overnight he was cast into the wilderness,
where he spent many years shunned and ignored, but in the last six months his life had enjoyed the most extraordinary turnaround. Somehow he’d landed a slot on
A
Cup of Tea and a Chat
, RTÉ’s afternoon magazine show, as their film critic. No one knew how he’d got the gig, seeing as he knew next to nothing about movies and was generally regarded as not the fizziest can in the six-pack.

However, in one of those strange things that sometimes happen – like a localized outbreak of tuberculosis – Frankie suddenly became the most popular man in Ireland. He was warm and sweet and viewers related to his populist taste. All Jennifer Aniston vehicles were automatically given five stars and Oscar winners were awarded a mere one or two. ‘Because I was bored, pet. It was very
dreary
, the clothes were desperate. I had to go out in the middle to get more pick ’n’ mix.’

He was dearly loved by everyone from brickies to nuns and ‘What does Frankie think?’ became an instant catchphrase. Overnight everyone wanted Frankie’s opinion on everything, not just movies. Next thing you know, one of the main presenters of
A
Cup of Tea and a Chat
disappeared in a Soviet-style purge and Frankie was installed in her stead. Then, in an audacious leap, disregarding all of RTÉ’s rigid hierarchy, he got the job presenting
The Rose of Tralee
and rumours began to circulate that he was in the frame to present
Saturday Night In
, just as soon as Maurice McNice died. It was no exaggeration to say that currently he bestrode Irish light entertainment like a camp, self-tanned colossus.

His long-term life partner was a woman who was maybe fifteen years older than him. Myrna Something. A native of Vermont, with short grey wiry curls, a defiantly make-up-free face and menopausal clothing. A Seventh-Day Adventist, whatever they were, and when she thought someone was funny she said they were ‘a stitch’.

While we were waiting to see if Frankie would text back, I stepped away, far enough so that Jay wouldn’t be able to hear
me, and I rang Artie. Talking to him would be a comfort, but to my surprise (category: unpleasant), his phone was off. I’d left it too late; he’d gone to bed.

‘It’s me,’ I said to his message-minder. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. You’ll never believe it, but I’m out on a job. I’ll call you tomorrow …’ Now for the money shot. How would I finish the call? Nearly six months in, neither of us had yet used the ‘love’ word, but we’d found other ‘ironic’ ways of conveying it. ‘Be assured,’ I said, ‘that I hold you in the highest esteem.’

Then I listened to the message he’d left for me.

‘Baby, are you okay? You should have told me about your flat. We’ll talk about it. Vonnie is gone, the kids are in bed … will you come back?’

Oh, for a moment, the thought of it … of putting my key in his door, of tiptoeing through his silent house, of taking off my clothes and sliding between his sheets, of moving across his bed, pressing my skin against his. But I was working.

‘Whatever you decide,’ he said, ‘I remain, yours truly.’

I disconnected the call and turned round to find Jay Parker far closer than I’d thought he was.

‘Text in from Frankie,’ he said.

‘What’s he say?’

Jay handed me his phone and I read:

Lovly 2 hear from u Jay pet cum on over d babies a gift from d man above but cryin dere heads off. No sign of wayne yet? If we cant find him we r all fucked xcuse my french I have kids skool fees 2 tink bout evry1 tinx im minted bcos of being on telly but rte meaner dan skrooge god bless big hugs xoxoxoxoxox

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

As we drove, Jay said, ‘Remember the first night we met?’

‘No.’

It was at a party. I wasn’t invited. And later I discovered that neither was he.

When I first saw him he was dancing to a James Brown song. He was a really good dancer and it was a really good song. But less than halfway through it he started calling up to the DJ to play something else.

It was blindingly obvious that we had an awful lot in common. Short attention spans. Basic irritability. Fundamental existential dissatisfaction.

A brief conversation had established further points of agreement. A dislike of children and animals. A desire to make lots of money without doing any of the necessary hard work. A fondness for Hula Hoops.

Clearly we were meant to be together.

As we were leaving, a woman had stepped into our path, her face lit up with delight. ‘You two are adorable. You look like twins, Hansel and Gretel, but evil.’

Twins indeed. Jay and I were together for three fun-filled months, then I found out what he was really like and that was the end of that.

Frankie talked incessantly, and he did that thing that politicians do of saying your name fifteen times a sentence. His small front room was knee-deep in nappies and play mats and other baby paraphernalia, and he wore a muslin cloth on his right shoulder and a streak of milky vomit down his left leg.

Jay, looking hip and urbane and entirely out of place in his dark suit and skinny black tie, hovered disdainfully at the sitting-room door, clearly appalled by the chaos.

Frankie grabbed my hand and ushered me to the couch. ‘Just fling them things on the floor, Helen. Whatever they are. Go on, go on! Doesn’t matter.’ With a scything movement he energetically swept bottles and bibs and biscuits and clothes off the couch, sending them bouncing on to the carpet. He kept hacking and flailing with his arm until there was enough space cleared for both of us to sit down.

‘Come on, Jay, pet,’ he called. ‘There’s room now.’

‘I’m grand where I am, Frankie.’ Jay retreated even further into his corner by the door.

‘Right so, no one will force you.’ Frankie turned his back on Jay and fixed all his attention on me, treating me briefly to the full eyeball. ‘Helen, I’ve been showered with blessings, Helen, showered. The telly, the babies, the comeback gigs – the man above looks after me.’ He flicked his eyes ceiling-wards, then pulled a little gold crucifix from around his neck and gave it a quick kiss. ‘But I’d love a good sleep, Helen, even four uninterrupted hours.’ His eyes filled with tears, and he dashed them away. ‘The baby blues.’ Then he swivelled round and called over his shoulder, ‘Jay, pet, are you singing Wilson Pickett songs in your head?’

Before Jay had a chance to reply, Frankie had swung back round and refocused on me. ‘Doesn’t he look like he’s singing Wilson Pickett songs in his head? Or maybe Otis Redding? Something
soul
ful? Tuning out this shambles. Sitting on the dock of the bay, is that where you are, Jay, pet? I do it myself, Helen, sing songs in my head to escape, but I prefer Boney M. By the Rivers of Babylon, that’s where you might find me.’

From another room came the plaintive wail of a baby.

‘Helen, they’re angels, the pair of them, angels, but I’m not sure twins were a good idea. As soon as one stops crying, the other one starts. Myrna and I, we’re both destroyed. If it wasn’t for the Botox that Jay made me have, I’d look
forty
. Helen, pet, any word from Wayne?’

‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.’

‘Merciful hour.’ He dashed his clenched knuckles against his cheeks. ‘I’m on my last nerve here, Helen. You’ve got to find him. I’m depending on that money. I owe a fortune and I’m a family man now. We’re just renting this flat and you can see it’s no place to bring up kids.’ True enough, it was tiny and overflowing with stuff. ‘People think I’m rolling in it
because of being on the telly, but Helen, it’s not like that at all. They’re as mingy as Scrooge, that crowd. You’d earn more as a lollipop lady and that’s a fact.’

‘Would you have any idea, any idea at all, what Wayne’s computer password would be?’

Frankie looked appalled. ‘Wayne’s password? I don’t even know my own at this stage!’

‘So tell us, Frankie, what sort of man is Wayne?’

‘A dote, Helen, a pet. We’re all mad about Wayne. Right enough, he can be a bit intense and have his down days and not be so chatty, and there’s the odd time when he refuses to do the jazz hands, when he says he’d rather chop off both his arms with a rusty butter-knife and someone has to coax him back into good form and it goes on for ages and holds us all up when we could be enjoying quality time with our precious loved ones, but I’m sure he has his reasons … A pet, Helen, that’s what he is. An absolute dote.’

‘Any idea where he is now?’

‘Not a fiddler’s. But it won’t be somewhere obvious.’

‘That’s what everyone keeps saying. But what’s not obvious?’

A second baby had started crying. There was a sense of barely contained hysteria within the walls of the flat. I didn’t like it there at all; it was making me very anxious.

I asked Frankie to do the blue-sky thinking that I’d got John Joseph and Zeezah to do. ‘Anything at all, no matter how mad it sounds.’ Because even when people think they’re making something up, there’s always some sort of truth in it.

‘I think Wayne …’ Frankie said, ‘has hired a camper van and is driving around Connemara taking photographs of gorse.’

‘Has he ever expressed interest in camper vans? Or gorse?’

‘No. But you told me to let my imagination go wild.’

‘Who’s Gloria?’ I asked, hoping to surprise him.

‘Gaynor? Estefan?’

Christ above. ‘They’re the only Glorias you know?’

There was no point. I couldn’t really get Frankie’s attention. His energy was hyper and fractured and eye contact was minimal, despite the intimacy of him saying my name all the time. He could be lying through his cheap veneers and I wouldn’t know. I swapped phone details with him and we took our leave.

Roger St Leger – the Other One – was a surprise (category: intriguing). Louche. Flirty. Sort of sexy, in a broken-down, failed type of way.

He lived on a ghost estate in a far-flung suburb and if it hadn’t been the middle of the night it would have taken hours to get there.

I persuaded Jay we should go because, even though I was exhausted, I was wide awake and wired. I couldn’t bear the thought of lying in a bed, my head racing with catastrophic thoughts. Might as well be poking my nose into someone else’s business.

‘Does this mean you’re taking the job?’ Jay asked.

I wasn’t sure yet. I liked the thought of earning money and I loved the thought of having something to do, but I wasn’t getting into this if it was going to be too tricky. ‘I’ve just got to …’ Send a couple of emails. I got my phone and clicked out two quickies. I’d see what I got back from them and then I’d decide. ‘I’ll let you know soon. So tell me,’ I asked as we drove, ‘are they all holy? All the Laddz?’

‘No.’ He was affronted.

‘But what about that business with Frankie kissing his cross and thanking the man above?’

‘An affectation. It’s meaningless. Okay, I admit John Joseph is holy,’ he said. ‘But Wayne isn’t. And,’ he added with some defiance, ‘Roger
certainly
isn’t.’

Suddenly the part of the motorway we were on began to seem … something. I don’t know the exact word. Meaningful. Familiar, perhaps.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

Jay was feeling it too. He wouldn’t look at me and he clearly didn’t want to answer. ‘Look at the signs.’ He pointed at a big blue one overhanging the four lanes of traffic.

‘It says the next turn-off is for Ballyboden,’ I said.

‘Now you know.’

‘That’s Scholarstown, isn’t it?’

Where Bronagh lives. Or lived. No idea if she was still there.

Roger’s entire flat looked like it had been built from a flat-pack. Wobbly, clapboardy, flimsy and tawdry. The couch was lopsided and the carpet was coffee-stained. At least I hoped it was coffee.

‘I love what you’ve done with the place,’ Jay said. ‘How come you’re up?’

‘Time for my early morning run.’ The sarcasm of the debaucher, I understood; clearly he hadn’t been to bed yet.

‘Drinking alone?’ Jay picked up a half-empty vodka bottle.

‘Not now, I’m not,’ Roger said. ‘Who’s this?’ He eyed me up and down, in a totally different way to the way John Joseph had. In real life Roger had a bad-boy electricity that simply did not come across in photos or television. He had floppy, black, Brian Ferry hair and a lanky, easy body. Wrecked-looking, though – it was hard to believe he was only thirty-seven.

‘Helen Walsh,’ Jay said. ‘Private investigator, on the hunt for Wayne.’

‘Ah God.’ Roger sank on to his manky couch. ‘Would you not let him alone? Give the poor bastard a couple of days. He’ll be back.’

‘No way. Clock is ticking. We’re putting a world-class show together here. Starting next Wednesday, Roger, in case you’ve forgotten. Six days from today.
Six days from today
,’ Jay repeated, to himself. ‘Oh my God.’ His face went grey. ‘There’s so much still to do. The rehearsals, the sound checks,
the costume fittings, the merchandising … We’ve forty thousand Laddz souvenir T-shirts arriving into Dublin docks from China tomorrow morning. Plus twenty thousand Laddz scarfs. We’ve programmes, pashminas –’

‘Pashminas!’ I was excessively scathing. Imagine a Laddz pashmina. How pathetic would you have to be to wear one of them?

‘If Wayne doesn’t come back, what are we going to do with them?’ Jay sounded like he was talking to himself.

‘Just throw them in the sea,’ I said.

‘They’ve already been paid for,’ he said.

‘What did you do that for?’ I asked.