Eventually I got the fecking thing switched off – that would put an end to Jay Parker – and I exhaled and kept on driving.
Strange clouds hung on the horizon. I couldn’t remember seeing formations like them before. The skies were alien and catastrophic, the dusk was lingering for ever, the light was taking too long to leave and I didn’t think I could stand it. A wave of the most appalling terribleness rushed up through me.
I was halfway to Wexford before the sun finally set and I felt safe enough to turn round and head back to Mum and Dad’s.
As I approached my new home, I let myself – for just the smallest split second – consider what it would be like if I lived with Artie. Instantly, like a guillotine coming down, I cut the thought off. I couldn’t think about it, I just couldn’t. It was too scary. Not that Artie had suggested any such thing; the only person who’d mentioned it had been Bella. But what if I discovered that I wanted to and that Artie didn’t? Worse, what if he did want me to?
Losing my flat had been bad enough in itself without it triggering any upheavals with Artie. It was fragile, this thing with me and him, but we were doing fine. Forcing us to consider living together just to discover that we both thought it was too soon – that couldn’t be good for us. Even if we were just deferring the decision, it would still feel like a vote of no-confidence. Or what if I did move in and we discovered that, yes, it was a bad idea? Was there any coming back from a situation like that?
I sighed heavily. I wanted to have not lost my flat. I wanted Artie to be able to come and stay with me in my home whenever I felt like it. But that arrangement was gone now, gone for ever. There was no way he and I could bunk up together in Mum and Dad’s – actually have sex while they were across the landing! It would be too weird. It would never work.
Effing winds of change, I hated them for coming along and upending everything.
An unfamiliar car, a sleek, low-slung sporty yoke, was parked outside Mum and Dad’s house and a man was lurking in the shadows. It could have been some mad rapist, but when I got out of the car it didn’t come as too much of a surprise (category: unpleasant) when he stepped into the light and transpired to be Jay Parker. It was nearly a year since I’d seen him – not that I’d been keeping track – and he hadn’t changed a bit. With his skinny-cut hipster suit, his dark, dancing eyes and his ready smile he looked like what he was: a con man.
‘I’ve been ringing you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever answer your phone?’
I didn’t bother breaking stride. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need your help.’
‘You can’t have it.’
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘You can’t afford me.’ Not now that I’d suddenly invented a special and very expensive Jay Parker rate.
‘Guess what? I can. I know your fees. I’ll pay double. In advance. Cash.’ He produced a fat roll of money, fat enough to stop me in my tracks.
I looked at the money, then I looked at him. I didn’t want to work for Jay Parker. I wanted nothing to do with him.
But it was an awful lot of money.
Petrol in your car. Credit on your phone. A visit to the doctor.
Suspiciously I asked, ‘What are you looking to have done?’
It was bound to be something dodgy.
‘I need you to find someone.’
‘Who?’
He hesitated. ‘It’s confidential.’
I dead-eyed him. How was I meant to find someone whose identity was so confidential he couldn’t tell me who it was?
‘What I mean is, it’s sensitive …’ He moved a couple of pebbles around with the toe of his pointy shoe. ‘It needs to be kept out of the press …’
‘Who is it?’ I was genuinely curious.
A few anguished looks crossed his face.
‘Who?’ I prompted.
Suddenly he kicked one of the pebbles, sending it flying in a wide, graceful arc. ‘Ah, feck it, I might as well tell you. It’s Wayne Diffney.’
Wayne Diffney! I’d heard of him. In fact I knew lots about him. A long, long time ago, probably back in the mid-nineties, he’d been in Laddz. Laddz had been one of the most popular of all the Irish boy bands. Never quite in the same league as Boyzone or Westlife, but massive nonetheless. Obviously their glory days were long behind them and they were now so old and talentless and risible that they’d broken through the crapness barrier and gone so far round the other side that most people thought of them with great affection. They’d sort of become a national treasure.
‘I’m sure you know but Laddz are getting back together next week for three mega reunion gigs. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.’
A Laddz reunion! I hadn’t known it was on the cards – I’d had one or two other things on my mind – but all of a sudden, a couple of things made sense: their songs on the radio every four seconds, and my own mother pestering me to go to the gig.
‘Hundred euro a head, merchandising out the door,’ Jay said wistfully. ‘It’s a licence to print money.’
So far so typical of Jay Parker, grubby little hustler that he was.
‘And?’ I prompted.
‘I’m their manager. But Wayne didn’t – doesn’t – want to do it. He’s –’ Jay paused.
‘– ashamed?’
‘Well … reluctant.’
Reluctant. I could imagine. In Laddz, as in all generic boy bands, you have five types. The Talented One. The Cute One. The Gay One. The Wacky One. And the Other One.
Wayne had been the Wacky One. The only thing that could have been worse would have been to be the Other One.
Wayne’s wackiness was expressed mostly through his hair. He’d been made to do it like the Sydney Opera House and he’d seemed to comply willingly enough. In his defence he’d been young, he’d known no better and in recent years he’d atoned by having a perfectly normal do.
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.’
4
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.’