Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?

by David B Lyons

  Lenny jumps backwards as the roaring barks of Keating’s dogs echo from behind their owner. They both sound as if they’re eager to get outside, eager to confront Lenny on their owner’s behalf. Lenny glances down, sees one of them through Keating’s legs; foam dripping from its mouth.

  Keating stays still; doesn’t even blink at the sound of the barking. He just stares straight ahead, eyeballing Lenny and welcoming him to keep talking.

  ‘I eh… have been hired by Gordon Blake to eh… to see if… are they Rottweilers?’

  Keating nods his head, squats down to his hunkers, grabs each dog by the collar.

  ‘This is Bernie,’ he says, speaking for the first time. ‘And this one here, this is Barbara.’

  Being held by their owner hasn’t calmed Bernie and Barbara down; they’re still barking, still foaming at the mouth.

  Lenny holds the tips of his fingers to Keating’s car as he stands back, anticipating he may have to leap upon it should one of the Rottweilers break free from their owner’s grasp.

  ‘Get your fuckin’ hand off my car,’ Keating snaps, standing back up.

  Lenny swipes his hand away, places it inside the pocket of his puffer jacket and then stands still, as if he’s frozen. Keating yells ‘release’ and the dogs shut up barking, swivel and go back down the hallway.

  Lenny gulps, then almost mouths a ‘thank you’ to Keating, such is his relief.

  Keating steps outside, the heavy rain not a bother to him.

  ‘Betsy Blake… you were saying…’

  Lenny gulps again, then holds a blink closed for a few seconds, taking the time to remind himself that he should grow some balls, man the fuck up, be an investigator.

  ‘Gordon Blake is dying. Could be dead by the evening. He’s in Tallaght Hospital right now. He’s hired me as his last chance to find out what happened to his daughter.’

  ‘Shit. Poor ol’ Gordy. What’s wrong with him?’ Keating says, looking genuinely concerned.

  ‘Heart problems. He has to have emergency surgery this afternoon at three o’clock. Doctors are only giving him a fifty per cent chance of making it through.’

  Keating bites his bottom lip, shakes his head.

  ‘He’s only young. Must be twenty years younger than me… What’s he – fifty?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure of Gordon’s age, Alan. But—’

  ‘The poor fucker.’

  Keating seems ashen-faced by the news Lenny has just shared with him, even though he hasn’t worked with Gordon Blake for seventeen years – not since Betsy went missing.

  ‘As an associate of Gordon’s at the time of Betsy’s disappearance, I wouldn’t mind asking you some questions, Alan.’

  Keating looks behind him, stares at his door as if that was going to remind him of what happened when Betsy Blake disappeared.

  ‘Gis a sec,’ he says, before pushing at the door and walking back inside.

  Lenny’s eyes flick from left to right, his pulse quickening. He holds his blink closed again, reminding himself that he is an investigator; that there is no need for him to be intimidated; that he’s only doing his job. But he’s finding it difficult to convince himself. He leaps when a high-pitch beep sounds behind him; the lights of Keating’s Merc flashing on, then off.

  ‘Get in,’ Keating says, walking back out the door and banging it shut behind him.

  Lenny turns, stares down the row of houses, contemplating whether or not he needs this job, whether or not it’s all worth it. He blinks repeatedly again, for so long that Keating is already inside the car before he has re-adjusted his eyes. Then he grabs at the handle of the passenger door and pulls it wide open. As soon as he gets in, he removes his hat. He stares at it, realises immediately what Keating must have been thinking when he saw him; that he looks like a kid with this blue and black chequered tartan piece of shit atop his head. It has the same pattern of an eighties’ Christmas jumper. It’s okay for going incognito to spy on unsuspecting insurance claimants, but not ideal for confronting the country’s biggest criminals.

  ‘I don’t deal with pigs,’ Keating says, taking Lenny’s gaze away from his hat.

  It takes a couple of seconds for Lenny to realise what Keating’s saying.

  ‘Oh no; I’m not a cop. I’m—’

  ‘You’re investigating, aren’t you? You’re questioning me over the disappearance of a little girl, right?’ Keating sniffs sharply in through his nose three times. ‘Well that means I smell bacon.’

  ‘Alan – I’m not investigating you. I’m just… it’s just… you were a close associate of Gordon Blake at the time of Betsy’s disappearance and I’d just like to ask you if you were aware of anything out of the ordinary that was happening in or around the Blake family in 2002. Anything at all. Lenny has asked me to beg you – it’s his last chance.’ Lenny says all of this so quickly that his intimidation is blatantly obvious.

  ‘Lenny Moon, that your name, yeah?’

  Lenny nods.

  ‘Well, Lenny Moon. Let me finish this investigation for you in the next two seconds, huh? Betsy Blake is dead. She was hit by a car and whoever hit her with the car disposed of her body.’

  Lenny coughs into his hand. Clears his throat. He doesn’t want to sound intimidated, doesn’t want his voice to crack.

  ‘Gordon Blake doesn’t believe the findings of the Gardaí. He’s certain somebody kidnapped his daughter,’ he says, slowing down his pace.

  ‘Lemme guess… he thinks Barry Ward kidnapped his daughter on my orders?’

  Lenny coughs again. Then blinks; not one long blink, repeated blinks, as if he’s readjusting his eyes to a bright light. He’d love nothing more than to chew on the rubber case of his mobile phone right now, but is already aware he has come across as inexperienced to Alan Keating in the four minutes they’ve been talking.

  ‘This isn’t news to me,’ Keating says before Lenny has a chance to reply. ‘Sure that’s what he told the cops in 2002. And sure poor ol’ Gordy has even been hanging around outside Barry’s house over the years; as if one day Barry’s gonna walk out holding his daughter’s hand. He’s a brave man, doing that to Barry. But Barry doesn’t mind. Neither of us do. We feel sorry for Gordy.’ Keating uses his hands as he talks; it’s another reminder to Lenny of ol’ uncle Arthur. But he shakes his head of his thoughts, tunes backs into Keating’s words. ‘Listen, Lenny Moon; there are two truths you need to face up to. One; Betsy Blake is dead. And two; Gordon Blake is as deluded as a flat-earther. He went mad. Listen, it’s understandable,’ Keating says, shifting in his seat to face Lenny. ‘I’ve two daughters. If one of them was killed and I never got answers, I’d go fuckin mental meself.’

  Lenny shifts in his seat too, mirroring exactly what Keating had done moments prior, but not to talk, just to listen.

  ‘I liked Gordon Blake. As I said, I feel sorry for him. Always have. In fact, I sent my lads out to help look for Betsy. We put sounders out, came back with nothing. I tried to help Gordy. My heart has always gone out to him and his wife. It’s the only reason I’m sitting here talking to you now. Otherwise, any fuckin pig knocks on my door, I don’t hold the dogs back, ye get me?’

  Lenny nods. Then he blinks again, repeatedly, until he finds – somewhere deep within his blinking – an ounce of courage.

  ‘It’s just Gordon insists you threatened him just before Betsy went miss… he said you guys fell out.’

  Keating laughs. Again, Lenny isn’t sure if it’s a sinister laugh or whether or not he actually found what was said funny.

  ‘What did he say exactly?’ Keating grunts as the rain falls heavier on the car.

  Lenny allows a silent exhale to seep through his nose.

  ‘Nothing much. Just that you were pushing him to do things with the money he was handling for you. And when he refused, you held him up against a wall; told him he shouldn’t be fucking with you.’

  Keating laughs again.

  ‘That’s not how I threaten people, Lenny Moon,’ Keating says, t
he laughter disappearing from his face abruptly. ‘That’s just how I deal with people who work for me. I just wanted to get as much out of Gordy as I could. And I did. He was great for me. Y’know… I actually haven’t had somebody cook my books quite like him ever since I lost him.’

  Lenny nods at Keating, then forces his lips into a sterile smile.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Alan. I eh…’

  ‘Ah don’t go. Is that it? You come knockin’ on my door telling me ol’ Gordy Blake is on death’s door and desperately wants to find out what happened to his daughter before he dies and now… and now, what, you’re just leaving me?’

  Keating stretches his finger towards his door, clicks a button. Lenny instantly feels panicked at the sound of all car doors locking simultaneously. He reels back in the passenger seat, holding his hands up as if he’s being robbed at gunpoint; the strings of the Sherpa hat he’s holding dangling over his face.

  ‘Alan, I don’t know anything more than you do at this—’

  ‘What did Gordy Blake say about me; tell me!’ Keating says, the creases on his forehead wedging deeper, the tone of his voice demanding. It’s striking to Lenny just how instantaneously ol’ uncle Arthur can turn into Scarface and vice versa.

  Lenny’s breaths grow sharp, not just with fright, but with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to tell Keating, doesn’t know how he’s going to get himself out of this situation.

  ‘I only spoke to Gordon for five minutes. He rushed me out of his ward… told me to get on with the investigation. To do what I could in the few hours he has left. He gave me a thousand quid up front, told me if I found anything new – anything he hadn’t heard before – that he’d leave me his house in his will.’

  Keating relaxes his brow, but his eyes still burn through Lenny.

  ‘His house?’ He clenches his jaw as he says it. Then continues. ‘He musta said more than that. Why are you here? He obviously told you to pay me a visit.’

  ‘He… he… gave me a list. A list of people he suspected might’ve had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance.’

  Keating sits back in his chair, rests both his hands on the steering wheel, then laughs to himself. Lenny sits upright too, just to stare through the windscreen at the image of the houses blurred by the rain. He’s well aware of Keating in his peripheral vision, anticipating any movement. Then it comes. Movement. Keating holds his hand out, palm up. Lenny gulps, then reaches inside his jacket pocket and takes out the note. Keating eyeballs Lenny as he places the paper atop his palm and then, almost in slow motion, he holds it up in front of him and begins to read; his laugh growing louder as each second passes.

  He crumples the note up and throws it back at Lenny.

  ‘I’ve been called worse,’ says Keating. Then he turns his key in the ignition and rolls the car out of his driveway and down the street past Lenny’s little Micra.

  ‘Where we going?’ Lenny asks, not bothering to hide the fear in his voice.

  ‘Do you believe everything I said to you, Lenny Moon?’

  Lenny nods his head. ‘Yes, yes, Alan – everything. I believe you. I don’t think you had anything to do with Betsy Blake’s disappearance.’

  ‘Good. Then you can scratch me off the list.’ Keating drives under the archway, back out of his estate and turns left at the roundabout. ‘So open up your note again there, Lenny Moon.’

  Lenny picks the note up from his lap, uncrumples the paper and then stares back at Keating.

  ‘Who’s the next name on the list?’

  ‘Eh… Barry. Barry Ward.’

  Keating turns to Lenny, winks.

  ‘Good – let’s go have a word with him then, shall we?’

  11:30

  Gordon

  I know daytime TV so well that I can call the beats.

  I always know which items are going to sell for a profit on this show. Dickinson records his little voice overs after the scenes are shot, so there’s always little clues in there as to whether or not the antique will do well when it comes to auction. I knew that little ornament would sell for more than the thirty-eight quid they bought it for because Dickinson suggested it was a bargain when they got it. It’s so fuckin predictable. Had it not have ended up with such a heavy profit, Dickinson’s voice over would have been a lot more negative.

  ‘Told ya,’ I say to Elaine. She smiles up at me.

  ‘That you did! You must know your antiques, huh?’

  ‘Nope. I just know my tele,’ I say.

  I look at her as she returns her gaze to the screen; even the way she’s sitting reminds me of Michelle.

  I am certain I fell in love with Michelle during that first bus ride, but it took her a lot longer to love me. I’m pretty sure she ended up falling for me only after she got wind of how much money I had. I’ve often felt she fell in love with the idea of being married to a rich business man, not the businessman himself. But we had good times, did me and Michelle. We travelled the world together. I was only too delighted to bring her to places she had only ever wished to go to before she met me. The first six years were dream-like really. It’s difficult to explain what it’s like being in love; I’ve often measured it as being the opposite of being depressed. Depression is difficult to explain, it’s just a sour feeling, a negativity that resides in both the bottom of your gut and in the centre of your mind. Being in love is the total opposite in every way. I know. I’ve felt both.

  We got married in St Michael’s Church in Inchicore in 1994; reception in the K Club, overlooking the eighteenth green. We were both high as a kite; had no idea what bizarre fates lay in front of us. It took us almost four years to get pregnant. My balls were the problem, we found out. I had become a little infatuated with the laptop I had bought, holding it too close to my balls as I was working. When I resisted using the laptop for its exact purpose – typing on the lap – my little swimmers woke the fuck up. Michelle held a white stick with a blue cross on it in front of me one Saturday morning and we celebrated as if Ireland had won the World Cup. Over the next few months we both felt as if all of our stresses and strains had packed up and fucked off thanks to the little bump. We’d no idea that bump would one day deliver the biggest nightmare any parent could ever possibly fathom.

  ‘Okay… that’s it,’ Elaine says as the shite end title music to Dickinson’s Real Deal begins. ‘I gotta go do some work. Just press this if you need me.’

  ‘Elaine,’ I say, unsure of what I’m going to say next.

  She turns, purses her lips at me, then smiles again when she realises exactly what I called her for – no reason.

  ‘Stay relaxed,’ she says. Then she leaves.

  I push the butt of both my palms as far as I can into my eye sockets and twist them. Then I let out a yawn that sounds more like a deep sigh than anything. Maybe it was a sigh. I pick up the TV remote, begin switching through the channels; skipping by This Morning because Holly Willoughby’s not on it, skipping by an old episode of The Ellen Show, skipping by Morning Ireland and by Jeremy Kyle. I stall at Sky News just to read the scroll banner. As soon as I see the word ‘Brexit’ I click on, only to be met by white noise. That’s it. Six fucking channels. What a load of me bollocks. I grasp the remote control firmer and swing my arm back, but rather than throw it across the room like I want to, I just let it drop onto my bed.

  I twist my body, grab my mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and deliberately don’t even look at my call log button.

  I scroll into the Sky Sports app instead, try to catch up with any football news. But there’s fuck all new on there. Nothing’s been added since I looked at it just before Douglas and his team came in to give me a harsh reality check over an hour or so ago. Then I click into the WGT Golf app, decide I’ll have a game. It might pass some time. It’s the only game I’ve ever played on a mobile phone. It can get quite addictive. I play it on the loo mostly. A shite these days isn’t enjoyable for me unless I’m putting for birdies at the same time. The load icon appears, scrolli
ng from twenty per cent to thirty per cent to forty per cent to… Betsy. Betsy.

  Fuck it. I tap out, straight into my call log. I’ve gotta get onto Lenny; find out what he’s up to. I can’t be playing bleedin’ golf games when I’ve only a few hours left to live. I tap at his number, hold the phone to my ear.

  ‘Heya, Gordy,’ comes a voice. I sit up straight in my bed, instantly know it’s not Lenny on the other end of the line. Only one person’s ever called me Gordy.

  11:30

  Lenny

  Lenny continues to stare straight ahead; no part of his body – except for his eyeballs – have even twitched over the course of the twenty-minute drive. He’s just sat upright the whole time and listened to Keating sing along to Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits. The gangster crooned to My Way, Got You Under My Skin, Come Fly With Me, Witchcraft and was at the crescendo of Lady is a Tramp when he began backing the car into a parallel parking position outside a row of terraced houses.

  Lenny was actually impressed by Keating’s vocal, but stayed mute all the way, not even nodding in compliment for fear of disrupting him. He was practically scared stiff, though the score was keeping his heart rate quite consistent. It is, after all, almost impossible to be scared while a big band are providing the backdrop. But he now understood for certain that Keating’s smiles weren’t smiles at all; they were gangster grins. The man is a living parody of a Hollywood gangster. A sociopath.

  As Keating takes the keys out of the ignition, ending his duet session, Lenny turns his head for the first time.

  ‘That’s Barry’s house there, number thirteen,’ Keating says. He then gets out of the car, waits for Lenny on the footpath, still oblivious to the rain. Lenny thinks about putting his hat back on his head, but instead crumples it up and stuffs it inside his jacket pocket, making it look as if he has one of those bulbous hernias bursting from his gut.