‘My name is Lenny Moon. I’m a Private Investigator. I got a call from Gordon Blake at about ten a.m. this morning. He’s in Tallaght Hospital; has to have make or break heart surgery at three this afternoon. Doctors are only giving him a fifty-fifty chance of making it out alive. He contacted me, begged me to do my very best to find out new information on Betsy before he goes under the knife. He doesn’t wanna die without doing all he can.’
‘Betsy Blake is dead.’ Frank’s voice sounds as if there are rusty cogs working it in the back of his throat; either that or he’s smoked thirty cigarettes a day for the past hundred years.
Lenny gulps.
‘Gordon Blake doesn’t think she is,’ he says, almost whispering.
Frank stretches his arm to reach for his mouse and then taps away at it. Lenny waits silently. And then waits some more.
‘That it?’ Frank says, turning to him.
‘Oh,’ Lenny says, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. ‘I eh… thought you were looking for something on the computer for me.’
Frank shakes his head. ‘Listen, I’m very busy today – is there anything else you have to add to your story?’
Lenny shifts again in the chair, lifting his left butt cheek before placing it back down, then does the same on his right side.
‘I spoke with Detective Ray De Brun today, he says—’
‘Ah, how is De Brun, haven’t spoken to him in years?’ Frank interrupts.
‘Eh… fine, yeah, fine,’ Lenny stutters, his eyes beginning to blink.
‘You okay, kid, want me to get you a glass of water?’
‘Fine, yeah I’m fine… the eh… oh the blinking, nah it’s just a tic I have. Have had it since the very first day I was bullied at secondary school.’
Frank kisses his own lips, then returns his focus to his computer screen. Lenny looks around the office, uncomfortable. He’s not sure whether or not to continue talking. He stares at the clock behind the receptionist and realises he just needs to get on with it.
‘Gordon has to have a eh… an abdominal aortic aneurysm and aortic valve replacement. His ticker is fucked, almost ripped apart.’
Frank reaches both hands to his wheels and manoeuvres his chair back, and then to the side, so that he’s face on with Lenny.
‘Thanks for the info, kid, but to be honest; it’s not much of a story. If he passes away, I’ll get in contact with the hospital and we’ll run a piece but y’know, we’ve got much more important matters to—’
‘Who were all of the suspects in the disappearance of Betsy Blake?’ Lenny bursts out, not giving Frank time to finish his dismissive sentence.
‘Huh?’ Frank grunts.
‘De Brun said there were initially four suspects. He questioned and then ruled out Gordon himself, then he questioned both Alan Keating and Barry Ward before ruling them out. Gordon himself thinks Jake Dewey may have had something to do with Betsy disappearing, but the cops were never interested in him. However, when I spoke to De Brun this morning, he alluded there was another suspect. I wanna know who it was.’
Frank clears the phlegm at the back of his throat, then slaps both palms of his hands onto his knees.
‘Kid, nobody took Betsy Blake. Cops found a car seven years later that had Betsy’s DNA in it… and that DNA proved she was dead. I know the media – me in particular – reported that she was abducted for many years but the truth came out eventually. Ireland’s biggest ever kidnapping case was never even a kidnapping case to begin with. Now, I’m really sorry, but if you don’t have a story for me I’m gonna have to get back to stories I do have.’
Lenny stands, rings his hat in his hands again, visibly agitated.
‘Gordon Blake said he will pay me by leaving me his home in his will if I can make any breakthrough in Betsy’s case before he goes under the knife…’ Frank’s eyes flick upwards, meeting Lenny’s. ‘Gordon never knew there was any other suspects other than Keating and Ward. If you can tell me who the other suspect was I’ll give you all of the information on my investigation this morning, of all of my talks with Gordon. I’ll go on the record and you can write about it in your next column. Gordon Blake tried to find Betsy right up until his death, ended up leaving the PI who last worked on it his million euro home in his will – it’s a good story. And it’s exclusive to you.’
Keville holds a balled fist to his mouth, coughs twice into it; the sound of his raw chest almost grotesque.
‘He’s going to leave you his house?’
Lenny nods his head, almost too frantically.
‘Sit back down, kid,’ Frank says.
He spins his wheelchair back into his desk, reaches for his mouse again, rolls it around an oversized mouse mat and clicks on it repeatedly.
‘Jesus, is it that many?’ he mumbles to himself. ‘Wow, I wrote eighty-three stories on the Betsy Blake case over an eight-year period. Crazy.’
The excitement in Lenny’s stomach turns up a notch, adrenaline slowly pumping its way towards his heart. Frank’s playing along. He may well get the keys to that big house.
‘Lemme ask you this question for starters,’ Frank says. ‘Do you believe Betsy is dead, or are you singing from the same conspiracy hymn sheet as Gordon Blake?’
‘I eh…’ Lenny pauses. He wipes his brow with his hat. ‘If De Brun says she’s dead, I guess she’s dead. But I eh… my job is to just try to look into this a little further. If I can get information Gordon’s never heard before, it would mean the world to him.’
‘To you, you mean.’
‘And to me.’ Lenny nods his head. ‘Yep.’
Frank leans his head back, stares up at the ceiling of the open office. Then he interlocks his fingers and rests them on top of his rotund belly.
‘Betsy Blake was reported missing on the twenty-first of January 2002,’ he says. ‘I assumed, as soon as I found out that Gordon Blake had dodgy dealings with Alan Keating, that that scumbag had something to do with it. But as the days passed, I realised it couldn’t have been him. Keating’s a prick. A prick of the highest order – he’s the reason I’m in this wheelchair. But he’s no kidnapper. Gordon Blake didn’t realise that his falling out with Keating was insignificant to Keating. Keating had bigger fish to fry. Just because Gordon refused to launder parts of Keating’s cash was in no way reason for Keating to kidnap his daughter. So after the cops hit a roadblock, they looked into similar cases, see if they could form any link.’
Lenny’s eyes light up. He removes his left bum cheek from the seat, takes out his notebook from his back pocket, folds his legs and then rests the notebook on his left inner thigh. He pops his pen, begins to scribble as Frank, still looking up at the ceiling, continues.
‘There were zero other cases in Ireland. Young girls just don’t go missing, do they? Not on our little island. But there were two other cases that intrigued De Brun – both in Britain; one girl who went missing in England, one who went missing in Wales. Eh… lemme see…’
Frank looks down, repositions his wheelchair back into his desk and reaches for his mouse again. He hums as he clicks away.
‘Yeah – this case; a three-year-old, Sarah McClaire. She went missing from a park in Kings Heath, Birmingham in the summer of 2002, about five months after Betsy. The police were interested in that case because there was an associate of Gordon Blake who happened to be in both Birmingham when Sarah went missing and in Dublin when Betsy went missing.’
‘Who?’ Lenny snaps.
Frank turns around, offers a scowl to Lenny.
‘Hold on, I’m telling you about the two cases…. the other one was only of interest to De Brun because the names were similar. Elizabeth Taylor. Or Betsy Taylor as her parents called her. Same name, similar profile to Betsy Blake, but nothing in it.’
‘I think I remember that case,’ Lenny says.
‘Yeah, that got a lot of exposure because of her name. If you share the same name as a Hollywood celebrity, then you’re bound to stick in the mind of people. Sub editors had a fie
ld day making up headlines for Elizabeth Taylor.’
‘So, the only reason that was of interest to De Brun was because the name was the same?’
‘Yep,’ Frank says. ‘There was nothing in it, only the name coincidence. Turns out, it seems Tommy Saunders was responsible for Elizabeth Taylor’s abduction. No link to our Betsy at all.’
‘Tommy Saunders, the serial killer?’
‘That’s the one,’ Frank says, clicking at his mouse.
‘But what about the link with Sarah McClaire, who was the associate of Gordon’s who was also in Birmingham at the time she went missing?’
‘It’s not only that,’ Frank says. ‘This guy was also questioned in 1999 for possession of child pornography.’
Lenny’s mouth falls open. His eyes widen too.
‘No need to get too excited, Lenny. De Brun looked into him, all was innocent. Lots of people visit Birmingham and Dublin regularly; the two cities have major links. It’s hardly a coincidence.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Listen to what I’m saying to you, Lenny. This guy didn’t do it. Nobody did it. Betsy was knocked down by a car, was killed by accident and then—’
‘Who?’ Lenny says, his volume rising.
Frank shakes his head.
‘Guus Meyer – Gordon’s business partner.’
‘Woah – Guus Meyer is a paedophile and they just let him go?’
Frank closes his eyes shut, the lines on his face deepening.
‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, Lenny. I didn’t say anybody was a paedophile, did I? I said he was caught in possession of child pornography on his computer. The cops looked into it and let him go, so I assume it was very minimal at worst.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Lenny says, standing up. He lightly curls his fist into a ball and punches dead air, adrenaline rising in his stomach. He’s done it!
‘And Gordon won’t have known this?’ he asks, shuffling his feet.
Frank shakes his head.
‘Because of the sensitive nature of the findings, what-with the kiddie porn and all, it wasn’t shared with anyone that Guus was a suspect in the Betsy Blake case. Listen, they brought him in, questioned him and let him go. So don’t go getting your hopes up that you are about to solve anything. You’re not gonna solve jack shit. I’m just letting you know who the fourth suspect was because your running around might make a good story on a slow news week.’
Lenny punches dead air again, in celebration. He really has done it. He’s managed to get information Gordon would never have known about. The million euro gaff is going to be his. Well… if Gordon doesn’t make it through his surgeries. Lenny spins in a circle, his mind racing.
‘So Guus Meyer is not only somebody who views child porn, but he happened to be in Birmingham when Sarah McClaire went missing and was in Dublin when Betsy Blake went missing?’
Frank holds a long blink… irritation evident on his face. He says nothing.
‘Where does Guus Meyer live?’ Lenny asks when he finally stops fidgeting.
‘Lenny, I told you our little chat was off the record. You can’t go around accusing any—’
‘And I agreed. I won’t say you told me anything. I just want to speak to him.’
‘Well, the answer to your question is: I don’t know where Guus Meyer lives.’
Lenny sucks the dryness of the office air conditioning in as Frank turns back to his computer. He clicks at his mouse again, then types away.
‘I’m going to write this story, the story of Gordon’s investigation from his death bed, do you hear me?’ Frank says. ‘But I want to emphasise, I did not give you this information so you could go around accusing innocent people, I gave it to you because it will suit my story.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’
‘Clontarf,’ Frank says.
Lenny’s eyes light up. He inches forward, to see what Frank has called up on his computer screen. Then reads it out loud over the journalist’s shoulder.
‘Number one Avery Place, just off the main Clontarf Road.’
He grips both sets of fingers around Frank’s shoulders.
‘You’re a legend, Keville.’
Eight years ago
Betsy
I have two new hobbies now. Two new favourite things to do. I still read. Lots. But I don’t read what Dod told me are called fiction books much anymore. I read non-fiction most of the time now. But my new favourite hobby is to look out the window in Dod’s bedroom. I see different things all the time. I ask him if we can look out the window instead of watching the TV. He agrees most of the time. Sometimes he lets me watch TV and look out the window afterwards. I like looking out the window because it gives me ideas to write my own books. Although, because I now like to read non-fiction I have started to write a book all about myself. I’m going to call it Betsy’s Basement. And it will have me, Dod and Bozy in it. I will write about what I do every day down here. It will be a bit like the books I read now.
I think my favourite non-fiction book so far has been the one called I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I have learned lots of new words because of that book. It’s about a young girl like me called Maya who felt she was trapped but then became a really good writer. She wasn’t a good writer when she was younger and then she became really good because she read lots and lots. I hope the same thing happens to me. She had brown skin. I’d like to see somebody with brown skin. People with brown skin sound as if they’d be beautiful.
Another girl who I have read a non-fiction book about also has brown skin. Serena Williams. She is another woman who wasn’t really happy when she was younger but then became really happy when she got older. She thinks women are the best. Better than men. So do I. She plays a sport called tennis. And is the best person to ever play it. I asked Dod if he could show me some tennis on the TV but we can never find it on any of the channels. We have tried to look for it a few times. He keeps buying me new non-fiction books because I ask for them now. I think he feels just as happy as I do when he gives me a new book. He buys me a new book almost every week. I read so fast.
My room is mostly taken up by the big shelf I have against the wall. It is filled with books. I counted a few weeks ago. I had ninety-five. And Dod has bought me four more since then. So the next one I get will be my hundredth book. I wonder what it’s going to be. I hope it is about another strong woman. A woman who has a bad childhood but then becomes really, really happy. Because I think that is what is going to happen in my life. I will be happier when I’m older. I want to be a happy writer when I am an adult. Just like Maya Angelou.
I have started to write Betsy’s Basement but it is not easy. It takes too long for me to spell out the words correctly.
I hop up onto my bed and pick up Bozy. Then I place him so he is sitting up against my pillow and say: ‘Are you ready, Bozy?’ I make him nod at me by using my fingers to push at the back of his head.
‘This is the start of Betsy’s Basement.’
I flick open my copybook.
‘I was playing on my street one day while Daddy was talking to somebody from work. It was a long time ago now so I don’t really remember everything. I was four years old. I know that. Now I am thirteen years old. So it was nine years ago when it happened. But I was walking on a wall and then Dod just took me. He put his hands around my mouth and around my legs and just took me. He told me to be quiet. Then he put me in a car and he drove for ages and ages and ages. I was really scared. And I was really hungry. And then after ages he took me out of the car and into my basement.’
I look up at Bozy.
‘What do you think so far?’
I think he likes it.
I just wish I could write much faster. That much has taken me two weeks to write. I keep spelling words wrong and then changing them. Maybe when I am older I will be able to write much quicker. I want to write loads of books. Betsy’s Basement is just my first.
13:50
Gordon
I
took a mindfulness class once. Wasn’t for me. But I remember one instruction quite clearly; the five breaths per minute technique. Breathe in for six seconds, breathe out for six seconds. I’ve been trying to apply this since Douglas and Elaine left me a few minutes ago, but it’s a difficult technique to maintain; especially when you have a multitude of stuff whizzing through your mind. I’ve tried leaning fully flat out on the bed, tried half sitting up with the pillow behind the arch of my back, tried fully sitting up while resting my head against the steel bed frame. But nothing seems to be helping me calm down.
I keep seeing Betsy’s little face. I always imagine her as she was – four years of age; mousy brown hair, a dash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I can never quite imagine what she would look like now. She’d have turned twenty-one last August. A bona fide adult. I’m pretty certain she would have ended up being something special. Guess I’ll never know.
I press both shoulder blades firm against the bedpost, then close my eyes and attempt to concentrate on my six-second breaths. I’m refusing to even look at the bedside cabinet my phone is currently resting in. Poor old Lenny Moon out there running around for me when I don’t even need him to anymore. But fuck it; he got a grand for his morning’s work and, given his appearance, I’m guessing that’s quite a lot of dosh for him. He’ll be fine. Last thing I heard from him he was on his way to Jake and Michelle’s house. I’d love to know how that went… but I can’t turn on my phone, can’t ring him. It’ll only raise my heart rate again.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
I can’t stop my mind from swirling. It’s too quiet. Maybe I need a little background noise to help me focus. I pick up the TV remote control, hold down the standby button.
Loose Women. Fuck that! Jesus, if there’s anything that will raise my heart rate it’s watching that shite. News. No! More news. No! Ah… a music channel. Maybe. But it’s blaring out some awful hip-hop song that can barely be filed under the medium of music as far as I’m concerned. No! A crappy, dated American sitcom. No! Fuck it. I tap at the standby button again. The screen blinks off.
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 40