Lenny snatches his bunch of keys from his desk, then pauses in the doorway. He’s trying to work out whether or not it’s appropriate for him to drive to Tallaght Hospital from here.
It’s one of those in-between decisions most of us have to make on an irregular basis; take a fifteen-minute walk or be a lazy bollocks and take the car for a three-minute drive. The hospital is less than a mile away from Lenny’s office, at the far end of Tallaght.
It’s a shared office block Lenny works from; nine small business all renting space within it. There is an array of ‘entrepreneurs’ operating here; two start-up tech guys, two freelance graphic designers, a photographer, a jeweller whose sewing machine can be heard stuttering throughout the building, a stationery designer, a copywriter – which is what Joe does when he isn’t being distracted by Lenny asking for Blu Tack – and, of course, a private investigator.
Each of the office spaces are cramped; though cramped in different ways. Some of the rooms are square – like Lenny’s – some more rectangular – like Joe’s. But they’re all dingy, echoey and almost always cold – whatever the season. They are solitary though; allowing those who rent the spaces the opportunity to work undisturbed for most of the day and – more importantly – they are as cheap as chips to rent. Lenny pays two hundred and fifty euro every month for his space. A pittance in Dublin, even if it is for a room the size of an under-the-stairs bathroom. It’s fine for Lenny though, because aside from his advertising costs – which consist of an annual fee for his appearance in the Yellow Pages – Lenny’s overheads are minimal. He just has to make sure he brings in at least one-thousand four hundred euro every month to cover his outgoings; two hundred and fifty euro to pay for his office space, eight hundred and fifty to pay the mortgage on the family home along with utility bills, plus the three hundred he and Sally calculate they need for groceries each month to feed all four Moons.
For the most part he just about manages to sneak in the required amount, but there are months when the family have to live on reheated stews and coddles for days on end when he comes up a little short.
Lenny has tied himself to two insurance companies who use him on a regular basis to find out whether or not they are being scammed by people making claims from them. The money from these jobs is decent enough – about two hundred euro a go. But Lenny needs to ensure he picks up at least seven of those gigs a month. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. There’s no projecting it. Though a new wave of clients seems to have evolved for Lenny over the past year; those who hire him to find out who’s anonymously bullying them online. This type of ‘crime’ is a growing concern in the modern world; but it’s not much of a concern for Lenny – it puts an extra few quid in his coffers. He likes this type of job, it’s less boring than sitting outside somebody’s house, waiting on them to come out so he can take a photograph of them that may prove their back injury isn’t as bad as they are claiming.
Though neither of these gigs have anything to do with the reason Lenny became a Private Investigator in the first place. He assumed he would be playing detective; solving proper crimes; murders, kidnappings, thefts, larceny. But that was slight delusion, borne from reading too many crime fiction thrillers over the years. He never got a call asking him to solve such a crime… until three minutes ago.
He nods his head, decision made. He’ll drive over to the hospital. That way if he needs to get on with the job immediately, he’ll have his wheels close by. Lenny grabs at his yellow puffer jacket and Sherpa hat, then pulls the office door behind him and sets off down the rickety stairs.
During the months of October through March Lenny always wears a Sherpa hat; he needs the fur inside to protect his bald head from the elements. Lenny lost his hair in his early twenties. Aside from the fact his head is always freezing during these months, losing his hair has never bothered him. He has the right shaped head to carry it off. He offset the baldness by growing out some stubble on his face. The stubble irritates Sally – she finds it discomforting to kiss her husband – but they both agree that a full beard doesn’t suit him; it hides his jaw line, while a fully-shaved face makes him look like a twelve-year-old. And that’s not a good look for somebody who wants to be taken seriously as an investigator. So they both decided stubble was the best option for him. Even with the stubble, Lenny still looks much younger than his thirty-three years, but at least he has the maturity to pass himself off as a man in the middle stages of life.
He thumbs his dated mobile phone as he paces his way to the car, trying to remember the images of Betsy Blake that were plastered all over the media many years ago. The most prominent picture used was a school portrait; her beaming a gummy grin at the camera dressed in her navy-blue uniform. The nation was obsessed with the story of Betsy Blake. Lenny was only a mid-teen when the story blew up. Over half his life-time ago. His memory is letting him down. If he had a smart phone, he’d be able to recall that image now. But what would it matter? Betsy isn’t four-years-old anymore; she’d be twenty-one now. A woman. Lenny shakes his head and puffs out his cheeks as this reality hits him.
He throws his phone on to the passenger seat of his car, turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of his parking space without hesitating. He sings along to the Little Mix song that blasts from his stereo. This is always a tell for Lenny that he’s in a good mood. He’s excited about this job. The one thousand euro on offer from Gordon Blake is definitely playing a part in dictating Lenny’s positivity, but it’s more the job that has him buzzing. Trying to find a girl who’s been missing for seventeen years. That sure as hell beats filling in paperwork for an insurance company.
He drums at the steering wheel, imagining the press he would receive if he were to somehow make a breakthrough in the Betsy Blake case. Though Lenny’s not stupid; he’s aware he’s day-dreaming. He’s a decent private investigator – more often than not his clients are pleased with his work – but he has never achieved anything of note that would suggest he’s capable of making even the smallest of dents in the highest-profile missing person’s case the country’s ever known. Anyway, he assumed Betsy was dead. Was certain the Gardaí closed the case about ten years ago.
Soon he’s turning right into the hospital grounds and circling the parking lot. When he finally finds a space he can fit his tiny Nissan Micra in to, he leaps out of his car, trudges down the brick staircase and finally across the zebra crossing that leads to the hospital entrance.
He takes in the stench of antibacterial soap immediately, can almost taste it on his tongue.
‘St Bernard’s Ward?’ he asks the man sitting at a rounded reception desk.
‘Floor three.’
Lenny sprint-walks towards the elevators and then pauses after pushing at the button. He watches the digital numbers above the doors click upwards, from three to four, then eyeballs the staircase behind him. He knows he would get to Gordon quicker if he used them. But he can be a stubborn fucker sometimes, can Lenny. So he stares back at the digits, taking seconds to will them to count downwards. But they don’t. Both lifts are now on floor five. He huffs, spins on his heels and makes his way to the stairs, striding up them two at a time. He’s almost out of breath by the time he reaches a sign that reads St Bernard’s Ward. The hospital corridors are overly bright, the yellow glare constant, regardless of the time of day. Lenny knows the hospital quite well. Has spent many hours in here, sitting next to Sally.
‘Gordon Blake?’ he asks a young nurse dressed in purple scrubs.
‘Oh… Mr Blake is in room number thirty-two,’ she replies. She stares at Lenny after answering, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods a ‘thank you’ at her and then paces in the direction she had pointed, staring at the numbers on the ward doors as he goes. When he arrives outside number thirty-two he pauses to catch his breath. Gordon Blake had asked him to be as quick as he could possibly be. Lenny removes his mobile phone from the inside pocket of his coat, notices it’s 10:36. Fourteen minutes since Gordon Blake called him. Not bad. Then he blinks and pushes at the door.
A pale face turns towards him, then the man in the bed sits up, pushing his back against the railed bed post.
‘Lenny Moon?’
‘Yes, Mr Blake. I got here as quickly as I could.’
Lenny stares at the man. He looks as if his death is imminent alright; the face gaunt, the veins in his neck trying to poke their way out of the skin that covers them. All of his limbs are thin and long; even his fingers. Strands of his balding black hair are matted to his forehead.
‘Lenny. I may only have a few hours left to live. I need you to find out who took my daughter.’
Lenny nods his head as he walks closer to the bed.
‘I’ve been trying to recall Betsy’s case on the way over here,’ he says. ‘What is it you would like me to find out for you, Mr Blake?’
‘Gordon… please. And eh… I need you to find out who took her.’
Lenny sniffs out of his nostrils, then points his hand towards a blue plastic chair. When Gordon nods an invite for him to sit in it, Lenny takes off his hat and coat, hangs them on the back of the chair and then sits in it, crossing his right ankle over his left thigh. He reaches into the back pocket of his trousers, pulls out a small note pad that has a pen attached to it, and opens it up to a blank page.
‘Okay, Gordon,’ he says, clicking down on the top of the pen, ‘what makes you think I can find out what happened to your daughter in the next few hours?’