‘You can come out now, Keating.’
The door handle of the toilet cubicle clicks and his fat belly makes its way back to the ward first, followed by the rest of him; his sleazy fuckin grin stretched wide across his face. He wears that grin when he feels he needs to. He was wearing it the very first day I met him.
Our business was doing well. Guus and I had grown it into something really special; turning over a couple a million a year. It didn’t start out that way. When I first began as a freelance accountant, I was only really interested in making enough money to get a roof over my head. After I’d left University, I started to work for a big accountancy firm – Fullams. Three years later I realised for certain that working for somebody else wasn’t for me. So, using just eight loyal clients, I set up on my own. After a couple of years of continued growth, I decided I needed a partner. Guus was the first person I’d thought of, in fact I’d thought of him as a business partner long before I even realised I actually needed a business partner. We’d worked together at Fullams, sparked up not only a great friendship but a perfect working relationship too. His strengths paper over my weaknesses and my strengths paper over his. With my attention to detail on the numbers combined with Guus’s ability to sell our vision to new clients, we were the perfect cocktail. And we thrived. The zeros in our business accounts stretched month on month as soon as we partnered up. But of course, I got greedy. When Alan Keating arranged a meeting with me one Friday afternoon about twenty years ago, I was fascinated by his plan. He was turning over a few mill a year – and we’d get ten per cent if we were willing to cook his books for him. It felt like a no-brainer at the time; easy money. But I was being cocky; I was being a fuckin idiot. Had I not seen the dollar signs in front of my eyeballs and accepted Keating’s proposal that day I’m pretty certain that not only would I still be running my business, but I’d also still have my daughter, still have my wife. Still have my life. This fucker grinning in front of me right now ruined me.
‘So you’ve called off little Lenny Moon, yeah?’
I just nod, still unsure how or even why I’m letting this prick talk to me again.
He opened the door to my ward about twenty minutes ago, began to tell me that he was the one person who could fulfil my dying wish. Then we heard Elaine outside talking to Lenny. Keating said I shouldn’t mention that he’s here, to just get rid of Lenny and that he’d oversee the investigation for me. He hid in the toilet cubicle. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I still don’t.
‘As I was saying, Gordy, I did my own investigation at the time; it didn’t pull up anything. But let me have another dig around for you today. Who d’ye think’s more likely to get you answers in what could be your final few hours: Alan Keating or little Lenny Moon? He’s not even an investigator, he’s a fucking insurance pussy. He rats out people who are making scam insurance claims. He has no chance of finding answers for you about Betsy.’
I nod my head, melt my face into a soft look. I felt, for years, that this cunt was responsible for Betsy’s disappearance, yet I’ve never been able to join up all the dots.
‘I know you’ve always suspected me and Barry, but – trust me, Gordy – we had nothin’ to do with Betsy goin’ missin’. And I know you know that deep down. You’ve always known it.’
I shift in my bed a little. It’s funny that he thinks I’d trust him to find answers for me. I wouldn’t trust him with a bucket of water if my balls were on fire. I suck in a breath through my nostrils, but remain silent. I just tilt my head to look at him, wait for him to talk.
‘I’ll get on to the cops; I have a few of them in my pocket. I’ll get all of the information they have on the investigation into Betsy’s disappearance and I’ll act on it for you, how about that?’
I shift again in the bed. I really don’t want to give this prick the satisfaction of my forgiveness. But what else can I do? I may be dead in a few hours time. The more people out there looking for my Betsy, the better, even if I do get a huge sense that he’s bullshitting. I know Keating definitely has some cops on his payroll, but not high-ranking detectives; not cops who’ll give him classified information about a seventeen-year-old case.
‘But sure the cops think she’s dead,’ I say, finally speaking up.
‘You know as well as I do that that was just a theory because they couldn’t close off the investigation, right?’
He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, as if him going all coy will bridge my forgiveness. He can do that, can Alan Keating; transform from looking like Ireland’s most notorious gangster into looking like a cute old granddad. He has the most persuasive forms of seduction; the fucker can get anybody on his side. It’s why I was intrigued by his business proposition twenty years ago. But I don’t trust the fucker. I wonder what he’s after. Alan Keating doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for himself.
‘Why would you do this for me… after all the years I’ve insisted you had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve always felt sorry for you, Gordy. For you and Michelle. I helped at the time, had my men look for Betsy. And I would’ve offered to help a lot more over the years only you went really cold on me. You made some outrageous claims to the cops about our dealings; almost got me into a lot of trouble.’
I shift again in the bed. I can’t get comfortable, not with this gurning prick in my room. But he’s right. I did rat him out; revealed all about his money funnels to Ray De Brun. I’m still not quite sure why it didn’t go much further. Keating covers his tracks too well, I guess. The small businesses he had set up under different names to filter his money through saved his bacon. That and the fact that I refused to become a witness for the state. I didn’t care about Keating’s money laundering then; the only thing that consumed my mind was finding Betsy.
‘Yeah… well I’m sorry about that, Keating, but y’know, I still don’t know who took Betsy and you were the only person at the time who had a problem with me… So I went on auto pilot, told the cops everything. I’d have done anything to find my daughter… still would.’
He places his hand on mine, much like Elaine did about half an hour ago.
‘I understand why you told the cops everything and I understand why you initially suspected me and Barry. But c’mon… still suspecting us today and having your little PI hang around our homes is crazy, Gordy. You need to believe me; I had nothing to do with Betsy going missing. I’m not that kinda gangster. You know that.’
He sits back down, his puppy dog eyes still on show. I don’t get why he’s being so nice to me. The fucker has always had intrigue pouring out of him.
‘Listen, our slate is clean. Let me help you investigate. What’ve you got to lose?’
I stare up at the stained ceiling of the ward, my mind racing in a million different directions.
‘You don’t do anything for nothing,’ I say.
His silence makes me turn to face him again. Then he shakes his head, removing the puppy-dog eyes; transforming from the cute old granddad back into the grinning gangster.
‘Just put the same offer you made to Lenny Moon on the table for me.’
I laugh. Should’ve known.
‘Ah, so you got out of Lenny just what I was offering him. You want my house.’
‘It’s a grand oul house,’ Keating says. He sucks his teeth as he says it too.
Then he takes a step towards me again. He doesn’t place his hand on top of mine this time. Instead he reaches for the pen on the bedside cabinet and then holds it towards me.
‘Rewrite your will, make me the benefactor of that house.’