The Mystery of Mercy Close Read Online Free PDF Page B

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