David Jackson - The Helper

Doyle takes a deep breath. He can smell perfume. He wonders why it’s familiar, then realizes it hung on the air in the bookstore too.

He moves closer to the bookcases. Fiction, poetry and biography mostly. Nothing trashy. No bodice-rippers for this girl. On the bottom shelves are Cindy’s notebooks. All different sizes, different colors. Doyle sits cross-legged on the thickly carpeted floor, pulls out the first book, and turns the cover.

What he sees on that first page is a poem entitled ‘Life Without End’. He starts to read it, but gives up after six lines. He turns the page, finds another poem called ‘Nobody Hears Me’. Doesn’t bother to read this one. He flicks through the rest of the book, finds more of the same. Occasionally a doodle leaps out at him, but to Doyle’s eye the artistry is as bad as the poetry. He wonders whether it’s him just not getting this arty stuff, then decides no, it really is that amateurish.

He moves on to the next book, then the next, and the next. More poetry, more doodles. He chances across a short story called ‘Freud’s Ghost’, reads the whole thing through and decides that either it wasn’t finished, or else it was finished and the point of it has totally escaped him.

He speeds up his search then. Pull out a book, riffle through its pages, put it back. He gets all the way to the end of the shelf. Nothing. No diary. Nothing whatsoever about the events of her life save for what may be lurking in the depths of her prose and poetry. And he’s already decided it’s beyond his ability to tease that out.

He gets to his feet. He scans the spines of every book on the shelves, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He goes to the storage units and opens each one. He finds clothes, bags, shoes, more cuddly toys, but no diary. He tries all the drawers of the make-up table. Hair pins, jewelry, perfume bottles, tissues, shopping receipts, tampons.

But no fucking diary.

Doyle takes another look around. He tries the not-so-obvious places. Under the pillow, under the mattress, under the bed. Behind drawers. Inside bags and purses. Slipped behind other books.

Nothing.

And now he’s pissed off. Now he feels like he’s being jerked around.

He leaves the bedroom. Mrs Mellish is sitting at a table, doing nothing. She stands when she sees Doyle.

‘I think you were right,’ he tells her. ‘I can’t find a diary.’

He is convinced he sees disappointment on her face. When he abandons her in this apartment she will have nothing but her grief again. He starts to reach into his jacket for a card with his number on it. ‘I tell you what-’

The phone rings then. Mrs Mellish says, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and goes to answer it. Her conversation is brief, and then she turns to Doyle.

‘It’s for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. A man. He says he’s got that help you wanted from him.’

When he takes the phone he tries to remain calm. He wants to scream obscenities into the mouthpiece, but he also doesn’t want to alarm Mrs Mellish. He turns away from her, tries to keep his voice low.

‘Doyle.’

‘Hello, Cal. How’s the search for the diary going?’

‘How’d you know I was here?’

‘Actually, I didn’t. But it seemed like a good bet. I thought once you heard about what happened to that nurse last night, you’d be keen to check out the diary. You’re starting to trust me now, isn’t that right, Cal?’

‘I don’t trust you as far as I can piss. How’d you get this number?’

‘Have you ever heard of the phone book, Cal? It’s a way of finding out somebody’s phone number. So have you found the diary yet?’

‘There is no diary. I looked everywhere. It’s not here.’

‘You’re not looking hard enough. It’s there, all right. Use your eyes, and think about what you see.’

‘I looked. It’s not here. You made a mistake.’

A sigh of exasperation. Then: ‘Do I have to lead you by the hand, Cal? Are you really that helpless? Come on, then — back into the bedroom.’

He says this as though he’s indulging a young child. Doyle bites down on his bottom lip. He wants so much to tell this sonofabitch to shove his phone up his ass.

He lowers the phone, looks across at Mrs Mellish.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mellish, but my colleague has just given me a few more ideas about where I might search for the diary. You mind if I take one more quick look?’

He can tell she’s unsettled now. And he can’t blame her. He’s not acting like a cop should. She’s probably wondering if he even is a cop.

‘I. . all right.’

He flashes her his most comforting smile and heads back into the bedroom. He pushes the door to but doesn’t close it. That would be just too suspicious.

‘Okay,’ he says into the phone. ‘I’m in the bedroom.’

‘Well done, Cal. At least you’ve managed to find something. Now all you need is the diary.’

‘I told you, I’ve looked. It’s not here. I’ve looked on every shelf and in every drawer and closet.’

‘You are so behind the times, Cal. Think like a teenager. The answer’s right there in the open.’

Doyle scans the room. What the hell is this freak talking about? How can it be right here in front of me? I’ve looked everywhere. What could I have missed?

His eyes alight on each group of objects again. The make-up. The cuddly toys. The CDs and DVDs. The magazines. The. .

Wait a minute. Rewind.

He steps toward the row of cabinets. The counter they support is covered in items. Every square inch is occupied by something. Except. .

Except where the chair is, pushed into the recess. In front of the chair is the only space in the clutter. Just a couple of square feet, but a space nonetheless. Doyle tries to imagine Cindy sitting on this chair. She would reach for those pens and pencils just on the right here. This is where she would make all those jottings in her notebooks. And to her left. .

Doyle slides the chair out and bends down to look into the recess. That’s when he understands.

He hears what sounds like the faint buzzing of an insect, and realizes that it’s the voice emanating from the phone that’s now down at his side. He raises the phone to his ear, but doesn’t wait to hear what’s being said.

‘The space,’ says Doyle.

‘What?’

‘The space. In front of the chair. Where Cindy worked and studied. There’s an empty space there. The only clear space in the room.’

Silence. Like maybe he has just surprised the guy.

‘Okay, there’s a space. So what?’

‘If she had a diary, this is where she would have written it. But not necessarily in one of these notebooks, right?’

A faint chuckle. ‘Way to go, Columbo. I’ll be in touch soon.’

There’s a click, and the line goes dead. Doyle goes back into the living room. Mrs Mellish is standing exactly where he left her, still looking uneasy. He goes over to her and hands the phone back. She is wary when she takes it, almost as if she expects him to grab her arm.

‘What’s going on?’ she asks. ‘Who was that man on the phone?’

Doyle knows he needs to get her back on his side. ‘Mrs Mellish, I’m sorry. There are things I can’t tell you right now. Things that have cropped up in our investigation. One of our sources has told us that Cindy had a diary, and that it might be important. That man who just called was giving me some further information to help me locate it.’

‘But you looked. You said there isn’t a diary in her room.’

Okay, thinks Doyle, here goes.

‘Mrs Mellish, did Cindy have a computer?’

She stares at him. Either she’s not sure whether to tell him the truth, or else she’s trying to figure out how he knows this.