By far the worst one yet. At least the other estates didn’t have burnt-out cars abandoned on the side of the roads; I even have to inch the car past a mattress dumped right in the middle of the street. There’s a green in the middle that all the houses centre around and I’m not joking when I tell you it looks like a fly-tipper’s idea of a paradise dumping ground. No kids paying soccer in the streets here; they probably all reckon it’s too dangerous, even for them.
I speed up a bit, anxious to do what I came for and get the hell out of here fast. All the houses are identical apart from the graffiti that’s sprayed along most of them and with a sinking heart, I finally find the one I’m looking for. I pull up, park, then trip up the driveway and knock at the door in the most non-threatening way I can.
Subtext; trust me! I am neither a debt collector nor someone who’s come round to repossess your furniture. I Swear!
This particular Bill O’Casey I know least about of all. No social security number, which is odd, in fact no records of any kind whatsoever. Like he’s just a vague shadow of a person, almost as if I’m chasing down a ghost. I mean, who doesn’t have a social security number in this day and age?
Not a long wait, then Hallelujah be praised, I’m in luck. The door opens and an old, old lady, almost bent double with arthritis, is standing in front of me, with parchment-thin skin and hair the exact colour and texture of a Brillo pad. In fact she looks so frail that I immediately feel guilty for having dragged her all the way out to the front door and half want to steer her back inside, wrap her in a nice warm blanket and plonk her down in front of the daytime soap operas, then make her a big mug of Complan.
‘Have you come to read the meter?’ she asks in a feathery, wispy voice, as the smell of the house hits me in the face; Lily of the Valley perfume mixed in with something else, almost like a combination of damp and that antiseptic that you get in hospitals.
‘No, I’m so sorry to disturb you …’
‘Meals on Wheels?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m actually looking for a Billy O’ Casey and I was told that he lives here. I don’t suppose you’d have any idea where I could find him?’
‘Speak up, will you?’
‘Sorry … Do you know where I can find BILL O’CASEY, by any chance?’
‘Who did you say?’
‘BILL O’CASEY.’
There’s a pause for a moment while she thinks and for a split second her pale grey eyes look sharply at me, while she weighs up whether or not I can be trusted.
And decides no. Slowly, she shakes her head.
‘No, no, I’m sorry dear, you must have the wrong house.’
She goes to close the door, but I move to stop her.
‘Please, it’s very important that I speak to him and I promise he’s not in any kind of trouble. I just wanted to ask him a few …’
‘No Bill O’Casey here love, and there never was.’
‘If you had a forwarding address, or better yet, a phone number?’
‘Have to go, Emmerdale is starting now and it’s my favourite soap.’
Door slammed, end of interview.
It’s at this point I start to get frustrated.
Given the sheer mentalness of the rest of my day, I have to abandon the search here and get back to the office, but throughout all my afternoon and night meetings, the same thought keeps buzzing round my head, playing over and over again on a loop.
That old lady definitely knew something and was covering up. But why?
One thing is for certain, I think as I sit at my desk bashing out a first draft of tomorrow’s editorial: from this point on, I have nothing. Not one more shred to go on. Nothing. Helen calls to see if there’s news and I fill her in.
‘So that’s it then?’ she asks, deflated. ‘We’re at the end of the line, I suppose.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ I tell her firmly. ‘Helen, let me tell you something. Chasing down any lead is always a nightmare, with doors constantly slamming in your face while you hurtle your way from one dead end to another. Know what separates a good reporter from the herd?’
‘No, what?’ she answers automatically.
‘They don’t give up, don’t take no for an answer and most importantly of all, they call in the big guns.’
I’m in too deep here to let this go. Call me an obsessive-compulsive (and believe me, plenty do) but if it’s the last thing I do, I’m tracking down Lily’s dad and I’m going to help him. Okay, so maybe right now he doesn’t exactly sound like a desirable character who I’d ever want her to be around, but Helen is right. The day will surely come, years from now, when Lily will want to know more. And more than anything, I want her to be proud of him when she does meet him – and to stay proud of him. Sure, maybe this guy has a flaky, shady past, but just wait till I get my hands on him. I’ll bring him up squeaky clean. I will be like a sort of female Henry Higgins to his Eliza Doolittle.
I’ll make him respectable, if it bloody kills me.
Then, in years to come, he’ll thank me and credit me with helping him live a normal ordinary life, not one where he faffs round from one address to another, changing names, changing jobs, the works. Whoever and wherever you are, I sent out a short, silent message to the Universe, you have no idea how over this part of your life is. Time for your Act Two, and this time mate, I’m the puppet-master pulling the strings.
As it happens, I do have one last, single ace in the pack. It’s a long shot, but who knows, it might just be worth it. Years, years, years ago, when I was young and struggling with a story, I always had a Plan B. Namely, one Jim Kelly – a stringer who used to work as a freelance for a number of papers, but now that he’s semi-retired you’ll often see his name popping up as an ‘additional source’ on TV investigative documentaries and whistleblower shows.
Jim I know of old; everyone does. He’s a wizened, senior hack of the Marlboro-smoking, vodka-drinking-during-working-hours school, who cut his teeth working undercover primarily on crime stories and was hugely instrumental in bringing down more than one underworld boss. Rumour has it that one high profile drug trafficker, now serving a stretch in a maximum security prison, has a price on Jim’s head – to such a worrying extent that police have apparently offered Jim a place on the witness protection programme.
Stout heart that he is though, he told them where to shove it and continues on with his work regardless.
Soon as I get a spare minute, I call him and fill him in on what I need.
A long-drawn-out cough, then wheezily, he comes back to the phone.
‘I’m not promising anything,’ he says in his throaty voice, ‘but I’ll do what I can.’
Gratefully, I give him the thin scraps of information I have and I can hear the scratch of his pen off a notebook as he takes it all down. Jim’s the best in the business. If he can’t find this guy, then no one can.
‘One thing,’ he growls before hanging up.
‘Yeah?’
Without him having to say another word, I know what’s coming next and mentally steel myself.
‘Why? Why this guy? What’s he to you?’
I sigh and try to make my answer sound as flippant as possible.
‘Jim, can we just say that it’s for personal reasons?’