Читать книгу Me and You - Claudia Carroll - Страница 11

27 December, 8.20 a.m.

I’m in a deep, dead, exhausted sleep when I’m woken by the phone, beside me, ringing. And in a nanosecond, I go from early-morning grogginess to wide awake and on high alert.

Please be Simon with news … Please can the pathetic, frail little hope he was clinging to – that Kitty would just stroll through the front door during the wee small hours – have actually, miraculously come to pass …

It’s not Simon, but the next best thing! My buddy Jeff, ringing me back to say he got all my hysterical voice messages yesterday and of course now v. anxious to find out what in hell is going on with Kitty. What’s the story? Has she turned up? Quickly, I fill him in and bring him up to speed.

‘OK then,’ he says in his decisive, man-of-action way. ‘Just tell me how I can help and I’ll be there.’

Jeff’s amazing. Jeff’s a true pal. This is exactly what’s needed right now. Fresh blood. Reinforcements.

8.25 a.m.

Call Simon. The phone’s picked up after approximately half a ring, if even that.

‘Hello?’ he answers.

Shit. I just know by the overly hopeful note in his voice he was praying this might be Kitty. But Simon’s always the perfect gentleman and at least has the good grace not to sound a bit deflated, when it turns out it’s only me. My heart goes out to the guy. Am actually afraid at one point he sounds dangerously close to tears.

Please, for the love of God, don’t cry, I find myself silently praying. Don’t think I could handle it if I had to be strong one in all this, while Simon fell apart. Thank Christ he doesn’t, but the underlying tremble in his voice is nearly worse.

He says he and Kitty were meant to be leaving for their big skiing hollier in just under three hours’ time. His Xmas gift to her. He tells me that just a few short days ago, before the whole world somehow fell apart, he thought he’d be arm in arm with her right at this very moment, skipping through Duty Free with bottle of champagne tucked under his oxter and with nothing but a fab, romantic week in Austria arsing around the slopes to look forward to. Says never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d spend this morning ringing up a gangload of total strangers, in the slim hope someone, somewhere might have had even a fleeting conversation with her on that final shift and that maybe, maybe they might be able to shed a bit of light on this.

It’s a flair of mine to say the wrong thing at times like this, and true to form, Angie strikes again.

‘Simon … this is just a thought,’ I say tentatively, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s any point in turning up at the airport, just in case?’ Then in a classic Freudian slip, I manage to mumble out the single most annoying comment, the same one I was gritting my teeth down the phone over, every time I heard it yesterday.

‘I mean, you know what Kitty’s like,’ I blurt out, barely pausing to think. ‘So just say she did end up buried deep in some stranger’s house over Christmas, someone who we’ve not made contact with yet, then … well, maybe she’ll just turn up at Departures later on this morning, with a credit card in her back pocket and nothing else?’

I regret the words the very second they’re out of my mouth. Am a stupid, bloody, moronic, tactless idiot. I shouldn’t do this to the guy, when he’s going through so much! It’s downright cruel. False hope can be a v., v. dangerous thing.

Still, though. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be unprecedented carry-on for our Kitty. Can’t help thinking back to that one particular, now-famous occasion—

But Simon interrupts my train of thought, sighing exhaustedly.

‘You know, I’d sort of been hoping for that too,’ he says. ‘In fact, I was thinking almost exactly along the same lines as you. But at about four o’clock this morning, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and started rummaging through her desk, in case there was some clue there as to what’s going on. An address of where she might be staying, a phone number, a name, maybe. Something we’ve overlooked that just might explain all this.’

‘And?’

‘Well, put it this way: she’s most definitely not going to casually turn up at the airport this morning and that’s for certain.’

‘You’re absolutely sure?’

Not meaning to contradict him so baldly, but she actually has done it before. With me, as it happened. Years ago. I thought she’d stood me up for a last-minute trip to London, and next thing she bounded into airport, no bags, no luggage, nothing, and full of the most outlandish story involving a hit-and-run driver, a sick cocker spaniel with a mashed front paw, a wailing child and a last-minute dash to the nearest vets. One of those completely mental, nutty excuses, so utterly off-the-wall that you just knew it could only be the truth. Vintage Kitty, in other words.

‘Yeah, I’m pretty certain,’ Simon is saying, ‘because when I was rummaging through her desk at stupid o’clock this morning, I came across a couple of things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a list of restaurants in the resort that we were meant to go to. A German phrase book I’d bought her for the trip, as a joke. And right beside all of that, I found her passport.’

9.25 a.m.

Jeff picks me up and v. kindly says he’ll drive me to Kitty’s house, then help to give Simon and me a dig-out for the rest of the entire day. Says he’ll do whatever he can to help, bless him. Claims he’s prepared do anything to find our gal, even if it’s only running around distributing milky mugs of sugary tea, patting shoulders and saying, ‘There, there, dear,’ at regular intervals. A true friend, in other words.

Anyway, he collects me in his little runaround Skoda, typical Jeff, dressed like he’s on his way to a gym. Bit too tight Lycra gym leggings with trainers and a v. clingy sweatshirt, with suspicious overtones of a recent spray tan, just a shade too mahogany for it to be natural. In December. When it’s freezing.

To his great annoyance, Jeff’s often mistaken for gay, reinforced by the fact he works as a freelance make-up artist, hence the addiction to spray tans. But he’s not; he’s straight as they come and actively seeking a GF. And he really is a total sweetheart, inordinately generous, the kind of bloke who’d gladly do anything for you. If he was in a movie, he’d most likely be cast as the reliable-best-buddy-of-leading-man. You know, the sort of roles Paul Rudd makes a v. healthy living out of. Such a lovely guy, Kitty often says, that it’s almost a racing certainty he’ll ultimately end up with a complete bitch. Always the way; the sweeter and more genuine they are, the more horrendous the girlfriend. Sad fact.

‘I just can’t believe Kitty would pull a disappearing trick like this!’ he tells me after a quick peck on the cheek, as I clamber into the car beside him. ‘It just doesn’t seem possible, not even for her!’

I nod mutely back at him in agreement.

‘So that’s not only Christmas that she’s missed,’ he goes on, ‘on top of your birthday, but now the chance to head off on a holiday with Simon, too? Jeez … Dunno about you, honey, but I’m now working on the definite possibility that something serious must have happened to her on her way home from work. I’m thinking … maybe some axe-wielding psycho now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere in the bowels of the South Circular Road?’

He has the tact to shut up instantly when he catches me doing an involuntary shudder and offers me a bottle of ayurvedic water. (Still water, by the way. Jeff’s theory is that carbonated bubbles are an indirect cause of male cellulite. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy dearly, but he can be tiny bit image-conscious like that.)

‘Congratulations,’ I tell him, gratefully snapping open water bottle and taking a big slug. ‘You’ve now arrived at stage one. Disbelief combined with a willing acceptance that whatever happened to her must be gruesome beyond belief. I’d a full day of that yesterday, thanks very much, while you were hauling your skinny arse up the side of a mountain.’

‘So, dare I ask what stage you’re now at, hon?’

‘Since early this morning? I’m officially at stage two.’

‘Which is?’

‘Bizarrely, it’s ridiculous belief that everything’s going to be OK, in the face of almost overwhelming odds. Which is why I’m about to suggest you and I take a quick detour on the way to Kitty’s.’

10.01 a.m.

Vincent’s Hospital, the biggest one over my end of town. Jeff pulls into the car park and we stomp our way through the icy grounds towards the A&E department.

‘Simon thinks this is a total waste of time,’ I explain briskly on the way, ‘but I’m saying, let’s just rule out all possibilities, that’s all.’

‘Quite right.’ Jeff pats my arm a bit patronisingly, like I’m some hysterical old dear who needs agreeing with at all times, else she’s likely to get a fit of the vapours. Truth is, though, I’m not particularly bothered whether Jeff understands or not. Just need to be doing something. Need to keep being proactive.

Keep telling myself over and over again: if it was the other way round, Kitty would probably have SWAT teams out patrolling the streets, searching for me by now.

10.17 a.m.

A&E unit is v. quiet. Miracle. Was half expecting it to be like a field hospital at the Battle of the Somme given that it’s the Christmas holidays. Head to the main desk and speak to a v. helpful receptionist. A lovely young one who must be able to sense waves of urgency practically pinging off the pair of us, as she goes out of her way to be helpful.

‘We’re looking for a patient who may possibly have been admitted early on the morning of Christmas Eve, thirty-one years old, five feet ten … em … really skinny … Oh yeah, hazel eyes and waist-length long, black, curly hair. Name of Kitty Hope. Might they have anyone who even comes close to fitting that description?’ is our not v. well-thought-out opener.

But no joy. Receptionist is nothing if not persevering, though, and as soon as she’s checked on her system that no one of that name’s been admitted, she then volunteers to ask around for us, just in case. Even disappears off into the A&E to double check; really goes the extra mile for us. Then comes back through double doors where we’re sitting tensely on plastic seats in the waiting area and shakes her head sadly at us.

She doesn’t even need to open her mouth. The look on her disappointed face tells us all we need to know.

10.32 a.m.

Back in the car when Simon calls wondering where I am. Sounding agitated and panicky. V. worrying. And now I’m starting to feel a bit shitty about leaving poor guy alone this morning, to deal with all this by himself. Just doesn’t sit right with me, somehow.

Suddenly I’m concerned that he and I seem to have switched personalities: whereas he was the pillar of confidence and strength yesterday and I was the screw-up, today we’re in near-perfect role reversal. He seems to be falling apart, so it’s up to me to be Miss Bossypants Assertiveness. I tell him that we’re on our way back, then saintly Jeff v. kindly offers to drop me off at Kitty’s and continue doing the trawl of hospitals on his own.

I thank him warmly. So fab to be able to delegate. Then I’ve a brainwave. I suggest to Jeff that we should start rooting out photos of Kitty from her house, so we have something to show to the world, and in particular, to the hospitals. Not to mention the coppers, who are bound to want decent headshots of her later on, if it comes to that. I’m now working along the lines that Kitty could be lying in a ward somewhere, suffering from deep concussion and not knowing who she is or how she got there.

Then, of course, my imagination totally runs away with me and I get an immediate vision of her bandaged from head to foot with just tiny slit holes for her eyes, so no one can even see who she is, never mind what she looks like. Bit far-fetched, maybe, but as I said to Jeff, quoting Basil Rathbone in the old Sherlock Holmes movies, once you’ve eliminated the impossible, then whatever you’re left with, however improbable, must be the truth.

Makes sense. Doesn’t it?

When the pair of us arrive at Kitty’s, Simon answers the door. Soon as I catch the state he’s in, the sudden urge I get to cradle him tight and tell him everything will be OK, even though it clearly isn’t, is almost overpowering. He actually looks like a lost little boy. The dark circles under his eyes have now gone even darker; poor guy looks like he never even got to bed last night, never mind slept and, unusually for him, he’s still streeling around in yesterday’s clothes. He gives me a hug and I instantly feel the roughness of his face against mine. Unheard of for a man like this, I think distractedly. Simon’s normally all smooth and lotion-y with a lovely, lemony smell of expensive aftershave off him. Well turned out, as Mother Blennerhasset would be wont to remark. Heartbreaking to see.

Even Jeff gets bit of a shock at just how badly Simon’s taking it.

Soon as we head inside, Jeff skites off to Kitty’s study to whip a few decent photos off the wall and Simon automatically goes to stick on the kettle, offering us both coffee.

‘I feel daft even asking you this,’ I say gently to him, ‘but how are you feeling right now?’

He gives a weak, watery smile back at me. ‘You know what I’ve spent the last hour doing?’ he says hoarsely. ‘I’ve been on the phone to the hotel in Austria where Kitty and I were due to be checking in around now.’

‘Cancelling the booking?’

‘Cancelling everything. The reservation, the candlelit dinner for two I’d booked for tonight, the …’ He breaks off here a bit. ‘Well … let’s just say, I had a surprise arranged for her, a very special surprise, but now I guess that’s all gone by the wayside too.’

‘Oh, Simon, I don’t know what to say,’ I tell him gently. ‘I hope at least that the hotel were OK about it?’

‘Oh, yeah, very sympathetic. The reservations manager spoke fluent English and she was incredibly understanding. She wanted to know …’ but he trails off again, like the end of that sentence is too painful to even articulate. I instinctively move a step closer to him, but he focuses on putting Nescafé into mugs and composes himself in time.

‘She said she was sorry if my girlfriend and I had broken up. And I just couldn’t find it in me to get the right words out, so instead I hung up the phone.’

Then Jeff sticks his head around the door, with a stack of photos for us all to check. V. hard to find one of Kitty without a drink in her hand, or where you can actually see her nose full-on (she was expert at turning her head in photos, as she’d say, to minimise general Barbra Streisand-ness of it), but eventually we settle on about a half a dozen that’ll have do.

Right then. Jeff sets off on his mission and Simon and I get back to manning the phones, picking up exactly where we left off yesterday.

12.45 p.m.

Getting on bit better today. Spoke to one junior chef who distinctly remembered seeing Kitty on that last shift and having a long chat with her. Apparently about how much she was looking forward to her skiing trip.

V. strange look from Simon at hearing that. Would nearly break a heart of stone.

2.20 p.m.

Our buddy Sarah arrives, fresh from doing an early shift at her family’s sandwich bar where she practically runs the place single-handedly; doing everything from PR to sales and marketing to working on the tills, if she has to. Bless her, she strides in laden down with basket of fresh sambos, croissants, muffins, etc.

Carb hit, just what we need. Sarah’s completely amazing, like a ray of light round here, positive energy beaming all round her. Great ‘can-do’ attitude, v. Dunkirk spirit. If you were casting Sarah in a biopic of her life, you’d go for an efficient Women’s Institute/ICA type, as played by a young Penelope Keith.

Kitty and I know her all way back to her post-grad college days, when Sarah used to trawl round the place in Doc Martens and denim overalls, famous for never shaving under her arms. Then, the minute she graduated and went to work in her family’s catering company, overnight she suddenly morphed into a female Alan Sugar, crossed with a Karren Brady-businesswoman-type, dressed in stilettos and scarily smart black pantsuits, and living off a combination of fags and nerves. It’s in the blood and genes will always out, as Kitty used to shrug.

Really delighted to see her now, though. Like a burst of vitally needed energy.

3.45 p.m.

It was exhausting, it nearly bloody killed us, but somehow between us, Simon, Sarah and I, we’ve now managed to work our weary way through to the v. last name and get to speak to everyone we could on that everlastingly long contact list. Don’t know how we did it, but between Sarah’s Prussian efficiency and my insane, misguided optimism in the face of overwhelming odds, somehow we get there.

Absolutely nowhere, that is. No one has seen or heard from Kitty since her last shift in work, no one knew of any late-night parties she might have pitched up at, not a bleeding sausage. Just dead ends everywhere we turn.

Poor Simon’s really worrying me now. Like a shadow of the same guy I knew from only a few days ago. He’s jumpy, tense, even a bit irritable, so unlike his usual über-gentlemanly self. Has already asked me about five times to come with him to police station later on this evening.

‘I really need you there with me, Angie,’ is all he says, with a pleading look, like a lost little puppy.

He’s actually starting to treat me like I’m his lifeline. Even Sarah noticed.

5.10 p.m.

Fast approaching the 6.00 p.m. deadline to get back to the cop shop, and Simon and I are about as organised as we’ll ever be to finally file a report. We’ve covered absolutely everything; we even rang up Foxborough House care home again, in vain hopes Kitty may somehow have surfaced there. But nothing.

Weird just how quickly you become inured to disappointment.

Between the whole lot of us though, I think we’re fully prepped for all eventualities. Sarah, being Sarah (bit ghoulishly I thought), even went and unearthed a whole missing persons website and saw that the first thing police apparently look for are mobile phone details, as well as bank account and credit card statements. So after a fair bit of rummaging through Kitty’s desk, the pair of us stumbled on a few old bank statements as well as a mobile phone bill (Kitty’s never a great one for clearing out her desk, it seems). Felt a bit like tempting fate even taking all this stuff with me, but as Sarah kept reminding me, far better to arrive fully prepared.

All in all, getting organised for this was relatively easy.

So now for the hard part.

Harcourt Street Police Station, 6.00 p.m. on the nail

Utterly mental in the cop shop tonight. Like a riot just broke out before we arrived and Simon and I had the bad luck to walk right into the aftermath. Place is packed with underage-looking yobbos with buzz cuts and v. scary-looking ‘body art’, all out of their heads on meths or God knows what. I’m not kidding, every single one of them looks fully ready to start fisticuffs with his own shadow. Bloody terrifying.

I shuffle over to stand v. close to Simon, who instinctively grips my hand. Grip it back, tight. Grateful.

We wait meekly at the back of a tiny reception area, either till the yob-heads all get arrested or else someone notices us, but by a stroke of pure luck, the very same adolescent copper who was on duty last night chances to walk right by us with a tray of coffee. He sees us and immediately stops.

‘You two must be back about your missing friend then, yeah?’ he asks.

Pair of us nod.

‘I take it she still hasn’t turned up, then?’

It’s all I can do to fire him an impatient look and stop myself from snapping, ‘Eh, no, sonny, she’s actually at home with the feet up watching tonight’s Christmas movie, which I believe is Avatar. Sure, we just thought we’d swing by to drink in the homely atmosphere.’

But Simon, as always, is that bit more tactful than I am.

‘Still nothing to report, I’m afraid,’ he says politely. ‘Can you tell me who’s the most senior person on duty here tonight?’

‘That’d be Detective Sergeant Jack Crown. If you just follow me, I’ll get him for you now. He said if there was still no news about your friend this evening, then he’d like to interview you both together.’

Sudden surge of elation. The sergeant wants to interview us! You see? Finally, finally, finally this is being taken seriously! Jubilantly we follow the pimply adolescent Garda, as he leads us out of the packed waiting area and down a long, snaking corridor to a tiny interview room right at the very end.

A gloomy, depressing, dismal-looking kip of a place. Overly bright fluorescent light that’d nearly give you a migraine, walls painted hospital green, with the paint peeling off them, and only one tiny window with bars on it, about seven feet above us. Bit like a prison cell. Underage Garda leaves us there and says that the sergeant will be along shortly.

The door slams shut and Simon shoots me a concerned look.

‘Don’t be nervous, Ange,’ he tells me gently. ‘Remember we’ve got all the facts in front of us and all we have to do now is tell the truth and nothing but.’

‘To be honest,’ I answer, ‘right now I’m mostly just relieved that maybe now they’ll get up off their arses and finally start to do something to help. Think about it: we’ve spent all of yesterday and most of today essentially doing the police’s work for them! It’s a complete disgrace, that’s what it is! Don’t know about you, but I’ve no intentions of leaving here without them promising to do what they’re being paid to do and get the bloody finger out.’

Because I want this sergeant, whoever he is, to be an elder statesman, Inspector Morse type, who’ll have this solved in a mere matter of hours. Or else a wise, elderly Miss Marple sort, as played by Margaret Rutherford, who’ll offer us pots of tea and scones, ask questions that initially seem totally irrelevant, like, ‘What was Kitty’s mother’s maiden name?’ Or, ‘Had she ever visited Bologna in springtime?’ And yet still manage to trace Kitty by morning.

Failing that, I want Kenneth Branagh as Wallander to stride confidently in here, or better yet, David Suchet as Poirot, who’ll waddle around, charm the arses off us, ask insightful questions, then whisk off and have Kitty back to us with nothing more than a funny tale to dine out on. I want someone who’ll walk in here and immediately inspire confidence. I want to just look at him and know that if this guy can’t track down Kitty, no one can.

What’s more, I want whoever this guy is to give us his solemn word that highly trained SWAT teams are, as we speak, being deployed to come in and help. I want helicopters patrolling the area where Kitty was last seen, I want everyone she ever met in her entire life from the age of three upwards to be hauled in for a full police interview; I want her story to be on one of those ‘live police enactments’ that you see on TV shows like Crimewatch (except with somebody thinner playing me, obviously).

I want whole entire units of coppers with trained Alsatians pounding on every hall door between here and West Belfast, asking questions and demanding answers. I want to paper-blitz whole country with a full poster and flyer campaign, so no one can possibly avoid seeing Kitty’s unforgettable face staring out at them from billboards, bus stops and lampposts.

I want total media blanket coverage. And only when all that is done, will I …

6.35 p.m.

Mental ramblings are suddenly interrupted by arrival of Detective Sergeant Jack Crown, who instantly surprises me by not being a senior, Inspector Morse or even a Scando detective type, but a youngish guy. Not that much older than Simon, late thirties at most, and not a bit wise or experienced-looking at all.

Definitely not a Wallander or even a Poirot either; the guy’s sandy-haired, freckly, chunky and with sharp blue eyes and an intent, tight-jawed look about him. Thick-set build too, with hands the approximate size of shovels. Puts me in mind of Simon Pegg, for some reason. Initial reaction? Bit disappointed, actually. Was just hoping for someone with more gravitas and authority about them, that’s all. Whereas this fella looks like the type of guy who’d be far more at home in a theme bar with a big feed of chips and a few pints in front of him. Not what I was expecting and certainly not what you might call confidence-inspiring.

Glance over to Simon, who shoots a ‘would you just give the guy a chance?’ look back at me.

Funny; we’ve spent so much time together of late, it’s getting so we’re starting to communicate without speech.

Det. Sgt Crown shakes hands vigorously with both of us as we introduce ourselves, but he isn’t exactly what you might call friendly or even particularly concerned for our welfare. Never says, ‘Call me Jack’, and no offers of tea from plastic cups either. Just dumps down a notepad with a thick wad of files on the desk in front of him and rolls up his sleeves, ready to write down anything we say that might, in some small way, help.

‘OK, firstly I’m really sorry you both had to come back,’ he starts off, efficiently whipping a Biro out of his uniform pocket. ‘But I’m taking it that at this point in time Kitty Hope has been gone for over three days now? If you’ve an accurate date and time as to when she was last seen, that would be really useful, as a starting point.’

No chat, no ‘So where you do think she went?’ or ‘Tell me how you’ve both been coping?’ No preamble with this guy whatsoever. Just efficiently cuts to the chase, like we’ve come in about a missing passport and are now holding up a v. long queue.

Simon starts to fill him in, aided by me shoving notes I made earlier in front of him, with exact names of who last saw Kitty, where and critically at what time. I keep on red-pencilling around stuff, so he won’t forget and impatiently tapping my biro off sheaves of paper in front of him to draw his attention to anything he’s leaving out. Driving the poor guy completely mental, in other words.

Crown works his way through a whole list of fairly standard-sounding questions and we answer almost in unison, nearly tripping over each other to get our spake in first. It’s a long, long list, and we tell him everything: Kitty’s age, gender, height, build, hair colour, eye colour, the date she was last seen, where she was last seen, plus full details about her next of kin and, more specifically, all about poor Mrs K. and her condition.

Then I can’t help myself butting in.

‘So you see, by far the weirdest thing of all here,’ I interrupt, overeager to get the story out, ‘is that we know she was most definitely planning to visit her foster mum in the nursing home on Christmas Day. So that categorically proves that something awful must have happened in the meantime … because only something really disastrous would ever have prevented her from …’

‘… Going to see Mrs Kennedy on Christmas Day,’ Simon butts in, finishing the sentence for me. ‘Which, of course, was when we both started to realise just how serious the situation was, because up till then, we’d thought … that is to say, we’d hoped, that maybe she’d just been out having a few Christmas drinks somewhere …’

‘… And maybe crashed out at friend’s house or something? So then, between the two of us, we phoned around just about everybody we knew, not to mention everyone she worked with, even random strangers who were booked into the restaurant where she was working that night …’

‘… And we got absolutely nowhere. Total dead end.’

‘OK, OK, guys,’ Crown interrupts, waving at us to quieten down. ‘Let’s just hear one voice at a time and take the whole story from the very beginning. Why don’t we start with you, Angie?’

Strongly suspect it’s because he knows I won’t shut up or stop interrupting otherwise, but v. happy to have the floor properly opened to me.

‘Now, I want you to take your time and tell me in your own words exactly when you last saw Kitty and when you first became alarmed at her disappearance. Remember, don’t leave anything out. Even the most insignificant detail could prove to be vitally important to our investigation at this point. OK?’

‘OK.’

I feel a bit like a star witness who’s just been ushered up to stand in front of packed courtroom. But Crown’s not making any eye contact with me at all. Which is not exactly what you might call encouraging.

‘So,’ he starts off, face buried deep into his blessed notes, ‘let’s take it right from the very beginning. Firstly, tell me how long exactly have you known Kitty for?’

And so I start talking. About how she and I first met, all of seven years ago now. Remember it like it was yesterday. I was fresh out of college and because I hadn’t the first clue what I wanted to do with my life, I managed to get a part-time job working at telesales in a call centre. I can vividly see myself there on my very first day, nervously cold-calling and trying not to fluff my lines. ‘Excuse me, may I interest you in taking a market research call that could possibly end up saving you hundreds on your household bills?’ That kind of shite.

I was only at the job for about an hour when this bright, bouncy beautiful creature with long legs as skinny as two Cadbury’s chocolate fingers, springs into the cubicle right beside me and yells an apology over to the male supervisor for being late. Roared at him, ‘Won’t say what delayed me this morning, Sean, but by the way, you can sleep easy! The gonorrhoea test was negative!’ ’Course the whole room cracked up, supervisor included.

Right from the start, I was completely mesmerised by her; this glorious ball of energy with enough personality for two people, wearing a bright blue fleecy sweatshirt over what looked suspiciously like pyjama bottoms. I remember having to stifle giggles when I overheard her dealing with a particularly rude person she’d just cold-called. Instead of apologising and getting off the phone a.s.a.p. like we were trained to do, she just laughed and said, ‘Nah, don’t worry, I don’t blame you for telling me to feck off, love. After all, I work in a call centre, selling house insurance. So technically, that makes me the devil.’

And when she introduced herself and dragged me off to the pub after work, that was it. She and I just bonded and it was like my whole world suddenly went from monochrome to Technicolor. I knew we’d be mates and what’s more, we’d stay that way.

‘So you see, that’s how I’m so certain that something really horrendous must have happened to her!’ I find myself getting more and more upset now, borderline hysteric. Part relief that we’re finally being taken seriously, part vom-making worry at what in hell’s actually unfolding.

‘Because I’ve known Kitty for that length of time, practically all of my twenties, she’s like my sister! We’ve shared flats together and everything … And, OK, so she may be a tiny bit unreliable and scatty at times, but I know that vanishing over Christmas, when we’d all be out of our minds worrying about her, just isn’t something she would ever do!’

‘OK, OK, take it easy,’ Crown suggests in a don’t-argue-with-me tone. ‘And remember that jumping to conclusions isn’t helpful at this point.’

Which at this point slightly gets my back up, I have to admit. It’s unsympathetic.

‘I fully understand what you’ve been through,’ he goes on, ‘and how worrying this is for both of you, but trust me when I tell you, it’s far more useful at this point to try and leave all emotion out of it. So how about we just stick to the actual hard facts?’

I take a deep, soothing breath, then nod curtly back at him. Jeez, what is this guy, anyway? Some kind of emoticon? I feel like snarling across at him, ‘How would you feel if your best friend vanished into thin air over Christmas then, sonny? Or would you just “keep all emotion out of it” too?’

‘OK then.’ Crown looks up from his notes just in time to catch me glaring furiously across at him. ‘So when was the last time you actually did speak to Kitty?’

Like this is some kind of test, I’m fully ready for him.

‘It was just after lunchtime on the 23rd. About half-two.’ Don’t mean to snap, but that’s how it comes out. Sorry, but this guy is seriously starting to get my back up now.

‘That’s very specific. You’re quite sure about the time?’

‘Absolutely. Because I was—’

I break off a bit here. Because I was actually in the dole office signing on, when she called me. Distinctly remember as I had to give up my place in the queue and head outside to take the call. But then I decide it’s none of Crown’s bloody business anyway and keep on talking.

‘Em … I was in town when she called,’ I continue, ‘so we didn’t chat for very long. She was on her way into Byrne & Sacetti to start her last shift before the holidays, and she was calling to confirm a spa day we were due to have together the following day. It was my birthday, you see. So we arranged to meet at the Sanctuary Spa at eight in the morning for an early breakfast. Then she told me she couldn’t wait to see me and …’

I’m forced to break off a bit here. The threatened wave of upset has now given way to the kind of tears you have to choke back, and I’m absolutely determined not to get sobby, not in front of Crown.

Softie Simon notices, though. He tactfully rummages round in his coat pocket, then produces a clean tissue, which I gratefully take from him.

‘Come on, Angie, you’re doing great,’ he tells me gently, leaning into me and squeezing my shoulder. ‘But just try to take it nice and easy. There’s absolutely no rush. You all right now?’

I nod weakly back at him.

‘So if we can just get back to your statement,’ Crown interjects and I half-glower back at him. Then notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Now why doesn’t that surprise me?

‘Can you remember if Kitty sounded in any way distressed or stressed out about anything?’

‘Not in the least,’ I tell him defiantly. ‘But then, she rarely ever did.’

‘OK,’ he says, head buried back in his notes and scribbling away. ‘Now if you feel up to it, just keep on talking.’

And so I do, and before I know it, it’s Simon’s turn. He’s completely brilliant, though, far more businesslike and far less of a hysterical seesaw than I was. V. detailed and factual. I can practically see the sheer relief on Crown’s stony, emotionless face that at least one of us is making his life a bit easier, and not clouding the issue with tears and gulpy sobs, or with having to reach for Kleenex every two minutes.

Even though we’re essentially both telling same story except from two different viewpoints, this still takes us ages. Actually starts to feel bit like we’ve been stuck in this stale, stifling room for hours. But then, as soon as Simon’s done with his statement and Crown’s finally stopped writing on the file in front of him, our questions right back at him start all at once, in a barrage.

‘So what happens now?’ Simon wants to know. ‘What exactly is the next step here?’

‘Yeah! I mean we’ve got buddies out trawling the streets, knocking on doors locally and asking if anyone’s seen or heard anything, and we could really use a bit of help. Proper, professional help,’ I throw in, fervently hoping offer of SWAT teams and helicopters is only round the corner.

‘Because we’re now working on the theory that she left the restaurant at around one in the morning,’ Simon takes up from me, ‘on Christmas Eve, when her shift ended. We’re assuming that she went to walk home, as she always did, and that something could have happened to her then. Maybe a mugging? An abduction of some kind? Maybe she’s being held involuntarily against her will? So you see, the faster you guys act, the better.’

‘And the more help we can get from the police, the quicker we’ll find her! She could be in some kind of awful danger right now, while we’re all just sitting around here doing nothing!’

Crown makes another one of those ‘take it easy’ hand gestures that frankly are starting to annoy me.

‘I fully appreciate that you’re both deeply concerned,’ he says coolly. ‘But please remember that we’ve dealt with literally thousands of cases like this before and have a whole set of procedures in place that we’re obliged to follow first.’

‘Like what?’ Simon wants to know, sounding, for the first time since we got here, a bit impatient. Tetchy, not like himself at all.

‘OK, the first thing we’re going to take a look at are her mobile phone records. Was she the sort of person who’d have her phone on her person or close by her at all times?’

A moment while Simon and I glance across at each other.

‘Well … yeah,’ we both say together. ‘In case one of her tutors at night school needed to contact her,’ Simon adds, ‘or if the restaurant ever called to change her shifts.’

‘But we’ve been ringing her mobile number for days now!’ I chip in. ‘And believe me, there’s nothing! I must have left about five hundred messages by now and still not a whisper out of her!’

‘When you call the number, does it go straight through to voicemail?’

‘Em … yeah, it does.’

I’m narkily thinking: but what’s that got to do with anything?

‘Right then,’ Crown says, scribbling away on the pad in front of him. ‘In that case, we can safely assume her phone is probably out of battery. So the first step we take is to get onto her carrier and get them to put a triangulation trace on it a.s.a.p. Pinpoint the exact location of her phone, is the theory, and there’s a chance we’ll have a good starting point as to where to start the search for Kitty. With luck, she won’t be too far behind. Been very successful in cases like this before. We may not be able to nail down her specific location, but we certainly should narrow it down to within a one-mile radius.’

Simon and I nod back at him, a bit more enthusiastically now. Maybe not offer of SWAT teams I’d been hoping for, but still. It’s positive. It’s something.

‘Secondly,’ he continues, ‘I’ll need to take her home computer to run a few checks on it, as well as all her bank records and credit card details, if you can access them. The first thing anyone who goes missing will always need is access to hard cash.’

That, though, we’re prepared for, and I have them whipped out of the big mound of Kitty-related documents from my handbag barely before he’s finished talking. In fact, the only reason I haven’t called the bank myself before this, is that they’re all still closed for holidays.

‘And thirdly,’ Crown goes on, ‘I need to ask you both one or two personal things about her, if that’s OK?’

We nod and sit forward, both on the edge of our seats.

‘You’ve already stated that Kitty Hope doesn’t have any history of drug or alcohol abuse …’

‘Most sober, reliable, upstanding girl you could ever hope to meet,’ I interrupt, to a raised eyebrow from Simon at the sheer outrageousness of the exaggeration.

‘So in cases such as these there’s about a ninety per cent chance that she is, in fact, safe and well. And just for whatever reasons, felt she needed a bit of time out. Was she under severe pressure at work or maybe at the night school she attended?’

We both shake our heads.

‘Well, I mean, she worked long hours and when she wasn’t working, she was always studying,’ I throw in, ‘so the odd time she’d complain about being bone knackered, but apart from that …’ I trail off a bit here. Mainly because the exact phrase Kitty always uses is, ‘These fecking books have my brains turned into baked Alaska.’

‘Was she under any financial strain?’

Again, we tell him no more so than any of the rest of us. No mortgage, low rent, no major credit card debts, no big whacks of cash outstanding to any shady loan sharks, nothing. She earned good money at the restaurant and always said Byrne & Sacetti’s customers were consistently the best tippers in town. Sure, she’d overspend a bit; but then Kitty’s outrageously generous and would often find herself broke and counting days till payday or until some whoppingly generous tip would tide her over. But doesn’t that just make her an ordinary, normal person?

‘Any gambling addictions that either of you know of?’

Almost want to guffaw at that one. I once went dog racing with Kitty (under the misguided impression that it might be good place to meet blokes). I can still remember her roars of laughter, claiming that the mutt of a thing she bet on would probably still be panting towards the finishing post at midnight that night. Said anything she put money on was instantly cursed and doomed to the greyhound equivalent of early paralysis. So that one, single night was the beginning and end of her gambling career.

‘Was there a chance she may have been in the early stages of an unwanted pregnancy?’

An angry flush from Simon at that, followed by a firm no.

Did she appear to be suffering from depression lately?

No, we tell him, stressing what a happy, open person Kitty is naturally.

More questions come thick and fast, as Crown ticks off a long, long list in front of him.

Had she been acting in any way strangely up until the night she disappeared? Was she bringing home large sums of money? Had she recently appeared alienated in any way from her close group of friends? Were a lot of her clothes and personal belongings missing from her house? Any valuable jewellery suddenly gone missing? Or electrical items? Did she have an eBay account? And what about her foster mother, had she been to visit her in the days leading up to Christmas Eve?

We tell him no, a v. firm no to everything.

And finally he finishes writing, closes the file in front of him and sits back, eyeballing each of us in turn. One of those cold, unflinching glares. Serial killer-ish, I find myself thinking a bit nastily.

‘So neither of you is aware of any personal reasons at all why she’d need to take off?’

‘NO!’ we chorus back at him, yet again. Don’t know about Simon, but I’m kind of getting seriously sick of this guy by now. Worse than useless, if you ask me. And if he uses the phrase ‘established set of procedures to follow here’ once more, I’m seriously tempted to reach across the desk and thump him one. We’re not exactly talking about a bloody wallet one of us left in the back of a taxi here!

I want far, far fewer questions and far, far more coppers to burst in, heavily armed and telling us they’re now taking over the whole investigation. And that they confidently expect to have Kitty back home, with not a hair on her head harmed and looking for a shower, a glass of wine and a big feed of chips, in that order.

‘Well, then, in that case,’ Crown shrugs dismissively, ‘the news is not necessarily bad. Rest assured, we’ll do everything we can, but you should know that the chances of her turning up safe and sound are relatively high. In well over ninety per cent of cases like this, the subject is nearly always secure and will inevitably return when they’re good and ready.

‘However, given the worry and upset that Kitty’s causing to all around her, then unfortunately there’s one hard, cold fact that remains. So I’m afraid I’ll need you both to ask yourselves one unpleasant but unavoidable question.’

We both look at him expectantly.

‘Why would she do this in the first place? She must have had a very good reason for wanting to leave. So what do you think it might have been?’

I ask Simon exactly the same question again in car on our way home.

He doesn’t answer me, though, just goes v. quiet and stares out window into the night, completely wrapped up in thought.

By the age of fifteen, she’d already been with a grand total of eight foster homes, which had to have been some class of a record, she figured. They should be giving her a survival medal, like they did in Stalinist Russia, just for lasting this long in their poxy system. And here she was now, on the doorstep of number nine.

Initial reaction? Worst one yet. An old lady-type house in the back arse of nowhere, over-heavy with crappy-looking ornaments, family photos and, dear Jaysus help her, knitted tea cosies. And all those do-gooder social workers from Health must have seriously been scraping the barrel when they vetted the aul one, who was to be her new foster parent. This one was fifty if she was a day, with helmet-y hair like a wig, who answered the door to her in an actual suit. Feck’s sake, a suit? Who wore a suit going round their own house, unless you were a complete weirdo?

The care liaison officer had tactfully left, ‘just so you two can get to know each other a little better’, and with a stern ‘you’d better be on your best behaviour’ glare over in her direction, he was gone. Thank f**k. She’d accidentally seen a copy of her own file once and it had been impressed on her that she was lucky to have been homed at all, with her track record. But to hell with that shower of gobshites anyway, she thought furiously. They could feck off, the lot of them.

‘Out of control,’ her file had said. ‘Complaints of a serious nature … shoplifting … swearing … smoking … underage drinking … wild …’ Made her feel proud, though. She didn’t want to fit in; she was sick to the teeth of all their rules and regulations, and being told how lucky she was to be homed at all, like she was supposed to be grateful. All she wanted was to hit eighteen, get out into the world and tell the whole shagging lot of them to go and f**k themselves.

And yet here she was, arms folded defensively, sat sullenly at yet another kitchen table with this Old Dear opposite her. Mrs Kennedy; a widow, this time. Husband probably died of boredom, she thought viciously to herself, taking in the pin-neat house with cushions on the cushions and net fecking curtains. It felt like she’d been through the drill a thousand times. This was the bit where both parties were supposed to be on their best behaviour, tiptoeing round each other, while the house rules were impressed in on her. Don’t this, don’t that, please can you remember to x and y and z.

Mind you, the worst were the foster parents who cheerily told you, ‘This is your home now, so please just try to relax and enjoy!’ Then within hours, she’d find herself hauled over the coals for smoking in her room, or cursing in front of other kids, or any other rule-infraction shite they could think of to throw at her. In other words, we’re saying that this is your home now, except it’s not really and never will be, and we can turf you out on a whim. So don’t you forget it, missy.

Fine, she wouldn’t. In fact, she made a bet with herself, as Mrs Ancient here fussed around her and poured tea and handed her slices of gooey-looking cake. She’d see if she could equal her personal best of getting turfed out of a new home in under a week. Shouldn’t be hard either. By the look of her, if she refused to go to Mass on Sundays, then this one would probably take a heart attack, start calling her the spawn of the devil and she’d be outta here in no time. Problem solved.

‘Now please feel free to call me Kathleen,’ Aul One was saying to her, pouring out tea into dainty china cups that barely held two dribbles and that were covered in a pattern that looked like dead scorpions. Later on, she’d come to recognise this as the good, special occasion china, that only ever got wheeled out at Christmas and Easter, but for now she didn’t give a shite. Would gladly have smashed it, if she could.

‘Whatever,’ she shrugged back, putting her feet up on the chair opposite her. Aul One seemed to notice, but said nothing.

‘And remember,’ Aul One went on, ‘I really do want you to treat this as your own home.’

‘Fantastic. In that case, can I have an ashtray and a lighter please?’

Again no reaction.

‘Smoke all you like,’ Aul One shrugged back at her, ‘but I think you’d better do it outside.’

‘House rule?’ she sneered.

‘Not really,’ said Aul One. ‘I just don’t think it would be fair on the kittens. They’re barely two weeks old and still nursing. I only wanted to keep the air nice and fresh for them, that’s all.’

‘Kittens?’ In spite of herself, she was curious. ‘Where?’

‘In the kitchen, just behind you. Would you like to have a look? They’re the most adorable little bundles you’ve ever seen.’

In spite of herself, she was intrigued. She followed Aul One into the tiny, galley kitchen and there they were, in a warm basket by the door. Eight little balls of the cutest, fluffiest things you ever saw. She picked one up and instinctively cuddled it. It made a tiny, weak little mewling sound, no mistaking it.

‘She’s meowing,’ Aul One smiled down at her. ‘I think she must like you.’

‘Are you going to keep them all?’

‘I wish I could, love, but I can’t. They’re too young to leave their mother, but as soon as they are, I’m afraid they’ll all have to be rehomed.’

‘That’s horrible! They should be with their mother!’

‘I know,’ Mrs Kennedy said sagely, taking her in from head to foot. ‘And I agree. Farming them out is necessary, but awful.’ Then after a half-beat, she added, ‘unless … unless you’d like to keep one? As your own special little pet? You could name it and everything, if you liked.’