Me and You

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.