I just know by him, he’s still secretly holding out for. All night long, whenever he hears a car door slamming or fast footsteps pounding down street outside, he’ll jump up a bit, then look confidently towards the front door like a lost puppy, silently praying she’ll slide her key into lock and bounce in like nothing happened. Honest to God, the hope in his eyes would nearly kill you.
Am wall-falling with tiredness by now. Gratefully accept his offer.
9.45 p.m.
On the way to my parents’ house, we pass by the local cop shop on Harcourt Terrace.
I catch sight of a copper striding out of there, which means at least they’re still open. It’s a sign. Right then, in a flash, the decision is made.
‘Simon, pull over the car,’ I tell him firmly, when we’re stopped at traffic lights.
‘What did you say?’ he asks, looking at me like I’ve finally lost it.
‘I know this is the last thing either of us wants to do right now,’ I say, whipping off my seat belt and getting ready to jump out, now that we’ve stopped. ‘But I just think there’s no harm in calling in and telling the cops everything that’s happened to date, that’s all. Let’s just bring them up to speed and keep them informed. I mean, they’ve got access to all sorts of resources that we don’t, so …’
I trail off a bit here and it would melt a heart of stone to see just how crushed the poor guy’s starting to look. Can practically hear him thinking: bringing in the coppers now means Kitty’s really, really gone and isn’t coming back.
He parks the car and I reach over to pat his arm sympathetically.
‘Look, I know how sick with worry you are,’ I tell him a bit more gently. ‘And I know how much you were looking forward to your skiing trip tomorrow and that you’re secretly hoping against hope that she might yet do some kind of eleventh-hour resurfacing act in the middle of the night. Don’t get me wrong, I’m praying for that too. But we’re here, is all I’m saying. And we have spent all afternoon and evening pretty much doing their bloody job for them. So let’s just see if they can help us out! Just humourise me, Simon. Come on, what’s wrong with that?’
Long pause, and I swear I can physically see the eternal optimist in him wrestle with his inner realist.
Astonishingly, the realist wins out.
‘You’re right,’ he sighs, for first time all day sounding defeated. ‘We’re here. For what it’s worth, let’s do it.’
10.35 p.m.
Police are useless! Total and utter waste of time! I storm out of there fuming, and even calm, level-headed Simon’s pissed off at just how lackadaisical they were. Now I know it’s Christmas, etc., I know the sixteen-year-old copper on duty would far rather be home in front of a computer screen chatting up girls on Facebook, rather than listening to a borderline hysteric and the shell-shocked boyfriend of a missing woman, demanding that something be done immediately to track her down.
First question: did Kitty have a history of drug or alcohol abuse? I gave him an adamant no. Almost snapped the face off him. I mean, sure Kitty likes a drink the way we all do, but drugs? Never once, in all the long years I’ve known her! And that is a long, long, time, probably since well before you were toilet trained, I stressed to the acne-faced copper.
Second question: did she have a history of depression, or was she in any way prone to suicidal tendencies? Almost guffawed in his face, and Simon was at pains to point out that she’s a respectable student, waitressing her way through night school; the jolliest, most positive, outgoing type you could ever meet, who’d probably never once in the whole course of her life entertained a solitary dark thought. ’Course, I was nearly thumping on the table by then and kept demanding to talk to someone – anyone – more senior, who might see the severity of the situation and take it that bit more seriously.
Simon had to haul me back by the elbow at this point, and even had the manners to apologise to the young kid on my behalf, politely explaining that we’d both had a v. stressful day of it. At which point I went back to standing sulkily on the sidelines, arms folded, occasionally lobbing in, ‘But she never went to visit her foster mother on Christmas Day! And she stood me up on my birthday! So why aren’t you writing that down in your logbook, sonny? Unheard of for her!’
Totally wasting my breath. Child-copper told us that standard procedure is that a missing persons report can only be filed when someone’s been gone for a minimum of three days. I nearly had to be held back at that and had to resist the urge to holler, ‘So going AWOL over Christmas is no cause for immediate concern, then?’
Simon calmly pointed out that, as far as we know, the last person who actually saw Kitty was Joyce Byrne at Byrne & Sacetti, who said goodbye to her at about one in the morning on the twenty-fourth, just as she was finishing up her shift. About seventy hours ago, roughly. For God’s sake, we’re almost there, almost at magical three-day mark!
But the copper was v. insistent. If she still hasn’t surfaced by tomorrow, he told us, then we could come back and they’d take it from there. Around six in the evening is the best time, he added, as the sergeant would be back on duty then. Like we were making appointments at the hairdresser’s.
But then – And this is bit that almost made me gag – he v. coolly, almost dismissively, informed us that the vast majority of people who disappear for a while usually resurface again safe and well. Well over ninety per cent of them, in fact. Clearly it must be a well-known statistic they apparently teach you in your first year at Garda Training College, because he kept stressing it over and over again, like a broken record. Then told us to just go home and even managed to add insult to injury by calling after us, ‘And try not to worry.’
Had the strongest urge to smack him over the head with the butt end of my umbrella, but Simon clocked it in time and hauled me out of there, before I got the chance to inflict lasting damage.
11.10 p.m.
Front driveway of my parents’ house. Sleeting down v. heavily now, lashing. The two of us barely spoke the whole way here; too punch drunk by it all. Just as I’m about to clamber out of the car, Simon grabs my hand and pulls me back.
‘Thanks, Angie,’ is all he says sincerely, the green eyes focused right on me in that v. intense way he has. ‘You’re keeping me sane in all this. I just want you to know that.’
‘Ring me,’ I tell him, ‘anytime at all in the night if she turns up.’
‘You know I will.’
Am too exhausted to say what I really think.
But what happens if and when she doesn’t?
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.