all around during that same last shift as Kitty. Way more than I’d ever have thought, but then you must need a small army of staff to run an ever-growing empire like this. Plus, as he tells us, it was the night before Christmas Eve, the place was packed out; it was a case of all hands on deck.
Jeez, scanning through it, the list runs to almost two full pages, literally dozens of names and their contact numbers. He’s even thrown in the contact details of diners who’d booked in that night and who’d left their phone numbers when making reservations. Everything we need and absolutely no stone unturned, in other words.
On the way out, we do a quick scan on each level of the restaurant, just in case there’s someone working that either of us might recognise. Place is surprisingly busy; there’s a whole clatter of young girls in Ugg boots with gel nails and too much false tan, all chattering excitedly over coffee and buns in the Food Hall Café about their Christmas sales bargains. Meanwhile the entire restaurant level is bustling with families having a post-Christmas lunch/hangover cure, or else diners who just couldn’t have been arsed cooking another big meal two days running. Simon just strides through every level confidently, me racing after him to keep up.
Only see one person we can ask though, a young part-timer who works down in the Food Hall. Francesca Sacetti is a cousin of Stephano, but then approx. fifty per cent of the staff in here all seem to be cousins of Stephano. (If you ask me, the Sacetti family are a bit like the Corleones, only legit.) We head over to where she’s busy restacking tins of olives on the shelves and ask if she’s seen Kitty at all.
No, she blinks innocently back at us. Says she’s been in Palermo for past two weeks. First day back at work today.
Should have guessed by her shagging suntan. Then she asks, wide-eyed, ‘Why, what’s the matter? Is something up with her? Is Kitty OK?’
Not off to a v. good start.
4.05 p.m.
Back at Kitty’s, stuck on our phones, the pair of us. Bit like a telesales conference in here. Lists covered in biro marks surround us, scattered all over the floor. My ears physically sore and raw red from being on the phone for the past few hours. At this stage, we’ve a system of sorts going. We’ve both crossed out the names of people we actually got to speak to but who were no help to us, then made dirty big red marks beside the names of anyone who didn’t actually answer their phone, but who we’ve left messages for, practically begging them to call us back urgently.
Net result to date? Sweet feck all.
8.20 p.m.
Still here, with my voice nearly hoarse by now from talking on phone.
On the plus side, between the pair of us we’ve at least managed to make some kind of headway and now have a good long list of people we’ve left messages for and who are to get back to us; people who might just be able to shed a bit of light on the whole thing. On the minus side, though, in spite of everyone we did actually manage to speak to, we’ve got absolutely nowhere. In cop-show-speak, no leads to talk of. No one’s seen or heard a whisper from Kitty in days, and no one’s spoken to her on the phone either. No texts even to say Happy Christmas, nothing.
As if she’s just vanished into thin air.
9.05 p.m.
Eventually, Simon slumps forward, holding his head in his hands and looking about as shattered as I feel. He has to be feeling the uselessness and futility of this, I just know. Know it without being told.
‘Listen, I’ve an idea,’ I tell him tentatively, not wanting to panic the guy, but at the same time, anxious to do more than keep on cold calling a bunch of total strangers late on Stephen’s night, when everyone we talk to would far rather be stuffing their faces with Cadbury’s Selection Boxes, while watching Mamma Mia!
He looks over to me, red-eyed with tiredness by now.
‘Don’t freak out on me,’ I say, ‘but I really think it’s time to start checking around hospitals. Just in case … Well, you know. She might have been at some party and maybe something happened to her on the way home? And say she was taken to a hospital somewhere and no one has a clue who she is?’
He looks worriedly into space for a second, then nods his head.
‘I’m only praying you’re wrong,’ he says, jaw clamped tightly, ‘but it’s certainly worth a shot.’
Sick with nerves now, I get back onto the phone, go online, look up the number for Vincent’s Hospital and dial.
9.20 p.m.
Bloody waste of time! Hospitals turn out to be a total dead end. Didn’t take me long to ring every single one with an A&E unit in the greater Dublin area as there’s not that many. And once I navigated my way past ‘Are-you-next-of kin?’ type questions and explained the situation, I pretty much got the same response from all of them.
V. sorry for my trouble, but it’s impossible to give that information over the phone. Have I tried contacting the police, is all I’m asked, over and over.
Right then. Nothing for it but to call into each and every hospital we can think of, first light tomorrow, as they say in search-and-rescue TV shows. Better than sitting round here ringing a total bunch of strangers who know absolutely nothing, feeling useless and with all confidence fast draining from me.
Anything’s better than that.
9.35 p.m.
Agree we need to call it a night. As Simon v. wisely points out, calling people we don’t know at this hour just isn’t a good plan. He offers to drive me home and promises to call during the night if she turns up.
Which 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,