Naked Truths (46 page)

Catherine reread it. She felt strangely empty. She had failed them all. There was nothing more she could do now.

That evening Catherine was due to attend the annual Vision Unite charity gala. She didn't know if this was a blessing or a curse. The last thing she felt like doing was going out and facing people, but at the same time, she knew it would be easier than staying home alone, tormented by her thoughts. Besides, tickets had been extremely hard to come by and Catherine had been looking forward to it.

An extremely high-profile event, Vision Unite was one of the rare occasions when the world of magazines and newspapers came together to raise money for the charity World Vision. The newspapers added a frisson of energy and edge to the proceedings that was sometimes lacking in the world of monthly magazines.

Catherine looked across the office at the stunning Valentino dress hanging on the back of the door. She had bought it especially for the occasion, and it had cost her an arm and a leg, even with Alexander's discount. Catherine pursed her lips resolutely. God knows she needed a night out. Sod Sir Robin Hackford, he wasn't going to ruin this for her as well.

With bittersweet irony, congratulations for
Soirée
flooded in all evening. Savannah Sexton had been the one front page every editor, magazine or newspaper had desperately wanted, and the fact that she had only talked to
Soirée
had left them full of grudging admiration. By the time the gala had finished, and tens of thousands of pounds had been raised, Catherine was beginning to feel she'd received the same amount of compliments. It was getting exhausting keeping a smile fixed to her face, knowing that by tomorrow afternoon she wouldn't have a job.

‘What's the matter, darl? For someone who's the belle of the ball you don't look very happy.' Fiona MacKenzie eyed Catherine wisely across the table as their dinner companions headed for the bar.

Catherine played with the stem of her wine glass. ‘I've been summoned in front of the board tomorrow.'

Fiona pulled a face. ‘Ouch. The preposterous “Project 300”.'

Catherine sighed. ‘I don't think we've done it, Fi, and I can't tell you how much I'm dreading telling my staff they haven't got jobs any more.'

‘Are you sure?' asked Fiona sympathetically.

Catherine shrugged. ‘Rancid Robin is holding the latest sales figures back, the sadistic old git. I expect he'll want to humiliate me with them in front of everyone.'

Fiona looked genuinely upset. ‘Oh, darl, I really am sorry. And to think that everyone is green with jealousy at the Savannah exclusive.' She sighed. ‘Life's a bastard, isn't it? If it's any consolation, I'm bored off my B cups at
Teen Style
.'

As if on cue, a well-known media magnate staggered up, his dinner jacket gaping open.

‘Catherine, love your latest issue!' he bellowed drunkenly. ‘If that doesn't win you Magazine of the Year I'll eat my hat!'

Catherine smiled falsely as he swayed back into the crowd. She stood up. ‘Come on, Fi, I need a drink.'

The bar was packed, mostly with hacks talking noisily. Fiona winked at Catherine. ‘Let's go and swim with the sharks. I must pop to the loo quickly first, will you be OK?'

Catherine smiled. ‘I'll survive. See you in a minute.' She pushed her way through the crowd, but not before several people had slapped her on the back with more congratulations.

‘Two glasses of champagne, please,' she told the barman.

The short, shifty figure of the
Daily Mercy
's editor, Drew Summers, appeared beside her. ‘Get one more in will you? After all, we're not paying.' As usual Drew was smoking furiously, eyes darting around the room.

‘Hey, Drew.' He was the last person Catherine felt like talking to, and in a moment of paranoia she wondered if he'd overheard her conversation with Fiona, and come to sniff around. She didn't trust Drew as far she could throw his twitching little body.

Drew inhaled on his B&H deeply, ignoring the dirty looks from everyone around him. He'd staunchly ignored the anti-smoking law ever since it had come in, and regularly ran bits of gossip in his paper on the unfortunate ministers who had imposed it.

His beady eyes bored into Catherine's. ‘Well, you've pulled it out of the bag.'

No congratulations from Drew, then, she thought. He looked around him and leaned in towards her. ‘You've got a way in with her people, then? Let's say you pass it on to us and we'll do you a favour in return.'

Catherine smiled pleasantly. ‘No thanks, Drew.'

His dark little eyes became sly. ‘Come on, you scratch our back and all that . . .'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Fiona and, to Catherine's disgust and horror, Isabella Montgomery.

‘Look who I bumped into,' said Fiona half-heartedly.

Isabella looked straight at Catherine, her face more pinched than ever, lips twisted into a ghastly ruby smile. ‘I've been looking for you, my dear!' Turning her back on Drew, she pulled Catherine towards her.

‘We've got so much to catch up about!'

‘Not as far as I'm concerned.'

Isabella's smile turned even more malicious.

‘Oh, darling! There's nothing more unbecoming than a bad loser, but John had to follow his heart. I gather he took you to his special little place as well.' Her mouth widened into a red slit. ‘Men! Of course, with
me
it really meant something.'

Behind Isabella, Drew's ears had pricked up.

‘What are you talking about?' Catherine said, trying to keep her emotions in check. She couldn't bear the thought of John making love to Isabella in his bed, just as he'd done with her.

Isabella's eyes glinted like a crocodile's caught on a night-vision camera. ‘A certain Lord Fairfax's house? The view from the attic room window? That's where John and I first got intimate, you know, nothing like the romantic history of a house to bring out a true attraction!'

Isabella leant forward as if they were old friends sharing a confidence. ‘I must say, I've never had a lover like it! You know, darling, sometimes two people are just
so
sexually compatible.' She looked triumphantly at the hurt on Catherine's face. ‘Oh, silly, you know it would never have worked between you two! John was just waiting for a real woman to come along, someone who could satisfy him properly. Not like you, darling. From what I can gather it was like sleeping with an ironing board! Men really don't like a frigid shag, do they?'

A little piece of Catherine died inside. She now knew that she had never known John Milton at all. She'd obviously wounded his male pride and he'd taken revenge by spouting off to Isabella. She had the urge to ask Isabella where she and John had met, how long it had been going on, what on earth they had in common, but instead she turned to Fi, who was hovering uncertainly at her side, trying to decipher the tension between the two women.

‘Come on, let's go,' Catherine said through gritted teeth. There was no way she was going to stand here and let Isabella rub her nose in it in front of Drew. It would be all over the
Daily Mercy
's gossip pages tomorrow. She turned away from the bar.

‘Oh, I'm sorry!' Isabella called out. ‘Aren't I good enough for you, Catherine Connor? That's a bit of a joke.'

Several people turned round at her raised voice.

‘After all, darling, I'm the one who should be dubious about being in
your
company.' Isabella raised her voice still louder, making sure every pair of eyes in the place were fixed on her.

‘What with you being a cold-blooded murderer!'

CATHERINE FELT LIKE
her world had suddenly ground to a halt.

‘What did you say?' she gasped, spinning around. Isabella was almost beside herself with malevolent pleasure.

‘You heard, darling, or should I say,
Cathy Fincham
.' She spat the two words out. ‘That's your real name, isn't it? Of course, your mother went down for the crime, but everyone knew you did it really.' She exhaled gleefully. ‘Who would have thought it? Catherine Connor, darling of the industry and feted magazine editor, is really Cathy Fincham, disgraced daughter of the notorious Crimson Killer!'

‘Catherine, what's going on?' Fiona asked in confusion. ‘Who's Cathy Fincham?'

Beside them Drew Summers was muttering under his breath, trawling his encyclopaedic memory. ‘Cathy Fincham, Cathy Fincham . . .' His head whipped up, eyes bulging in shock. ‘That's you?' His mouth dropped open as realization dawned. ‘Fuck me! I see it now! You're the spitting image of her!'

Through the crashing in her head, Catherine could almost hear the whirr of tape-recorders being switched on as the eavesdropping crowd, smelling blood, drew closer.

Isabella was positively revelling in having such an appreciative audience. ‘Of course, you were quick to put the blame on your mother, weren't you? And people were ready enough to believe it at first. After all, who would have thought such a mouse of a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl was capable of such a terrible thing?'

‘That's not how it happened!' Catherine could feel the hysteria building, out of control. She didn't care who was looking.

Isabella smiled evilly, in complete, calculated control. ‘I don't know how you live with it, darling, I really don't. Sending your own mother to prison for a murder
you
committed!'

Loud gasps echoed round the room. Catherine was moments from being sick, and blindly pushed her way through the crowd. She needed to get out, away from those people.

On the street Catherine bent over, great racking heaves sweeping her body.

‘I say, are you all right?' asked a passer-by.

‘Leave me alone,' she sobbed. She could see a crowd had followed her out, including a worried-looking Fiona. Oh Christ, someone had a camera . . .

As if by a miracle, a cab pulled up. Without thinking Catherine pushed past the couple who'd flagged it down and threw herself into it. A flashbulb went off in her face, temporarily blinding her.

‘Oi! What do you think you're doing?' a woman cried angrily.

The cabbie looked round. ‘You can't push in like that luv . . .'

He trailed off as he saw Catherine's tear-streaked face and the advancing pack of people behind her, and then he put his foot down and sped away.

Somehow Catherine made it home. As she fell into her flat, she couldn't stop sobbing. It was almost too much to bear. John Milton had obviously told Isabella about her past. The sheer force of his betrayal made her legs buckle, and she slid down against the wall.

‘How could you?' she wept. ‘I trusted you.'

Somewhere in the background her mobile was ringing. She pulled it out of her bag. Fiona's name flashed up. Catherine threw it away down the hall, and the phone fell silent. She couldn't speak to Fiona now, she couldn't speak to anyone. Isabella had picked her moment perfectly; it would be all over the papers again tomorrow, just as it had been twenty years ago. ‘I'm finished,' Catherine sobbed to herself. ‘I'm finished.'

ANGIE WAS WORRIED.
It had been Ash's day off today, but normally he came to the house for dinner in the evening. Tonight, however, he hadn't turned up, despite telling Angie he would be there.
And
Liverpool were playing Arsenal; Ash would never miss out on that. Leaving Freddie with his feet up watching the soccer, she went to investigate.

At the granny annexe the windows were dark, and there was no movement inside. She knocked at the door. No answer. After trying again Angie went round to peer through the kitchen window. A dirty plate and cup stood in the sink, and an empty milk carton had been left out on the draining board. She'd already tried ringing his mobile, but it was off. ‘
This is Ash
,' his voicemail had recited back to her, the sound of loud techno music in the background. ‘
Leave a message, yeah? And I'll get back to you
.'

Angie frowned, where could he have got to? It wasn't as if Ash had a car, and besides, he didn't really know any other people in the village. Could he be in the Jolly Boot? Angie very much doubted it. An awful thought struck her:
what if he'd fallen over and knocked himself out, and had been lying there unconscious for hours
? His laces were always trailing out of his trainers; Freds had even said it was an accident waiting to happen.

Angie stood on tiptoe, and looked through the window again. Thankfully she couldn't see a body lying anywhere, but what about upstairs? He could have fallen over in the bedroom. She agonized for a moment. She was loath to disturb Ash's privacy and just go barging in there, but she didn't know what else to do. Feeling for the spare set of keys in her Barbour waistcoat pocket, she got them out and opened the door.

‘Ash? Are you there?'

She was met by a resounding stillness. Something wasn't right. Making her way through the little open-plan kitchen and living area, she paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘Hello?'

Nothing. She reached for the light switch and flicked it on. Tentatively Angie put a hand on the rail and started making her way up the stairs. If he was asleep he really wasn't going to appreciate her bursting in on him like this.

Angie got to the top and peered round the corner into the bedroom. The large bed was made, but it looked as though it had been done in a hurry. To her relief, Ash wasn't lying unconscious on the floor, blood streaming from a ghastly head wound.

Angie stepped in, feeling slightly relieved. But where
was
he? The wardrobe doors were open and she couldn't help but notice it was half-empty. Angie looked for Ash's favourite baseball cap, a distinctive red and black colour, but she couldn't see it. Nor his rucksack, mobile phone or wallet . . .