Sheer Abandon (34 page)

It was one of the longest days she could ever remember. And the most miserable. Almost worse than when they’d first said she couldn’t go.

It never stopped all day: Bernie going on and on about what a great time she’d had with Nat, how he’d driven her to Brixton in the Sax Bomb, how he’d looked so fit in his combats and vest, how he could really dance, and how they’d been there till five in the morning and then—at this point the story was repeated in a whisper into various ears, amidst wild shrieks and giggles. Even Sarah couldn’t resist it, although she tried for a while for Kate’s sake. “Sorry,” she said to Kate afterwards. Kate shrugged and said she couldn’t care less, and Bernie was welcome to him as far as she was concerned. By the time she got home she was beside herself with rage and resentment; even her grandmother’s tactful questioning infuriated her.

“They all had a great time, Gran, and I didn’t, OK?”

She went up to her room, turned on the radio, and lay down on her bed. It was so unfair. So totally unfair. Everything was shit. He’d never ask her out again, not now. She was branded as a poor sad creature still under the thumb of her parents. She hated everyone. She hated her parents, she hated Juliet, even now earnestly practising her violin, she even nearly hated her grandmother, fussing about, talking in her posh voice, pretending she understood, telling her about some crap place she hadn’t been allowed to visit when she was what she called a girl.

Nobody was on her side, even Sarah was deserting her now, and she was no nearer finding her mother. And Jocasta seemed to have forgotten about her; it was two weeks since they’d had lunch and she hadn’t heard a word.

Suddenly angry with Jocasta as well, she decided to ring her. She shouldn’t have agreed to see her if she wasn’t going to help. She dialled Jocasta’s mobile. It seemed to be switched off. Funny, she’d told Kate it was her most precious possession, that she couldn’t do her job without it; maybe it was out of range. Or maybe she was at the paper. She could try there.

Endless ringing; on and on it went without being answered. Obviously she was away on a story. Bloody typical, Kate thought, just her luck. She was about to ring off, when a voice said, “Hello, Jocasta’s phone.”

“Oh, hi,” said Kate, nervous suddenly. “Is…is she there?”

“No, I’m sorry. She’s away for a few days.” It was a nice voice, slightly foreign, quite deep.

“Oh. OK. Well, sorry to bother you.”

“Can I take a message?”

“Um…no. No, it’s OK. I’ll ring again. Could you tell her Kate rang.”

“Kate? Is that Kate Moss?”

“I wish,” said Kate.

“Sorry. You sound a bit like her. Well, like her when she was younger anyway. So, Kate who?”

“Kate Tarrant.”

There was a brief but quite noticeable silence, then the voice said, “The girl with the granny? At the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“How is your grandmother now?”

“Oh, she’s fine, thanks.”

“Good. Yes, I think I saw you the other day, having lunch with Jocasta at the Bluebird. Would that have been you? Long blond hair?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said Kate.

Then the voice said, “You know, I wanted to meet you. I told Jocasta I thought you could perhaps be in one of my fashion features. My name is Carla Giannini, I’m the fashion editor of the
Sketch
.”

“You did?” Kate’s heart began to pound. “Do you really think that?”

“I think you might photograph very well. I couldn’t say, until I’ve done a few test shots. But I think it’s more than possible. You should come in and see me one day. It would be nice to meet you, anyway, such a brave young girl, taking on the NHS single-handed!” She laughed, a throaty, husky laugh. Kate felt dizzy.

“Do you mean that? That I should come and see you?”

“Of course. Look, think about it and give me a ring. Maybe tomorrow? I’ll give you my direct line.”

Wow. WOW! Cool, or what? God. That would change Nat’s mind about her being sad. A model. In the newspapers. Wow. Oh—my—God.

Kate called Sarah.

“I’ve got to go somewhere tomorrow. After school. I don’t want to tell my mum. Will you say I’m with you, if she calls?”

“Course. Where are you going?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I get back, OK?”

“Cool. See you later.”

Kate went downstairs singing.

Carla put the phone down and smiled. Good. Very good. She had no doubt Kate would be in to see her. Jocasta wouldn’t like it, but that was too bad. She had no claim on Kate. And Carla had pages to fill.

She’d actually quite enjoyed doing the shoot with Martha Hartley. She hadn’t been nearly as bad as Jocasta had made out. A bit…reserved. But she was a lawyer. And she was certainly very attractive, and she wore the clothes—a suit, a jacket, and an evening dress all from Zara—very well. Jocasta not being there had obviously helped; far from being bothered by her absence, Carla had been relieved. It was always easier with these shoots if she could have the subject to herself. As she would have Kate, with luck. Jocasta had called to say she was going to be away for at least two more days.

Half an hour later, as Carla had known she would, Kate called her. Would it be all right if she came in after school the next day—“I could be there about five, five thirty.”

Carla said that would be perfectly all right and put in a call to Marc Jones, a sexy young photographer she had used for the first time the week before, to ask him to come in to do some test shots of Kate.

Jocasta stood at the gates of Gideon Keeble’s glorious house and waited, along with roughly two dozen other reporters, a large clutch of photographers, cameramen, and the policeman who was on duty. She had been waiting for some time now, about twelve hours; it was the first crucial thing you learnt as a reporter (or a photographer) to do. Nobody exactly enjoyed it, but nobody minded either; there was great camaraderie, time passed, people shared cigarettes and chocolate and swapped reminiscences and such scraps of news as they possessed. Generosity was, in fact, the name of the game, unless someone actually managed to get a huge scoop or an exclusive. That was not expected to be shared.

Dungarven House was on the top of a hill; every so often, someone would go up to the locked gates and peer through them, which was fairly fruitless, since the drive curved away to the right of the two lodges, and there was nothing to be seen except a tall beech hedge and, to the left of it, a thick wood. Gideon Keeble was certainly inside; he had been driven in the night before, looking very grim, and the gates had not been opened since. A local reporter had assured them there was no other vehicle access to the estate and an enterprising reporter, unwilling to accept his word, had skirted the entire area by bicycle, and reported only several small gates in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded it, which were locked with huge padlocks, with nothing more than rough tracks leading up to them. The southernmost tip of the estate was bounded by the famous lake, which was impassable from the other side, except by boat. Dungarven House was almost a fortress.

Of course Mr. Keeble might have sailed across the lake, but had he done so, he would have a long walk to any road. Their radios told them hourly that Fionnuala Keeble, the beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter of retailing billionaire Gideon Keeble, had run away from her convent school with rock musician Zebedee and still had not been found. Police were watching ports and airports but there had been no sightings of her, so it was presumed she must still be in the country. Her mother, now Lady Carlingford, was on her way back from Barbados where she lived and was not available for comment. It was generally agreed that if Fionnuala was found, she would be returned to her father at Dungarven House.

Jocasta spent quite a few of those twelve hours trying to get hold of Gideon’s private number; but the charming, easy, hospitable Gideon Keeble, who had called her direct on her mobile, had done so from a number which told her politely now that Mr. Keeble was not available and to try later; there was no facility even to leave a message. The same applied to all his office numbers. His e-mail address was equally elusive; the one everyone had was at his London office and although she had sent what she thought was an irresistible appeal, it had yielded nothing. Well, she didn’t blame him. She’d felt pretty shitty even asking.

She returned every so often to her hire car, which was parked a quarter of a mile or so down the lane, to check her e-mails, and as darkness fell on the Cork countryside, and the shadows of the great trees surrounding Dungarven House deepened, could only try to imagine what fear and anger Gideon Keeble must be experiencing over the disappearance of his beloved only daughter.

She looked at her screen as she typed her thoughts and sighed. That wasn’t going to redeem her in Chris Pollock’s eyes. Give me a break, she said, looking up at the half-moon in the soft dusk sky, please, please give me a break.

She pulled a second sweater on; it was getting very chilly. Most of them had agreed that they would give things until ten and then go and book into the pub. Jocasta was unwilling to do that. With the run of bad luck she seemed to be having, Fionnuala and Zebedee would arrive naked, astride a white horse, the minute she’d left the gates. She had already decided to sleep in her car.

God, she wanted to pee. She’d have to go and find a bush—again. She shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee. She struck out to the right of the lane, and made her way across the rough moorland into a small hollow; it was safer down here, away from the good-naturedly ribald comments from the others.

She stood up gingerly, pulling up her trousers; she really was getting terribly cold. Maybe she should go for another walk, get her circulation going. If she walked down the lane she wasn’t going to miss a car. She set out briskly, and after about ten minutes she saw a tiny pinprick of light coming towards her. It was fairly steady, not the up-and-down movement of a walker’s torch. And certainly not a car. There was complete silence. So what—oh, of course! It was a bicycle. Someone was cycling up the hill. A farmworker perhaps, from the estate. But why should he be coming up at this hour? She waited, almost holding her breath, and the light suddenly swerved off the lane and disappeared. Or rather went off to the right. Its rear light bounced up and down now, but proceeded quite steadily; it must be a track of sorts. Jocasta decided to follow. It was probably a wild goose chase, but—And then there was a muffled cry and a curse and the light went out.

Jocasta walked cautiously over to the dark heap that the bike and its rider had become.

“Hello?” she said. “You all right?”

There was silence.

“I said hello. Anyone there?”

Nothing.

She was right up to the heap now; it took shape; it was a boy of about fifteen, sitting on the ground, rubbing his ankle. He had a canvas bag beside him.

“Are you all right?” she said again.

“Sure I’m all right.” The accent was strong.

“Good. I thought you might have hurt yourself. Bit of a bad place to fall off your bike.”

He tried to stand up and winced. “Fock,” he said. “Focking Mary and Joseph.”

“You’ve hurt yourself. Want me to look?”

He shook his head.

“Funny night for a bike ride,” she said.

No reply.

“You on your way up to the big house?”

“I am not. Making my way home.”

“Which is where?”

“Down there.” He pointed down into the darkness.

“Strange, you seemed to be going in the opposite direction,” she said. “Anyway, you won’t get home in that state. Would you like me to drive you?”

“No thanks.” He stared at her. “You one of those reporters?”

“Yup.”

He hesitated. “You won’t write about me, will you?” he said.

“I might,” said Jocasta coolly. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Let me have a look at your ankle.”

He scowled at her, then pushed his foot towards her.

She felt it gingerly, then very gently and slowly moved it. It didn’t seem to be broken.

“I think it’s just a bad sprain. You got a torch?”

“Only on the bike.”

“OK. Let’s just—” She pulled the light off the bike, shone it on his ankle. It was already swelling. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take you home?”

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s downhill to the village all the way, I can just sit on the bike.”

“Pity.” She looked at him consideringly. “Quite a good night for poaching, isn’t it? Not much of a moon, just enough light.”

“I am not going poachin’!”

“Oh really? Well, you certainly aren’t any longer,” said Jocasta. “I think you’d better let me take you home. And I swear I won’t tell anyone, anyone at all.”

“You won’t?” His eyes in the half-light shone wide with fear. “Me mother would take a belt to me.”

“Quite right, too. And your father, I daresay.”

“Me father has passed on. There’s just me and me mother. And the little ones.”

“How many little ones?”

“Five. I’m the eldest.”

“I see. So the odd trout or hare must be a big help. Now look—I’ll just drop you at your house, no one will know. I swear.”