Missing (57 page)

‘This is amazing,’ Vivienne cried, as Reg announced that the redoubtable Mrs Kent had taken the bids up to twelve thousand.

Before Miles could respond Rufus gave such an almighty leap that he almost broke free. ‘My God, that could have been expensive,’ Miles laughed, grabbing him more securely.

‘Look, look, the phone caller’s just taken it to thirteen,’ Alice shrieked excitedly. ‘You’re right, Vivi, it has to be his mother. Angus, try your sister’s number, I’ll bet it’s busy.’

For the hell of it Angus did so, and when the engaged signal came down the line they dissolved into laughter.

Seconds later the place was in uproar again as the music changed to the cancan and all eleven firemen, in black fishnet stockings, frou-frou skirts and feather boas, came high-kicking back onto the stage. On the catwalk Theo, surrounded by his impromptu troupe, created another line, while Reg informed whoever could hear that the bids had now gone up to ‘an incredible fourteen thousand’.

‘What are we going to do if Mrs Kent wins?’ Vivienne shouted to Alice. ‘The woman’s a sex maniac by all accounts.’

Though Alice laughed she saw the problem right away – for Theo it would be a horrible embarrassment, for them it would be a PR disaster. As she started to answer, the phone caller took the figure up to fifteen thousand.

‘Oh my God!’ Vivienne cried. ‘Where is this going to end?’

The camera swung back to Mrs Kent. ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it,’ Vivienne pleaded.

‘Do I hear sixteen thousand?’ Reg sang out.

‘No, no,’ Vivienne muttered.

‘Sixteen thousand?’

Vivienne was holding her breath.

‘I have fifteen thousand for the fetching fellow in faux lamé trunks,’ Reg informed them.

Vivienne and Alice groaned at Reg’s unstoppable corniness.

‘Fifteen thousand. Going once. Going twice …’

Vivienne willed the hammer to go down before Mrs Kent’s libido got the better of her again.

‘Sold to our mystery caller,’ Reg announced, with a resounding thump, and Vivienne’s breath came out in a rush of relief.

‘Of course, it could be another sex maniac for all we know,’ Alice shouted above the applause.

‘Don’t even think it,’ Vivienne shouted back.

When the cheering eventually died down and transmission switched back to the studio, Miles said, ‘Unless my maths is out, we have a grand total of forty-three thousand from the auction, with a further twenty-four already pledged, so the kitty’s standing at somewhere around sixty-seven thousand.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ Vivienne replied, ‘but not enough, because some high-flyer in the City has promised to double it if we get to a hundred.’

‘We still don’t know how many straight pledges came in while we were on air,’ Alice reminded her. ‘So we might have made it.’

They looked round in search of Al Kohler, and
spotting
him climbing up on stage to take over the mike, Vivienne struggled her way through to Sharon, whose cheeks were glowing.

‘This is a long way beyond what we were hoping,’ Vivienne beamed as she hugged her. ‘You’re going to be so well taken care of now, you’ll think you’re a princess.’

Sharon was smiling all over her face as she swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘It’s been brilliant,’ she declared. ‘And will you just look at that old trollop up there dancing. What is she like?’

Vivienne laughed as Stella gave them a wave. By now the catwalk and stage was crowded with frilly-frocked firemen, as Reg was calling them, and as many of the audience as could fit themselves on.

Suddenly the music dipped and Al Kohler could be heard asking for everyone’s attention.

A camera tracked in to get a better angle on him as the studio switched back to the auction, and when the noise had completely died down, he said into the mike, ‘Good morning, everyone. My name is Al Kohler, I’m the executive producer, and it’s my great pleasure to be able to tell you that in addition to the sixty-seven thousand pounds raised by the auction and private donations before we went on air, we have received further pledges amounting to just over twenty-seven thousand. This makes a grand total of almost ninety-five thousand pounds, which I know far surpasses the dreams of Sharon’s WI friends, who came up with the idea of this auction in the first place. So congratulations to you all, ladies, you must feel very proud of what you’ve achieved here today.’

As everyone whooped and cheered Miles murmured to Vivienne, ‘I’ll make it up to a hundred.’

Her eyes were shining. ‘Do you realise that means the figure will rise to three hundred thousand, because Sky is doubling the amount too?’

‘Really,’ he said dryly, ‘well, that’s the best return I’ve ever known on five grand. Now all we need is a suitable donor for Sharon.’

As soon as transmission was over the party began in earnest. Champagne corks started popping faster than fireworks, while the choreographer’s music tape was played all over again, and, still in their fancy costumes, the firemen twirled and jived their new fans up and down the catwalk. Theo made a hasty return to a pair of ripped jeans and body-hugging T-shirt, and since there was still no prising Stella from him, or Martha from Percy, Kelsey grabbed her phone and took it outside where the crew was packing up, and half a dozen long-suffering horses were trundling around the manège carrying small children on their backs.

‘Mum! Great, you answered,’ she cried breathlessly when she made the connection. Her elation was so great that it took a moment for her natural caution to kick in. ‘You didn’t watch, did you?’ she accused, only too aware of how her mother rarely failed to disappoint her. ‘Well, it’s OK …’

‘I watched,’ Jacqueline assured her. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a good dancer.’

Kelsey’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah, but not like Martha,’ she said modestly. ‘She’s amazing. Did you see how much TKS raised? Everyone’s teasing him now, saying it was his mother on the phone.’

There was a note of humour in Jacqueline’s voice as she said, ‘Whoever it was, they’ve got themselves a great deal, even at fifteen thousand.’

‘That’s exactly what Dad said. Actually he really wants to speak to you, shall I go and get him?’

‘No, darling, don’t do that.’

Kelsey’s smile started to fade. ‘Did you get his messages?’ she asked. ‘He left one last night and again this morning.’

‘Yes, I got them.’

‘So you know what he wants to talk to you about?’

‘I do, but there’s nothing to be said.’

Kelsey looked round as someone set off the fire engine’s siren, then stopped it again.

‘I’ve already told him not to worry,’ Jacqueline reminded her. ‘It won’t be a problem.’

Kelsey wasn’t sure what to say.

‘It sounds as though you’re having a wonderful time down there,’ Jacqueline commented.

‘Yeah, we are.’

‘I expect you want to get back to it.’

‘Um, yes, I suppose I should. I’m glad you watched. It was really cool, wasn’t it?’

‘Very.’

After a beat Kelsey said, ‘I’m going now then.’

‘OK.’

‘Bye then.’

‘Goodbye, my darling. God bless.’

Kelsey didn’t ring off, but in the end Jacqueline did, and as the line went dead a horrible feeling started to come over Kelsey. It was all kind of grainy and weird and seemed to be pulling her down and down into a place that was dark and scary.
God bless
. The words were making her head seem clogged, and she felt sort of sick. She wanted to call her mother back to find out if that was why she’d changed, because she’d got God, but then Martha came out looking for
her,
carrying two more glasses of champagne.

‘What’s up?’ Martha hiccuped, her cheeks flushed like a pair of poppies.

‘Nothing,’ Kelsey answered.

‘Come on, you’re missing all the fun.’

Kelsey’s eyes came up to hers. Her face was pale with worry, but then the music inside changed to one of her favourite bands, and the bad feeling evaporated in the urge to dance. ‘So have you managed to pull Percy’s plug yet?’ she teased, grabbing a glass, and laughing uproariously they plunged back into the swirling mass of Devonshire revellers.

Chapter Twenty-four

‘AH, THERE YOU
are, Just
ine
,’ Critchley drawled, as his rotund frame in grubby shirt and low-slung pants drew up alongside her desk. ‘I was wondering when you might grace us with your presence again.’

Justine glanced up. As usual he looked as though he should stink, but amazingly didn’t. Then, returning her eyes to the computer screen, she continued to type.

‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, resting his stumpy, freckled hands on her desk, ‘it was you who gave Avery the tip-off about tomorrow’s front page, was it? No, of course not. Why would you want to risk having an injunction slapped on your very own exclusive?’

In spite of the prickling in her armpits, Justine carried on with what she was doing.

‘On the other hand,’ the Critch continued chattily, ‘it would appear that you’ve had your name removed from
your very own exclusive
. Oh yes, I know about that. You have to be stupider than I already had you down for if you thought it wouldn’t get back to me before tomorrow.’

‘No, I knew it would,’ she told him.

‘OK. So let’s look at this again, shall we? We know there’s nothing anyone can do to stop that front page, because everything checks out. We’re not breaking any
laws,
and it’s not accusing anyone of anything. It’s simply telling a sad story of what it can be like to lose a child, and regurgitating a few questions that were asked fifteen years ago – and guess what, Justie, they still need answers.’

Without looking up, she said, ‘And you think you’re going to get them?’

Critchley chuckled. ‘Who cares? You did a good job. In spite of your duplicity Avery’s going to squirm on the end of my line tomorrow, and then he’s going to remember what it’s like when the sharks come along to feed. He’s been there before, let’s see if he can survive it again.’

Justine clicked on to print, then rose to her feet. ‘It’s not a question of whether he can,’ she said, pushing past him, ‘it’s whether his wife can – oh, and by the way, that’s my resignation.’

The Critch laughed loudly. ‘If you think that’s going to save you from Avery’s wrath, Justie,’ he said, evidently enjoying himself, ‘then you’re more deluded than sad old Jacqueline.’

Spinning round, she said, ‘No, it probably won’t save me, but it’s going to bury you, you asshole,’ and flinging her bag onto her shoulder she stalked across the office, triumphant in having the last word – until she reached the lift, which started to descend before she could stop it.

‘Next time you speak to Avery,’ the Critch called after her, ‘make sure he knows, just in case he’s under any illusion, that this is payback time for
The Grunt
.’ Still chuckling at her desperate jabbing on the button, he wandered back into his office and was just sitting down when his secretary rang through to announce another call from Avery’s lawyer.

‘Put him on,’ Critchley responded, rubbing his hands.

A moment later Stefan Harding’s voice came down the line. ‘Mr Critchley, I’m calling to inform you that my client will be pressing charges against Justine James for the theft of an email from his computer, and for false representation when approaching Mrs Barrett.’

The Critch gave a snort of pleasure. ‘Please tell your client that if he thinks that’s going to stop tomorrow’s front page then he’s even dumber than the Justine.’

‘You should also be made aware,’ Harding went on smoothly, ‘that the charges against Ms James will extend to you as an accomplice.’

Critchley barked a laugh. ‘You can try, Mr Lawyer, but it won’t stick, and you know it.’

Harding’s tone remained affable as he said, ‘Good day, Mr Critchley.’

As the line went dead Critchley leaned forward to replace the receiver, the smirk on his lips taking longer to fade than the gleam in his eyes. There was more to that call than was immediately evident, he was certain of it, he just wasn’t managing to figure out what – yet. However, the very fact that Avery was riled enough to start suing meant he was under the man’s skin, which was exactly where the Critch wanted to be. In fact, he could hardly wait for tomorrow, when Avery’s discomfort was going to be every bit as public as the cartoon he’d commissioned, and that his old paper still ran, ridiculing the Critch every damned, fucking day of the week.

Vivienne was kneeling on the floor with Rufus when Miles brought the papers in the next morning and tossed them on the bed.

‘It’s there,’ he told her shortly. ‘Not that I thought he’d back off.’

Reaching over, Vivienne picked up
The News on Sunday
and turned it over to see the glaring headline in giant black letters.
AVERY CHILD WAS NEVER IN CAR
followed in much smaller print by
claims woman who has dogged family for years
.

After glancing at Miles with an expression that showed her dismay, she began reading.

‘After fifteen years the unanswered question of whether or not Samuel Avery was in his mother’s car the day she claims he was abducted, arises again following Mrs Avery’s own recent disappearance. We are told by a family member that Mrs Avery has been in touch with them, but at the time of going to press the police still had no knowledge of her whereabouts. It is believed that since the alleged abduction …’

Alleged
, she repeated harshly in her mind.

‘… of her son, Mrs Avery, wife of prominent Fleet Street editor Miles Avery, has suffered several breakdowns. Suspicion of her own, and her husband’s involvement in their son’s disappearance arose at the time, and has never completely gone away. Avery was taken in for questioning six weeks after Sam was supposedly taken, but was eventually released without charge. Mrs Avery is said to have suffered a severe nervous collapse following an accusation of murder by Mrs Elizabeth Barrett, whose husband worked with Avery at the time the mystery occurred.’

Rigid with contempt, Vivienne turned to an inside page.

‘Mrs Barrett is now claiming that Avery paid her to leave his family alone, a claim Avery denies. However, highly significant questions still remain
unanswered
:
Was Sam in the car when Jacqueline Avery drove into the garage? Why were there no witnesses when she was on a busy roundabout? Why has there been no sign of Sam since? Where is Mrs Avery now?’