‘Yes.’ No sense denying it. ‘The police have to follow up every eventuality. Constance treats our house like her own so a search was inevitable.’
‘I feel sick… sick at the thought of them rooting through our private possessions,’ Nicole said. ‘Female intimate apparel? What’s that supposed to mean?’
He hesitated too long. The information was now in the public domain and outside his control but he was reluctant to discuss it over the phone. He heard Nicole sigh.
‘What did they take away, Karl? Tell me.’
‘They found a bra—’
‘They took one of my bras from the house?’ Her panic exacerbated his own fears.
‘It wasn’t yours. They don’t know who it belongs to.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘But Amanda Bowe said they found it in one of the bedrooms. Which one was that?’
‘Ours.’
‘What?’
‘Stuck behind the base, that’s what they said. But that doesn’t make sense.’
‘The police must think it belongs to Constance. Why else would they take it away? Do they think she slept in our bed?’
‘I don’t know what they think, Nicole. They could be trying to frame me—’
‘Frame you for what?’ Her voice rasped. ‘You’re not making sense.’
‘None of it makes sense. Have you been reading that rag? The stuff Amanda Bowe is writing—’
‘You’ve just told me they found Constance’s bra in our bedroom.’ She coughed to clear her throat, her breathing hard and fast. ‘What she’s reporting is the truth. Can’t you see how that looks? Constance’s bra, Karl, in our bed.’
‘Nicole, you can’t believe… are you suggesting I should know how it got there?’
‘Of course not. But I’m terrified and that terror keeps growing with every hour that passes.’
The landline rang. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. A journalist from Sunrise Radio wanted an interview. Karl told her to contact the Garda Press Office and hung up. The phone rang again, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
‘I have to go, Nicole.’
‘Who’s ringing? Are they journalists?’
‘Don’t worry.’ He hit the cancel button on the landline. ‘I’m not going to talk to them.’
She was crying when he ended the call. He wanted to be with her, holding her. Not relating facts that made no sense over the phone. Face-to-face, as they had been in New York the first time they met.
She had been crying then, too, sitting close to the wall in a coffee shop on West 20th Street. Dressed in skinny jeans, a short velvet jacket and a black polo, everything about her had been restrained, even her tears. She had dabbed them discreetly with a paper serviette neatly folded in her hand and it seemed as if Karl was the only person in that crowded cafe aware of her distress.
On impulse, he moved to her table and asked if she would like a coffee. She refused at first but then nodded, smiled wanly. When he returned to the table, he noticed a thin, white line on her suntanned ring finger. A broken engagement, she admitted when her tears dried. Her ex-fiancé’s father and her own father were partners in an accountancy firm and her decision to cancel the wedding was affecting both families.
Karl had been attracted to her heart-shaped face, the blonde, elfin haircut that emphasised her blue eyes. She was beautiful, he thought. Not the wild untrammelled beauty that Selina Lee had possessed but something more subtle, safer. She made Arizona seem farther away. She offered him an escape and he took it gladly.
Now, he longed to leave the house and drive to Grass Haven, make her listen… understand. But understand what? The number of journalists outside his house had increased. He recognised the distinctive grey and red markings of the LR1 television van. Lar Richardson’s magazine company and his television station were two separate entities but that did not lessen Karl’s anxiety. His boss had not returned his phone calls. Lar had little time for sentimentality and if Karl was perceived as damaging the reputation of Hitz, he would take immediate action.
Soon it would be time for the press conference. Somehow, he had to leave the house unnoticed.
He removed a ski jacket from the hall closet and put it on. Royal blue with slashes of yellow, it was colourful enough to galvanise the media when he opened the front door. He closed the door on the flash of cameras and returned to the living-room. He allowed the photographers to see him again, crossing in front of the window, then, out of sight, he draped his jacket over a corner of the sofa, which he pushed into view. It was a clumsy subterfuge but he hoped it would work long enough for him to make his escape. He zipped up a hoodie, pulled the hood over his head and left by the back door. A gate at the end of the garden led him to the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the houses on Cherrywood Terrace. As yet, the media had not staked it out and the way was clear for him to enter Cherrywood Avenue and then hurry on foot towards Glenmoore Village.
Chapter Eight
He entered the hotel room in the Glenmoore Grand where the press conference was being held and eased, unobserved, into the back row. The click of cameras sounded like rain on a tin roof when Jenna and Justin were escorted to a table on a raised dais. Jenna’s slim frame looked fragile enough to break as she sat down beside their solicitor, Olga Nicholls. Olga had been her friend since their schooldays and was also Karl’s solicitor. Justin, sitting next to her, was flanked by the family liaison officer. Superintendent Breen, the district officer, was also seated at the table, along with a superintendent from the Garda Press Office.
The sense of anticipation intensified among the assembled media when Jenna began to speak. She broke down before she could finish her prepared statement and Olga took over, smoothly reading the final sentences. Justin remained strong throughout his appeal. The harsh lights of the television cameras emphasised his pallor and the deepening lines on his face.
‘It’s been reported in the media that we had an argument with Constance before she left home,’ he said. ‘We don’t believe this argument is linked to our daughter’s disappearance. All parents and young teenagers argue over house rules. Constance knows that when we make decisions she finds hard to accept, we do so from a desire to keep her safe. We believe you are out there, Constance. But if you are being held against your will, I’m pleading with your abductor. Please, I beg you, send our daughter safely home to us.’
The questions began and were fielded by the press officer, then Superintendent Breen wrapped up the conference. The reporters continued shouting for more information as he escorted the small group from the room. Amanda Bowe hurled a final question at Jenna’s retreating back. Her carrying voice reached Jenna, who turned, her face blurred with tears, and nodded as if butting the question away.
Karl was leaving the hotel when the journalist caught up with him and held out her recorder.
‘Mr Lawson, can you confirm that a bra belonging to your niece was found in your bed during yesterday’s house search?’