reaction.
While she was staying at the clinic she had undergone therapy which tried to get at the root of her eating disorder and made her aware that the various problems she had all stemmed from the same source, her childhood and the breakdown of the family which had changed her world forever at exactly the worst age, on the verge of puberty. It was one thing to realise something like that, quite another to be able to deal with it. You could re-train yourself where learned behaviour was concerned, but when you were dealing with the unconscious you could not use reason or persuasion; you were helpless to reach that submerged part of the mind.
She started, hearing Sara’s running feet on the stairs. The other girl came back into the room, flushed and smiling. ‘It was your mother.’
Keira tensed. ‘You didn’t tell her I’d had an attack?’
‘No. Although I know I ought to have—she’ll be furious when she knows I didn’t tell her.’
‘She’ll tell Ivo, and he’ll just use it as a stick to beat her with!’
Sara gave her a curious look. ‘You hate him, don’t you?’
‘He isn’t my man of the year, I’ll admit.’
‘Well, I told your mother you were out and would ring her back when you got in; don’t forget to do that when you feel up to it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go; we’re having a dinner party tonight. I’ll ring you later to check how you are. If you need me, you know where I am.’
‘Yes,’ Keira said, then added quietly, ‘Thanks, Sara—for coming so quickly and…’ She made a wordless little gesture with her hands and Sara shook her head at her.
‘What are friends for? Be seeing you soon.’
* * *
In the newsroom of the TV company he worked for Gerard was arguing with the news editor, a large, shaggy-haired man with heavy eyebrows and a permanently harassed look.
‘I tell you there’s nothing wrong with me now; I’m as fit as you are.’ He gave the other man a furious look from head to toe, scowling. ‘Fitter, come to that!’
The other man, who was stones overweight, drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney, laughed.
‘Sure, you are, but I’m not a foreign correspondent, I’m a desk jockey, and I don’t need a doctor’s certificate before I come to work. I have to abide by the company doctor’s decision and he says you shouldn’t be sent into a war zone again, or put under any strain, because you’re still suffering from…’ He searched among the piled papers on his desk and pulled out one, pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and peered at the document. ‘Here it is…post-traumatic shock. That’s what you’ve got, Gerry, old son. You’re in post-traumatic shock and the company won’t be responsible for you if you go abroad. They don’t want to have to pay out huge sums of money in compensation if you crack up permanently next time.’
‘Damn fools!’ growled Gerard, but recognised that he had no hope of persuading the company to change their mind. Money was the bottom line with these people.
‘Listen, didn’t you do an art degree? Todd’s on to an interesting art story—it may develop into a full programme for current affairs, or just turn out to be a stock item for one of those nights when there’s no news. He could do with some help; why not work with him for a week and then have another check-up?’
Gerard gave a furious shrug. ‘Oh, very well. Where will I find him?’
‘He’s working out of Annexe Three—you’ll need a pass; security is pretty tight at the moment. Hang on; I’ll ring him and warn him you’re on your way and he’ll alert Security.’
Todd Knight was a short, ginger-haired man in his early thirties; he was the news team’s art and antiques expert but doubled up by reporting on certain crime stories when they touched on his specialist subject.
He welcomed Gerard with open arms. ‘Good to have you aboard, man! I could do with some help with this stuff; I’m absolutely swamped with leads and I can’t follow them all up personally. You’re a godsend.’
Gerard grinned at him, accepting the mug of black coffee Todd offered him. ‘Glad to be of some use for a change. So, what’s it all about?’
‘The underground trade in stolen art and antiques.’ Todd gestured to the walls of the office on which hung photographs and drawings. ‘All these disappeared during the past two years. They’re important works, most of them—worth millions. None of them resurfaced, so where are they? Who took them, and who bought them from the thieves?’
Gerard frowned, wandering around the room, peering at the snapshots. ‘This is police work, surely—they have a squad which specialises in following up these cases.’
‘Of course they do, and they are, but I’m working on an idea for a programme; I believe international collectors are involved in a crime ring, employing criminals who are given exact orders—told what to snatch and how much will be paid when the painting is delivered. It’s being organised on a huge scale, Gerard, and it’s a worldwide scam.’
Gerard whistled. ‘That could make some programme! Hey, I know this painting…it was hanging in a gallery in the South of France; it’s a Cézanne.’
‘Right—it vanished a year ago, hasn’t been seen since. There’s a strong lead over in France, in Provence; I was thinking of going over there soon to see what I can dig up.’
‘You can count me in for that—a few days in Provence sounds great; I think I’m going to enjoy this job!’ grinned Gerard. ‘Oddly enough, I was going to ring you today anyway—I wanted to ask you a few questions.’
Keira half slept, half daydreamed for several hours and then got up and showered, got dressed. It was twilight by then, early evening. She forced herself to think about supper, and decided to have a little scrambled egg, followed by a banana. Her stomach still felt queasy but she knew she had to re-establish a light eating pattern at once.
She went downstairs, almost jumping out of her skin when her doorbell rang loudly just as she reached the tiny hallway.
She hesitated, but she couldn’t pretend not to be in because she had only just switched on the hall light.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, close to the door.
‘Gerard Findlay,’ said the deep, familiar voice, and she closed her eyes. It would be him, wouldn’t it?
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you. Open this door; I don’t like talking through it with half the street listening. Of course, if you don’t mind everyone hearing what I say to you…’ He paused significantly, and she bit her lip, flushed with anger. He knew very well that she wouldn’t want anyone eavesdropping, especially if he meant to talk about what had happened earlier that day.
Reluctantly, she slipped the catch and opened the door, very tense as she faced him. He looked her up and down with those hard grey eyes, taking in everything about her, from her faintly damp red hair, tied up with a black ribbon at her nape, down over her slender figure to her pale bare feet. She had not bothered to put on make-up and was wearing a black sweater and jeans. She looked, thought Gerard, like
