by Alison James
Perfect Girls
An absolutely gripping page-turning crime thriller
Alison James
For my amazing and indomitable mother, with love.
Also by Alison James
The Detective Rachel Prince series
1. Lola is Missing
2. Now She’s Gone
3. Perfect Girls
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part III
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part IV
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Lola is Missing
Alison’s Email Sign-Up
Also by Alison James
A letter from Alison
Now She’s Gone
Now She’s Gone
Part I
‘A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.’
Oscar Wilde
Chapter One
It’s all so easy. The website had promised ‘a super-slick check-in process’, and it is.
A message with the address and directions arrives twenty-four hours in advance, and another suggests an arrival time, stressing that this is negotiable. On the day, there’s a quick hello, a mention of a couple of important things to remember, handover of a printed list of instructions and a set of keys, rounded off with wishes for a pleasant stay and the promise of help being at the end of the phone.
It really is that simple.
The next part is just as simple too. The blow from behind is quick and clean; its deadly trajectory neither seen nor heard. A reverberating aftershock follows, the temporal lag of realisation that this has actually just happened. That this is all it takes; the work of less than three seconds. Grab. Swing. Strike.
Dead.
Chapter Two
Strike One.
DI Rachel Prince clipped the edge of a concrete column with the front offside wing of her car as she negotiated the overflowing underground car park. She was driving carelessly because she was late, and she was late because despite the rain she had hit a perfect stride and ended up running for forty minutes instead of twenty.
Strike Two.
Her kitbag caught in the lift doors as they were closing, requiring such force to free it that she crashed against the far wall. And then, since she was still in her running gear and trainers, her blonde hair scraped back in a high ponytail, she entered the fifth-floor office at a jog and attempted to vault straight into her desk chair. But her bag clipped the chair arm and sent it skittering to the right. Her backside caught the edge of the moving seat, then slid off. She tumbled inelegantly to the floor.
‘Morning,’ said DS Mark Brickall. ‘Strike Three, by any chance?’
He was making a calculated guess, since Rachel was usually punctual. The office rule was that if you screwed up three times on your commute to work and were more than ten minutes late, it was your turn to buy the drinks at their local pub, the Pin and Needle, that evening.
‘Strike Three,’ admitted Rachel, booting up her terminal. ‘It’s definitely that kind of day.’
‘Fucking weather,’ Brickall flicked a rubber band across his desk for emphasis. Raindrops were streaming steadily down the outside of the windows of the National Crime Agency and condensation was misting the inside. The NCA had been set up to tackle serious and organised crime, and its staff included police officers and ex-servicemen, but also civilian analysts and intelligence personnel. They were a cutting-edge team, and the atmosphere was usually lively, but with the backdrop of gunmetal February sky above an olive-drab river Thames, the effect today was that of being trapped in a giant grey box.
Brickall’s phone rang.
‘International Liaison, DS Brickall speaking… you’ll want my colleague.’ Brickall gestured to the receiver in his hand and mouthed ‘For you’.
Rachel straightened her chair and picked up. ‘DI Prince.’
She listened for a few moments, scribbling notes on a pad. When the call was over, she leaned back in her chair with her arms behind her head, her eyebrows raised.
‘Nothing like being given a bit of a wake-up on a Friday morning.’
‘Bit of a weird one, was it? Bloke sounded like a Yank.’
‘Correct. It was the Alien and Fugitive division at US Interpol HQ, no less. A Mis-Per found dead in unusual circumstances. A twenty-something female and – guess what – she’s a UK national. Looks like blunt force trauma, but apparently the body’s a bit too far gone to be sure. So they want someone from this end to go out and liaise with the local police department.’
‘And where would that be then?’
‘Los Angeles. Hollywood, to be exact.’
Brickall laughed. ‘Unbelievable. That’ll be one for Patten. He’s not going to pass up a chance like that: a jolly in Tinseltown.’
‘Except…’ Rachel said with a grin, standing up and collecting a pen and her notes, ‘I happen to know that his new baby is due next week.’
* * *
Commander Nigel Patten, Deputy Director of International Crime, glanced quickly away from his computer screen and started shuffling files in a transparent attempt at looking busy. Although he’d recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, he had a much younger second wife who was about to give birth to baby number two.
He waved at the chair opposite his desk, and Rachel sat down and filled him in on the little she knew of the case that had come in.
‘So they need someone from Investigation Support out there?’
‘I know that would normally be your call, but with the pregnancy…’ She summoned what she hoped was a caring facial expression.
Patten frowned. ‘Not great timing; you’re spot on about that. Danielle would have kittens if I left the country at this point.’
‘Or possibly a baby,’ suggested Rachel.
Patten sighed. ‘I suppose your firearms training might be useful. And if I remember rightly, you’ve done a stint in Crime Analysis?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I did a placement there soon after I came to NCA.’ She had started out as
a regular beat officer before joining the Metropolitan Police’s CID and then Interpol, before it had been absorbed by the National Crime Agency. That had been nearly five years ago, when she was still in her mid-thirties.
Patten considered this.
‘Apparently, whoever goes out there needs to start out at Interpol in DC for a briefing,’ Rachel explained, ‘then fly to LA to help them fill in the gaps and liaise with the family.’
‘And you’re happy to go, Rachel? What about your promotion board?’
Following her investigation into a child grooming ring in Edinburgh, Rachel had been invited to apply to become a Detective Chief Inspector.
‘I’m still waiting for the date of the assessments to be confirmed, sir, but they won’t be for at least a month. I’ll be back by then.’
‘Okay, go and hand over your existing files and I’ll get Janette to book your travel.’
‘For today would be great, if she can swing it.’ Rachel looked over her shoulder as she left the office, ‘Oh and good luck, sir. With the new sprog.’
* * *
‘Jammy cow’ Brickall took some files from her and placed them at the bottom of the heap already on his desk. ‘You’d do anything to get out of buying a round. And if you think I’m actually going to do any work on these, you’re dreaming.’
‘No change there. You always were a lazy tosser.’ Rachel grinned.
‘And I hope the jet lag’s horrific.’
‘Sod off.’
She blew a kiss at Brickall over her shoulder as she hefted her bag and headed for the door. She knew the jealousy on his part wasn’t entirely faked. Rachel and Brickall both worked in the team that covered international coordination. They occasionally travelled to Interpol headquarters in Lyon, Rachel had been to Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands the previous year, and Brickall had recently attended a security briefing in Brussels. But this was the first time in their three years at the NCA there had been a long-distance case. The excitement gave Rachel an added bounce in her step as she ran down to the underground car park.
She honked and swerved her way through the three miles to her flat, and wasted no time once she was there; hurling her carry-on suitcase onto the bed and reaching into drawers and cupboards to fill it. No frivolous holiday brights or heels; just plain-clothes policewoman garb. Well-cut black trousers that flattered her athletic shape, plain white cotton shirts and T-shirts, her trainers and running gear and – her sole concession to California warmth – a bikini and flip-flops. Toothbrush, hair products and face wash, a minimal stash of make-up.
The kitchen, with its exposed brick walls and open shelves, was rarely used. The fridge was more or less empty already apart from the beer she stocked for her son Joe: no need to deal with leftover salad and half-used milk cartons. Rachel didn’t cook often. She didn’t know when she was going to be at home, so she’d got into the habit of surviving on takeaways and the work canteen. No young children, no pets, no spouse: leaving was gratifyingly easy.
* * *
Her phone buzzed as she was closing her case.
Okay if I crash tonight? Got Friday night drinks and it could get messy. J xx
Her son Joe was working as an intern at a management consultancy in Canary Wharf. He had been adopted as a newborn – when she was estranged from her ex-husband and Joe’s birth father, Stuart Ritchie – and had only made contact with Rachel the previous summer, when he turned eighteen. After navigating painful guilt on her part and bitter recrimination on his, their relationship had thrived, and he now occasionally spent the night in Rachel’s spare room when it was too late to catch the train back to his adoptive parents’ house in Sussex.
Packing ready to head to Heathrow early doors on a last-minute job – but use your key and help yourself to anything. xx
Once she’d sent the reply, she opened her taxi app, booking a car for the morning.
* * *
The next morning, as she was heading to the lift, she got another text. It was from Brickall.
I’ll miss you, you flaky tart.
Rachel smiled at the closing lift doors. She was sorry she wouldn’t be working with her right-hand man on this case, but that didn’t prevent her from being excited about escaping wintry London and getting her teeth into an intriguing international job. She typed a reply.
Get a grip, loser
Chapter Three
Disposing of a corpse in an unfamiliar location is a lot less simple. It takes some thinking about, and some planning. In the meantime, it lies in the hallway covered with a sheet. With the air conditioning temperature dial set as low as it will go, the body will be all right there for a while. But the clock is ticking.
There’s a trip to obtain equipment. The local Target has everything that’s needed. It’s important to maintain an anonymous appearance, for the inevitable CCTV. So: unisex jeans and work boots, a nondescript sweat top, beanie hat. Glasses with tinted lenses. A quick in and out, not behaving strangely but avoiding unnecessary eye contact or glances in the direction of the cameras. Plastic sheeting, duct tape. Bleach, hydrochloric acid and floor polish. Latex gloves. Spray paint. A couple of power tools and other items to make the trip seem part of a home renovation project. They can be ditched later.
The body has not yet started to bloat, but it’s discolouring rapidly. Putty grey in places, peony purple in others. Fingernails white, ringed with pale ochre. Leaking and oozing a little, but fortunately the wood floors are varnished and will clean up okay. Wrapping and taping requires a little patience, but the resulting package is surprisingly neat, if heavier than expected. It can now be moved, but this shouldn’t happen until the plan is fully worked out. And that will take a little more time.
Which isn’t a problem. It will all come together in the end. You have to be patient, and wait for the opportunities to present themselves. Because they will.
Chapter Four
Rachel woke from a thick, dreamless sleep. The hotel window was screened with fiercely efficient blackout blinds, so it was impossible to discern time of day. Her watch said 10 a.m., but after a few seconds of muzziness she remembered it was still set to UK time. The clock radio by her bed told her it was five in Washington DC.
She opened the blinds and looked out. It was dark, and very quiet. To her left was the empty splendour of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the mysterious blank space to her right was the Ellipse. She ordered coffee and juice from room service and switched on the TV. Only local news was available until 6 a.m., when national network coverage kicked in, so she watched the WLJA anchors expressing concern about a collision on the I295, and horror at a house fire in Clarksburg. The repetitive bulletins were punctuated with weather forecasts from the toothy weatherman, Brad, who told her it was going to be thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit and sunny.
She had emailed her contact at Interpol as soon as she landed at Dulles the previous evening, and at seven thirty there was a reply from him.
From: Robert J. McConnell
To: Rachel Prince
Apologies for the early shout, but assuming you’ll be on London time. Let’s meet for coffee – 8.30 too soon? Suggest Slipstream on 14th.
From: Rachel Prince
To: Robert J. McConnell
Your assumption was correct. See you at 8.30.
Rachel showered and dressed, and went down to the lobby carrying her sweater, jacket and scarf. The central heating in the building was set to sub-tropical, so within its confines it was impossible to wear anything warmer than shirtsleeves. The reception area was already teeming with people on weekend trips swigging the complimentary drip coffee, and busboys moving luggage on tall gilt trolleys. Rachel registered the doorman’s dismay with a smile as she stepped out onto the street in her T-shirt, then bundled herself into her warm layers on the pavement.
The air was sharply cold, but in contrast to London’s late-February drabness it felt powder-dry and bracing, the bare trees dark shadow puppets against a gleaming duck-egg sky. She enjoyed the bri
sk mile walk north along 14th Street, the pavements filling with runners wearing headphones and clutching take-out coffee cups. Arriving at Slipstream early, she ordered an espresso and sat in a corner with a copy of the Washington Post.
‘Rachel?’
She looked up to see a tall, tanned man extending a hand with a broad smile. ‘Robert McConnell. Rob.’
‘Thanks for meeting me at the weekend, Robert J McConnell,’ Rachel said, shaking the hand. ‘What’s the J for?’
‘Justin.’
She had a sudden, wrenching flashback to sitting in a bar in Edinburgh and asking Giles Denton the exact same question when they were embarking on a case together. It made her shiver, but she suppressed the thought instantly. She didn’t want to think about her brief liaison with child protection specialist Giles the previous summer, one that had hit major trouble almost as soon as it began. Not now; not ever. She wouldn’t be making a mistake like that again.