by Alison James
‘This is Dolly,’ Brickall introduced her.
‘You’ve got a bloody dog?’
‘Not exactly. She belongs to a mate of mine, only he’s emigrated to New Zealand. So I said I’d mind her until he could make a more permanent arrangement for her.’ He reached down and fondled one of her floppy ears. ‘She’s a good girl, aren’t you Doll? She won’t be a problem.’
Rachel doubted this. ‘So that’s why you wanted to take the train up here?’
‘Exactly, Sherlock.’
‘Okay, well… I was going to suggest we visit the scene, but I suppose the dog can come with us. We’ll need to drop your stuff first. Where are you staying?’
‘In the arse end of beyond. It was tricky finding a place where I could bring Dolly. But we can get the tram most of the way, I think.’
They emerged up the station steps to a slow-moving swell of people. Festival madness was peaking, and the pavement was thick with dawdling tourists, buskers and jugglers. Every few steps they took, someone approached them and thrust a flyer into their hand, inviting them to attend a satirical review, stand-up comedy, a poetry reading, a conceptual art show.
Dolly quivered and tried to melt into Brickall’s ankles. He handed Rachel his backpack and picked up the dog to carry her. Eventually they fought their way along Princes Street to the tram stop. As Patten had predicted, the temperature was almost fifteen degrees lower than in London, with a pale blue sky only just visible behind voluminous grey-white clouds.
They left the tram at Balgreen and walked for fifteen minutes to the outskirts of Corstorphine, with Brickall using Google Maps on his phone to navigate. His digs were in a pin-neat, one-storey villa, where the landlady, Mrs Kilpatrick (‘Call me Betty’) immediately gushed and fussed over Dolly as if she’d acquired a new grandchild.
‘Oh, the wee dote! Look at her: she’s gorgeous. What sort of dog is she?’
‘An American Cocker Spaniel,’ said Brickall, like a proud parent. Dolly stared at the middle distance with a worried expression as she was stroked.
‘She’ll be hungry perhaps?’ said Betty. ‘Or thirsty after the journey.’ She fetched two bowls, one filled with water and one with kibble. Dolly lapped at the water noisily then ate a single biscuit, as though determined to be polite.
‘The wee darling! Now, can I get you and your girlfriend some tea? And maybe some fruit cake?’
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend.’
They spoke in perfect unison.
Brickall reluctantly declined – or at least deferred – the tea and cake, explaining they were there to work, and planned to start immediately. He also declined Betty’s offer to mind Dolly, on the grounds that she had been on a train for over four hours and needed a good walk. He and Rachel, along with the dog, set off back to the tram station, taking it to the eastern end of the line, walking another mile through the unrelenting crowds to Holyrood Park, and then hiking up the looming, volcanic Salisbury Crags. The scrubby grassland gave way abruptly to a sheer, 150-foot rocky drop.
‘Amazing view,’ observed Brickall, reaching down to pat Dolly, who had flopped down, exhausted, at his feet. As he spoke, the clouds thinned and parted and they were treated to a spectacular view over the city. It was even cooler than street level, and breezy.
‘I think I prefer it up here,’ said Rachel. ‘All those people do my head in. I don’t know how people who live here cope with it every summer.’
‘Money,’ said Brickall bluntly. ‘It brings in hundreds of millions to the city every year. They kind of have to put up with it.’
He handed Dolly’s lead to Rachel and walked right up to the edge of the crag.
‘Careful,’ Rachel said instinctively. The dog pinned back her ears and whimpered.
Brickall peered over the edge, being careful to plant his feet and keep his body weight tipped back.
‘You could see how it could happen,’ he said as he walked back to Rachel. ‘It’s dark, you lose your footing…’
‘But if it was dark, why would Emily have wanted to take photos?’ Rachel asked. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Unless you’re a pissed teenager. Then any crazy shit makes sense. I did a bit of research of my own on the way up here: people fall off here and Arthur’s Seat,’ he pointed to the dormant volcano looming above them, ‘all the time. Multiple fatalities every year. Especially at night, when tourists come up here to admire the city lights. The local plod were spot on: it was just an all-too-predictable accident.’
‘Looks that way,’ Rachel agreed. ‘But to complete Patten’s diplomatic mission, we still need to go and speak to Police Scotland. And maybe make a few enquiries of our own into what happened that night.’
Gusts of wind swirled around them, and Dolly quivered.
‘Like I said; just a kid who couldn’t hold her drink and paid the price.’ Brickall turned back down the path. ‘Come on. Doll here has had enough, and there’s a piece of fruitcake with my name on it back at Betty’s.’
* * *
They beat a path back through the city centre, past queues of event attendees that seemed to spill out of every building, blocking the pavements.
Once they reached the western edge of the city, Rachel and Brickall parted company, and she returned to her guest house and took a long hot shower. There was no such refinement as a minibar, but a pleading phone call to the front desk resulted in a waitress bringing a vodka and tonic to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, sipping the icy and pleasantly bitter liquid and staring at her phone.
Her ex-husband Stuart Ritchie lived in Edinburgh, and they were now on friendly terms after a long estrangement. Much as Rachel was glad that she and Stuart were speaking again, there was something faintly awkward about landing an investigation on his home turf. Especially as she had declined the invitation to his wedding earlier that year. So in case she bumped into him in what was, after all, a small city, she should really let him know she was here.
She considered phoning him, but in the end took the easy route and sent him a text saying that she was unexpectedly in Edinburgh for a few days. The reply arrived a few minutes later.
Splendid news, Rae! You must, of course, come over and have dinner with us tomorrow night. I’ll email you details. S.
So, she was now committed. Rachel pulled on T-shirt and jeans in readiness to descend to the gilded, swagged dining room in search of food. Her phone rang just as she reached the door, and she picked up, expecting it to be Brickall.
‘Hey, you!’
Howard Davison. Her former personal trainer and boyfriend of six months.
‘Hi.’
‘I thought I’d just check up on you, since you haven’t been answering my texts. Is everything okay?’
Rachel flinched at the words ‘check up on you’ but managed to keep her tone non-combative.
‘I’m fine. I’m in Edinburgh: flew up this morning.’
‘Edinburgh? You never mentioned Edinburgh.’
‘Last minute job. Very last minute.’
‘How long for?’
‘I’m not sure: probably only a few days.’
‘I could go in and water the plants for you if you like?’
Howard had a spare key, which as far as Rachel was concerned was only for emergencies, like her locking herself out.
‘Okay… listen Howard, I’ll call you when I’m back.’
The truth was that she was glad of the chance for a break. When they first got together, Howard had recently come out of a difficult relationship and Rachel herself had not wanted anything too serious. At first this had worked well, with them spending a couple of week nights together, and most weekends.
But then she had discovered his penchant for home improvement.
Yes, in theory, it was a good thing for her functional flat conversion to be looking a bit less sterile. However, she would rather stick sharp objects in her own eyeballs than spend time trawling a DIY superstore at the weekend
. Howard, on the other hand, loved it. He had continually suggested small upgrades she could make to her home and then set about installing them, extending the time they spent together to a degree that Rachel was now finding uncomfortable. The occasional weekend had morphed into every weekend. All weekend. And after the third project he had embarked on – some shelving in the entrance hall – the penny finally dropped.
He wants to move in with me.
And for Rachel, that was a step too far. For a start, she was simply not ready. Possibly never would be. And also, when it came to her work, Howard was not exactly on the same page. He had always worked regular hours, and when he left the gym, that was it. He was off-duty. His resentment of her late nights, irregular hours and last-minute trips was starting to corrode their relationship. For the last few weeks she had been seizing any and every opportunity to cool things off.
You bottled it, she told herself as she hung up and stepped out onto the headache-inducing swirls of the landing carpet. This is the perfect opportunity. You should have told him. You should have broken up with him.
But after steak and chips and a glass of red wine, she had persuaded herself that, on the contrary, it would be completely wrong to break up with Howard over the phone. Cowardly. She owed him a face-to-face. And that inevitably meant leaving the status quo as it was until she was back in London.
Her phone pinged, and this time it was Brickall, with an uncaptioned photo. It showed Dolly sitting in a plush, red dog bed, provided by the attentive Betty.
Rachel couldn’t help smiling as she typed a reply.
Tell her not to get too comfortable – we’re here to work! See you in Gayfield Square at 9 a.m.
She looked at the picture again. It was a fun touch, but she was all too aware that they were not in Edinburgh for the photo opportunities. Tomorrow, the difficult questions would have to be asked.
Three
‘At least you haven’t brought the mutt.’
Rachel took in Brickall’s smart appearance, and the absence of his canine companion.
‘I’m playing by the rules now, remember?’ he responded cheerfully. ‘Can’t afford to attract any negative attention, especially given the awkward vibe of this job. I’m just grateful that Betty offered to mind Dolly.’
‘I’m sure she was delighted,’ murmured Rachel as they walked into the Police Scotland building in Gayfield Square and presented themselves at the front desk with matching professional smiles, despite the surliness of the desk sergeant.
‘You’ll be wanting DI Sillars,’ he informed them after they explained the reason for their visit. ‘She handled the Dutch kid’s death.’
‘Could you tell me if she’s available?’ Rachel enquired pleasantly.
‘No I couldnae,’ the desk sergeant growled, ‘because I’ve no idea if she is or if she isnae.’
He made them sit and wait in the public reception area amongst the bail reporters, document producers and people with petty complaints. After nearly an hour a diminutive figure walked into the room. A woman the size of a twelve-year-old, but with the lined face and the voice of a navvy with a sixty-a-day habit. This, it turned out, was DI Morag Sillars.
‘Yous wanted to see me?’ The accent was pure Glasgow.
Rachel reached out her right hand, which wasn’t shaken. So instead she used it to produce her warrant card. ‘Is there somewhere we can go for a quick word?’
Bristling with reluctance, Sillars led them back to her office and climbed into a chair which seemed far too tall for her. The packet of Mayfair and lighter on the desk confirmed the habit that had honed her deep, rasping Glaswegian tones. Her thin, dirty-blonde hair was scraped back into a short ponytail and she wore a skirt suit that was far too large for her, with laddered tights.
‘So, what d’you want?’ Professional niceties were going to be dispensed with, it seemed.
Rachel introduced Brickall and explained that they had been tasked with making enquiries about Emily van Meijer’s death on behalf of the Dutch Embassy.
‘Nothing to do with me anymore,’ Sillars shrugged. ‘The case is closed. The Fatalities Investigation Unit looked at it on behalf of the Procurator Fiscal, like they do with all sudden deaths in Scotland, and they were confident it was an accident.’
‘I’m sure it was; really all we’re doing is seeking some reassurance. Call it a diplomatic exercise.’
‘I dinnae give a fuck about your diplomatic exercise,’ Sillars rasped. ‘Have you any idea what a bag of shite it is policing the fucking festival? Every year nearly three million morons pitch up in the city, getting wankered on cheap lager, pissing – and worse – in people’s gardens, getting their phones mugged, cracking their heids open on the pavement, getting into fights and breaking their necks while taking arseing selfies… have you any idea how much extra work that is?’
Rachel and Brickall treated this as a rhetorical question.
‘Well, go on, have you?’ Sillars snarled. ‘It’s over a hundred extra call-outs a week. So yes, it’s a shame that some rich kid fell off the Crags after a late night ramble, but trust me, it’s nothing new. It certainly doesn’t require any more “reassurance”.’
She made sarcastic quote marks with the last word before picking up her lighter and flicking it aggressively, sending out sparks.
‘DI Sillars… can I call you Morag?’ Brickall was at his twinkling, charming best. Rachel noticed the tiny woman’s body language soften a fraction. ‘We’re certainly not going to add to your workload. But if we could just review the file—’
‘Look, pretty boy, even if I wanted to – which I don’t – your lot have no jurisdiction on my patch. So no you can’t, not without sign-off from the Lord Advocate’s office.’
‘Fine,’ said Rachel, forcing another smile. ‘Thank you for your time. We’ll be back for the file once we’ve cleared it with the Lord Advocate.’
* * *
‘Forget “Morag”,’ muttered Brickall as they left the building. ‘More like “More-hag”. Just as well I didn’t bring Dolly – she’d probably have turned the poor mutt into a pair of gloves.’
They found a café a few yards away on Gayfield Place. It was far too congested with tourist trade to provide a table, but they bought two takeaway cups of coffee and a brownie for Brickall, and sat on one of the benches in the grassy centre of the square. It was a clear, sunny day, but the breeze had a distinctly chilly edge.
‘So what now?’ asked Brickall, spraying chocolatey crumbs over both their legs.
Rachel glared at him as she brushed them off her thighs. To bolster their credentials as envoys she had worn her best silver-grey Joseph linen suit; a rare designer splurge.
‘I’ll speak to Patten, and he’ll have to request formal authorisation from the Lord Advocate for us to work on the case. There wasn’t much in the briefing note I was given before I left London, but even with the little I’ve read about the case so far, there are some things that just aren’t sitting right with me.’ She gave Brickall a look that he knew all too well. It was a look that told him that now she had sunk her teeth into the case, she would not be letting go. ‘I honestly don’t see how we can go back to London without at least having a look at what’s in the police file.’
‘How bloody long’s that going to take?’
Rachel drained her coffee cup. ‘Who knows? Hopefully no more than a couple of days or so. A bit of diplomatic pressure should expedite things.’
‘So we’re going to stay here in the meantime?’
‘We might as well. That okay with you? And Betty? I’ve got my room booked for another couple of nights.’
‘Fine.’ Brickall launched a half-court volley with his coffee cup, landing it squarely in the rubbish bin. He held up his hand for a high five, which Rachel ignored. ‘At least it’s not as hot and sweaty as Calcutta up here. Dolly’s happy, and Betty does a cracking Scottish breakfast. You’ve not lived until you’ve tasted her tattie scones.’
‘I never will figure out
how you’re not twice the size,’ Rachel sighed. ‘You eat enough for five people.’
‘It’s all the energy I burn… How about you?’ Brickall asked, with a sideways glance. ‘You okay to be here for a bit longer? Got much going on back in London?’
‘Not much,’ Rachel admitted. ‘And, as you say, the weather’s less hellish here.’
‘What about the personal trainer?
Brickall still refused to call Howard by his name.
She sighed.
‘Given him his marching orders?’
‘Not yet. But… let’s just say the writing’s on the wall.’ She lobbed her own coffee cup, but it landed a few inches short. Brickall gave a snort of contempt as he picked it up and kicked it cleanly into the bin.
‘Time to channel some of that energy you’re bragging about into being an investigating officer,’ Rachel told him. ‘Come on, Wayne Rooney.’
* * *
They arranged to meet a couple of hours later, after Rachel had changed out of her suit into jeans and T-shirt, and Brickall had fetched Dolly. She spent some of the intervening downtime on her bed with her laptop, checking out the White Crystal website. It looked outdated, with clunky links and graphics and a few amateurish photo galleries of beaming groups of teenagers in cagoules, against classic Edinburgh backdrops. They claimed to offer ‘a fully integrated and supervised Festival experience, with secure and comfortable accommodation where a team leader is present at all times’. The emphasis appeared to be on wholesome fun, and reassuring parents that their little darlings would be safe. It wasn’t cheap either, costing €4,500 plus VAT for a ten-day tour. No wonder their target audience was wealthy Eurocrats.
‘Where are we going this time?’ Brickall asked, as they walked down Dundas Street.
‘We’re paying a friendly visit to White Crystal Tours,’ Rachel told him. ‘Only, remember, we don’t have authority to operate here yet, so we’ve got to keep this strictly informal. That’s why I asked you to bring Dolly. As a prop. She reinforces the idea that we’re off-duty.’