by Alison James
The company’s offices were on the first floor of a classic New Town terrace in Drummond Place. The interior reminded Rachel of her childhood dentist’s waiting room: the smell of furniture polish and quality carpeting that had definitely seen better days. The combined reception and outer office was graced with an arrangement of silk flowers, and manned by a woman of indeterminate years with curls firmly hair-sprayed into place, a double strand of pearls and a cashmere twinset. She was transferring what appeared to be data from a set of forms into a spreadsheet, her face so tight with concentration that she failed to notice her visitors for several seconds.
‘Oh dearie me,’ she said, her hand flying to her throat when she spotted Dolly. ‘I don’t know about bringing dogs in here.’
Brickall gave her his most disarming smile. ‘She doesn’t bite, I promise.’
Dolly positioned herself at his feet, her tail thumping the carpet on cue.
Rachel produced her warrant card. ‘Could I have a word with your chief executive… or whatever he or she styles themselves?’
‘You’ll want the managing director. Kenneth Candlish.’ The woman directed this at Dolly, who looked back at her with sad eyes.
‘Is he available?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ the woman said sternly. ‘You’ve not an appointment.’
‘Is he free by any chance?’ asked Rachel, employing more patience than she would have done when working south of the border. They couldn’t afford to throw their weight about; not yet.
The woman darted out from behind her desk and tapped on one of the two doors that adjoined reception, before slipping through it. A few seconds later, she opened the door wide and ushered Rachel and Brickall in.
‘You can leave the dog here; it’ll be fine.’
Kenneth Candlish was a short, square man who Rachel put at about sixty, although his prematurely white hair and goatee beard made him appear at least a decade older. He wore a floral silk cravat in the open neck of his shirt, and had beautifully manicured hands. The overall effect was more suggestive of a theatrical agent than a youth-tour leader. He smiled broadly when he saw them.
‘Do come in, officers.’ Candlish waved to two rickety velvet-covered chairs opposite his desk. He had a genteel Edinburgh accent: precise and studied. ‘I’m guessing your call is in connection with poor wee Emily van Meijer.’
Rachel confirmed this, and stressed that their call was purely informal.
‘In that case, I expect you’re having to cross the t’s and dot the i’s,’ Candlish said astutely. Behind the grandiose manner, his deep-set eyes were sharp. ‘But really, I’m afraid there’s nothing to add. The local constabulary dealt with the matter perfectly appropriately, and the Procurator Fiscal declared it death by misadventure. I am aware though,’ he steepled his fingers to add gravitas to his words, ‘that the van Meijer family are still not satisfied. Perhaps not surprising, but there’s really nothing more that we’re able to do for them. They have all the facts.’
‘Which are?’ asked Brickall.
‘That on the evening in question, Emily stole a bottle of liqueur from Mr and Mrs MacBain – the house parents in charge of the students’ residence – drank quite a bit of it and took herself off out to Holyrood Park, where she slipped and fell from the edge of the Crags. The post-mortem confirmed this. It’s all very distressing, but I must stress it was a one-off. Alcohol consumption is strictly banned in the student residence. We’re highly safety conscious, and White Crystal have never had any problems of this nature before.’
‘What kind of a girl was Emily?’ asked Rachel. She tried to forget the images taken post-mortem and instead conjure a mental image of the other photo that had been in the briefing notes: a tall, blonde girl with model good looks; serious but with a confident air.
‘I didn’t get to speak with her personally, but apparently she was a pleasant young woman. Polite, not rowdy or disruptive, but certainly one of the more confident members of the group. They’re only with us for a period of ten days, so we don’t really get to know them well as individuals.’ Candlish smiled blandly.
‘And where are the kids based?’ asked Brickall.
‘At our residential dormitory, in Murrayfield. My assistant director, Will MacBain, lives there with his wife. Will’s also in charge of organising the students’ visits to the various festival events.’
Candlish spoke complacently, as though Rachel and Brickall were themselves parents of a prospective tour participant.
‘May we speak to them?’ Rachel asked. ‘The other children in Emily van Meijer’s group?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ Candlish sighed regretfully and spread his hands over his waistcoated midriff, where a gold watch chain was just visible. ‘The rest of the group have all returned home to their families. Their ten days were over the day after the incident. We do three tours of ten days over the festival period, with approximately twenty participants each time. The students we have currently are the second group, who obviously didn’t know Emily and weren’t here when… it… happened.’
Convenient, thought Rachel. But because she had no official authority, she kept this thought to herself.
‘Where do most of your punters come from?’ asked Brickall.
‘From all over. We have some from the Netherlands, from Spain and Italy. And quite a lot from the Irish Republic, obviously.’
‘Obviously?’ repeated Rachel.
‘They all come from Roman Catholic backgrounds: we’re a Catholic organisation. We have more applications than places, so we’re fortunate to be able to pick the brightest, most diligent students, all from good Catholic homes.’
He sounded so smug when he said this that Rachel grimaced involuntarily. ‘If we could speak to your house parents before we wind things up here in Edinburgh, that would be very helpful.’ She stood up, suddenly desperate to get out of this stuffy room.
‘Of course, anything to help. Jean will give you their details on the way out.’ Candlish crinkled his narrow eyes in a smile, remaining seated.
‘One thing,’ said Brickall, pausing as they reached the door. ‘Why White Crystal?’
‘Because white crystals are the emblem of unity, of purity. They symbolise innocence.’
* * *
‘So – all fairly straightforward,’ Brickall said a few seconds later as they clattered down the stairs and out onto the street, Dolly padding after them.
Rachel shot him a look. ‘Funny, that. I was thinking exactly the opposite.’
Four
According to its website, Van Meijer Industries was the largest oil and gas industry contractor of its kind in the world. They were by far the biggest employer in the Leiden metropolitan area, but their reach was global, and the company’s worth was estimated at a billion euros.
Rachel sat at the table in the window of her room for a while, reading about how they provided offshore drilling platforms everywhere from north Norway to Mumbai, and had offices on every continent. For the van Meijers, the steep fee for the White Crystal trip would be a mere drop in the bucket.
She googled Dries van Meijer, and discovered a flamboyant playboy past in the years before he took over from his father as CEO of the company. There was a sequence of paparazzi shots from nightclubs in Cannes, Monaco and New York, with various actress-slash-models draping themselves over him. Eventually there were pictures of a wedding, at the Catholic Cathedral of St Catherine in Utrecht. His bride – in a Valentino gown and accompanied by ten bridesmaids – was an Austrian aristocrat called Annemarie von Burgau. Later there were charming baptism shoots captured in the European editions of Hello magazine, first of Willem, then Sem and finally baby Emily. There was so much pride on Dries’s face as he cradled his daughter in the traditional lace christening gown: it made Rachel’s heart ache.
After looking at the family photos, she regretted not talking to van Meijer properly before leaving London. One on one. To better understand just why he was so sure this
was not an accident. Know your victim: that was always the starting point in any enquiry, and who better to paint the picture than Emily’s own father? She found the email address for the Dutch ambassador’s assistant in the briefing file and sent a brief request for a phone conversation with Dries van Meijer, before putting her laptop away and getting ready to go out.
* * *
Choosing the right outfit for meeting your ex-husband’s new wife was always going to be tricky. Self-respect had to be maintained without appearing to try too hard. It didn’t help that she hadn’t brought many clothes in her carry-on luggage. In the end, Rachel settled on the trousers from the grey linen suit, worn with a loose, semi-sheer blouse with voluminous sleeves and a ruffled front. She put on the only pair of smart shoes she had in her case – cream kitten heels – let down her blonde ponytail and applied her make-up to look as though she wasn’t wearing any, even though she was. Was the new Mrs Ritchie right now engaged in a similar exercise, she wondered. Did she mind the ongoing contact with the first Mrs Ritchie?
The answer probably depended on how Stuart had framed this evening’s socialising for his new bride. He and Rachel no longer had financial ties or joint property, and he had no need to keep her on side. The only possible reason to do this, now they had all moved on, was in the spirit of remaining friends. Of demonstrating that there were no hard feelings.
* * *
Stuart and Claire Ritchie lived in a pleasant stone terrace in Inverleith, overlooking the Botanic Gardens. The pretty, tree-lined street was luminous in the setting sun; an oasis away from the frantic festival activity. Rachel paused and enjoyed a moment of peace before walking up the front path and ringing the bell.
Stuart must have seen her approaching, because the door was immediately flung open. ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he boomed effusively, while Claire kissed Rachel on the cheek saying, ‘So nice to finally meet you.’ She didn’t add the cliché that she had heard a lot about her husband’s first wife, but it was implied. Claire had a smooth chestnut bob and a gentle, open face that was attractive but not quite beautiful. She wore jeans and a striped Breton top and her feet were bare, making Rachel wish she had opted for a more low-key look.
Rachel deflected the awkwardness by handing over a bottle of wine, expensive enough to impress even Stuart. Claire put it in the kitchen and led Rachel into the bay-windowed sitting room while Stuart organised drinks and snacks. It had a stripped wooden floor and open fireplace and was decorated with contemporary oil paintings and discreetly expensive furniture.
‘Dinner won’t be very long,’ Claire said, as though anxious to placate her guest. ‘I hope you eat fish? Stuart says you do.’
‘Fish would be great,’ Rachel assured her with a smile.
Stuart came in carrying a tray of drinks and a large bowl of tortilla chips. He handed Rachel a vodka and tonic, took a large glass of white wine for himself and gave Claire what looked like fizzy water.
‘I’m not drinking,’ Claire explained when she saw Rachel’s sideways glance. ‘We’re going through our second IVF cycle, and the embryos are due to be implanted tomorrow.’
‘Goodness!’ said Rachel, at a loss to be confronted with this personal information. What was the standard response? Congratulations? Commiserations? ‘How’s that going?’
‘It was tough when the first cycle failed,’ Claire said softly, glancing at Stuart. ‘But we re-grouped and… we’re hopeful things will work out this time. The doctor says my HCG levels are perfect.’
Claire beamed, and Rachel did her best to look as though she understood what this meant. ‘Well, that’s great. Exciting. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’
Claire sipped her water. ‘Stuart feels that now he’s reached the big five-oh there’s no time to waste, if he’s ever going to achieve his dream of being a dad.’
Was this a dig at her? Rachel glanced in Stuart’s direction to gauge her ex-husband’s reaction to this rather pointed remark. He, in turn, busied himself with putting a vinyl record onto a state-of-the-art turntable. Vinyl, of course: that was Stuart all over.
‘Sadly, Rachel and I weren’t together long enough to have a family,’ Stuart said smoothly. There was the faintest hint of chill in his voice. ‘It never really came up.’
Rachel nodded. Only this wasn’t quite true. Stuart had been very keen to start a family from day one.
‘I see,’ said Claire, sensing tension and making a show of handing round the tortilla chips then fetching a dish of guacamole. ‘These things have a way of working out for the best.’ She smiled, and offered the guacamole to Rachel, whose hand was shaking so much she narrowly avoided spilling the green paste on her pale trousers.
‘I expect it will,’ said Stuart, with forced cheeriness. ‘Top-up, anyone?’
* * *
They ate dinner in the handsome breakfast room that had been extended from the kitchen into the garden. The bi-fold doors were open to the outside, and a phalanx of solar garden lights gave the room a pleasant glow. Claire served roasted sea bass and fennel, a selection of pungent fresh cheeses with grapes, and a home-made white chocolate ice cream with frozen berries. It was all delicious, and Stuart didn’t attempt to hide his pride in his wife’s culinary accomplishments.
Keen to avoid more scrutiny of their former marriage, Rachel turned to the conversation to the reason she was in Edinburgh. She told them about her quasi-diplomatic mission, outlining the facts but not giving Emily’s name.
‘That young Dutch girl… I know the case all too well,’ said Stuart, who was a professor of pathology. ‘In fact, my department performed the PM at the Western General. It wasn’t me who did the work; it was one of my junior colleagues, but I remember everyone talking about it. There was an awkward interaction with the girl’s father, who was reluctant to accept the findings.’
‘Dries van Meijer,’ supplied Rachel.
‘That’s the one – big player in the oil industry. One of the reasons it’s stuck in my mind was because we had a very similar case a couple of summers ago. That was during the festival too: a young French lad in town for the festival who had a skinful and fell off the docks at Leith one night.’
The back of Rachel’s neck prickled. ‘Can you remember his name?’
‘Not off the top of my head, but I could look it up for you later; it’ll be in our online case records.’
‘Thank you. I’d be really grateful.’
Rachel offered to help with the clearing up once the meal was over, but was relieved when Claire refused. ‘Och no, don’t worry Rachel: our cleaning lady comes in the morning, so I’m going to leave it.’ She had a pretty, lilting Scottish accent.
‘Claire needs to be at the clinic first thing, so we’ll be heading straight to bed.’
Rachel seized this as an excuse to turn down the offer of brandy or coffee and ask her hosts to order her a cab. ‘Best of luck tomorrow,’ she said, embracing Claire, and meaning it. Claire seemed to make Stuart happy, and the evening had been a pleasant one. Even if the only thing she could now think about was the death of a second teenager.
* * *
It must have been on Stuart’s mind too, because by the time she had reached the Avalon Guest House there was already an email from him in her inbox.
The French boy’s name was Bruno Martinez. Date of birth: 23 April 1999, Lyon. Let me know if I can do any more to help. And lovely to see you tonight. S
Rachel kicked off her heels, stripped off her smart trousers and top, and climbed onto the bed with her laptop. She had taken to wearing just her underwear around the room in an attempt to extend the wear of the few clothes she had brought with her. She googled Bruno Martinez and found a Facebook tribute page. She wasn’t able to translate all of the adolescent outpourings, but she got the gist even though they were in French. Bruno was missed beyond measure, gone too soon, one of God’s angels now.
And, of course, at the top of the page there was a photo of Bruno. Rachel drew in her breath when she saw it. The boy was e
xceptionally good-looking, just as Emily van Meijer had been exceptionally beautiful. He had perfect bone structure, huge brown eyes and a shock of wavy dark-gold hair.
‘Shit,’ Rachel exclaimed to the empty room. ‘What happened to you?’
She returned to the White Crystal website and started scrolling through their archive pages. Each student group in each year was given a set of thumbnail pictures: carefree group shots with exaggerated and sometimes frankly daft poses. Typical teenage stuff. She clicked on the file for August 2015 and worked her way through the photos. And sure enough, there he was at the centre of one of the groups: mane of hair flying, arms spread wide as he did jazz hands.
Bruno Martinez.
Five
Rachel woke to teeming summer drizzle and a headache from the wine she had drunk at dinner.
She had hoped to go for a run, but instead shuffled down to breakfast in leggings and a now slightly grimy T-shirt. She sat with the other guests, nursing a coffee and listening to them chatter about the shows they planned to see that day as they tucked in to toast and porridge.
Her phone pinged. An email from Patten.
Good news: the Lord Advocate has given his permission for you to review the file and conduct secondary enquiries into the van Meijer case. The Dutch Prime Minister personally put in a call apparently – I’m not sure it would have come together so quickly without that. I’ll see you in London for a debrief in due course, but take as long as you need. Nigel.
Rachel went back up to her room and phoned Brickall.
‘Are we going to go and see the students’ dorm?’ he asked. ‘That was what we planned for this morning wasn’t it?’