by Alison James
He nodded, watching her face. The sadness never left his eyes, not for a second.
‘Tell me about Emily,’ she said. ‘It’s always helpful to know a bit more about a person when conducting an enquiry.’ It would have been a little tactless to use the term victimology, but that was what this was. Knowing your victim. ‘What kind of a girl was she? What made her tick, what inspired her?’
Van Meijer gave a shuddering sigh, one that encompassed the depths of grief. For a few seconds he dropped his head and rested his face against his fingers. When he surfaced again, he spoke levelly. ‘She was a joy from day one. A lovely, easy baby, a delightful little girl. On the serious side, but loving, caring. Her two big brothers adored her.’
‘This must be terribly hard for them. And for Emily’s mother.’
He nodded. ‘Emily had an enquiring mind, always questioning everything. The endless questions when she was four or five years old… it could drive you mad sometimes.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘She studied hard at school, and was an able student, if not exceptional. She was approached by a couple of top modelling agencies, but she wasn’t interested in going down that route. Her dream was to go to Harvard and study Environmental Science and Public Policy.’
There was a hollow silence as they both acknowledged that this would now never happen. Van Meijer offered more champagne, but Rachel shook her head.
‘The thing about Emily: she was never a silly kid. She had a privileged upbringing, sure – travelled a lot, met sophisticated people. So she was old for her years: wordly, if you like. What they said about her drinking a load of stolen whisky and going off alone to take photos in the dark; that would never have happened. That wasn’t Emily, she wouldn’t behave like that. I just know it.’
Van Meijer looked straight at Rachel. ‘Do you have children?’
She hesitated a split second, then shook her head.
‘Well when… if… you do… you will know that child just like you know yourself. You know their heart, and you know their mind. And I’m telling you: my Emily did not do this. What they say she did, this is not what happened.’ He spoke with chilling certainty.
‘When did you last speak to Emily, Mr— Dries.’
‘The day before she died. We Facetimed, briefly. I was at La Guardia in New York, about to fly back from a meeting.’
‘And how was she?’
Van Meijer paused a beat. ‘I felt like something was wrong. I asked her, and she denied it, but I could tell something was unsettling her. She had something on her mind. Again, with your own child you just know, without them needing to say anything.’
‘Did she make friends with any of the others in the group at White Crystal?’
‘Ridiculous name,’ van Meijer interjected.
Rachel smiled in agreement. ‘Did she mention anyone to you?’
‘There was a boy in the same group from her school in Leiden. Luuk Rynsberger. They were good friends, and travelled over from the Netherlands together.’
‘Have you talked to Luuk since… he came back?’
Van Meijer shook his head. ‘It was too soon after losing our daughter. We were all in such deep shock… Emily also mentioned an Irish girl she liked. She spoke about her a couple of times; said they got on well.’
Rachel took her notebook from her pocket and consulted it, remembering the girl who had given the statement in Emily’s police file. ‘Was it Niamh Donovan, by any chance?’
He nodded. ‘Niamh, yes, that’s right. She was from Dublin.’
‘I’ll get hold of her details, and hopefully I’ll be able to speak to her.’
‘If you need to go over to Dublin, I’m happy to put my plane at your disposal. If it would make it easier.’
Rachel smiled. ‘That’s very kind, and it would no doubt make things easier, but my boss would never agree to it. Police officers have to act impartially, and being flown around in private jets would make us look… well, not impartial.’
Van Meijer nodded. ‘I understand.’ He walked over to the window and looked out over the dark silhouette of the city against a pink and gold-streaked sky. ‘It’s just my impatience, you understand. My frustration.’
‘I do understand. And I will go as soon as I’m able.’
‘At least let me help organise it. The National Crime Agency can bill me for any costs where appropriate. You’re away from your office and your everyday infrastructure here, after all.’
Rachel nodded. ‘I’ll certainly be in touch if I need any help, if it comes to taking our enquiries to Ireland.’
He walked over and clasped her hand in both of his. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please try. I have to know what happened to my girl.’
Seven
‘Let me get this right: you turned down a trip in a private jet?’
Brickall looked incredulously at Rachel.
‘Come off it,’ Rachel scoffed. ‘Seriously, DS Brickall, you’re not suggesting I should have accepted? I can see the headlines in the Daily Mail now: LONDON COP JAUNTS IN BILLIONAIRE JET.’
They were back in Gayfield Square with Dolly in tow, this time to request the file on Bruno Martinez. Rachel took Dolly’s lead from Brickall.
‘Why don’t you go in on your own this time? DI Sillars clearly preferred you to me.’
‘She had a funny way of showing it.’
‘Okay, she despised you less, then. Go in there and work your magic and we’ll wait for you here. Me and Dolly.’
‘It’s Saturday; she might not even be rostered on.’
Brickall went into the building anyway, leaving Rachel sitting on the steps with Dolly at her feet. Ten minutes later he emerged carrying a manila folder. He handed it to Rachel. ‘Bruno Martinez’s file. As requested.’
‘She was there?’
‘Yep. I suspect she doesn’t have such thing as a personal life. Anyway, I talked about football; worked like a charm. Old More-hag’s a diehard Rangers fan, hardly surprising, seeing as she’s a Weegie. That’s her kryptonite.’ He slapped the file down next to Rachel. ‘Having said that, there’s not a whole lot in here.’
They walked to a café on York Place to get out of the chilly wind. Brickall ordered two coffees and a fry-up for himself, and they went through the contents of the folder. The most informative piece of paperwork was the incident report by PC Kirstie Blair, who was the first officer on the scene.
I was on patrol with PC Davey Robertson at 2.45 a.m. on the morning of 12 August 2015 when I received a radio call from despatch to say a member of the public had spotted someone in the water off Lighthouse Park in Leith. On arrival at the scene, I confirmed that there was what appeared to be the body of a young man face down in the water. PC Robertson radioed despatch and asked them to contact the Dive and Marine Unit. Approximately ten minutes later DMU arrived in an inflatable launch and pulled the body of a male from the water, pronouncing him to be deceased. The witness who phoned the police, a shift worker called Derek McGraw, was taking his dog for a late-night walk when he spotted the body in the water. The park was deserted at that time, and he reported seeing no other passers-by. PC Faulds from the Dive Unit handed me the wallet from the clothing of the deceased. This confirmed that he was a French national called Bruno Martinez, and that he was a student on a cultural tour, staying at 34 Campbell Road, Murrayfield. I passed on this information to control, who despatched a mobile unit to the address.
A police appeal for information later prompted another witness, Caitlyn Anderson, to come forward. Her statement described how at around 1.30 a.m. she was returning home from a party and saw a young woman and a younger man standing near a car parked at the end of Western Harbour Drive, near the approach to Lighthouse Park. The male – answering Bruno’s description – appeared drunk and the woman appeared to have stopped to help, and to be attempting to persuade him into the car. All that she saw of the car was that it was brown coloured.
Hazel MacBain had also been interviewed, but her statement was extremely brief, merely saying
that she had been suffering pregnancy problems and was on bed rest. She didn’t hear or see anything on the evening of the 11 August.
‘Odd,’ commented Rachel. ‘If it was that cut and dried, why was Hazel so reluctant to speak to us about it? Why didn’t she just tell us what’s written here?’
‘Maybe a sense of shame that two kids have met sticky ends while in her care.’ Brickall squirted more brown sauce onto his plate and set to work on a slab of fried haggis. ‘This is bloody delicious; you should have some.’
Rachel shook her head in disbelief. ‘Haven’t you already had a full Scottish at Betty’s this morning?’
‘So? Stick with what works.’ Brickall scooped scrambled egg onto his fork, while Rachel continued to sort through the contents of the folder. Dolly’s tail swept an eager arc across the café floor, and Brickall tossed her a piece of sausage.
Will MacBain’s statement was a little more detailed. He described how Bruno had seemed in a low mood on 11 August, complaining of being homesick. On the evening of the eleventh Will had been accompanying a group of seven students to a concert being held at the Queen’s Hall in the city, returning in the minibus at around 10.45 p.m. The first he knew of Bruno’s disappearance was the arrival of the police in Campbell Road at 5 a.m. on the twelfth, but when he subsequently looked in the boy’s room he found an empty bottle of port. An identical bottle was missing from the drinks cupboard in the MacBain’s private quarters.
‘Leith Docks is even further than Salisbury Crags,’ Brickall observed. ‘Again, very odd to go that far on a late night bender. Alone, just like Emily was.’
‘Hmmm,’ Rachel looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite that straightforward. Maybe he had a falling out with another student. Teenage boys are a moody lot, prone to mooching off on their own. You should know: you used to be one.’
‘Touché,’ grinned Brickall. ‘But unless we find a link to the van Meijer case, I guess we’re going to have to write it off as an unfortunate coincidence. One that reflects badly on White Crystal Tours, even if the deaths weren’t directly their fault. You can kind of understand why they would want to keep things quiet. For commercial reasons if nothing else.’
‘There is one thing…’ Rachel pulled out the post-mortem report. It stated that death was due to drowning and hypothermia. The Firth of Forth was only a few degrees above freezing at night, even in August, and the cold and the alcohol in Bruno’s system would quickly have rendered him unconscious. ‘Look.’ She pointed to the signature of the pathologist. ‘Dr Fraser Dewar. Same one that did the PM on Emily.’
Brickall shrugged, wiping the grease from his lips with a paper napkin. ‘If it’s a small lab, that’s probably not too surprising.’
‘Maybe. I’d still like to speak to him though.’
‘So what’s next? That, or a trip to Dublin to talk to the Irish girl?’ Brickall reached down and fondled Dolly’s ears.
‘Dublin’s definitely for tomorrow; the pathologist can wait a bit longer. But our first priority has to be talking to Will MacBain. Let’s do it this evening. That way we’ve got a chance of catching both the MacBains in. I want to see if talking to them together throws up anything worthwhile.’
* * *
Rachel and Brickall made the return trip to Campbell Road at seven that evening.
Hazel MacBain met them at the front door wearing a frilly apron, which was stretched slightly by her pregnant abdomen. What woman under the age of forty owns an apron? Rachel wondered. The bleep of video games and the click of billiard balls came from the other side of the hall, punctuated by bursts of adolescent laughter.
‘Back so soon?’ Hazel forced a little laugh. ‘You can’t keep away from the place… only I’m afraid this isn’t the most convenient time,’ she added. ‘Will’s putting the children to bed, and I’m getting supper ready for the students.’
‘It’s okay, it won’t take long,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘We’ll just pop up and have a quick word with your husband, and as soon as you get a minute, perhaps you’d come up and join us.’
Hazel peered out of the front door. ‘You’ve not brought the dog with you? Only it’s bound to get Esme all wound up, just as Will needs to settle her.’
‘No dog,’ confirmed Brickall, who had left Dolly watching Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway with Betty.
Will MacBain was sitting on the sofa in the family living room on the top floor. He was reading a pyjama-clad Esme a story, turning the pages with one hand while propping a bottle of milk in Angus’s mouth. From the doorway, Brickall waved at Esme, who stuck out her tongue.
‘Just give me two minutes please,’ said Will. He had the sort of blandly conventional looks that would not have been out of place on the front of a knitting pattern. His mousey hair was brushed back neatly from his forehead, and he wore glasses with square steel rims. His clothes were those of a much older man: a checked Viyella shirt and sleeveless navy sweater, and punched leather brogues. He reminded Rachel of the young male teachers at her former school.
He read the last two pages of Peppa Pig, prised the teat from a dozing Angus’s mouth and took the children to their rooms, indicating to Rachel and Brickall that they should take a seat while he completed the bedtime ritual. There were a few high-pitched protests from Esme, but as Will came back into the living room she fell silent.
‘How can I help you, officers?’ He had the clear and mellifluous speaking voice of someone who also sings well.
‘Just a couple of things relating to your statement about the night Emily van Meijer died,’ said Rachel. ‘Why did you call the mountain rescue team when you realised she had gone missing? Rather than contact the police straight away.’
‘Because I had a hunch she might have gone out to the Crags.’ Will spoke evenly, pleasantly. ‘And when it comes to finding people in the dark, they have a greater chance of getting to them fast. They’re the experts in that sort of terrain, not the police. And bear in mind I had no idea what had happened to the poor girl at that time; that she was…’ His voice trailed off and he adopted a look of sorrow. ‘We just thought she’d got lost.’
Brickall ignored this. ‘Why did Kenneth Candlish mislead us about Bruno Martinez?’ he demanded.
Will looked genuinely puzzled.
‘When we visited him at your company’s offices, he assured us that Emily van Meijer’s death was an isolated incident. And yet you had lost one of your students in very similar circumstances the year before last.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Will said. ‘I mean, he knew about Bruno. Of course he did. Maybe he just forgot.’
‘Forgot?’ Brickall repeated. ‘He forgot a kid that died when under your care? Really?’
Will twisted his mouth in an exasperated expression. ‘I don’t mean forget in that sense… Kenneth is fond of a dram, and it can affect his recall. Sometimes he’s not as mentally sharp as would be ideal. I expect that’s what it was.’
‘He seemed perfectly sharp to me,’ said Rachel, recalling the beady little eyes, the incisive summary of why the two officers were in Scotland. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t trying to keep us from finding out about him?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Will calmly. ‘There would be no reason to. The Procurator Fiscal was satisfied that Bruno fell into the sea and drowned, after drinking alcohol.’
‘Hardly great for business though, is it?’ Brickall persisted. ‘Two of your clients dead in twenty-four months. Doesn’t reflect well on White Crystal.’
‘No. Probably not.’ Will looked suitably grave.
The smell of hot food wafted up the stairs, and Hazel appeared, without her apron this time. She sat down beside her husband, pressing herself against his side. ‘Kids go down all right, love?’
Will wrapped an arm round his wife and drew her in close, kissing her on the top of her head. ‘All fine darling, don’t worry.’ He kept her in the close embrace, looking back at Rachel and Brickall defiantly.
‘How long have you two been ma
rried?’ Rachel asked.
‘Seven years,’ they answered in unison.
‘Seven years and four months of bliss,’ Will said, kissing his wife again. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and snuggled against him. Rachel and Brickall exchanged glances.
‘So what’s your secret?’ Brickall asked provocatively. ‘What is it that makes you act like newlyweds after all this time? Supposed to be the seven-year itch, isn’t it?’
‘Will is my rock,’ said Hazel, glancing adoringly at her spouse. ‘And we have so much in common. Our faith for a start.’ She reached her hand to her neck and fingered the small gold crucifix hanging there. ‘And I like to think we have a traditional marriage. We respect the traditional male and female roles.’
‘That’s right,’ said Will smugly. ‘We’ve not tried to reinvent the wheel. Hazel’s happy to do all the cooking and supervise looking after the house.’
‘Big place to keep clean,’ observed Rachel.
‘We do have a cleaning lady; Mrs Muir,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s been with us for years, and she does the students’ rooms and helps me up here. I do most of the childcare, apart from when I’m cooking for the students, when Will helps with bedtime. Like today. I do all the shopping, apart from cash-and-carry runs that require the car. Will supervises the students apart from – you know – female problems and medical stuff… and the building maintenance, the vehicles and the bill paying are all his domain. It works for us,’ she finished simply.
‘It does,’ said Will, kissing his wife again.
‘How do you go about deciding which festival events the students will see?’ asked Rachel.
‘Well, you may not have realised it, but there are thousands of things going on.’ Will’s smile was faintly patronising. ‘We get a copy of the programme in advance, and I go through it carefully and make selections. And obviously, a lot of the more… adult themed… fare is not appropriate for fifteen to seventeen year olds. We usually go with a couple of magic shows, a couple of classical concerts, maybe one serious play, and some physical theatre or circus acts. Those are usually popular. And then on top of the festival we do a few local trips of educational value. We find that’s a balance that works out well. The students always say how much they enjoy the programme, and some come back more than once.’