by Alison James
‘So… that’s August taken care of, but how about when the students aren’t here?’ asked Brickall. ‘What do you do the rest of the year?’
Hazel glanced at her husband before answering. ‘We do another residential week in January, for Hogmanay, with eighteen to twenty-one year olds. There are usually quite a few cultural events on at that time of year. Will works as a counsellor on some Catholic youth scouting and orienteering weeks, and of course he helps Kenneth with all the business administration. He’s in the office a lot in off-season.’
‘I’m also very involved with the chapel,’ added Will, patting his wife’s shoulder. ‘I lead the youth choir and sing in the baroque choral group. And of course there are the wee ones; they keep us pretty busy. And our wider family.’
Hazel flushed, reaching for her crucifix again. ‘But mostly we just like being together.’
* * *
‘Pass me the fucking sick bucket,’ said Brickall, once he and Rachel had left the house.
‘I know,’ she concurred, with a shudder. ‘All that marital devotion. Creeped me out a bit.’
They fell silent as they walked along Corstorphine Road in the direction of the city centre, both lost in thought.
‘What d’you reckon, boss?’ asked Brickall after a few minutes. ‘I can practically see the cogs whirring in your brain.’
‘Something doesn’t feel right,’ said Rachel. ‘But I’m struggling to put my finger on what it is.’
‘Go on.’
‘Emily’s father was so adamant that his daughter wouldn’t act in the way the official narrative portrayed her, and I trust his instinct. And then there’s Bruno… although currently we don’t know enough about him to work out whether that behaviour was out of character. I need to speak to someone who did know him. Find out what sort of a kid he was.’
‘That guy Candlish seemed a bit slippery too. Bit too smooth. We need to look more closely at him.’
‘Maybe you could do some digging while I’m away in Dublin?’
They caught a tram from Gorgie to the city centre, and when they disembarked the crowds were building again, as the late-night show schedule got underway and the locals set about their Saturday night. Everywhere there were groups of festivalgoers consuming plastic beakers of cheap lager as they queued at various show venues. ‘Fancy a drink?’ asked Brickall.
‘Maybe,’ said Rachel. ‘But not here. We’re going on a little side trip.’
She hailed a cab, and asked the driver to take them to Leith Shore. They found a bar in a modern hotel and sat looking over the harbour while Rachel drank a glass of red wine and Brickall consumed two pints, a packet of crisps and some pork scratchings. Then, as it was starting to go dark, they walked along the Western Harbour Breakwater and out to Lighthouse Park, following the path to the furthest reach, where the lighthouse stood. It felt surprisingly remote and wild, for a city park. There was no lighting, and they could hear rather than see the gentle slap of the water against the rocks.
‘Great spot to chuck yourself into the sea with no one to see you,’ Brickall said, voicing what Rachel had been thinking. ‘Or to fall when you’re a bit sauced.’
‘Or to be pushed.’
Brickall turned to stare at Rachel’s profile in the darkness.
‘Is that what you think?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t currently have a credible theory. We don’t really know what happened. Which is why we need to keep asking questions.’
They strolled back up Leith Walk to the city centre, and as they neared the festival hub, every few yards some eager twenty-something – usually female – thrust invitations into their hands or tried to persuade them to come with them to some late night venue. There was the Hot Dub Time Machine, where they could ‘literally’ travel back in time (‘I doubt that,’ said Rachel drily), the Rhythm Furnace, where they were promised synth boogie and new wave disco, or a private party at a club called Hades, ‘where absolutely anything goes’.
‘The fleshpots of Scotland,’ Brickall observed. ‘There is definitely a whole other side to the festival than stand-up comedy and busking.’
Rachel looked down at the party invite in her hand. ‘I know. And that’s exactly what I’m starting to worry about.’
Eight
When Rachel arrived at Edinburgh Airport to check in for her flight to Dublin the following afternoon, she was intercepted by a member of the airline’s VIP services team.
‘Mr van Meijer wanted us to take care of you,’ the woman told her, ripping up the boarding pass Rachel had printed at the Avalon Guest House and replacing it with one for First Class. ‘Please feel free to use the lounge facilities. I was also asked to pass this along when you checked in.’
She handed Rachel a padded envelope. Inside was a set of keys and a typed note on Van Meijer Industries headed paper.
DI Prince,
These are the keys for our company apartment in Dublin, and I do hope you will feel able to make use of it while you are in the city. The concierge has been informed and everything will be ready for you when you arrive, including a car to meet you at the airport. If you need any further assistance while you are there, please contact my assistant Ronan O’Connell on the number above.
Sincerely, Dries van Meijer.
Rachel had merely informed Dries van Meijer of her intended trip as a courtesy, not expecting this level of hospitality. Still, since the visit was subject to a degree of time pressure, the help was not entirely unwelcome.
* * *
When the car pulled up outside, she found that the apartment was in a modern high-rise development on Charlotte Quay, overlooking the Liffey. It was a sleek, rather soulless building mostly given over to corporate rentals, and the inside of the apartment itself was styled to resemble a suite in an expensive hotel. However, there were an umbrella and wellingtons for her use, the fridge had been stocked, there were cosy cashmere throws on the sofa, and a bottle of vintage champagne stood to attention in an ice bucket.
This last touch felt a little over the top given that Rachel was in town for a police enquiry rather than a honeymoon, but she did appreciate the efforts to make her feel welcome. Should she be accepting this hospitality at all? It was a thorny question, but she rationalised it as being like staying with a friend. Staying with a friend while simultaneously saving an expense on the public purse.
But it stops here though, she told herself, changing into jeans and a T-shirt and leaving the comfort of the apartment behind. No more freebies: it wasn’t exactly ethical.
Instead of heading to one of the anonymous hotel bars on the quayside she set off for a longer walk. It was a balmy evening, warmer than in Edinburgh, and even though the crowds were nowhere near as oppressive as those that had been milling around the festival, there were still plenty of tourists on the street. Rachel strolled for twenty minutes in a north-westerly direction, ending up in the former working-class suburb of Stoneybatter, where she found a traditional pub with blue-painted frontage. The area was now the preserve of hipsters, and apart from a few gnarled local drinkers who looked as though they hadn’t budged from their bar stool in seventy years, the pub was wall-to-wall woodcutters’ beards, plaid shirts and nose piercings. Rachel ordered herself a glass of Irish whisky with a soda water chaser and took refuge at a tiny corner table away from the noise.
Brickall had sent her an email, and she read it while she sipped the whisky.
Did some chasing up on Candlish: as much as I could on a Sunday anyway. I searched available databases and made a load of phone calls. He doesn’t have a record, but you could certainly say he has form. He worked as a bursar in a private boys’ school in the highlands, but was let go because of ‘inappropriate conduct’. The head didn’t want to tell me what it was, but after reminding him that obstructing a police enquiry was an offence, he coughed.
Rachel gave a rueful smile. Will MacBain hadn’t exactly been keen to give her Niamh Donovan’s address, and she had had to issue him with a sim
ilar reminder.
Apparently Candlish was accused of touching up one of the pupils. He denied it, but the school decided to take the boy’s word for it. Also, pre-dating computerised records and therefore wiped, he had a historic police caution on his employee record for similar behaviour. The head said Candlish disclosed it at the time he applied for the post. Presumably because he was afraid it might come to light somehow. They hired him anyway, which tells you all you need to know about public schools, IMO. The company records for White Crystal show that he set it up himself, probably because at that point nobody else would employ him to work with youngsters. So I reckon we definitely need to speak to him again.
Tomorrow morning I’m going to bat my eyelashes at More-hag and see if I can track down the witnesses in the Martinez case. See you when you get back. Stay away from random Irish men: they’ve all got the gift of the gab. As you already know ;)
Right on cue, her phone rang. Howard. Noise levels in the pub were rising, so she took the call out into the corridor.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’
Exasperation rose in her like an unstoppable force. ‘I do,’ she said, faking cheeriness.
‘Where are you – still in Scotland?’
‘Dublin.’
‘Dublin? You’re kidding, right?’
Rachel took a deep breath and quelled her irritation.
‘Nope, not kidding. I’m really in Dublin. I’m actually in a genuine Irish pub, though I’ve swerved the Guinness.’
‘But this is… you’re there for work?’ Howard sounded confused.
‘Work, yes. Most definitely. Same case as Scotland.’
‘So when am I going to see you?’
‘I really don’t know. Soon.’
‘So I’ll carry on watering the plants then. Anything else that needs doing?’
‘No, don’t worry about it.’ She was starting to regret letting him have his own key. ‘I’ll be back very soon, so there’s no need. Look, Howard, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I’m back in London.’
‘But, honey—’
She cut the call and went back to her table. A folk band was setting up in one corner, and Rachel sat there for another hour enjoying the live music and the Irish joviality. It made her think not of random Irish men, but of one Irishman in particular, a man with eyes as dark as the ocean. Giles Denton.
Nine
Niamh Donovan lived in a handsome Victorian red-brick house in Rathgar. She answered the door herself: an extremely pretty girl of fifteen, with vibrant red hair worn in long waves and Instagram-ready make-up applied with the skill of a professional.
‘Are you alone?’ Rachel asked, after introducing herself.
Niamh nodded. ‘My parents are both at work.’
‘And they’ll be back… when?’
‘This evening. Seven-ish?’
Rachel calculated. She didn’t have enough time to return to Rathgar in the evening. An appropriate adult was required for a formal interview. So this would have to remain informal. It was better than nothing.
‘All right if I come in?’
The girl hesitated a second, looking past Rachel into the street. ‘I suppose so. Just for a minute.’
‘What do your parents do?’ Rachel looked around at the comfortable, expensively decorated interior, as Niamh led her back into the kitchen.
‘Dad’s a lawyer and Mum’s a doctor. Coffee?’
‘Yes please.’
Niamh fired up a state-of-the-art espresso machine. ‘Is this about Emily?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Just a quick chat. Nothing official.’
‘But you’re not Scottish?’ She handed over a mug of coffee and a jug of milk.
Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m part of an enquiry team from London. We’re looking a bit more closely into the circumstances surrounding the accident. I understand you and Emily became friendly during the trip?’
Niamh ignored this. She became very still, and her artfully highlighted blue eyes were huge in her face. ‘But why? Why do they need to ask more questions? It was an accident. They said it was an accident.’
Rachel motioned for the girl to take a seat, but she remained standing.
‘Why don’t you start by telling me what you remember about the night Emily died?’
‘I just…’ Niamh brushed at sudden tears with the tips of her fingers. ‘I was asleep when they went out looking for her. I only knew she’d died the next morning when Mr MacBain called us all into the refectory to speak to us. Her room was underneath mine, and I do remember hearing voices from there, just quiet talking, then it sounded a bit like the furniture was being moved around. But it went quiet, and then I went to sleep. I wish now I’d gone downstairs to check on her.’
‘So do you think she would have gone out into the night to take pictures?’
Niamh shook her head vigorously. ‘No. No.’
‘They did find her selfie stick by— with her.’
‘Emily didn’t have a selfie stick!’ Niamh’s tone was scornful.
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. She despised them; she used to laugh at the Japanese tourists who were waving them about everywhere. Em was way too cool for one of those.’
Rachel considered this for a second, taking a sip of the coffee. ‘Could she have borrowed it?’
She frowned. ‘I mean, I suppose so. Someone in the house might have had one. But why? Why would she? It would be so out of character.’
‘That’s what her family think too. Which is why we’re conducting this secondary enquiry. One of the reasons.’
Niamh hesitated, her body tensing as though she was actively trying to contain herself. Eventually she pulled out the chair opposite Rachel and sat down on it. ‘Is this…’
Her voice trailed off. Rachel waited.
‘Is this because of the parties?’
‘The parties?’
‘We were…’ Niamh dragged her hand over her eyes. ‘This is just between you and me, right?’
Rachel nodded. ‘It’s purely an informal chat, yes. I won’t be writing anything down, or recording it.’
‘I mean, you don’t have to tell my parents?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Go on Niamh,’ she said gently. ‘It’s really important you tell me anything you think might be relevant.’
She exhaled hard. ‘Okay, well you know how you get handed flyers for events that are going on at the festival?’
Rachel nodded.
‘Well me and Emily and a couple of the others were out in the city one day, on our way to a concert, and we were handed these… invite things. The people who gave them to us said they were for a private party and if we wanted to go it would be loads of fun. And back at the house, one of the French girls, Marie-Laure, saw the invite and went all weird on us.’
‘Weird?’ Rachel repeated.
‘You know how other kids are when they don’t want to talk about something, but they want you to know that they know about it, to seem sophisticated or whatever.’
‘Yes,’ Rachel said cautiously, casting her mind back to when she’d been sixteen.
‘So eventually she said she’d been to one of the same parties the summer before. ‘Cause this year wasn’t her first time doing White Crystal. She said it was all a bit out of control, you know – loads of booze and people copping off – and if we were planning to go we shouldn’t tell the MacBains because they wouldn’t allow it. So me and Emily and Luuk snuck out and walked part of the way into town, then we got a taxi to the address on the invite. It was this big, fancy house. And then…’
‘Go on,’ Rachel repeated gently.
‘I don’t know; it was all a bit strange. There were lots of people there, but older people, no one our age. Some of them were wearing masks, you know, not like Halloween masks, like ones from a masked ball. And all these guys wanted to talk to us. They gave me loads of champagne and…’
She fell silent. The cat flap clattered open and a l
arge tabby shot in, scuttling under the table and winding itself around Niamh’s chair legs before jumping up on to her lap. She rubbed its ears absently and gave a deep sigh.
‘Niamh?’
‘The problem is I don’t really remember what happened next. I’d never drunk champagne before. My parents won’t let me drink at all. I think I remember someone trying to kiss me and touch my… chest… but I can’t be sure. I think I passed out, because the next thing I knew it was literally hours later – like hours – and I was in the back of a taxi with Emily and Luuk, heading back to the dorm again.’
‘Did the three of you talk about what happened?’
She shook her head. ‘We didn’t really get the chance. I felt so unwell, really mortal, and the taxi had to stop for me to get out and throw up. And I got puke on my dress; it was awful. Luuk was being like a big brother, trying to look after me, but Emily just went really quiet. Afterwards it was like it had all been a really weird dream. And I had a horrible headache, the worst. But then—’ She dropped her eyes. ‘Look, Ms Prince—’
‘Call me Rachel.’
‘Rachel; I’m not sure I’m supposed to be telling you this. I mean, aren’t I supposed to have an adult present or something?’
‘Like I said, only in a formal interview. You’ve done nothing wrong. But we may have to take another statement from you at some point. I’m just trying to get a better picture of Emily’s time in Edinburgh, that’s all.’
‘Okay.’ Niamh ran her hands over the cat’s haunches and he adjusted his balance on her lap. ‘Well, afterwards, Emily went really quiet. She wasn’t one of the loud girls on the course anyway, but she was usually pretty cheerful. But after the party she went into her shell. I asked her what was wrong and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. So I asked Luuk and—’ She buried her face in the cat’s fur for a few seconds. ‘Oh God, this is all so awful. And poor Em’s dead. I still can’t believe it. I just can’t.’