by Alison James
‘Whatever it is, please tell. It could be important.’
Niamh lifted her head and took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Luuk said Emily told him her drink had been spiked. And that when she woke up she was on her back on the bed, completely naked. And some guy… some man… was standing over her. With his trousers undone.’
Ten
Rachel stared at the girl across the table.
‘Let me make sure I’ve understood you correctly, because this is very important. You’re saying Emily van Meijer was sexually assaulted at this party?’
She nodded. ‘That’s what Luuk was told. By Emily herself.’
‘Have you spoken to him about this since? To Luuk?’
Niamh shook her head; mute.
‘Or to anyone else?’ Rachel asked sharply, more sharply than she intended. ‘It’s important that I know.’
Niamh paled beneath her peach-coloured blusher. ‘Jesus, no! I was mortified about the whole thing. I didn’t even dare tell my parents: they’d have gone mental. I’m not allowed to drink, or to go out with lads. Not until I’m eighteen. It’s not just my parents. I go to a convent school and it’s drilled into us every flipping day that we’re to behave like good Catholic young ladies.’
‘So you didn’t go to this other girl, Marie-Laure, and ask her if something similar happened to her?’
Niamh shook her head vigorously.
‘And just so I’ve got this right, you never corroborated this with Emily directly.’
‘Corrobor…?’
‘Checked with her that Luuk’s story was true. That he wasn’t just making it up.’
Niamh shook her head. ‘But something must have gone on, because like I said, Emily wasn’t the same afterwards.’
‘Did she seem upset? Distressed?’
Niamh thought about this for a while, still stroking the cat’s solid body. ‘No. Not upset exactly. More angry. More like she was in a really, really bad mood and couldn’t wait to get home.’
Rachel thought back to Dries van Meijer’s conviction that there had been something troubling his daughter.
‘And when you got back after the party and sobered up – I’m sorry, but I have to ask this – was there any evidence that anyone had touched you inappropriately while you were passed out?’
‘Evidence, how?’
‘Were your clothes intact, not messed up in anyway? No bruises or… bleeding?’
Niamh looked horrified. ‘No, no, my clothes were fine, apart from the vomit. I was fine.’
‘Okay, well I think we should leave things there. For now. I’m afraid one of my colleagues may have to take a formal statement at some point, and that will involve your parents.’ Rachel stood up. ‘I’m very grateful, Niamh, I know this wasn’t easy. Just one last thing before I go: do you still have the flyer? With the party details?’
Niamh shook her head. ‘No, sorry, I didn’t keep it.’
* * *
‘So let’s get this straight…’
Brickall and Rachel were taking Dolly for a late evening walk around the Meadows, Brickall munching on a slice of takeaway pizza. Rachel’s return flight from Dublin had landed that afternoon and she had fired off a ‘We need to talk’ text as soon as the plane finished taxiing.
‘… we’ve got a guy, Candlish, heading this organisation who – if he’d done what he did post-1997 – would almost certainly be on the sex offenders register. And two teenagers in the care of said organisation attend a sex party where they’re being passed round like pieces of meat. Groomed, effectively. One of whom ends up dead.’ Brickall thrust the remainder of the pizza into his mouth, wiped his hands on a paper napkin and tossed it into a bin.
‘Plus this other girl, Marie-Laure, was invited to an identical event the year before.’
‘I’ll tell you something, DI Prince, this is turning into way more than just a PR exercise to keep our Dutch friends happy.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Rachel reached down and fondled Dolly’s ears. ‘I think we’ve pretty much reached the point where we have to go back to London and brief Patten.’
‘I’ve got the details for the witness in Bruno’s case: Caitlyn Anderson. Maybe we should talk to her first? The other witness – the old boy walking his dog – passed away nine months ago, apparently.’
‘Agreed. And I also need to find time to speak to the pathologist who did the PMs. And to Luuk Rynsberger. Oh, and we’re going to need to organise someone taking a formal statement from Niamh Donovan, with an adult present.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Come on, there’s a hot bath with my name on it back at the guest house.’
They turned and walked back up the slope towards Morningside.
‘One more thing though boss; came out by chance when I was at the cop shop.’
‘Go on.’
‘The PC who did the Martinez incident report was there, and we got talking. She said she already knew of Hazel MacBain.’
‘Really?’ Rachel stopped and looked at him. ‘You sure it’s the same one? She doesn’t strike me as the type to have a record. Far too meek and mild.’
‘Definitely the same one. I looked it up to check. Her maiden name is Nevins, Hazel Nevins. She doesn’t have a record, but apparently her dad was Archie Nevins, a well-known violent offender and all round bad lot. According to this PC Blair, every cop in Edinburgh knows who Archie Nevins is. He killed his wife after a drunken row. Thumped her one, and she fell and hit her head on the hearth. Died of a brain haemorrhage. Nevins was given a whole life sentence. So young Hazel spent most of her childhood in foster homes or in care.’
‘Christ,’ Rachel said, with feeling.
‘I know. You’d never think it to look at her.’
‘I suppose it explains why she treats her husband like he’s a saint or an archangel or something,’ Rachel said thoughtfully. ‘He really is her saviour.’
* * *
It had been several years since Rachel had attended a post-mortem, but the smell of pathology labs never changed. One whiff of that strange, sickly scent of formalin, dead flesh and chlorine-based disinfectant and you knew exactly where you were.
She was met in the ante-room of the post-mortem suite by a plump, smiling young man with auburn hair and skin so freckled that the dots of pigment had merged to give the appearance of a sun tan. He was wearing a cumbersome sterile gown over scrubs and white rubber wellies, and was peeling off a double layer of gloves so that he could shake Rachel’s hand.
‘Dr Fraser Dewar,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you. How can I help?’
Rachel explained the unusual nature of her assignment in Edinburgh. ‘This isn’t yet a formal criminal enquiry, so I can’t demand access to your files, but I just wanted to talk to you about the post-mortems on Bruno Martinez and Emily van Meijer, to see if there’s anything you think you can add that might shed further light on their deaths.’
‘Do you want to come through to my office?’ Dewar led her through a swing door into a small hallway, with a cubicle to one side containing a desk and computer terminal, two chairs and a filing cabinet. Through the glass panel in a second swing door Rachel glimpsed a steel autopsy table with a half-covered corpse on it, and on the floor next to it a bucket collecting bodily fluids. There were several plastic tubs for harvested organs on the steel bench, next to an electric cutting saw and an ominous collection of chisels and shears.
Dewar waved his hand around the tiny office. ‘This is the level of luxury afforded to the junior staff of the University of Edinburgh Pathology Department, as you can see. Only the Prof gets a proper office.’
Rachel considered telling him she used to be married to the very same professor, but decided against it. Better to not muddy the waters.
‘You’ll have seen both PM reports for the two of them?’ Dewar asked. ‘The unfortunate overseas students? Only I’m not sure what I can add further to what was in them. Both cases were straightforward, by which I mean there was no doubt about cause of death, and no evidence at all of foul play
.’ He smiled at Rachel, revealing good teeth, and lighting up his rather plain face. ‘Can I offer you a coffee? It’s only instant, I’m afraid.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No thanks. So, please just talk me through it. The Dutch girl, Emily van Meijer…’
Dewar turned to his terminal and clicked through screens until he found the relevant file. ‘She sustained injuries that were incompatible with life: that’s pretty much the size of it. Head injuries, spinal injuries, damage to internal organs. She couldn’t have survived the fall.’
‘And she was drunk?’ Rachel persisted.
‘There was a blood–alcohol level of 0.08. That’s enough to impair your faculties but not to be steaming drunk.’
‘Not enough to render you unconscious?’
Dewar shook his head. ‘Not unless you had a very unusual idiopathic intolerance, no.’
‘And the French boy, Bruno Martinez?’
‘Hold on…’ Dewar searched through case records. ‘He was about the same when it came to blood–alcohol concentration.’
‘Do you know if he was alive when he fell into the water?’
‘From the amount of water in his lungs, I’d say he was definitely alive when he fell in. But the disorientation from the alcohol and the shock of extremely cold water probably caused drowning to happen very quickly, especially if he wasn’t a strong swimmer. You’d be amazed how frequently accidental drowning is a cause of death. It’s surprisingly common.’
‘And he had no injuries?’
‘Nothing sustained before he fell in. There were a few abrasions on his hands and arms from him hitting the side as he went in, or possibly scrabbling to try and get out.’
Rachel shuddered. ‘Okay, well, thanks anyway, Dr Dewar.’ She shouldered her bag and stood up. ‘I appreciate your time.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Detective,’ he said, his face betraying an eagerness to please, possibly even a desire to see her again. ‘Why don’t you give me your phone number? I’ll go over the lab tests and look at the histology samples again, and if I find anything remotely worthy of a second look, I’ll contact you right away.’
‘Thank you. Much appreciated.’
Once she was out on the street, Rachel turned and looked up at the blocky, modern building, hoping it would give up its secrets.
Eleven
‘Do you think we should try and bring him in?’
‘Bring who in, where?’ Rachel was distracted by yet another text from Howard. She and Brickall were in a coffee shop near the Western General, where she was debriefing him about her trip to the pathology lab. Dolly had been left behind to help Betty Kilpatrick weed her flower beds.
‘Captain Birdseye. For formal questioning.’
‘Captain Birdseye?’
‘You know, cos of the white beard. Cap’n Paedo. Our man Candlish.’
‘Oh, right.’ Rachel deleted the text without answering it. ‘I don’t know whether we can. For a start, we’d have to negotiate interview facilities with your friend Morag, and that would take too long, and be a world of pain. And secondly, as far as we know he’s not done anything criminal. If he were on the Violent and Sex Offenders Register and decided to work with adolescents, that would be something we could get him on, but unfortunately the 1997 Act doesn’t work retroactively.’
‘Bugger.’
‘So we’re stuck with yet another informal chat, I’m afraid. I’m getting rather tired of them.’
They walked through the milling crowds to Drummond Place. ‘Tell you what I’m getting tired of: this festival clusterfuck,’ Brickall grumbled. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Rachel, stepping deftly through a disembarking coach party of pensioners. ‘The non-stop fun and jollity starts to mess with your head after a while.’
Jean, the White Crystal receptionist, was not pleased to see them. She informed them rather sniffily that “Mr Kenneth” was at a meeting with the accountants.
‘It’s okay, we’ll wait,’ said Rachel, lowering herself onto one of the brocade chairs and picking up a copy of Scottish Field.
‘We could diarise something for tomorrow?’ suggested Jean, who clearly didn’t want two police officers cluttering up her reception area. ‘Or the day after?’
‘No,’ said Rachel firmly, abandoning the politeness of her first visit. ‘We couldn’t. We’re here on police business, and it can’t be diarised.’
Kenneth Candlish bustled in after twenty minutes, carrying several shopping bags. ‘I got your teacakes, Jean. Oh.’
‘Afternoon, Mr Candlish,’ said Rachel, standing up. At five feet nine, and with two-inch heels, she towered over him. ‘We’d like another chat, please.’
* * *
‘I really think this is ill-advised, Officer.’ Candlish was polite, but disapproving. ‘Taking the word of a hysterical young girl about what might or might not have happened one evening during her stay in Edinburgh.’
Rachel had repeated the gist of Niamh Donovan’s story about the party she had attended with the two Dutch teenagers, without going into detail.
‘Are you suggesting she’s made this up?’ Rachel said. ‘Because with more than fifteen years’ experience of interviewing witnesses, I would bet my mortgage she was telling the truth.’
‘All right then, suppose she is telling the truth.’ Candlish’s genial Scots burr grew cold, and clipped. His eyes were like hard little pebbles. ‘We make it clear in our code of conduct that consuming alcohol is not allowed. Nor is leaving the residence after seven p.m. without express permission from the house parents. If the students choose to flout those rules, then White Crystal can’t be held liable for what happens to them.’
‘Nice,’ said Brickall. ‘Great attitude to customer care.’
Candlish narrowed his eyes still further, but did not rise to the bait.
‘Did you know about these parties?’ Rachel asked. ‘Have you ever heard of such a thing happening?’
‘Why would you ask that?’ He broke eye contact and fidgeted with his watch chain.
‘I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question. You’ve lived here in the city for many years; you run a business related to the fringe festival.’
‘There are all sorts of late night gatherings and hospitality during the Fringe.’ Candlish rearranged the letter opener and pens on his desk. ‘But I don’t know anything about parties down in Grange, nor would I pay attention to gossip if I did. And if you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you’re overstepping bounds.’ He opened a silver cigarette case and then closed it with a snap.
‘Oh I think we’re well within bounds,’ said Brickall with grim satisfaction. ‘May I remind you that you have a caution for what these days would be classified as sexual abuse of a minor. You lost a job because of a similar allegation. And you’re running an organisation whose customers are fifteen to seventeen year olds. So if those youngsters end up being molested while they’re under the care of your company, you can be sure it’s a problem.’
‘I thank you for your concern,’ Candlish’s voice wavered slightly. ‘But may I point out that I do not personally have any contact at all with our students, apart from giving them a very brief welcome talk on their first day. Their welfare and entertainment are wholly in the hands of Will and Hazel MacBain, who are devout and upstanding members of the community. I merely take care of administration and finances. Now if you don’t mind, officers, I have work to do. I’d be grateful if you’d leave.’
‘That was interesting,’ Rachel said, as they thundered down the stairs for a second time, and out into the street.
‘What – you mean the lying tells? The fidgeting and looking down?’
‘That too, but I was referring to what he said about the parties. He said they were held in Grange, but I never mentioned the location, not least because Niamh Donovan was new to the city, and drunk, so was unable to give me one. And yet Kenneth Candlish seems to know exactly where she was.’<
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* * *
Rachel’s phone rang when she was back at the Avalon Guest House, changing into her running gear. She and Brickall had walked long distances in the past few days so she didn’t lack exercise, but there was nothing like moving at speed to clear the mind. At the moment all the threads of the enquiry were tangled in her brain like a ball of wool after a cat had been at it.
She glanced at the screen, expecting it to be Howard.
Stuart Ritchie.
She picked up.
‘Hi Rae, glad I’ve caught you. Are you still in town?’
‘Just about, but—’
‘Only Claire and I are having a barbecue for a few friends on Friday, and I wondered if you fancied popping along? You can bring your sergeant along too, if you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m flying back to London tomorrow.’
‘That’s a shame. Will you be up here again?’
‘I’m not sure, but I’d say there’s a good chance I will, before long.’
‘Well when you are, don’t be a stranger, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Rachel pleasantly, thinking that she needed Stuart’s support, if only to benefit from his pathology expertise. ‘Of course. Enjoy the barbecue.’
Rachel put in her headphones and headed along the Water of Leith to Roseburn Park. She pounded the paths for several kilometres until she was breathless and sweating, but still the fragments of information she had learned in the past forty-eight hours tumbled in her head, like parts of the same jigsaw that lacked the connecting pieces in between. She had no idea what the emerging picture would look like, but the untimely deaths of Emily and Bruno were beginning to feel less like a coincidence and more like… what? She still didn’t know.