Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  ‘It’s no use, Stuart; clearly nothing I can say now is going to make things right. I can’t go back and change my decision, and I can’t undo the fact that Joe is here, and he wants to get to know us. The way I see it, we owe it to him to get our shit together and do our best for him now.’ She softened her aggressive tone slightly. ‘I’m sorry Stuart, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a plane to catch.’

  ‘Rachel, don’t you dare!’ Stuart had grabbed her wrist, but she’d pulled herself free.

  ‘We’ll talk about this properly when you’ve had time to think, and to calm down.’

  Rachel had returned to her room to fetch her suitcase, phoning Giles to apologise for being unable to meet him.

  ‘Something unexpected has come up,’ she told him. Well, that much was certainly true.

  Giles wasn’t the type to pry, or act affronted. ‘Not a problem,’ he had said in his lilting Dublin accent. ‘I’ve been given some good leads about where these parties might be happening and who might be behind them. One of my colleagues, Sarah Pattison, is coming up here for a couple of days to give me a hand, and you and I can touch base as and when you get back.’

  ‘Thanks Giles.’ She wondered if he could hear the wobble in her voice.

  ‘Anything for you, sweetheart.’

  The ‘sweetheart’ was a touch overfamiliar, but at that particular moment she had been grateful for his easy warmth. On the way to the airport, that evening, and the whole of the weekend she had tried phoning Joe, but her calls only ever went to voicemail, just as Stuart’s frequent calls to her went unanswered.

  * * *

  When Dries van Meijer heard that Rachel was in his home town, he once again leapt into billionaire super-host mode and tried to offer her the use of either the presidential suite in the Huys van Leden, an upmarket boutique hotel near the canal, or a luxury apartment that he used for corporate hospitality. She had turned him down, insisting that for such a short trip she was quite happy with her budget lodgings near the railway station.

  ‘You must at least come to my office for some lunch,’ he had told her. ‘I’d like you meet my wife.’

  The Van Meijer headquarters was a huge plate glass and steel monolith on the north side of the canal. It was easily the biggest building for miles, which was entirely fitting for the city’s biggest employer. Rachel was escorted to a top floor office suite, where Dries van Meijer – still in a black tie – greeted her with a continental double kiss.

  ‘We’ll have some lunch in the director’s dining room,’ he told her, leading her through to an opulent carpeted room with vast windows where a linen-covered table had been set with crystal and silver and arranged with an array of salads and exquisite open-faced sandwiches. Rachel stared at the indulgent spread with a sinking feeling. She would much have preferred somewhere more low-key to hold the difficult conversation she now needed to have.

  Standing next to the table was a tall woman in her mid-forties with long creamy-blonde hair and beautiful regular features, familiar from the pages of Hello. She was dressed in a pale blue Chanel dress and discreet, expensive jewellery. She smiled warmly, but like her husband, her eyes were dulled with grief.

  ‘DI Prince, this is Annemarie.’

  She took Rachel’s hands in hers and squeezed them. ‘I have been so wanting to meet you.’

  It was a strange to receive such a greeting from the mother of a victim, and to be waited on and offered champagne by a white-gloved butler. But as they talked, there was no mistaking the van Meijers’ gratitude that someone was putting considerable effort into finding out what had happened to their beloved daughter. They could not get her back, but they might at least get some answers. That was the least awful of the bleak options that stretched before them as a family.

  Rachel refused the champagne in favour of sparkling mineral water, trying to find the best way to start their discussion. The facts, her police instinct told her. Facts first; speculation later. So, rather haltingly, she told Dries and Annemarie that Emily had attended a party in Edinburgh where she was probably drugged and sexually assaulted.

  Annemarie’s hand flew to her throat, and her face crumpled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know this is very difficult,’ Rachel reached her own hand across the table and briefly touched Annemarie’s wrist. ‘But you have a right to know exactly where the investigation is taking us.’

  Dries gave a brief nod. ‘Are you saying she was raped?’ he asked baldly.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I have no firm evidence that’s what happened, but we don’t have all the facts yet. We’re still working to get the full picture. Luuk Rynsberger attended the party too, so I’m hoping he may be able to tell me more.’

  ‘And how is this linked to her death?’ Dries demanded, taking his wife’s hand and tucking it into his. ‘The hardest thing to take is that we insisted Emily join an organised trip to the festival, rather than just go off under her own steam, because we thought it would be much safer for her.’

  ‘Again, we don’t know yet,’ said Rachel gently. ‘But there has been some suggestion that the incident might have led her to take her own life.’

  Dries van Meijer shook his head vigorously from side to side. ‘No. Absolutely not. Emily would never do that. A boy at her school killed himself a few years ago, and we talked about it together. She was absolutely adamant that suicide was wrong. That whatever happened to you, nothing was so bad that you had to do that. Why would she?’ He indicated the room, his wife, the city outside the huge window. ‘She had absolutely everything to live for.’

  ‘You’re Roman Catholics?’ Rachel asked, even though she already knew that this was true. ‘Couldn’t the faith-based guilt have been too much for her?’

  This time it was Annemarie who shook her head. ‘No. Not possible. Yes, we’re Catholic, but in this country that’s no big deal. There are actually more Catholics than Protestants in the Netherlands, but only a small percentage actively follow the teachings of Rome. So yes, Emily was nominally Roman Catholic and baptised as one, but I don’t even know whether privately she believed Jesus was the son of God.’ Her voice trembled and grew strained. ‘I’m not sure she even believed in heaven.’

  Rachel reached across the table and touched Annemarie’s hand again. Her own plate of food had only been picked at. Tucking into lightly poached salmon and quail’s eggs seemed wrong, given the subject matter of their conversation. ‘Look, I know this is very hard, but as I said to Dries when we met in Scotland, any information could potentially help us find out why Emily died.’

  She turned to Dries. ‘Do you know what happened to the selfie stick?’

  Both the van Meijers looked blank.

  ‘There was one found… with her.’

  Annemarie shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that… there was a parcel of her stuff that the police sent back to us, but I didn’t look in it. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Would it be all right for me to take a look?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dries. ‘I will give you our home address and you can come over whenever it’s convenient.’

  * * *

  The Rynsberger residence was a handsome red-brick house with an ornate mansard roof and wrought iron balconies, overlooking the botanic gardens from the south side of Leiden’s canal. An attractive woman, who introduced herself as Mieke Rynsberger, ushered her into an airy, high-ceilinged room and brought in a tray of coffee and cinnamon biscuits.

  ‘Luuk will be here in a second,’ she said in her faultless English. It was easier to understand the Dutch than it was Glaswegians, Rachel reflected. ‘This has been a very hard time for him; he and Emily were good friends.’

  The door opened and her son entered, politely shaking Rachel’s hand. He was tall, but not as tall as Joe. Rachel’s mind instantly formed the comparison, in an unfamiliar parental autopilot.

  ‘I will leave you two,’ said Mieke, discreetly pulling the door shut.

  Luuk squirmed on the edge of the linen-covered sofa, clearly uneas
y. ‘I have to talk about Emily?’ His English was a little accented, but still clear.

  Rachel nodded. ‘I know it’s hard for you, but it’s very important that we understand what happened just before she died.’

  Luuk stared down silently at his fingernails.

  ‘Niamh told me that the three of you went to a party one night when you were in Edinburgh?’

  Luuk nodded.

  ‘Could you talk me through what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know a lot… I had a lot of alcohol and I don’t remember much.’

  ‘Well, just tell me everything you can remember. Anything and everything, even if it seems really small or unimportant.’ Rachel took out her notebook and pen.

  ‘We went in a taxi. It was about ten minutes from the residence – you know, the MacBains’ house. It was a large house, about the same size as where we were staying, but you know, more…’ He ran his fingers through his chestnut hair, struggling for the word. Rachel resisted the temptation to prompt. ‘More expensive, more smart. There was a big stone wall at the front, next to the road. And the door was painted kind of purple. Like an aubergine. This I remember, because it was unusual. And the windows had black…’ He pointed to the windows of the sitting room.

  ‘Blinds?’

  ‘Yes, blinds. So no one could see inside. There was music, loud music, lots of chat, lots of people, a lot wearing masks over their eyes. Like birds, animals and stuff. Dark, except for hundreds of candles.’

  ‘What kind of people?’

  ‘There were a few people around our age, but mostly they were older.’

  ‘How old? Like your parents?’

  ‘Some, yes, and some even older than that. Maybe fifty, sixty.’

  Rachel nodded encouragement. ‘Go on. This is all helpful.’

  ‘There were younger people dressed like waiters handing round the drinks. They were all wearing masks, and some of the guests, too. People standing in groups, talking, some sitting. Sometimes people went up the stairs in twos or threes.’

  ‘And what did you do, Luuk?’

  ‘We stood around, feeling a little strange, you know, a little uncomfortable. We weren’t really sure why we would be invited there, to a party like that. It was weird. People kept giving us more and more drinks. Someone led Niamh away to talk and then someone else led Emily away… I was feeling drunk, I had to sit down, so I found a big sofa and sat on it and a man – an older man, quite bald – sat down and asked if I was okay, and he had his hand on my leg, stroking me here.’

  Luuk indicated the stretch of flesh between his quad and his groin. ‘The next thing I remember is Emily coming downstairs, looking upset, asking where Niamh was. We couldn’t find her, and then she came downstairs too and I remember her hair and make-up were messed up and she seemed out of it. Emily grabbed hold of her and dragged her outside. We ran down the street and managed to flag a taxi.’

  Rachel took a sip of the excellent coffee, then picked up her notebook again. ‘And later you and Emily talked about what had happened?’

  Luuk nodded. ‘The next day, when we had slept off all of the alcohol. Emily said her drink must have been spiked. She doesn’t really like to drink…’ He sighed heavily before correcting himself. ‘Didn’t like to drink… and she only had one, but it made her pass out completely. Like, out cold. But then when she woke up, this guy was… I don’t know.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘I guess you would say assaulting her.’

  ‘I think you would,’ said Rachel drily.

  ‘Her shirt had been opened and also her jeans were off, and the guy had, you know… been touching her private parts, and also was touching himself.’

  Luuk dropped his head and pressed his hands to his forehead.

  ‘But she didn’t contact the police?’

  Luuk shook his head, then looked up. ‘Not that night; she was too out of it. I guess we should have done…We should have gone to the police straight away.’ He lowered his gaze again.

  ‘You’re doing really well, Luuk.’ Rachel rested her own hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘Did Emily remember anything at all about the man?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not much. She just said it was an older guy… voornam… professional, like a businessman type.’

  Rachel put her pen down for a minute. ‘Do you think Emily was sufficiently disturbed to take her own life?’

  Luuk shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Never. She wasn’t upset, she was angry.’

  Rachel thought back to Niamh saying more or less the same thing about Emily. Niamh herself had been frightened, ashamed, after the party. But Emily had been angry; she had been clear about that. ‘So do you know if Emily spoke to anyone else about what happened to him? Anyone other than you?’

  Luuk picked up one of the biscuits and broke it into several pieces, sending crumbs all over the pale rug. ‘I don’t think so, but for sure she was going to. After she had sobered up and had the chance to think about it, she made her decision.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Emily wasn’t the kind to be a victim. She was strong, you know, focussed? She was going to tell the MacBains, and she was going to make them tell the police.’

  Twenty

  Lying on her bed in her modest chain hotel, a diet Coke on the bedside cabinet, Rachel glared at a notification lighting up her phone display.

  Missed Call: Stuart Ritchie

  She found herself thinking back with nostalgia to the sunlit uplands of her adolescence, when there no mobile phones and after school you chatted and giggled with friends who were focused on your face and your voice and not a five-inch pixelated screen. A time when – conversely – if you wanted to avoid someone, you could do exactly that.

  But this issue could not be avoided forever, so she picked up the phone and composed a text to Stuart with one hand, holding the Coke can in the other.

  Am abroad on a job. Will probably be in Edinburgh again soon, so let’s try and make time to sit down and talk calmly and rationally about how we are all going to move forward. Meanwhile, please know that I am truly sorry for the shock and the hurt this has caused you. R.

  Once she was satisfied with the wording she pressed ‘Send’, took a large mouthful of the Coke and set about writing a message to Joe. This one was much harder to get right. Impossible, really. In the end she settled on:

  Joe, I’m so very sorry about how things worked out in Edinburgh. I had delayed telling Stuart about you because his wife had just miscarried, but of course I had no idea he would just turn up like that. This isn’t how our reunion should have gone. I realise that making the joint trip to Edinburgh so soon was a mistake. MY mistake. We needed more time to get to know one another and for things to fall slowly into place, not for everything to just collide like that. I understand if you don’t want further contact with me, but I am here if you ever do. Repeating how sorry I am achieves nothing, but know that I really wanted things to work out differently. Rachel. xx

  When she had sent it, she tipped her head back and stared up at the ceiling, tears stinging her eyes. She was emotionally drained. Howard came into her mind, and for a few seconds she longed for his reassuring, uncomplicated company. She could always phone him…

  But no. That was a dead-end street. Instead, she pulled on a pair of leggings and her running shoes and pounded the twilit banks of the canals with The Amazons in her headphones. Joe had said how much he loved them.

  * * *

  ‘Would you like to see her room?’

  After breakfast the next day, Rachel had travelled to the van Meijer residence, a huge cream villa in the fashionable suburb of Tuinstadwijk. It was set back from the road behind iron gates, and on the other side of the house the beautifully tended gardens sloped down to canal frontage and a wooden dock. The front door was opened by a uniformed maid, but Annemarie quickly intercepted her, appearing from a doorway in jeans and a linen shirt, her feet bare and her hair scooped on top of her head in a messy bun.

  She led Rachel up the magni
ficent curving staircase and onto the landing, which had a huge arched window overlooking the garden. Rachel paused to take in the view. Extravagant displays of hydrangea in sugar pink and sky blue lined formal gravelled paths. She glimpsed ducks waddling along them, past a flagpole flying the Netherlands flag. It would have been the most idyllic sight were it not for the immense sadness that hung over the place.

  There were several doors off the wide, carpeted landing. Annemarie stopped at the middle one. ‘I left the parcel from the police in here,’ she said, opening the door with a marked intake of breath. ‘We told them we’d like them to return all her things, but I haven’t opened it… didn’t want to. But I do come in here. I actually like to come in here, if that doesn’t sound too strange.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound strange at all,’ Rachel said quietly.

  The room was spacious and bright, with a window on the garden side and a huge pinboard on the wall above the bed. Emily had stuck up photos, posters from live shows and sporting events she had attended, rosettes and prize certificates. There were pictures of her as a little girl, blonde and cherubic, and candid snaps of her older brothers laughing at the camera. Emily and Dries trying their hand at paddleboarding in some exotic location, both tall, both tanned chestnut-brown.

  Annemarie indicated the standard-issue sealed brown paper parcel that a deceased’s belongings were bagged up in.

  ‘There. Maybe it will help me if you open it.’ She picked up her daughter’s pillow and buried her face in it, her tears falling freely now, coursing down the sides of her nose and wetting the pillowcase. Rachel stood in silence until, eventually, she gathered herself.

  ‘I still have my sons, and I’m grateful for that. They’re both wonderful. But she was my little girl, my schatje…’ She was taken over once more by desperate sobs. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Rachel reached in her pocket and found a tissue, offering it to Annemarie. ‘It’s okay to cry. You should cry.’