Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  Marie-Laure nodded again, taking a drag from the cigarette. ‘And in 2015?’

  ‘I was invited, and Bruno also; we were together in the city when they give us the papers about the party. But only he went. I was…’ She clutched the front of her abdomen, miming acute stomach ache. ‘I was not good that day.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rachel paused, trying to tease out the strands of the metaphorical ball of wool and work out where on earth Marie-Laure might fit in. ‘So last year – the year you went – did you go alone?’

  Marie-Laure placed her coffee cup carefully in its saucer. ‘I went with a boy. An Italian boy called Massimo. Max, he call himself.’

  ‘Can you tell me about what happened that night.’

  ‘I don’t remember everything, because there is so much of alcohols there, and very quickly I am…’ She mimed drunkenness by making herself go cross-eyed. ‘I go outside and a man comes and tries to kiss with me.’

  ‘Can you remember what he looked like?’

  Marie-Laure shrugged. ‘Old, grey hair. He has a strange… I don’t know the word in English… in French we say tache de vin… is a purple mark. It was here.’ She indicated the right side of her neck.

  Rachel nodded. ‘Ah, we say port wine stain or birth mark.’

  ‘I tell this man no, I don’t want, then Max comes in the garden and I say I want to go. So this year… when the guys are invited again, it brings back a memory.’

  Rachel nodded, remembering Niamh’s description of Marie-Laure acting strangely when she saw the invitation flyer. ‘And going back to 2015 – to two years ago – did Bruno talk to you about the party afterwards?’

  ‘Yes.’ She checked the time on her phone. ‘The train. I must go.’

  ‘Please just tell me what you can. This was a few days before Bruno died, so it could be very important.’

  ‘Really,’ Marie-Laure gathered up her bag. ‘I need to go.’

  Rachel checked her own watch. ‘You have two minutes. Please.’

  Marie-Laure sighed and reached for her cigarette lighter, flicking the wheel on it repeatedly. ‘He is very upset. He say he is going upstairs in the party house to lie down because he was feeling… pris de vertige.’ She made an exaggerated head reeling movement to show dizziness. ‘He wake on a bed and a man was with him, and he was… his boxer shorts were off… he is worried the man has had sex with him. He say he run outside and get a taxi, back to the residence.’

  ‘Did he talk to anyone about it? Apart from you?’

  Marie-Laure shrugged. ‘He want to tell Hazel, but he is worried because going out at night is forbidden. So I tell him that he might be mistaken – if you are drinking too much the memory goes bad sometimes. You imagine things happen. But he say to me that what happened to him was wrong. He will tell Hazel at the end of our trip, so it doesn’t matter that he has break the rules, and he will tell his parents when he gets home. But then, before this can happen…’

  She dropped the lighter on the table, stopping her narrative dead.

  Rachel completed the sentence. ‘… he fell into the sea and drowned.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘So lover boy is still up here?’

  ‘I’m not sure who you mean,’ said Rachel coolly.

  She and Brickall were wheeling their cases from the tram stop to their hotel. Not the one that Rachel had stayed in the previous week – she couldn’t face it after the mortifying showdown during breakfast – but a similar establishment nearby. It was mid-September, but autumn had already arrived in Edinburgh, with a gusty wind blowing the leaves off the trees and intermittent horizontal drizzle.

  ‘I mean your pet Pierce Brosnan lookalike. Denton.’

  ‘He’s not my pet anything,’ Rachel corrected him. ‘But yes he is. Working with the local child protection team. I’m going to meet up with him for a briefing in a bit and find out where he’s got to. Feel free not to attend if you have better things to do.’

  ‘I might as well: it’s not like I’ve got Dolly to walk this time. Not that she would enjoy this,’ Brickall indicated the weather. ‘Shame she’s not here, though I miss her.’

  ‘She’s fine with my mum,’ Rachel smiled at Brickall. ‘But I do miss the mutt too. A little bit.’

  They dropped their luggage and took a cab to the Public Protection Unit’s office in Dalkeith, a town six miles south-east of the city centre. Giles Denton met them in the reception area of the huge modern brutalist building and showed them to where he and his colleague had been given temporary office space. He introduced Sarah Pattinson, who turned out to be young and pretty, with a halo of thick natural blonde curls.

  Giles, as ever, twinkled at Rachel and more or less ignored Brickall. ‘We’ve managed to find out a bit about 21 Grange Loan Terrace: the location of the party attended by Emily van Meijer. It’s registered as belonging to an offshore trust in Cayman. Currently rented out, but not to an individual, to a holding company in Malta. Smoke and mirrors stuff. We’ve also identified the firm of solicitors who arranged the lease, so I thought one of us could pay them a visit.’ He handed out a set of printed sheets. ‘I’ve also been given this list – names of some people on the local sex offenders’ register who might fit the bill for this sort of high-end grooming. We could try bringing them in for questioning, though at this stage I suspect it would just be a matter of straight denials all round.’

  Rachel was shaking her head slowly. ‘I think we need to cover more ground before we go down that route. What kind of IT expertise can we access here? I’m thinking back to the Latvian leaflet distributors, who were recruited via the dark web… can we see if there’s someone here who specialises in it, who could help us open that rather nasty can of worms?’

  ‘I can look into that,’ said Sarah quickly. She glanced over in Giles’ direction, as though eager to please him. ‘I’ll speak to Intelligence.’

  ‘How about setting up surveillance on the party house?’ Brickall asked.

  ‘It’s currently unoccupied,’ Denton told him, ‘so there seems little point. If it looks like it’s being used again, then yes – I’d say that would be an obvious line to pursue. We’ll need to keep it under informal surveillance in the meantime.’

  * * *

  ‘He’s definitely banging her,’ Brickall said as they waited in reception for their taxi to arrive.

  ‘Who is?’ Rachel feigned ignorance, although she knew exactly what he was referring to.

  ‘Old Westlife there. Bet he’s putting the moves on Blondie. And I can’t say I blame him; she was cute.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous,’ Rachel said, with more vehemence than she intended.

  ‘Jealous, are you? Don’t worry, he was still giving you the glad eye. He’s a player, our Irish pal.’

  Once they were in the cab, Brickall gave the driver the name of their hotel, but Rachel leaned forward into the front seat and asked him to do a detour.

  ‘Where to, dear?’

  ‘21 Grange Loan Terrace.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘I thought we could do a little recce of our own.’

  It was dusk by the time the driver pulled up outside the large sandstone villa.

  ‘You want me to wait here and then take you on to the hotel?’ the cab driver enquired as Rachel and Brickall climbed out onto the pavement.

  ‘Actually, no; change of plan. You can leave us here.’ Rachel said, reaching into her wallet and handing him a ten-pound note.

  The facade of the house was hidden behind a tall privet hedge. While the windows of the neighbouring houses glowed invitingly, those at number 21 were blank and unlit. The aubergine door that Luuk had described looked almost black in the fading gloom.

  Brickall and Rachel instinctively cupped their hands against the glass of the front windows to get a look inside, but heavy wooden shutters had been bolted across them, masking the interior.

  ‘Shall we try the back?’ asked Brickall.

  He vaulted over the side gate and unbolted it to let Rachel through.
At the rear of the house there was a terrace arranged with expensive garden furniture and lighting, and beyond that a sloping lawn. Rachel pictured Marie-Laure sitting out there a year ago; confused, drunk and possibly even drugged. Wanting to go home. She looked up at the imposing upstairs windows, also shuttered, and pictured what had taken place up there. She shuddered.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘This place gives me the creeps.’

  Brickall tried the back door, shaking the handle and then squatting down to inspect the lock. ‘You up for a bit of breaking and entering?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant, you do know it’s illegal. Even for serving police officers.’

  ‘Yes, but what if we thought we heard a member of the public inside, in a state of distress.’ Brickall winked. ‘We would be within our rights to forcibly enter to investigate… you got your knife?’

  Rachel pulled out the Swiss Army knife she always carried and handed it to him. He inserted the reamer tool at the bottom of the lock and held out his hand to Rachel. ‘Got a pin of some sort? A hair grip?’

  Rachel searched her pockets and pulled out a paperclip. ‘Will this do?’

  Keeping tension in the reamer with one hand, Brickall unbent the clip with his teeth, bent a right angle at one end and inserted it, jiggling it rhythmically until the lock tumblers slid back. With a final twist of the reamer, the lock gave way and the door opened.

  ‘I won’t tell you where I learned to do that,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Most of the force have been taught how to pick a lock,’ Rachel observed. ‘I know I have.’

  Inside, the house was dark and silent. Rachel pulled on a pair of latex gloves and switched on the light in the front hall. There was a heap of mail on the front mat. Hidden amongst the pizza delivery menus were a couple of letters – probably utility bills – addressed to Sabre Holdings.

  The front reception room had a huge chandelier and squashy expensive sofas arranged around a large, square coffee table. At its centre was a cluster of candleholders with half-burned candles. In fact, there were candles everywhere, flanking the edges of the staircase and full running the length of the passage that led out to the terrace. Luuk had recalled there being no light apart from ‘hundreds of candles’. It must have made for a very distinctive atmosphere.

  The kitchen was fitted with expensive charcoal-coloured units and state-of-the-art appliances, including an American-style fridge. Brickall opened it. There was no food inside, just neatly arranged bottles of mineral water and, in the built-in wine rack – several bottles of Krug.

  ‘Nothing but the best for our perverts,’ Brickall observed.

  The kitchen was tidy and very clean, and there was no sign of anyone ever using it to prepare meals. Pinned to the side of the fridge was a typed notice with phone numbers for ‘Electrician’, ‘Plumber’ and ‘Cleaner (Valerie)’.

  Rachel pulled out her phone and took a photo of the notice, then turned to Brickall. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  On the first flour there were four large bedrooms and three bathrooms, two of them en suite. All were well-appointed in a characterless way, decorated with shades of beige and grey as though they were hotel rooms. Candles were dotted around all the rooms and there were large, sumptuous beds with bedspreads in shiny colours and heaps of velvet cushions. Rachel opened a bedside drawer and she and Brickall peered inside. A box of tissues, condoms, a bottle of personal lubricant.

  ‘Nice,’ observed Brickall drily. ‘Thoughtful’. He examined the expensive light fitting. ‘I’m just trying to figure out the economics. You know the rule: follow the money. Someone’s renting this place for what must be several grand a month, then leaving it empty apart from the occasional party night – how does that work financially? It doesn’t feel like it’s just some rich guy’s hobby.’

  Rachel shook her head, turning to walk up the plush carpeted stairs to the top floor, Brickall at her heels. ‘I agree. Emily and Marie-Laure both described something highly organised. I’m guessing the people who attend the parties have to pay a hefty fee. Or maybe pay a subscription, like a private members’ club.’

  The top floor had two smaller rooms and a shared bathroom, decorated in a similar fashion, with the same ‘kit’ in the drawers.

  ‘Can we go now?’ asked Brickall. ‘I think we’ve got the picture.’

  Rachel nodded, pulling off her gloves. ‘We certainly have.’

  They returned to the ground floor and left through the back door, slamming the deadlock behind them. As they walked up the driveway, Rachel’s phone buzzed with two texts. The first was from Giles Denton.

  Fancy dinner tonight? G x

  The other was from Joe.

  Twenty-Four

  Rachel sat on the edge of her hotel bed and stared at the text.

  I’m sorry I left when I did. I was angry, but I’ve thought about things, and I get that it was a situation you had no control over. Right now I’m just trying to get my head around everything. Would like to stay in touch. J

  She needed to acknowledge her son’s gesture somehow, without coming on too strong or crowding him. And then there was the Stuart problem. That was one colossal bridge that needed rebuilding. He had stopped the endless phone calls, but now that she was back in Edinburgh, she really ought to reach out to him, to attempt to heal that gaping wound.

  But one thing at a time. Stuart could wait a little longer. She would deal with Joe first. She wrote back.

  Me too, but please know there’s absolutely no pressure. When you’re ready. x

  Having dealt with the situation to the best of her ability, she turned her focus back to preparing for her date with Giles Denton. Or was it a date? She wasn’t entirely sure. Given the pitfalls of becoming personally involved with colleagues, it was probably best to treat it as an informal chat about the case. Nevertheless, she took down her hair from its ponytail and changed from a plain white work shirt to a floaty chiffon top. She hesitated for a few seconds over whether to vamp up her lipstick from her usual neutral shade to a seductive dark red. Why worry, she decided, as she applied the red colour. He’s a man. He won’t even notice.

  * * *

  ‘Well get you, with your Hollywood siren lips!’

  It was the first thing Giles said to her, though his lilting Irish accent made it sound genial rather than sleazy. In fact, it sounded great. Rachel smiled at him, and batted her freshly mascaraed lashes. You’re flirting with him like a brainless bimbo, she reprimanded herself. Get a bloody grip.

  They were in a small, dimly lit brasserie in Stockbridge; a venue that Giles had chosen. They ordered drinks while they looked at the menu, a vodka and tonic for her and an Irish whisky for him (‘I’m a cliché and proud of it’). It was only when she looked at the descriptions of the food that Rachel realised she hadn’t eaten for nearly twelve hours.

  ‘The food’s fantastic here,’ Giles said, with his usual uncanny ability to see into her mind. ‘Marvellous – all of it.’

  ‘Good, because I’m starving.’

  A basket of bread arrived and she dived into it, describing her tour of 21 Grange Loan Terrace in between mouthfuls.

  ‘I made sure I wore gloves,’ she assured him when he pulled a mock-shocked face. ‘But I think we should apply for a warrant and get a forensics team in there.’

  ‘I agree. Absolutely,’ he said. ‘And are you up for talking to the lawyer who represents Sabre Holdings, a Mr…’ he checked the note on his phone, ‘Douglas Coulter? I could come with you, if you like?’

  Rachel thought about this for a moment. She liked the idea of tackling a tricky interview with Giles at her side. But then she and Brickall had their two-hander routine down pat after years of working together and bounced off each other in a completely intuitive way. Partnering with Giles might introduce an unwelcome and unhelpful dynamic of sexual tension. Besides, if Brickall found out she had been ‘unfaithful’ to him and been out on a job with Giles, she would
never hear the end of it. The sulking and sarcasm would be unbearable.

  ‘No, it’s fine, I’ll cover it. But I’d be grateful if your team could drill down on the dark web angle; my instinct is that there’s something there.’

  ‘Your Spidey senses tingling?’ suggested Giles.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Two heaped bowls of moules marinières arrived, giving off fragrant steam. Rachel picked up a shell and sucked out the meat, aware that Giles was watching her, watching her scarlet-painted mouth. She met the gaze of those intense eyes and looked quickly down at her bowl, feeling somehow vulnerable; naked.

  ‘Tell me about Rosanna,’ she said, keen to deflect attention from herself.

  Giles shrugged, swirling his wine round his glass in a distracted motion, as though the topic was not a comfortable one. ‘There’s not a whole lot to tell. She’s a great wee kid, but I only see her a few times a year, during her school holidays. We both enjoy the time together, no doubt about that, but it’s hard to maintain a close relationship when you see so little of one another.’

  Rachel’s mind went straight to Joe and the huge gap she now had to span. If that was even possible. Perhaps it was best to switch from parenthood to a safer subject. Careers.

  ‘And how did an Irishman like you end up at the NCA?’

  ‘I started out in the Garda.’ He took a mouthful of the wine, leaning back in the chair in his easy manner. ‘Transferred to the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, which is the Republic’s equivalent of the NCA. Then my ex and I split, and I was struggling to finance two households.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘With the financial crash and all. It hit Ireland hard… but by then there was freedom of movement for EU nationals, so I took advantage of it and applied for a job at the NCA. And here I am.’ He made a flourish with his hands.

  She smiled. ‘Here you are, large as life… so why Child Exploitation? Any particular reason?’