by Alison James
Giles turned his attention back to fiddling with his wine glass. ‘No reason other than that it was something that interested me.’
Rachel’s phone started ringing. She ignored it, tweezing a second mollusc with the empty shell of the first, but it rang again, straight away. It was a number she didn’t recognise.
‘Sorry, I’d better get this.’ She wiped the garlicky broth off her mouth with her napkin, taking a smear of crimson lipstick with it.
‘Never off-duty,’ said Giles ruefully.
She picked up the call, twisting in her chair and leaning towards the quieter end of the restaurant.
‘DI Prince.’
‘Hi, this is Beth.’
‘Er, hi.’ Rachel’s mind was a blank.
‘Beth McAllister. At Mail Boxes 4U in South Bridge.’
‘Yes, sorry. Of course. Hi.’
‘Only you said to ring you when I had some news on the CCTV. I’m sorry to ring so late, only the IT department said they would send something over today, and I waited, but nothing happened. So I had to phone them, and they told me to phone someone in Italy, and anyways, eventually they said they’d have to resend and it’s only just got here. I’ve been sitting here after the shop closed, waiting.’
Rachel tried to digest this slightly muddled narrative. ‘So, what is it you have?’
‘I’ve got images of John Smith. The one who opened that mail box you were interested in. Only… well, to be honest it’s a bit weird. But I definitely think you’ll want to see it.’
‘Can you wait ten minutes, Beth? I’m coming straight over now.’
Rachel hung up, looking apologetically at Giles and sorrowfully at the bowl of cooling mussels. ‘I’m really sorry to do this to you, but I’m going to have to leave.’
* * *
‘That’s him, there.’
Beth McAllister, dressed in a tight Adidas tracksuit top and denim skirt, bent over the computer monitor and pointed to a pin-sharp image of a man approaching the row of numbered mail boxes.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Rachel. ‘I see what you mean.’
The figure – young from his physique and gait – was wearing a tartan Tam O’ Shanter hat attached to a scruffy ginger wig.
‘We call those “See You Jimmy” hats,’ Beth told her. ‘You can buy them in fancy dress shops, and they sell them to tourists at the stalls on Rose Street.’
The man walked over to the mail box, opened it and slid in a slim stack of leaflets and placed a dark object on top of them.
‘I reckon that’s a mobile phone,’ Beth said in a stage whisper.
‘I reckon you’re right.’
The man walked out again, keeping his head down. The shaggy wig and the brim of the hat made it impossible to view his face properly. The time stamp said 5 August, 15.44.
‘When I told them it was for a police investigation, they had the pictures specially enhanced,’ Beth said proudly.
The images were indeed very good quality, making it all the more frustrating that the man’s face couldn’t be identified. The clothes definitely struck a jarring note – a smart, well-cut jacket and trousers, proper shoes rather than trainers.
‘Could I take a copy of the footage?’ Rachel asked.
‘Sure – do yous know who it is?’
She shook her head. ‘No idea. Not without the use of facial recognition software.’
Beth inhaled sharply with a little shiver of excitement. ‘Oh my God, this is so exciting. Just like CSI.’
* * *
Back in her hotel room, Rachel slipped into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and was just picking up the room service menu when there was a loud, impatient hammering at her door. She swung it open, to find Brickall standing there.
‘Fancy a pizza?’
Rachel laughed. ‘Right now, I could eat three.’
‘There’s a place near here that does delivery, and I’ve already checked they do extra hot sauce, so…’ He handed her his phone, which was displaying an online menu. ‘Decide what you fancy and I’ll order.’
Rachel was hesitating over anchovies versus olives when there was another knock at her door, more discreet this time. Giles stood in the corridor, holding two brown paper carrier bags and a bottle of wine. ‘The restaurant took pity on us and packed up our dinner into doggie bags… Oh.’ He caught sight of Brickall. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were—’
‘That’s okay,’ said Brickall, his expression souring as he snatched his phone from Rachel’s hand and put it back into his jeans pocket. ‘We were about to order a pizza, but it seems you’ve beaten me to it.’ He raised his eyebrows in Rachel’s direction. ‘With your “special” delivery service.’
‘Was I interrupting something?’ Giles asked when Brickall had left the room.
‘No, no… it’s fine. We really were just ordering a pizza; that’s not a euphemism.’ Rachel grinned at him, pulling foil cartons out of the bags and reaching to the bottom for the knives and forks, thoughtfully wrapped in paper napkins.
‘You and Mark are very close though,’ Giles observed pointedly. ‘I don’t like to think I’m stepping on toes.’
‘Oh no, don’t worry – we’re not close like that,’ Rachel said quickly and instantly regretted it. It now sounded as though she intended Giles and herself to become close ‘like that’. ‘We’ve worked together a long time and we’re good friends.’
‘So you are close.’ Giles poured the wine into two glasses and handed one to her, standing only inches away.
‘Yes, I suppose we are. As colleagues.’
‘And what would I have to do to become… close… to you?’
He was standing dangerously near to her now, his thighs just touching hers. Rachel’s heart sped up, and she could feel a delicious warmth suffusing her body. Giles set down his glass and placed his hands behind her neck, winding his fingers through her hair and kissing her with the same spine-tingling thoroughness as their Christmas kiss. Only this time it was more intense because instead of being in a crowded pub they were alone. Four feet from a bed.
Rachel felt herself melt into him, pressing her body against his, her left hand straying to his back and down to the waistband of his jeans. He took the wine glass from her right hand, putting it next to his own, and leaned forward, using his superior height and weight to shift her equilibrium and topple her back onto the bed. He was still kissing her hungrily, pulling at her T-shirt, and she tugged his shirt open. His chest was muscular, and lightly covered with black hair.
Rachel’s physical instincts were taking over, but through the swirling treacle in her brain, sense somehow kicked in. This case was not only about the death of innocent teenagers, but also exposed the NCA’s ability to respond to extremely sensitive material. Sleeping with a key co-worker would compromise her own efficiency, and – if it came to light – the entire investigation. Once she would have been unable to think this way, but now she was putting herself in the place of Emily and Bruno’s parents. Would I want the officer in charge of finding out who killed my child behaving like this? Shagging the good-looking child protection specialist? The answer was an emphatic no.
‘No!’ she whispered. Her voice was so thick with desire that it emerged as a groan. With a huge effort she threw the seduction gear into reverse, scooting out from under Giles’s body and pulling down her T-shirt.
‘Giles, we can’t. You know it’s not a good idea. Not now.’
He stayed where he was for a few delicious seconds, as if unable to move out of a powerful force field. Then, with a sigh, he stood up, re-buttoned his shirt, and reached for his wine glass. He drank deeply, as though attempting to sedate himself.
‘You’re probably right. Can I still interest you in a spot of chicken chasseur?’
She shook her head slowly, unwilling to admit she was still hungry. A meal with wine would set the scene for the whole bed scenario to happen again. ‘No thanks, I’m fine. Probably best you take it with you.’
‘You said “not now”�
� does that mean you and I are a possibility, after…?’
Rachel gave him a half-smile. ‘Never say never.’
Twenty-Five
The offices of Reekie & Co were in an imposing sandstone terrace in the West End. Rachel and Brickall were led up a broad, carpeted staircase to an ante-room and asked to wait until Mr Coulter had finished with the client who was consulting him.
Brickall helped himself to coffee from a sleek machine in the corner and some individually wrapped packets of shortbread. ‘So, you and Ireland’s answer to George Clooney…’ He sprayed crumbs on the jade green carpet as he opened the packet of biscuits. ‘Hot and heavy night, was it?’
‘Actually, he left about ten minutes after you did.’ This was the truth, if not the whole truth.
Brickall’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A quickie, then.’
‘Don’t be a pain, Sergeant. Nothing happened.’ Again, this was a slight distortion of the truth, but Rachel had no desire to discuss Giles Denton with Brickall.
After ten minutes, a female assistant called them through into Douglas Coulter’s office. He was behind a huge antique desk, and remained seated, gazing out of the tall sash window to his right. Passive aggression on point, thought Rachel.
‘Mr Coulter,’ she extended a hand. He did not take it, but turned slightly in his chair so that he was looking more or less in their direction. ‘I’m DI Prince, and this is DS Brickall.’
‘You’re here from London,’ he said brusquely. ‘Why?’ He was a man in the later part of middle-age, waistline bulging slightly in his handmade suit, no doubt as a result of too many business lunches and too little exercise. His thinning grey hair was rearranged to disguise some of his bald pate.
‘We’re looking into a client of yours. Sabre Holdings.’
Coulter could not have looked less interested. ‘May I ask why?’
‘We have reason to believe that a property leased by the company has been used in the commission of sexual offences against minors,’ Rachel tried to keep her impatience under check. ‘If we could have sight of their file…’
Coulter gave her a thin, reptilian smile. ‘You know, officer, that the solicitors code of conduct governing client confidentiality puts that out of the question. Not unless you have a Data Protection waiver from the court.’
‘That’s easily enough arranged,’ said Brickall. His tone was bullish.
‘Not necessarily,’ Coulter said smoothly. He barely moved in his chair, merely sliding his fingers to and fro along a wooden pen holder on his desk. ‘Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, you will have to issue me with a subpoena, whereupon I will request the court to decide client privilege.’
‘Can you tell me anything at all about why Sabre Holdings are renting 21 Grange Loan Terrace?’ Rachel persisted. ‘What is the purpose of the tenancy? Who approached you about it? Do you have a name, at least?’
Coulter did not even bother looking in their direction, turning again to look out of the window. ‘Again – I would like to remind you of client privilege.’
Brickall approached the filing cabinet to Coulter’s left. ‘Keep the records in here, do you?’ he asked, reaching for the top drawer.
‘Don’t touch that!’ Coulter’s head whipped round, animated at last. ‘Not without a court order.’
As he glared at Brickall, his face in profile, Rachel caught sight of something just visible above his shirt collar, on the side of his neck that had been nearest to the window. A port wine stain.
* * *
‘Christ on a bike!’ Brickall said. ‘So you reckon that dusty old stick was at one of the parties himself?’ He and Rachel were holed up in a café on Lothian Road where, despite the shortbread, Brickall had just ordered a full Scottish breakfast.
‘Let’s see now…’ Rachel mimed stroking her chin. ‘Marie-Laure describes a port wine mark on the right side of the man’s neck. An older man with grey hair. And Coulter is the one who helps lease the house where the parties took place.’
‘That’s no fucking coincidence.’
‘Exactly. So you know who we have to talk to next,’ Rachel told him, helping herself to a triangle of toast. ‘Whether we like it or not.’
‘Our mate Morag Sillars.’
Rachel nodded. ‘And unfortunately Police Scotland don’t seem to have made the link between Bruno Martinez and Emily van Meijer both dying while in the care of White Crystal Tours, so we’re now being forced to play catch up.’
Brickall gave a small shrug. ‘Given the two-year time lag between the two deaths, I think that’s just an unfortunate oversight.’
‘Maybe. But we still need their help. We’ve got enough circumstantial now to start putting a formal investigation together, but we need resources. Normal, everyday stuff. Like desks.’
‘And constables,’ agreed Brickall, munching on a piece of bacon.
‘So, hurry up and finish stuffing your face.’ Rachel drained her cup of coffee. ‘All roads lead to Gayfield Square.’
* * *
One of the things that Rachel’s police career had taught her was that despite its endless vagaries, human nature could still surprise you.
On this occasion, the surprise was that DI Sillars was not only helpful, but almost apologetic that the potential links had been missed. She listened – e-cigarette in hand – while Rachel relayed the substance of her meetings with Niamh, Luuk and Marie-Laure, and the mysterious set-up behind the house where Emily and Bruno had been assaulted.
‘I agree it’s well dodgy,’ she rasped. ‘Dodgy as fuck. Definitely worth taking a closer look at this Coulter character too. How about some covert obs on his home address?’
‘If you could spare the manpower, that would be great,’ Rachel shot a grin at Brickall, who discreetly raised his eyebrows in a silent ‘who knew?’ gesture. ‘And we need to get one of your intel boys – or girls – looking at Emily van Meijer’s mobile.’
‘Aye, I will.’ Sillars breathed out a rush of vapour like a boiling kettle. ‘And we’ll check the selfie stick for latent prints. Anything else?’
‘We need to apply for a warrant to do a full forensic search on 21 Grange Loan Terrace.’
‘I’ll get DC Tulloch onto it. And I suppose yous’ll be wanting desk space while we’re sorting all this lot?’ She directed this at Brickall, with what Rachel thought was almost a hopeful look.
‘That would be great, Morag.’ Brickall gave the diminutive woman his most disarming smile. ‘At the moment we’re wandering the streets, like—’
‘Like the useless soft southerners you are.’ Morag completed his sentence with the ghost of a grin. ‘Let me speak to Sergeant Finlayson and see what I can do.’
Forty minutes later, they were given the key to a room in the basement. It was small and badly lit, but there were three basic desks — two with phone lines, one with a computer terminal — a whiteboard and a cupboard with some basic stationery supplies. Even better, DC Tulloch was allocated to help them, when his other duties allowed.
‘Good old More-hag,’ Brickall said, swinging his legs up onto the desk as he tried one of the chairs for size. ‘She really has come through.’ She had even applied to the approved police list for a formal name for the investigation. They were now Operation Honeycomb.
‘That’s because she’s an old-fashioned copper at heart,’ Rachel told him, rummaging through the cupboard for some coloured pens to use on the whiteboard. ‘And her instincts are telling her that something that smells this fishy, probably is this fishy.’ Rachel pointed to the computer terminal. ‘How about you try and find out a bit more about our pal Douglas Coulter? And work through that list of local sex offenders that Giles gave us.’
‘Aye aye, boss.’ Brickall did a mock-salute.
Rachel pulled out her phone and scrolled to the screen shot she had taken in 21 Grange Loan Terrace.
Cleaner (Valerie).
She tried phoning the mobile number. It rang out, so she left a message.
There was a rep
eat offer of a pizza blow-out from Brickall once they had returned to the hotel, but Rachel declined. There was something that needed to be done that she couldn’t put off any longer.
* * *
Stuart was grim-faced when he opened the door to her. He led her wordlessly into the sitting room. This time the lamps on the side tables were off, and there was no welcoming warmth from the fire.
‘Claire’s not here,’ Stuart explained. ‘She’s gone to visit her mother in Dumfries for a bit. I’m hoping to join her, once you and I have sorted a few things.’
‘Does she know… about Joe?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘I will tell her, of course. I’ll have to. But right now she’s understandably devastated about losing the pregnancy. I just can’t do it.’
Rachel nodded. There had been no invitation to sit, but she lowered herself onto the edge of one of the squashy sofas. Stuart remained standing.
‘Have you heard from… our son.’ The words sounded unnatural coming from his mouth, and he showed he was aware of this, grimacing slightly.
‘Yes. He has been in touch, which is good. And I hope to see him again at some point. So when I do…’ She attempted a smile, but it met with a stony stare. ‘I imagine he’ll still want to meet you.’
‘We’ve already met, remember?’ Stuart spat. ‘In a hotel dining room.’
Rachel looked at his face, and for the first time she looked for Joe’s features there. The hairline and the jaw were the same. She let out a long sigh.
‘Stuart, there’s no point me apologising to you. It doesn’t change anything. I know you’re completely blindsided by this, but I can’t go back and do things differently. It’s not possible to rewind the past eighteen years. As I said in my text, at this point we owe it to Joe to think about how we move forward.’
‘I know there’s no merit in re-hashing the past,’ Stuart’s tone was a little gentler, and he sank down into an armchair, his shoulders curved forwards. ‘But Rae, I just need to understand how we got to this point at all. How you could discover you were pregnant and not tell me?’