Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  ‘The fact is, if I’d discovered I was pregnant sooner, I would undoubtedly have had a termination and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. My body, my choice.’ Rachel spoke firmly. ‘You and I were over, Stuart. For me anyway. I’d already come to the conclusion that marriage wasn’t for me. In my head, there was no going back. I couldn’t come running home with a baby in my arms.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Stuart raised his voice again. ‘I would have looked after him. I would have looked after both of you.’

  ‘But that’s the point: I didn’t want looking after. And I didn’t want to raise a child in a relationship that was already broken.’

  ‘But… this is what I can’t get my head around,’ Stuart put his hands to the back of his neck. ‘You could have raised Joe alone. Thousands of mothers do.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I would never have been there. You know the hours I have to work, the unpredictability.’

  ‘You could have switched to desk-based work, with regular hours.’

  ‘I didn’t want to.’ Stuart opened his mouth but Rachel cut across him. ‘And yes, I know how selfish that is, but it’s the truth. It was better for him to be in a stable home, with two parents who could give him the time I couldn’t.’

  ‘So you chose your career over your own baby?’

  Rachel closed her eyes. She was back in that hospital with the hours-old Joe in his clear plastic bassinet, trying not look at him, because if she looked at him she might love him. And she had been so afraid of loving him.

  ‘It wasn’t that simple. I think you know that.’ Rachel looked straight into Stuart’s face. ‘Handing him over was excruciating. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You have no idea of the agony I felt. The guilt.’ Her voice broke and tears started running down her cheeks to her lips.

  Stuart handed her a tissue. They were both silent, apart from Rachel’s gulping breath. Eventually, he reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Okay… that’s got everything out. Which is a good thing. Now let’s think about what we do now.’

  ‘When I hear from Joe, I’ll ask him how he feels about seeing you. But before that can happen, obviously Claire has to be involved.’

  Stuart looked stricken. ‘Do you know what the worst of this has been? Feeling guilty that Claire’s still childless, and I’m not. Most of my life I’ve wanted to be a father, and now – miraculously – I have a son. You and I have a son.’

  ‘We do,’ said Rachel gently. ‘And he’s wonderful.’

  Twenty-Six

  Rachel and Brickall were in the Operation Honeycomb office the next morning when Sillars marched in, not bothering to knock. She must have been fresh from an outdoor cigarette break, because instead of clutching a vape she wafted the aroma of nicotine, which lingered in the windowless room.

  ‘Morag!’ Brickall addressed the tiny woman with a flirtatious tone. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Ah’ve set up that surveillance for yous,’ Morag said brusquely, in her grating voice. ‘There’ll be an unmarked car outside of Coulter’s house in Comely Bank for the next forty-eight hours. But if that disnae give us anything, we’ll have to review.’ She made an attempt at a smile, then marched out again.

  ‘That voice! Like sandpaper to the ears,’ observed Brickall. ‘Listen, I think I might have something here. Coulter’s a member of the Edinburgh St Andrew Masonic lodge, and so were a couple of the men on the list, before they were presumably drummed out of the freemasons.’

  ‘Or were they?’ Rachel mused out loud. ‘That’s the problem with secret societies, you just can’t be sure.’

  ‘Anyway, these two nonces—’

  ‘Sex offenders, Sergeant.’

  ‘These two – Dr Neville Robbins and Eric Gourlay – presumably they would know Coulter. And it looks like they share a hobby.’

  ‘Get their details, and maybe we’ll pay them a visit,’ Rachel told him.

  Brickall went back to sorting through the papers on his desk. ‘How did last night go? The big “Oh-whoops-I’ve-had-your-baby” convo?’

  Rachel was spared answering this question by her phone ringing in her hand.

  ‘Is this Detective Inspector Prince?’ The voice was older, slightly querulous. ‘You rang me. My name’s Valerie.’

  * * *

  The house was one of an unassuming row of pebble-dashed bungalows in Corstorphine, this morning looking drab and grey behind a curtain of relentless drizzle. The woman who answered the front door was also unassuming. She had a dated perm, and a generally careworn look. Rachel judged her to be in her late sixties.

  ‘Valerie? I’m DI Prince.’

  ‘Come in out of the rain dear, come in,’ she said, taking Rachel’s trench coat and hanging it on an old-fashioned hall stand. Brickall had stayed behind doing research into Edinburgh’s roster of sexual predators, disgruntled because Rachel had lent her own desk space in the Operation Honeycomb office to Giles Denton while she was out.

  Valerie led the way through a passageway laid with a swirly burnt-orange carpet that made Rachel think of marmalade. Her own grandmother had had a similar carpet. They ended up in a tidy little sitting room filled with reproduction antiques and china ornaments. A wire-haired dachshund sat on a blanket on the sofa.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee, dear?’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ Rachel said, with a polite smile. ‘This will only take a minute.’

  ‘I must say I’m very puzzled as to why a detective from London would need to talk to me.’ Valerie sat down carefully next to the dog, her body language betraying that she was on edge.

  ‘I found your phone number in a house in Grange Loan Terrace. You were listed as the cleaner. Is that right? Have you cleaned that property?’

  Valerie’s hand went to her necklace, and she twisted her fingers through the beads. ‘I have done, yes, a few times. But not as a regular job, no.’

  Rachel was watching her carefully, but keeping her expression neutral. ‘Do you know how many times you’ve worked there?’

  ‘It would be three, or possibly four. I’m not sure exactly.’ She reached across out of Rachel’s eyeline and started rearranging a set of porcelain figurines.

  ‘And how did you come by the work? Who told you about it?’

  Valerie kept her focus intently on the porcelain birds. ‘I really don’t remember. I work for several people, and they recommend me to other people, and so on. Word of mouth sort of thing.’ Spots of colour appeared in the centre of her cheeks.

  ‘So, who paid you?’ Rachel persisted.

  ‘No one, not in person as such. There was just an envelope of cash in the kitchen, and a key left under the mat, which I was to put back through the letterbox when I was done.’

  ‘And there was no one there when you were working there?’

  ‘No dear, the place was always empty.’

  ‘You’re quite sure? There was nobody in the house at any time?’

  Valerie shook her head firmly.

  Rachel patted the dog to try and dispel her rising frustration. ‘Surely an exceptional property like that… you would remember who suggested you for the work?’

  Valerie gave a little laugh and patted her perm. ‘I’m not as young as I was, dear… I have what you might call “senior moments”. Especially when it comes to remembering names and the like.’

  Valerie was lying, Rachel knew that. She decided to change tack. ‘And when you were working there… what was your impression of the purpose the house was being used for? It’s not a family home, is it?’

  Valerie fidgeted with the china ornaments on a side table, clearly embarrassed. ‘Well, there’d obviously been parties when I went in there… there were empty drink bottles and… such like. You know.’ She cast her gaze down.

  ‘“Such like” being?’

  She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘Used contraceptives.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Once there were some… ladies underthings. Lef
t on the floor near one of the beds.’

  ‘And you didn’t think that was odd?’

  Valerie pressed her hands into her lap, her fingers still folded round a porcelain robin. ‘I suppose so, but it’s a well-to-do area. People with a lot of money live there. I put it down to some sort of… professional entertaining. That’s really all I can tell you. I was just there to clean.’

  Rachel sighed, and stood up. ‘Well, thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’

  Valerie led her back into the hall a little too quickly, as though eager to get rid of her guest. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t remember more, dear.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Rachel, still convinced that there was nothing wrong with Valerie’s memory. ‘I’ll just grab my coat.’

  She fetched it from where it hung on the hall stand, next to a brass plate with a pile of unopened post on it. Seeing the letter reminded Rachel of something. Basic error, she told herself sternly. You’d call out Brickall for that. She whipped out her notebook.

  ‘If I could just have your full name before I go, Mrs…?’

  ‘Muir. Valerie Muir.’

  Mrs Muir. Rachel’s memory stirred, then she felt the jolt of adrenaline in her chest as she realised where she had heard the name. The MacBain’s cleaning lady. Their ‘miracle worker’.

  * * *

  When she returned to Gayfield Square, PC Kirstie Blair, Giles and Brickall were all huddled round the computer screen.

  ‘We’ve got back the analytics on Emily van Meijer’s phone,’ Kirstie told her, looking up at Rachel.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  Giles made a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Most of it’s pretty standard teen chat.’

  ‘I think this one could be significant though.’ Brickall pointed at the screen. ‘It’s a text to Luuk, and the time stamp is only a couple of hours before she went missing. Only problem is, it’s in Dutch. Except for the word “dude” which I guess is international teen-speak.’

  Rachel leaned forward and pulled up a page for Google Translate, cutting and pasting the message into the text entry box. ‘And as if by magic…’

  Dude, you know what we were talking about before? Well can you get the number for Markus Baas from your mum? I think I need to speak to him, but I don’t want to freak out my parents by asking.

  ‘Do you have any idea who Markus Baas is?’ Giles asked, turning round to glance at Rachel. Their eyes met, and he held her gaze a fraction too long, throwing off her equilibrium. The room suddenly felt too warm.

  ‘I don’t, but I can certainly find out. Give me a second.’

  Rachel headed out of the basement and out to the front porch of the building where she not only had better signal on her mobile, but was also away from the laser beam of Giles Denton’s eyes.

  She phoned Dries van Meijer. He had given her his personal number, and although an assistant answered his phone, when she heard who was calling she put Rachel straight through.

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ was the first thing he said.

  ‘I can’t give you details at this stage, I’m afraid, but I can tell you I’m in Edinburgh again with a team of five and back-up from Police Scotland, and we’re actively pursuing several lines of enquiry. I’ll update you as soon as we have anything concrete.’

  ‘Good.’ Van Meijer sounded relieved. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Do you know of someone called Markus Baas?’

  There was a loaded pause. ‘I do, yes. Can I ask how he’s relevant?’

  ‘We’ve found evidence that Emily meant to talk to someone of that name, but of course we have no idea—’

  ‘He’s my lawyer,’ Dries interjected. ‘His practice has taken care of my family for decades. But why would Emily need to talk to Markus?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  ‘Can you hold the line just a second? I’ll speak to Baas myself.’ There was a pause of around a minute while van Meijer went to another line and left Rachel on hold. Then he cut back in. ‘Hi… I just got through to Markus Baas and he said he definitely didn’t hear from Emily in the week before her death. Or at any other time.’

  Rachel returned to the basement and relayed the substance of this conversation to the others.

  ‘So she wanted to talk to a lawyer… to make a complaint of sexual assault?’ asked Brickall.

  Rachel shrugged. ‘Since she didn’t get as far as speaking to him, we don’t know. We can check back with Luuk to see if he at least had a chance to pass on Baas’s number… But I’ll tell you what else came up this morning.’ She went over to the whiteboard and selected a red pen, writing ‘VALERIE MUIR’ in large letters. ‘The mysterious “Valerie” who cleans at 21 Grange Loan Terrace is none other than the cleaning lady for the MacBains. The hosts of White Crystal Tours.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Come to my room, lardass.

  Rachel stared at the text for a second, then headed down the corridor to Brickall’s room. He opened the door to her with an open pizza box in the other hand; half of it eaten. He shoved it towards her.

  ‘No thanks,’ Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘Not if it’s drenched in hot sauce. I was about to order something from room service.’

  ‘Hold off on that for a second… you know how we love a stakeout?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘You mean you love stakeouts. Because you’re a weirdo that way.’

  ‘Whatever… the plod who was designated to watching Coulter’s house this evening has had to pull out – his missus has gone into labour – and I said I’d do it. Want to come along?’

  Rachel didn’t want to, not really. On the other hand, Giles Denton was off the menu and an evening alone in her hotel room with a limp club sandwich did not appeal.

  ‘Oh go on then.’ She helped herself with some reluctance to a slice of Brickall’s pizza.

  ‘Car’s outside.’

  ‘Give me two minutes to fetch my coat and bag.’

  * * *

  They stopped for Brickall to bin the pizza box and buy ‘siege snacks’ – fizzy drinks, crisps, sweets and chocolate – then he drove the unmarked car to a pretty Georgian stone terrace in Comely Bank, parking it a discreet distance from Coulter’s smart black door. It was just starting to go dark, and office workers were returning to their homes, some on foot, a few on bikes. The next morning was clearly recycling collection day, because blue plastic boxes punctuated the pavement.

  Twenty minutes later, by which time Brickall had consumed a packet of crisps and two chocolate bars, a sleek dark-blue Jaguar pulled up and Coulter climbed out of the driver’s door. He was carrying a briefcase and a newspaper and he let himself into the house, leaving the front door ajar. A few minutes later a middle-aged woman, with blonde hair in a straggly bun, emerged carrying a blue recycling box piled high with wine bottles.

  ‘That must be the wife… looks like she’s fond of a tipple.’ Brickall observed. ‘Or someone in that house is, at least.’

  ‘If I were married to that snake, I reckon I’d be hitting the bottle too.’

  The stream of workers returning home petered out, lights went on behind curtains and shutters, and the street became still. It came back to Rachel with clarity that the golden ratio in police operations was ninety-five per cent boredom, five per cent action. She was already getting uncomfortable, squirming in her seat to try and make room for her legs.

  ‘So… what’s the story with you and Denton then?’ Brickall asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he munched on a fun-sized scotch egg.

  ‘There is no story,’ Rachel sighed.

  ‘But you guys like each other. Even a fucking blind man would know that.’

  ‘Yes, we like each other.’ Rachel’s tone was belligerent. She grabbed a packet of wine gums and shoved one in her mouth. ‘But I’m not about to start sleeping with him when we’re working on a high-stakes case together.’

  ‘Oh come on… people do it all the time when they’re working together. And you at least ad
mit that you fancy Denton?’

  ‘I do. But that’s hardly news. Now can we please change the subject?’

  ‘How’s your lad?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. I’m waiting for him to get in touch with me… I reckon it needs to be that way round.’

  After three hours, just as Brickall was making plans to go and empty his bladder, a man walked down the street towards them. It was still raining, and his face was partly obscured by his umbrella. He ran up the steps to Coulter’s front door and rang the bell. The door opened and he slipped inside.

  ‘Was that…?’ breathed Brickall.

  ‘I don’t know, it could be.’ Rachel leaned forward to check that the camera on the dashboard was switched on and recording.

  Forty minutes later the teeming drizzle had stopped, so when the front door opened the man emerged with his umbrella down. He wore an old-fashioned Gannex raincoat over a tweed suit and a moleskin waistcoat. The groomed white hair and goatee beard were unmistakeable.

  It was Kenneth Candlish.

  * * *

  It was with a sense of grim satisfaction that Rachel and Brickall returned to the offices of White Crystal in Drummond Place. There were to be no polite exchanges in Candlish’s cosy, over-furnished office. This time he was coming with them to Gayfield Square, for a formal interview.

  Jean, his faithful secretary, clutched at her pearls in dismay as Candlish was ushered out. He didn’t resist, or protest: he was far too wily for that. Having been in trouble with the law before, he probably knew to stay silent. Only when he was installed in the interview room with tea in a plastic cup did he speak, to ask for his solicitor to be present.

  ‘And who should we contact?’ Rachel asked, pulling out her notebook. ‘It will save time if you can give me their number.