Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  ‘Heather Kinnaird, at Reekie.’

  She froze, pen poised over her notebook. ‘You mean Reekie & Co? In Atholl Crescent?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Candlish stroked his goatee and smiled insincerely. He’d decided on a charm offensive. It wasn’t working.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Rachel coldly. ‘One of their partners is a person of interest in this investigation. There’d be a clear professional conflict.’

  ‘You’re referring to Douglas Coulter?’

  ‘Let’s wait until you have a lawyer before we get into this. DS Brickall – would you go out to the front desk and contact the duty solicitor, please.’

  A solicitor arrived fifteen minutes later, looking fresh out of law school, and Rachel started the recording equipment, doing the formal introductions.

  ‘May I ask what my client is charged with?’

  ‘He’s not charged with anything yet. At the moment, Mr Candlish is merely assisting with our enquiries. He doesn’t need legal representation; that was his choice.’

  The baby-faced lawyer took off his coat and sat back in his chair, looking relieved.

  ‘So, Kenneth… you’ve already admitted to knowing Douglas Coulter, senior partner at Reekie & Co. In fact, you just mentioned him yourself as a possible person of interest.’

  ‘I did not say that.’ The flinty little eyes gave nothing away. ‘I just named him as partner at the legal firm I use. Douglas is a well-respected member of Edinburgh society. We go way back. Old family friend.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of your visit to him last night?’ Brickall spoke this time, pushing a still from the dash cam footage across the desk towards the solicitor. It showed Candlish walking down the steps of the Coulters’ house.

  ‘As I said, we’re friends. It was a social visit.’

  ‘Bit late for that, wasn’t it?’ Brickall asked. ‘By the time you arrived, most people would be turning in for the night. Or was that the point? You needed to wait until Coulter’s wife had gone to bed.’

  Candlish’s small eyes flicked from side to side, but he held onto his composure. ‘Like I said. A social visit, to a friend.’

  ‘What did the two of you talk about?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘This and that. Golf. Holidays. Mutual friends.’

  Brickall put his elbows on the table and leaned forward so that he was only a couple of feet from Candlish. ‘Mutual friends who have an interest in underage sex?’

  The solicitor raised his biro feebly. ‘I have to object to that line of questioning. Mr Candlish is not charged with anything of that nature, nor can he be expected to testify about his friends’ sex lives.’

  Brickall snorted. ‘If he’s prosecuted for arranging or facilitating sexual services by a child, then trust me, he’ll have to.’

  Candlish paled slightly.

  ‘Okay, so here’s our problem, Kenneth,’ Rachel said, leaning back in her chair, adopting contrasting body language to Brickall’s. ‘When we asked you about certain parties featuring teenagers on White Crystal’s own tours, you denied all knowledge of them. And yet you knew one of the parties took place in Grange. And – guess what – the person who drew up the lease on the Grange property where these parties took place is none other than your pal Douglas Coulter. Who in turn matches the description of someone seen attending one of these parties and molesting a young girl. A girl who was a student on one of your company’s courses. A rather troubling series of coincidences, isn’t it? So what are we to think when we find you calling on Coulter late at night?’

  ‘As I said, he’s a friend. That’s all.’ A sweaty sheen broke out on Candlish’s face, and he reached down and fidgeted with his watch chain.

  ‘We’re obviously wondering why the conversation between the two of you couldn’t be held over the internet or a mobile phone, which would make it potentially traceable.’

  ‘That’s speculation,’ Candlish said, his voice thin and strained. ‘You’ve no evidence either way about what we talked about. The subject matter of our wee talk was entirely innocent.’ He looked desperately in the direction of the boy solicitor.

  ‘Unless you’re going to charge my client, I think this interview should end here.’ There was a scraping of chairs as Candlish and the lawyer stood up.

  Rachel switched off the recording. ‘I’d be grateful if you would inform us if you’re leaving Edinburgh for any reason. We’ll need to speak to you again.’

  As she watched DC Tulloch escorting Candlish to the front lobby, her phone bleeped. It was a message from Joe.

  Where are you?

  Twenty-Eight

  It took Rachel a while to decide what to do. Her parenting instincts were lagging eighteen years behind, and she was not sure how to interpret this communication from her son, arriving – as it had – without preamble. Was it a cry for help?

  She went to a higher floor in the building to find a signal sweet spot. Whatever instinct she did possess told her to call rather than text.

  ‘Hullo.’ The tone was nonchalant.

  ‘Joe. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Only I wasn’t sure what you meant in your text.’

  ‘Oh right… yeah… I just meant are you in London or Scotland.’

  ‘I’m in Edinburgh at the moment.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Several more days at least… why?’

  ‘I’m visiting a mate in Newcastle and I thought I could maybe, like, come up for a bit.’

  Rachel’s mind raced. She wouldn’t have time to chaperone a teenager. And then there was Stuart. He would have to be told Joe was coming this time. That was unavoidable.

  ‘It would be great to see you,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I’m really busy with the case, but—’

  ‘I could help you with that if you want.’

  Rachel’s heart gave a little surge. ‘That’s very sweet of you, but unfortunately police investigations don’t quite work like that. We can certainly talk about it. Some of it. I’m usually around in the evening.’

  And there’s your father, she thought.

  ‘Cool, but don’t worry about a hotel or anything, yeah? I’ve got another mate who’s about to start his second year at Edinburgh Uni, and I’d be crashing with him.’

  ‘Great,’ said Rachel. ‘It would be really lovely to have you up here. Let me know when your train gets in.’

  * * *

  When she returned to the basement, DI Sillars was there.

  ‘Just briefing your sergeant here,’ Morag croaked, giving Brickall a sidelong glance that was almost flirtatious. She pulled out her pack of Mayfair and lighter. ‘He can fill you in: I’m off out for a fag.’

  ‘Morag’s got us a warrant for a forensic search on 21 Grange Loan Terrace,’ Brickall said, once she had gone. ‘And she’s going to apply for one for the White Crystal offices, so we can look at Candlish’s computer.’

  ‘We’ll need his home address too,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘Anything dodgy is more likely to be on his personal electronic devices.’

  DC Tulloch looked up from the computer terminal. ‘Ma’am, I’ve tracked down the municipal street camera footage for Grange Loan Terrace. It gets deleted every four weeks, so we don’t have the night of the party, but here’s something from three weeks ago you might want to see.’

  The others huddled round the screen to watch grainy black-and-white images from in front of number 21. At 23.11, the front door opened and two people emerged. One was a tall, slim man with a sleeve tattoo whose face was obscured by a baseball cap. The other had luminous hair that looked bright white under the street lamps.

  ‘That’s Iveta Kovals!’ breathed Rachel. ‘Looks like she was doing more than handing out leaflets.’

  The two figures were having a discussion that became heated, with a lot of arm waving. The man loomed over Iveta’s slight frame in what was an unmistakeable gesture of threat, seizing her wrist. Iveta pulled away from him and hurried
away up the path.

  ‘Is that the other one you interviewed?’ asked Brickall.

  Tulloch shook his head. ‘Balodis? No, wrong body shape. Too slim. Might be the mysterious Andrei though? The one who pointed them to the job advert.’

  Rachel walked over to the whiteboard and started adding names, linked with arrows and questions marks, starting with Maris Balodis and Iveta Kovals. Her metaphorical ball of wool now resembled a large, complex spider’s web.

  ‘We need to make re-interviewing our Latvian friends a priority,’ she told the others. ‘And Giles,’ she turned round and addressed Denton, ‘how did Sarah get on with her dark web research?’

  ‘She spoke to a contact in Police Scotland’s Intelligence Support Division.’ He looked through a notepad on his desk. ‘Tom Wallace. But here’s the thing –’ he pronounced it ‘ting’, Irish fashion – ‘Wallace walked Sarah through how the networks operate, and there’s no doubt a big percentage of their traffic is child pornography and marketing of illegal services. Trouble is, the officers who can penetrate the dark net and track what’s going on there need special training, and they’re all in the joint NCA and GCHQ cybercrime cell.’

  ‘In other words: back in London.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Rachel palmed her forehead in frustration.

  ‘But here’s the other thing – I’ve got to go back to London for a top-level Command meeting, so I could have a go at digging out one of these experts for you and see if I can persuade them to make the trip up here.’

  ‘That would be great. And make sure they know it’s top priority. Please.’

  ‘Of course.’ Giles attempted to subject her to more smouldering eye contact, but Brickall had been scrutinising their interaction, so she ignored it. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly to her detective sergeant, pulling on her coat. ‘You and I need another little chat with Hazel MacBain.’

  * * *

  ‘No doggie?’ Esme MacBain did not hide her disappointment when she saw Rachel and Brickall on the doorstep of the Campbell Road house.

  ‘No doggie,’ confirmed Brickall.

  Dog or no dog, Hazel MacBain greeted them amicably. Her blandly pretty face had grown rounder since their last visit, and she wore a denim maternity smock over her pregnant belly.

  ‘My husband’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s on his outward bound course.’

  ‘It’s not Will we want to talk to,’ said Rachel with a perfunctory smile. ‘Can we come in?’

  They went up to the top floor sitting room, where Angus had been left in a playpen, munching solemnly on a crayon.

  ‘This won’t take too long will it?’ Hazel said nervously, lifting Angus from the pen and sitting down with him on her lap, like a human shield. ‘Only, I’ve got more on than usual, with Will being away. When you rang I was about to get Angus into the buggy and walk up to the shops for some groceries.’

  ‘Go shops!’ Esme beamed, handing Brickall a book about a baby dragon.

  ‘She views it as a treat,’ explained Hazel. ‘Normally Will does a run to the cash and carry, or drives me up to the supermarket and amuses the kids while I do a whip round with the trolley.’

  ‘You should have a fair idea by now why we’re here,’ said Brickall, mollifying Esme by turning the pages of her book and pointing silently at the dragons.

  ‘Well no, not really,’ said Hazel. A faint blush of pink was visible just above her collarbone. The gold crucifix flashed as she turned it round between her fingers. ‘I mean, the enquiry into Emily’s death must surely be done with now.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Rachel. She kept her tone pleasant, her expression neutral. ‘The enquiry is very much open. For example, last week I spoke to Marie-Laure Fournier. About Bruno Martinez.’

  The flush on Hazel’s neck crept a little higher. She bent her head and rested her lips briefly on the crown of her son’s head.

  ‘She confirmed that Bruno attended a party in Grange during his stay. And that he was very distressed about what happened to him there.’

  ‘Which is why he ended up taking his life. You went over this with Will the other day: he told me. We discuss everything.’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘What Marie-Laure said was that Bruno had no intention of bottling things up. Quite the opposite: he wanted to talk about what had happened. With you.’

  The crimson stain spread up to Hazel’s cheeks. She shook her head vigorously. ‘He never spoke to me. I only ever heard about the parties after you discussed them with my husband last month.’

  ‘And Emily van Meijer,’ said Brickall, taking the next book Esme shoved at him. ‘Did she ever speak to you about sharing what had happened to her with his family’s lawyer?’

  ‘No, no she did not. She never mentioned a lawyer. Or the party.’

  ‘Might she have spoken to Will about it?’

  ‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. Will would have told me. He tells me everything.’ Her tone was oddly insistent. She let go of her son and gripped the crucifix again.

  Rachel changed tack. ‘One other thing… your cleaning lady is Valerie Muir?’

  ‘Mrs Muir, yes.’

  ‘Were you aware that she has been employed to clean the house where these sex parties took place?’

  Again, the colour blazed on Hazel’s face. ‘No. No I’m not. Why would I be?’

  ‘You said she’d worked for you for years.’

  ‘Well, yes, but…’ Hazel busied herself with finding Angus a truck to play with. ‘She’s not full-time with me. She has other work.’

  ‘So you didn’t put her forward for the job?’

  ‘No!’ Hazel pressed her palms to the warm patches on her cheeks, as if trying to make them fade. ‘That’s nonsense. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get the shopping done before Angus is ready for his nap.’

  Rachel stood up. ‘Of course. We’ll leave you in peace. If you wouldn’t mind just giving us the details of the trip Will’s gone on.’

  ‘It’s the Hibernian Catholic Boy’s Club… he’s given me the name of the place they’re staying, and the landline, in case he lost service on his mobile. One second…’

  Hazel put Angus down and reached for her handbag, pulling out a large leather purse. She unzipped it and thumbed through the section where cards were stored. She pulled out a business card and handed it to Rachel, who used her phone to take a photo.

  Angus, who was starting to fret, pawed at Hazel’s purse, attracted by the shiny gold zip.

  ‘Me! Me have!’ he whined, as Hazel tried to keep it from his grasp.

  ‘Here, let me put this back for you…’ Rachel took the contested purse and slid the card back into place. But not before taking a look at the contents, as she had been trained to do. She zipped it up and put it back into Hazel’s bag, out of the reach of the clamouring toddler.

  ‘Thanks,’ Hazel managed a wan smile. ‘Like I said, I need to get him out for a walk.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve held you up: we’ll leave you to it.

  ‘What was that about?’ Brickall asked as they walked out of the front door and into Campbell Road. ‘Suddenly coming over all softly-softly?’

  ‘Because I want to get a warrant and search that bloody place from top to bottom,’ said Rachel grimly. ‘But if we spook Hazel and she realises what’s coming, I have a feeling potential evidence might end up being disposed of.’

  ‘You think she’s hiding something?’

  Rachel thought back to the skin-flush of deception that Hazel hadn’t been able to control, and to what she had just spotted in her purse. ‘Oh, I’m quite sure of it.’

  * * *

  There was no reply at the West Pilton flat formerly occupied by Maris Balodis. Rachel left Brickall putting in a call to Gayfield Square to check the relevant PNC file, while she knocked on the doors of some of their neighbours. This was a transient community, the run-down flats rented by people on the margins of society, and there was either no reply, or the residents spoke no English. Even
tually one of the doors was opened by an elderly woman who had the dubious fortune of being a long-term resident of the block. She nodded when Rachel asked her if she knew anything about the Latvians in Flat 5.

  ‘Gone, hen,’ the woman said. She was tiny and wizened, but her clothes were clean and her hair had recently been taken out of curlers. ‘There was a polis car here one night and the man was arrested and then the young girl with the silver hair, she took off somewhere. The place is empty now. Though no doubt they’ll put more foreigners in there before long.’ She set her lips firmly in disapproval. ‘They always do.’

  The results of Brickall’s phone call backed up her story. Maris Balodis had been charged with actual bodily harm after a fight in a pub and was currently on remand in HMP Dumfries.

  ‘And Iveta’s done a bunk,’ sighed Rachel.

  ‘A criminal evading law enforcement agencies: who’d have thought it,’ Brickall jibed. ‘So what now?’

  Rachel checked her phone. There was a message from Joe.

  Getting in to Waverley at 15.56

  ‘First: an arrest warrant for Iveta Kovals. Second: go back and chase up the forensics on 21 Grange Loan Terrace. And third: get your girlfriend DI Sillars to apply for a warrant to search Campbell Road. Discreetly: we don’t want them getting word of it.’

  ‘A dawn raid job?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How about you? You coming back with me’

  Rachel looked up from the taxi app on her phone. She shook her head. ‘Not this time. I’m on mummy duty.’

  * * *

  An hour later, standing under the departure boards at Waverley, Rachel spotted a familiar figure.

  Giles Denton.

  He was waiting for the King’s Cross service to announce boarding, about to catch the train that Joe would be disembarking. She was on the point of walking up behind him and sneaking her arms round his waist when she saw another familiar outline: a tall, loping figure hefting a large rucksack. Joe.

  Forgetting about Giles immediately, she stood on tiptoes and waved like an excited child. He was wearing a short-sleeved grey T-shirt over a long sleeved white one, and there were newly acquired knotted bracelets on both wrists. As Rachel stepped forward to hug him, she took in the heady and now familiar boy smell. And she time-travelled back with a jolt to the maternity hospital once more, lying in bed next to the baby she was trying so hard not to love. A new midwife on shift, unaware of her adoption plans, had taken in her air of detachment and said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, being a mum doesn’t all fall in to place immediately. It takes a while for the love to come in.’