by Alison James
‘One thing…’ Rachel said, washing down painkillers with a bottle of water. ‘Did you read the forensic report from Lola’s room?’
Brickall shook his head.
‘The paternal DNA sample found on the carpet. It was semen, for fuck’s sake. What’s that all about?’
‘I’m pretty sure Surrey CID will have asked him that. Funny old thing, though: we can’t question him ourselves because he’s done a bunk.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Mind you, I can’t find anything that suggests he’s a paedo.’
‘That doesn’t rule it out. But then the presence of the DNA doesn’t rule it in either. Any number of reasons you might get your jiz smeared in your kid’s room.’
Rachel looked askance at him. ‘Seriously, Detective Sergeant? And Harper wasn’t living there either. Bit bloody weird.’
Brickall exhaled hard, making a whistling sound through his teeth. ‘The whole case is weird, if you ask me.’ Workers from the early shift had started streaming out of a side entrance. ‘Okay, who are we looking for?’
Rachel took out her phone and flicked back through the images she had captured from Michelle’s photo album until she reached the one of Gavin Harper with his brother, holding it up to Brickall. The two men were sitting under a coconut-palm pergola at a beachside bar, shades on the top of their heads, a strip of cobalt-blue sea in the background.
At 4.05, a man strode into the car park, rucksack slung over his shoulder, car keys in hand, and Brickall said, ‘Bingo!’
‘Andy!’ Rachel climbed out of the car and placed herself between Whittier and his own vehicle. ‘Andy, hi. My name’s DI Rachel Prince. Could we have a word?’
He tilted his shoulder down and attempted to barge past her. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to talk to you. We’ve all had enough hassle.’
‘Just an informal chat.’ Rachel used her recent boxing training to block him. ‘Otherwise we’ll be bringing you into London with us for a formal interview.’
He hesitated, looking her up and down again. He had an attractive face, Rachel thought, with regular features and warm brown eyes. ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But not here. There’s a place a couple of hundred yards up the road, towards the bypass. Sid’s Caff.’
Six
Sid’s Caff was a greasy spoon favoured by the lorry-driving fraternity, all Formica and strip lighting. The three of them had mugs of stewed tea and Andy ordered a full English, which he set about with the gusto of the condemned man at his last supper, Brickall looking on enviously.
‘Sorry, bloody starving,’ he said through a mouthful of baked beans and sausage.
‘That’s fine.’ Rachel stirred sugar slowly round her creosote-coloured tea. ‘Take your time. I expect you know what we’re going to ask you anyway.’
‘If I know where Gav’s gone.’ He dabbed bread and butter in the baked bean juice and wolfed it down.
‘Spot on,’ Brickall confirmed. ‘That deduction hardly takes a criminal genius.’
Andy shrugged, starting to relax a little now that his blood sugar was on the rise. ‘Sorry, you’re wasting your time. I have no bloody idea where Gav is.’
‘Your father – sorry, Gavin’s father; your mum’s ex – thinks he’s taken Lola Jade and gone abroad.’
Andy returned to looking down at his plate. ‘Like I said, I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
Rachel nodded, reaching into her bag and groping reflexively for the blister pack of painkillers. The two she took earlier didn’t seem to be working. Andy watched her pop out another one and swallow it with her tea.
‘Bad knee,’ she said hurriedly.
He nodded sympathetically. ‘Loads of the guys at work have knackered their backs and knee joints loading the rigs.’
‘Can we get back to your niece,’ said Brickall sharply. ‘You and your brother are very close: you must have an idea where he is.’
Andy laid down his knife and fork. ‘And I’ve just told you I don’t.’
‘Look, our main objective at this point is to talk to Gavin. You have to agree he has some questions to answer. If he didn’t take Lola, then why did he up and vanish. How did he up and vanish?’ Rachel levelled her gaze at Andy, who was mopping his plate in a studied fashion. ‘What’s your theory when it comes to Lola Jade?’
‘If she was dead, then I reckon you lot would have found her by now. But on the other hand, in my opinion you’ve been pretty bloody useless, so who knows?’
Brickall scowled at him.
‘I’m not sure that’s fair.’ Rachel drained what was left of her tea. ‘Surrey Police threw a hell of a lot of resources at the investigation. Every single bit of available manpower was used in the search.’
Andy leaned back in the chair, giving her a sceptical look.
‘And the case has now been passed from Surrey police to us at the National Crime Agency. You know: fresh eyes.’
‘We’ve already talked at length to your sister-in-law,’ Brickall chipped in. ‘She’s the one who told us you and Gavin are close.’
Andy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Michelle? Jesus Christ!’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of her, I take it?’
He pulled a face. ‘Well, you’ve met her, right? She made Gav’s life hell when they were together. Never happy; never satisfied. One minute she wants them to split up, the next she wants him back, then she chucks him out. Blowing hot and cold: demanding his attention one minute, ignoring him the next. Poor sod never knew where he was with her. And then she goes and makes up stories about him abducting Lola, as well as… other stuff.’
Rachel looked straight into the brown eyes that now flashed with indignation. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Implying things about Gav that were a load of crap… He’d never have done the things she was talking about.’ His voice trailed off.
‘You’re talking about sexual abuse?’ Rachel thought it was time to dispense with euphemism.
Andy nodded. ‘Never, not Gav. Not in a million years.’
‘So Michelle made up a story that her husband was interfering with his own daughter?’
‘Let’s just say, of the two of them I know who was the better parent.’
‘I got the impression that she’s devoted to her daughter,’ Rachel countered.
He shrugged. ‘You could say that. But at least Lola knew where she was with her dad.’ Andy buttered the last piece of bread left on his side plate. ‘Well, good luck anyway, starting from scratch, months down the line. Your chances of finding her must be slim to none.’
Brickall scowled again.
The clock over the counter said quarter to five, and the crowd of truck drivers was starting to thin. Andy threw his paper napkin onto his plate and pushed it away. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to get off. The wife’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’
Brickall held up a hand. ‘Hold on a minute: can we get back to where we started. Gavin’s whereabouts. I understand he’d spent time in Spain?’
Andy shrugged. ‘When we were young, before we both married, we used to spend time repping in the resorts in the Med. But that was over ten years ago.’
‘Michelle said something about Torrevieja.’
Andy reached for his wallet, ducking his head to avoid eye contact as he counted out coins. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Please, Andy.’ Rachel tried to reinstate eye contact. ‘It’s in everyone’s interest for us to find Gavin.’
He nodded briefly, still avoiding her gaze. ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, he could be anywhere. He might not even be abroad.’
He had stood up to leave, but Brickall was quickly on his feet, blocking his path.
‘Got to go, okay?’ Andy said firmly, whacking Brickall with his rucksack as he pushed past. ‘Sorry, but I can’t help you.’
‘Is there an address he might go to? A contact who might be helping him?’ Rachel called as she limped after him, but Andy strode straight outside to his car, jumped in and d
rove off without looking back in their direction.
* * *
Rachel was already googling flights as Brickall drove them back to London. ‘Alicante or Murcia: the airports for Torrevieja. Michelle’s given us a lot more to go on than Andy has.’
‘He gave us fuck-all,’ Brickall pointed out.
‘So we might as well get on with it and head out there as soon as possible, I reckon. I’ll sort it with Patten tomorrow.’
It was now rush hour, and they were crawling with painful slowness through the outer suburbs. By the time they reached the centre of the city it was 7 p.m.
‘Makes sense if I drop you at home,’ Brickall suggested. ‘It’s a bit late to go back into the office.’
Rachel was about to agree when her phone rang. The same number as before. Stuart’s number. Her whole body tensed.
‘You okay?’ Brickall eyed her sharply. He missed nothing, unfortunately. They were pulling up outside her block of flats when Rachel suddenly gripped his forearm. ‘Don’t stop!’ she barked.
A familiar figure was standing on the pavement outside the door to her building. Stuart.
‘Keep driving! Drive!’
Brickall changed up through the gears and hurtled to the end of the street, yanking the steering wheel left round the corner. Then he pulled over abruptly, stalling the engine and making the driver behind them hit the horn and flick a V-sign in their direction. Brickall waved his warrant card in response, then turned to face Rachel.
‘What the fuck’s going on, Prince?’
‘I thought I saw my ex. Or it might not have been him. I’m not sure. Fuck!’ She slammed the heel of her hand against her forehead.
‘Jesus, you’re so fucking jumpy! What exactly is the problem?’
‘I just don’t want to see him, that’s all.’
‘Is this the same one that was phoning you?’
Rachel nodded.
‘Want me to come with you and check if it’s him?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. Just wait here with me for a bit until he’s gone. If it is him: I’m not even sure. But thanks, Mark.’
They waited in awkward silence for a few minutes, then Rachel reached for the door handle. ‘No wait!’ Brickall started the engine. ‘Let me drop you at the front door; then we’ll both know you were imagining things.’
There was no one waiting outside the building when they got there. Rachel patted Brickall’s arm as she got out of the car. ‘Thanks. We’ll sort the Spain trip in the morning, okay? Make sure you pack plenty of sunblock.’
He grinned at her. ‘Like I’ve said before: you’re such a weirdo, Prince.’
* * *
‘I think we can agree I’m never going to bloody win Olympic gold.’
Rachel stepped back from the punchbag, shoulders heaving from the effort, sweat trickling from her temples, cheeks flushed bright pink. It felt good. Her anxiety levels had plummeted and for a while, at least, she hadn’t given any thought to Stuart Ritchie.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing well.’ Howard went to pat her shoulder, then, seeing the slick of perspiration, hung back, his hand hovering. ‘I’m seeing real progress.’
Rachel’s right knee was still sore, but after only a few sessions she could feel that she was toning up, gaining muscle. She went to grab her towel from the bench and reflexively reached into her kitbag for a couple of pills, sloshing them down with water from her sports drink.
Howard’s silhouette loomed over her, biceps bulging in his corporate gym T-shirt, and of course his eyes zeroed in on the tramadol. Before she could escape, he pulled the blister pack from her hand and studied them.
‘You want to be very careful with these things, they’re extremely addictive.’
Rachel snatched the pills back and shoved them into her bag.
‘Maybe you should, you know, go and speak to your GP about an alternative?’
Rachel stomped past him, swung the gym door open and headed for the car park. ‘Maybe you should mind your own fucking business!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Sitting in her car, she rested her head on the steering wheel for a few seconds, waiting for her breathing to steady. Shit, she thought, that was a stupid thing to do. She’d had a terrible night’s sleep, between the pain in her leg, her paranoia about Stuart having discovered where she lived, and her mind churning over the details of the Lola Jade Harper case. She’d mentally revisited Michelle’s house, replaying every detail of what she’d seen and heard. And there was Andy Whittier. He had been evasive, and her experience left her in no doubt he was hiding something. They should interview him again, in a more formal setting. But first: Spain.
As she trudged into the office, one glance at Brickall let her know that he was in a foul mood.
‘What?’ she asked as she lowered herself carefully onto her desk chair.
‘What d’you mean: what?’
‘You’ve got a face that looks like a wet bank holiday weekend in Scunthorpe. Only less fun.’
‘Bloody Patten won’t let me go with you to Spain. The Bogdhani case is going to court this week and I’m needed to give evidence.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘I was counting on you to do the driving.’
‘Thanks a bleeding bunch. Good to know where my skills lie.’
‘And I was relying on you for feedback and insight too, obviously.’ Rachel leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. She usually enjoyed the international element of the job, but this morning she was too tired to summon any enthusiasm for the trip. Especially now that she would be going alone. ‘We’ll have to do our video conference calls, okay? I’ll still need to run stuff by you, and have you run data checks for me… Detective Sergeant?’
Brickall sighed, and nodded reluctantly.
‘Good. I guess I’d better go and see Janette about a flight. And schedule a case conference with those lovely people at Child Protection for when I get back.’
‘By lovely people, you mean lovely person: our Mills and Boon hero.’
Rachel flushed slightly, which seemed to be a reflexive response whenever she thought about the dark, handsome and faintly mysterious Giles Denton.
‘Whatever. Just do it, douchebag.’
Seven
The first thing she noticed was the bright sunlight streaming in through slatted blinds. The second was the thrumming pain and stiffness in her right leg.
Rachel had arrived at Murcia airport at eight the previous evening and driven a rental car for an hour to the Costa Blanca resort of Torrevieja, a magnet for British tourists. Now, hobbling out of bed, she pushed back the blinds and stepped out onto the balcony, squinting into a cloudless sky. A pristine aquamarine hotel pool twinkled below her, and she longed to go for a morning swim but knew it would only make her leg worse. She would allow herself a poolside lounging session later, but first there was work to be done.
The Asturias Bar was on the promenade, a paved, pedestrianised thoroughfare fringed with towering palms. On one edge was the beach, dotted with colourful umbrellas, and on the other a strip of bars, ice cream parlours, restaurants and ‘Irish’ pubs. Inside the bar there was restaurant service, and a large awning at the front gave shade to more tables and chairs. A couple of hardened Brits were sitting outside, already downing pints of lager when Rachel arrived at 10 a.m. She showed her warrant card and was taken to the manager in the back office, a small, wiry man with a comedy moustache, called Jorge.
He nodded vigorously when Rachel showed him the photo of Gavin Harper.
‘Yes, I remember. He work here.’
‘When?’
Jorge shrugged. ‘Long time ago. Maybe ten years?’
‘Have you seen him recently? More recently than that?’
This was met with blank incomprehension, but Jorge summoned one of the waiters, a young Latvian called Andris, who spoke near-perfect English and stood in as a translator. Yes, Jorge remembered Gavin but hadn’t seen him since he worked ther
e. No, Gavin hadn’t been into the bar recently, and he hadn’t seen him anywhere in Torrevieja in recent months.
‘Ask him if he can think of anyone else who knows Gavin Harper, anyone he was friends with.’
Andris relayed this, and told Rachel that yes, there was a guy called Cristian Aguado who used to be friendly with Gavin Harper and who still worked at a nightclub called Discoteca 33. He might know something, Andris said, but from Jorge’s Hispanic shrug, Rachel was not so sure. She stayed and drank a coffee and ate some churros, and then worked her way methodically along the promenade, showing Gavin’s photo to everyone she could find. After three hours, her leg was throbbing, her right foot puffy, and she had no leads at all. She decided to limp back to the hotel, put on her bikini and rest by the pool until it was dark and resort nightlife swung into motion.
* * *
Discoteca 33 was in a semi-residential street that led down to the Cala Cornuda beach. Now that it was nearly November, peak holiday season was over, and at 8.30 it was still early for the party crowd, so there were only a handful of other people in the club. Rachel perched herself on a bar stool, feeling conspicuous. Within twenty seconds, a portly man with greased-back hair sidled up to her.
‘Buy you a drink, lovely lady?’
Lovely lady? Hard to believe men still said that. She grimaced, wishing she hadn’t put on a sheer pale pink shirt, but had instead stuck to something more workmanlike. Rachel turned down the offer and bought herself a glass of sangria, using the interaction with the bartender to ask if he knew who Cristian Aguado was.
‘Sure.’ He pointed to his own tanned chest, which was exposed by a shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist and looked as though it had been oiled. ‘I am Cristian. How can I help?’
My first piece of luck, thought Rachel. Few cold cases were solved without a certain amount of it. She added in a generous tip and explained that she was looking for Gavin Harper.
Cristian frowned. ‘Of course, I know him. But he is not here.’
