by Alison James
‘It was. But we’ve now got access to the file, and I think we should look at it first before tackling the other members of staff. Turns out Candlish wasn’t being completely straight with us when he said that nothing like Emily’s death had ever happened before at White Crystal.’
She told him about Bruno Martinez.
‘Christ – another one? That doesn’t look good.’
‘It certainly adds another layer to the puzzle. So, let’s go straight to Gayfield Square to collect the paperwork, then we’ll have a better idea what we’re dealing with.’
‘Looking forward to seeing the charming More-hag.’ Brickall snorted as he rang off.
Rachel found another email when she had hung up, this time from the Dutch Embassy providing van Meijer’s personal phone number. She left a message for him, saying that she would appreciate the chance to talk to him about Emily, but that she would understand if this was not something he felt he wanted to do. Then she grabbed her trench coat, which was the only waterproof clothing she had brought, and set off to meet Brickall.
This morning he was accompanied by Dolly, also dressed in a raincoat. Rachel looked askance at the dog.
He shrugged. ‘No need for a charm offensive anymore, so fuck it. Dolly’s now part of the team.’ They trudged along Gayfield Square through horizontal rain. ‘Sodding Scots weather,’ Brickall observed. ‘I think I’d rather have the London heatwave.’
Morag Sillars was her gruff self when she met them in reception. ‘Thought I’d seen the back of yous two,’ she said sourly, pulling a Mayfair from the packet despite the ‘No Smoking’ notice on the wall.
‘DI Sillars!’ reproved the desk sergeant.
‘I’m no going outside in this pishing rain,’ she squawked. She thrust the file at Rachel, putting the Mayfair packet away and instead rummaging in her pocket for an electronic cigarette. ‘I wish you luck with it,’ Sillars said with a grim smile. ‘But you’ll no find anything.’
* * *
Rachel and Brickall took shelter from the rain in a café adjoining George Square, at the heart of the fringe festival hubbub. Through the window they could see a long line of tourists queuing to collect their tickets from the box office beside an upturned purple inflatable cow. They were handed yet more event flyers as they waited to be served: for a Maori a capella group, a female Liberace impersonator in cabaret and a Game of Thrones puppet show.
‘Couldn’t we have gone somewhere a bit quieter?’ Brickall grumbled. ‘Away from this arse-wit carnival.’ Dolly cowered at his side, wrapping her lead around his ankles.
‘I wanted us to get a feel for what the students experienced,’ Rachel explained. ‘It’s an important part of the context of this case.’
‘If they’ve never been to the UK before they must have come to the conclusion we’re all fucking mental.’ Brickall pointed out of the window at a human flame thrower with precipitation dripping off his naked, gold-painted torso, as a group of Japanese tourists in rain ponchos took photos of him.
They worked their way through the contents of the file, which were scant, taking it in turns to read through the statements. There was one from each of the house parents, Will and Hazel MacBain, one from the mountain rescue volunteer who led the search for Emily and was the first to discover her body, and one each from the first two police officers at the scene. The other students in the house at the time were all spoken to, but none of them heard or saw anything, with the exception of an Irish girl called Niamh Donovan, who said she thought she heard Emily banging around in her room in the middle of the night, and someone talking to her just before that.
Hazel MacBain said she had given Emily some paracetamol tablets earlier in the evening when she complained of feeling unwell. She smelled alcohol on her breath but didn’t think to act on it. It was only when she checked Emily’s room later to see if she was feeling better that she found the Southern Comfort bottle, and that she was missing. Will MacBain, only recently back in Murrayfield after taking a few of the students to a late-night concert, searched the immediate neighbourhood and alerted the mountain rescue team.
According to MacBain’s statement, Emily had enjoyed a trip to Salisbury Crags earlier in the week and talked about returning there to photograph the city lights. Since this was the last night of the trip, it would have been her last opportunity to do so. The police officer’s statement confirmed that a selfie stick and her phone had been found next to the body.
The pathology report, completed by a Dr Fraser Dewar, found evidence that supported these statements. The stomach contents contained both paracetamol and an amount of alcohol, and her injuries – a skull fracture, shattered spinal and cervical vertebrae, multiple contusions, broken right clavicle, humerus and femur and a ruptured spleen – were consistent with a fall from over a hundred feet onto her right side.
‘And the French kid? He fell to his death too?’ Brickall asked once they had both finished reading the contents of the file. The rain had stopped, and pale, milky sunshine was breaking through the cloud. Someone in a Tellytubby costume was now playing the bagpipes outside the window of the café.
Rachel shook her head. ‘Drowned, apparently. I don’t have any details, but it’s on my to-do list to ask Stuart if he can give me a look at the PM report.’
‘Ah yes,’ smirked Brickall. ‘Ex-husbands in high places – incredibly useful. How was dinner with your old man last night?’
‘My ex-old man. And it was fine,’ said Rachel calmly. ‘In fact, it was better than fine; it was a nice evening. His new wife is lovely.’
‘So all that toxic relationship history is in the past now? Buried?’
Rachel hesitated a beat. ‘More or less.’ She bent down to fondle Dolly’s silky ears. ‘Come on, this dog needs some exercise. Let’s start walking, as far as a tram stop at least.’
* * *
The White Crystal student residence was a substantial detached sandstone house on Campbell Road, in the upmarket suburb of Murrayfield. A red family-sized estate car was parked on its drive, and the doorbell was above a brass plate that said ‘Enquiries’. While they were waiting for it to be answered, Dolly squatted to pee on the front lawn and then lay down on her side, too tired to move further.
‘A doggie!’ squealed a delighted voice as the door was opened. A small blonde child ran out and attempted to pat Dolly. The dog rolled her eyes up into her head and played dead.
‘Esme, don’t touch the dog; you don’t know who it belongs to! It might not be friendly.’ A young woman with another child on her hip came out onto the front step.
‘It’s fine,’ smiled Brickall. ‘She won’t hurt your little girl, she’s far too knackered. In fact, if you could see your way to giving her a drink of water, that would be greatly appreciated.’ He pulled out his warrant card as he spoke. ‘I’m DS Mark Brickall, and this is DI Rachel Prince. Are you Hazel MacBain?’
She nodded, and smiled shyly. She was of medium height and build, with sandy-blonde hair, fair freckled skin and the sort of watered-down prettiness that made a face hard to recall later.
‘We’d like to speak to you and your husband about Emily van Meijer, if that’s convenient,’ said Rachel.
Hazel nodded, clutching the toddler closer her chest. ‘But Will’s not here,’ she said, her eyes darting from Rachel to Brickall and then over to Dolly. ‘Esme, I told you, leave the doggie alone!’
Brickall walked over and separated dog and child, hauling a reluctant Dolly to her feet.
‘Could we come in and have a quick word anyway?’ asked Rachel. ‘We can always talk to Mr MacBain another time.’
‘Yes of course.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘Though I’m not really sure why it’s necessary.’
‘If we can come in, I’ll explain,’ said Rachel firmly, employing her best door-stopping technique and walking past Hazel into the hall before she had a chance to refuse.
‘Let’s go up to the kitchen,’ said Hazel, pulling her daughter back inside and steering her to
wards the staircase. ‘Then I’ll be able to get your dog a bowl of water. But I’m afraid it’ll have to be quick, the baby needs a nap and I need to get the children’s lunch.’
She led them up a wide staircase to the top floor. ‘The student’s communal areas – TV room, refectory, kitchen and a laundry are on the ground floor,’ Hazel told them on the way up. ‘Their bedrooms are on the first and second floors,’ she pointed to a series of doors as they passed them, ‘and Will, the kids and I are on the top floor.’
They had reached the attic floor. It was spacious, but sloping ceilings made it feel cramped. There was a square kitchen-dining room, a small sitting room, two double bedrooms and a third room no bigger than a box room which contained a cot. Hazel put the toddler in to it and closed the door on his fretful squeals.
‘He’ll settle,’ she assured them, leading Esme to the kitchen table and giving her crayons and paper before filling a bowl with cold water for Dolly. ‘It takes Angus a few minutes to burn himself out before he’ll sleep.’ She placed her hand strategically on her abdomen. ‘I’m not sure how I’ll cope with three when this one arrives.’
Rachel noticed the early signs of a pregnancy bump for the first time.
‘Another ankle-biter, eh?’ said Brickall tactlessly. ‘You must be a glutton for punishment.’
Hazel responded with a beatific smile. ‘Not at all; I love having wee ones around… I hope you don’t mind if I get on,’ she added, busying herself with peeling fruit and buttering bread.
‘So where’s your husband?’ asked Brickall.
‘He’s taken the students over to Glasgow to visit the Science Centre. We try and fit in a few educational outings if we can, in addition to the festival shows.’
‘When you say “taken them”, what do you do for transport?’
‘We’ve a twenty-seater minibus.’
‘So that’s your car parked outside?’
The skin on Hazel’s neck grew slightly pink, as she concentrated on the chopping cheese into toddler-sized cubes. ‘It’s our family car, yes, but we only use it when Will’s here. I don’t drive, so everything to do with transport and activities off site are his domain. I just take care of the meals and the pastoral care, and supervise the cleaning.’
‘So, the night Emily died, for example,’ Rachel said. ‘You said she reported feeling unwell, and you gave her some paracetamol?’
‘That’s right.’ Hazel kept her back turned. ‘She told me she had a bad headache.’
‘And she’d been drinking?’
She hesitated. ‘I thought she smelt of alcohol, but I wasn’t certain. I rarely drink myself, you see.’
‘How many pills did you give her?’
‘I left the whole packet with her.’
‘And that was the last time you saw her alive?’ asked Brickall.
‘Yes.’ Hazel’s voice was meek. ‘It was. I went back to check on her a few hours later, before I turned in, and she wasn’t in her room. That’s when I found the bottle of Southern Comfort. I realised where it had come from straight away: it was ours. We don’t drink spirits ourselves, but we’re often given bottles as gifts by students, and we keep them in the cabinet up here in the flat, for guests.’
‘How would she have got hold of it?’ asked Brickall. ‘If she came up here, surely you’d have seen her?’
‘Will was out, and I would probably have been downstairs preparing food for the students. It’s all there in my statement… After I found she was missing, it was Will who took charge and organised everyone to start looking. As I said, I don’t drive, and someone had to stay here to mind the children.’
She kept her back turned as she arranged sandwiches, cheese and fruit on a plate, placing it in front of her daughter. Dolly positioned herself next to the table, and Esme dropped a cube of cheddar straight into her mouth.
‘And what can you tell us about Bruno Martinez? I believe he was one of your students two summers ago.’
Once again, Hazel’s translucent skin coloured. She was one of those women whose complexions were like Belisha beacons, flaring with colour when they were agitated. ‘I can’t…’ She drew her breath in sharply. ‘I don’t think it’s my place to comment on that, I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak to Will.’
‘Oh, we’re going to,’ said Brickall grimly. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Can we see Emily’s room before we go?’ Rachel asked.
‘Well, it’s not Emily’s room anymore. There’s a Spanish boy in there now. So there’ll be nothing useful to see.’
‘I’d still like to take a look,’ Rachel persisted.
‘Of course.’ Hazel managed a smile. ‘I can’t leave the kids up here on their own, but you could take a peep on your way out. It’s room nine, on the first floor. They’re not locked.’
Rachel, Brickall and Dolly made their way to room nine, which was around nine feet by eight feet, just about fitting a single bed, a small wardrobe, a chest and a built-in desk along one wall. The new occupant was untidy and the carpet was strewn with dirty clothes. Dolly trundled around the room sniffing them with alacrity. There was only a partial window: the accommodation had been created by partitioning the building’s original, larger bedrooms. As Hazel had predicted, there was nothing to see.
‘You’re right: something definitely doesn’t add up,’ Brickall said firmly as soon as they were out on the street again, heading back towards Ravelston Dykes with a reluctant Dolly in tow.
‘Go on.’
‘It must be four or five miles from here to Salisbury Crags. If you’re falling down pissed, are you really going to manage to walk all the way out there in the dark? It would take over an hour. Makes no sense.’
Rachel raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Great minds think alike, Detective Sergeant. That’s exactly what occurred to me when I first read the briefing note. Though I suppose – being objective – she could have taken a bus or a taxi.’
Brickall sucked his teeth. ‘Still doesn’t sit right. If she was set on a late-night selfie shoot, she would have roped in her mates. That’s how teenage girls operate. They hunt in packs. She wouldn’t have gone alone.’
They headed along Ravelston Dykes towards the city, Dolly stopping to sniff every single lamp post. Rachel’s phone rang.
‘DI Prince, this is Dries van Meijer.’
‘Hi…’ Rachel looked around her and found a stone wall to sit on, motioning to Brickall to wait. ‘Is this a convenient time to have a chat?’
‘I thought it would be better to speak in person,’ van Meijer offered.
‘The thing is, I don’t know when I’m going to be back in London—’
‘No, I’ll come to Edinburgh.’
Rachel frowned into her handset. ‘Mr van Meijer, I wouldn’t want to put you to any inconvenience—’
‘This concerns my daughter,’ he said firmly. ‘Inconvenience doesn’t come into it. Besides, I have my own plane.’
Ah. Of course he did.
‘I’ll fly up tonight, and call you when I arrive.’
Rachel hung up, already wondering how she was going to explain to van Meijer that this case was now about far more than the tragic death of his daughter.
Six
Dries van Meijer had secured a suite in Edinburgh’s most exclusive luxury hotel, despite the city’s ongoing ‘arse-wit carnival’, as Brickall had labelled it. But then if you could fly in by private jet, mused Rachel, as she walked into the lobby, then small details such as finding a room for the night were of no consequence. She had come alone, leaving Brickall to work his way through Betty Kilpatrick’s supply of baked goods.
The woman at the highly designed glass and chrome reception desk put her straight through to the suite when she asked for van Meijer.
‘You may as well come up here,’ he said coolly. ‘We can talk more discreetly than in one of the public bars.’
When the staff realised whose guest she was, she was assigned her own bellhop to take her up to the top floor of the b
uilding. The suite had floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, with spectacular views over Calton Hill. Leather Eames chairs sat between modern sofas covered in grey tweed and huge statement lamps, and side tables held extravagant displays of purple hydrangea, alliums and heather.
Van Meijer had abandoned the suit and black tie for a black cashmere polo shirt, well-cut black trousers and suede loafers worn in the continental style – without socks.
‘Mr van Meijer,’ Rachel extended a hand. ‘It would be wrong to say it’s a pleasure, but I am glad you were able to come.’
‘Call me Dries,’ he said simply. ‘There is a bar here with most of the basics, or you could order a cocktail if you prefer?’ He handed her an iPad with the drinks’ menu, which included at least forty single malt whiskies.
‘Could I have a gin and tonic?’ she asked.
‘Sure. Or I was going to have some of this.’ He pulled a bottle of Krug from the wine fridge.
‘Well in that case, since you’re opening it…’
Van Meijer popped the cork with the practised ease of a jet-set veteran and filled two crystal flutes. He raised his. ‘To Emily.’
‘To Emily,’ said Rachel quietly, taking a sip.
There was a discreet tap on the door, and a butler brought in a silver salver of open-faced smoked salmon sandwiches.
‘So, how are you getting on, Detective?’ asked van Meijer.
Rachel thought for a few seconds before answering. The last thing she wanted was to promise answers if there were none. ‘Things are going well so far,’ she said cautiously. ‘We’ve had permission to review all the Police Scotland paperwork, and we’ve made a start on our own enquiries.’
‘You have a theory?’ he asked, his voice hopeful.
‘It’s a little too soon for that,’ Rachel took another sip of the champagne. It was delicious, but strictly speaking she was on duty. She set the glass down and took a sandwich instead, realising that she was extremely hungry. ‘There are certainly questions that need to be answered.’
