Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  She looked at the pinboard, the happy summary of Emily’s life and achievements, and with a rush the eighteen lost years of Joe’s life crowded in on her, and she felt the searing pain of her own loss. She attempted to blink away her tears – she usually managed to maintain a cool, professional facade when dealing with bereaved relatives – but Annemarie noticed.

  ‘Do you have children?’ she asked, her voice still thick with anguish.

  Rachel nodded. ‘A son.’

  Annemarie dabbed at her face and straightened up. ‘Look at me, such a poor hostess. I haven’t even offered you coffee.’

  ‘It’s fine, there’s no need.’

  ‘I need… I think it would be better if I’m not here when you open the…’ Annemarie indicated the parcel.

  ‘Sure,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ll go through it, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to take away the contents as evidence. But you will get them back eventually. Before very long, I hope.’

  Annemarie gave a brief nod to show that she understood, then left the bedroom with a last, lingering look. Rachel pulled forensic gloves and evidence envelopes from her bag. With her gloved fingers, she carefully ripped the parcel open and removed the contents. There were Armani jeans and a Chanel T-shirt – both muddied and bloodstained – a pair of scuffed and muddy trainers, a suede bomber jacket – Gucci, Rachel noted – with a rip over the shoulder and back and Calvin Klein underwear. Rachel folded them carefully and reached for the items that had fallen to the bottom recesses of the bag. A smartphone with a cracked screen, a Cartier tank watch and a White Crystal photo ID card which had the company’s contact number and conferred discounts at various venues and shops. And the selfie stick, which had snapped into two pieces.

  The cheap plastic accessory seemed incongruous. It was the sort of thing that street corner touts offered to tourists all over the world for a few pounds. In London you saw them at Marble Arch and Parliament Square, and there had been several sellers in Princes Street during the festival. Rachel felt sure that Niamh was right: this had not belonged to Emily van Meijer. She might have borrowed it from someone else, but from what Rachel now knew about the girl, even this seemed unlikely. So why had it been with her at the moment of his death?

  Rachel dropped the plastic pieces into an evidence bag and checked through the pockets of the jeans. They were empty. If she had taken a taxi to Holyrood Park, you would have expected there to be some cash, and possibly the keys to her room. She checked the pockets of the jacket. There was no cash there either. No wallet and no keys. She could conceivably have taken an Uber: as a sophisticated young European she probably had the app on her smartphone, which Rachel sealed into a second bag.

  As she folded the jacket again, she felt something crackle under her fingers. There was a zipped breast pocket on the inside. She opened it and pulled out a much thumbed and folded piece of glossy, aubergine-coloured paper. It was printed with gold lettering.

  You are cordially invited to lose your inhibitions at a special private event!

  Masks, Mayhem and Mischief

  Saturday 5th August, 22.00 to 01.00

  21 Grange Loan Terrace

  … Do you dare to be there?

  Twenty-One

  ‘Did you bring back any weed from Holland?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Rachel told Brickall firmly. ‘Anyway, chance to go and buy some would have been a fine thing.’

  ‘Shame. Patten’s had me working on a really dull counterfeit currency case while you’ve been away. Really fucking soul-sapping.’ He grinned at Rachel. ‘So in the absence of mind-altering drugs, if you could wangle getting me back on the Edinburgh jolly, that would be fantastic.’

  The two of them were walking to the Pin and Needle for a much-needed post-work drink. Earlier, Rachel had written up her notes from Leiden and sent them to Giles Denton, and he had just phoned her to tell her that he and his colleague were launching an immediate investigation into the address where the party had taken place. A forensic courier service van was driving the items belonging to Emily van Meijer to Edinburgh, where the blood on her clothes would be analysed and the data on her phone retrieved. And Rachel herself would be heading north of the border again.

  ‘How d’you fancy going to Lyon to question Marie-Laure Fournier?’

  Brickall pulled a face. ‘Teenage girls aren’t really my forte. You know you’d do a much better job of it.’

  They’d reached the pub and Brickall went to the bar to fetch his usual order of a pint of lager and a plate of chips, together with a glass of Zinfandel for Rachel.

  ‘They’ve started doing cheesy chips!’ he said, placing the gooey yellow mountain on the table and rubbing his hands vigorously. ‘Game changer!’

  Rachel couldn’t help but smile. She had missed Brickall’s infuriating mood swings: his alternating high spirits and sulking. For a few wonderfully escapist seconds, she sat watching her sergeant extracting chips from their blanket of cheese like a messy game of Jenga.

  ‘You could try Skyping the French chick,’ he suggested.

  ‘Don’t call her a chick. Seriously: this is 2017.’ Rachel thought for a second. ‘But that is quite a good idea, as an interim measure; I’ll still have to talk to her properly at some point.’ She took a mouthful of the familiar house red, pulled out her phone and scrolled through Marie-Laure’s Instagram. ‘Ooh… hang on, we could be looking at two birds with one stone here!’

  A selfie of Marie-Laure and another girl making corny peace signs in front of Big Ben had been posted earlier that day. The caption read: A Londres pour trainer avec ma cousine #cool #mortelle #amour

  ‘What we have here is something that’s as rare as hen’s teeth – a piece of luck in a criminal investigation. She’s currently in London visiting her cousin. I’ll pop back to the office in a bit and dig out her phone number.’

  Brickall gave her a thumbs up. ‘Nice one,’ he said, before diving back into the cheesy chips. ‘Sure you don’t want one? You always nick at least one of my chips.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What’s going on with you? You’ve been quiet ever since you got back from Holland.’

  Rachel drew in a deep sigh, so deep that it made her light-headed. She was going to have to confide in Brickall. Not just because he was a daily part of her life and it would be awkward not to, but because she had found the last few days isolating, and she desperately wanted his support. He had his faults, but when their backs were against the wall, he was always on her side.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Brickall grinned. ‘Let me guess: you’re pregnant.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Brickall’s mouth fell open and he stared pointedly at her abdomen. ‘Bloody hell, Prince, I was joking.’

  Rachel managed a small smile. ‘I’m not pregnant, but… I have a son.’

  ‘No you don’t. Come off it.’

  ‘I do. He’s eighteen and he’s called Joe. Joe Tucker.’

  ‘Christ, you’re not even kidding!’ Brickall’s eyes widened in shock. He saw the expression on Rachel’s face and his tone softened. ‘Well go on then, you’d better tell me about him.’

  So Rachel did. All of it, from discovering she was pregnant with her estranged husband’s child too late for a termination, through to the horror of Stuart finding out about his son’s existence over a hotel breakfast buffet.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ Brickall said with grudging respect. ‘When you make a mess you really make a fucking mess.’ He went back to his bowl of chips. ‘Problem single mother – I suppose it gives you some PC cred.’

  His eyes met hers over the rim of her wine glass and they both laughed. It was something she hadn’t done at all in the past few days, and it felt good.

  ‘Seriously though, what are you going to do?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘At this point I have no idea. I haven’t heard from Joe since he was in Edinburgh. As you say, it’s a mess, and right now both of them –
Joe and Stuart – probably hate me. I’ve got so many bridges to build, my life’s a bloody construction zone.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me,’ Brickall said simply, going in for another chip.

  Rachel shot him a grateful look.

  ‘I need to tell my family about Joe. I was going to do it this weekend and I wondered if you’d come with me for moral support. And it would give you a chance to visit Dolly.’

  ‘Be glad to,’ Brickall said. ‘Nothing like a run out to the ’burbs. And I’ve missed spending time with my best girl.’ Brickall caught the expression on Rachel’s face. ‘I mean the dog.’

  * * *

  After a quick morale-boosting run first thing on Saturday morning, Rachel changed into the least confrontational outfit she could find and drove to Brickall’s flat, stopping for coffee and car-friendly snacks en route.

  They looked at each other as he eased into the passenger seat and burst out laughing. They had both opted for dark jeans, a chambray shirt and brown leather boots.

  ‘We look like Topsy and fucking Tim!’

  ‘It’s obviously the officially sanctioned parent-visiting uniform,’ Rachel replied. ‘You could go back in and change your shirt, or…’

  ‘Or we could totally mess with their minds.’

  They high-fived each other, then set off round the South Circular to Purley. I need this, Rachel reflected. After the overwhelming emotional stress and confusion of her foray into parenthood, the long shadow now cast by her past decisions, she needed the silliness and banter that she and Brickall had always enjoyed.

  ‘Did you manage to make contact with the French girl?’ he asked, taking a swig of his coffee and opening a bag of Maltesers.

  ‘Eventually. After I’d left her several messages, she finally took the hint and called me back. She’s leaving London on Monday, but I’m aiming to try and grab her before she gets on the Eurostar.’

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘Then you and I are heading straight up to Edinburgh. I cleared it with Patten on Friday night.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said Brickall with satisfaction.

  They were greeted on the driveway by Eileen Prince and a delighted Dolly, who trotted up to Brickall and placed her paws on his kneecaps. He fondled her head, then reached out a hand to Eileen.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Prince. I’m Mark Brickall. Dolly’s foster dad.’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Rachel.’ Eileen took in their matching outfits. ‘And look at you both – you two look like twins. There isn’t something you need to tell me, is there?’

  ‘No!’ They answered in unison.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Rachel held up her empty takeaway cup. ‘Actually, Mark was hoping to take Dolly out for a walk. If that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course it is. Come inside and I’ll get you her lead.’

  As they trooped into the hall there was the sound of a car pulling up outside.

  ‘That’ll be Lindsay,’ said Rachel.

  Her mother did a double take.

  ‘I asked her to come over. You remember I had something to say to you? Well, I need to say it to her too.’

  ‘But you’re not getting engaged?’

  ‘No Mum, I’m not getting engaged.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Not to Mark and not to anyone else.’ She took Dolly’s lead and handed it to Brickall.

  ‘My cue to leave,’ he smiled. ‘Back in a bit.’

  Lindsay bustled into the hall, staring at Brickall’s retreating back. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  ‘Hi Lindsay.’ Rachel reached in and kissed her sister on the cheek. Lindsay recoiled slightly, caught off guard by this rare show of affection.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you and Mum together,’ Rachel told her with more calm than she was feeling inside.

  ‘Well it’s not exactly convenient. Tom has jujitsu on a Saturday morning.’

  Tom was seventeen but, Rachel reflected, nothing like his cousin. He had none of Joe’s charisma.

  She ignored her sister’s comment and indicated that the three of them should go into the sitting room. Then, without fuss or preamble, she told them that Joe had come looking for her.

  Eileen’s hand went to her throat, her eyes widening. Lindsay blinked and sniffed. ‘He’s just turned eighteen, hasn’t he, so I suppose it’s no great shock. Is there going to be regular contact?’

  Her sister made it sound like a form of prison-visiting.

  ‘I don’t know… there’s been a bit of a problem.’ By which she meant that her son was not currently speaking to her.

  ‘What sort of problem?’ Lindsay demanded. ‘How can there already be a problem?’

  Rachel shifted on the edge of the sofa. ‘He found out that Stuart didn’t know about him, and…’ she looked down at the toes of her boots, ‘let’s just say he wasn’t exactly happy.’

  ‘That’s hardly a surprise!’ Lindsay snorted. ‘I told you at the time, didn’t I?’ Her cheeks were flushed now, and she positively bristled with self-righteous indignation. ‘I wanted to tell Stuart about the baby, but oh no, you wouldn’t have it. You knew better. And now look! We’ve once again lost a nephew and a grandson. A cousin for my two. We’re back to where we were eighteen years ago.’

  That’s right Lindsay, make it all about you. Rachel didn’t respond to her sister’s catastrophising, knowing that if she did she would snap. Her fingers were clenched so hard against her palms that her nails were cutting into them.

  ‘Give it time,’ said Eileen firmly. ‘It’s all brand new and strange. For both of you. There are bound to be some teething problems.’

  Rachel went over to her mother and kissed her. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Lindsay softened slightly, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug. ‘Well… I suppose Mum’s probably right. It’s bound to have been a huge shock for both Joe and Stuart. There’s still a chance you can patch things up when things have calmed down a bit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, with a smile that was not entirely forced. ‘I promise I will let you both know if Joe gets in touch, and I hope eventually you’ll get a chance to meet him.’

  Lindsay shot a sceptical look at her mother. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Eileen said quickly, reverting to the comfort of her usual routine. ‘And there’s a lemon drizzle in the tin that I baked yesterday. That handsome sergeant of yours looks like he needs feeding up.’

  Twenty-Two

  Marie-Laure had asked Rachel if they could meet somewhere near St Pancras station, so that there was no possibility of her missing her Paris train. Rachel suggested a coffee shop in Granary Square, just behind King’s Cross.

  ‘I know this place,’ Marie-Laure said. ‘My cousin Lucienne – it is her I am visiting with – she is at Central St Martin.’ She made the last word singular and pronounced it in the French way, which made the renowned art college sound exotic.

  ‘It’s a good place to meet,’ Rachel smiled. She glanced at her watch, conscious there was little time for small talk. ‘I think you know why I want to speak with you today.’

  ‘About Bruno.’ Marie-Laure said simply.

  Rachel did a slight double take. ‘Actually, I was hoping to speak to you about Emily van Meijer… Did you know Bruno from home? I know you were both from Lyon.’

  Marie-Laure shook her head, a pretty gesture that involved a lot of flipping of her long, dark mane. They were seated at a table on the paved square, and she took a cigarette and lighter from her pocket and lit it with one smooth, practised movement.

  ‘I didn’t know him at Lyon,’ she said, tipping back her head and blowing smoke towards the cloudy white sky. ‘I know him in Edinburgh, at White Crystal.’

  She pronounced it ‘cristalle’.

  Rachel blinked. ‘But… Bruno Martinez died two years ago, in August 2015.’

  ‘I know, I was there. I went to White Crystal Tours three years.’ She held up her fingers. ‘2015, when I am fifteen-year-old, 2016 when I am sixteen and this year when I am seventeen. I
adore Edinburgh very much.’ She made an expansive gesture, swinging the smouldering tip of her cigarette dangerously close to Rachel’s face.

  Rachel was taken aback. ‘Let me get this straight – you’ve done three consecutive years at the festival, and you were there when both Bruno and Emily were there.’

  ‘Yes. Is correct.’ Marie-Laure flicked the tube of ash at her feet and returned Rachel’s scrutiny, unabashed.

  Rachel performed a rapid calculation. This meant that Marie-Laure was probably the only non-family member in the MacBain’s house when both Bruno and Emily died. This could be significant. ‘Okay, so we have quite a lot to talk about. The police haven’t talked to you before now?’

  Marie-Laure shook her head. ‘This year I was out at a concert when Emily is missing. They only talked with people at the house.’

  Rachel glanced at her watch again, pulling out her notebook, and caught Marie-Laure’s look of irritation. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you miss the Eurostar. So, let’s start with Emily. You were with her this year… did you get to know her well?’

  Marie-Laure shrugged and ground out her cigarette butt under her foot, turning her attention to the coffee, which had just arrived. ‘Not really. She was a nice girl – sympa – but most of the time she was with her friend Luuk.’

  ‘Luuk, and also a girl called Niamh… you know her too?’

  Marie-Laure nodded. ‘Yes. I know Niamh,’ she said simply.

  ‘They were all handed invitations to a late-night party when they were out at the festival and they went, on Saturday 5 August. Just to be clear: you didn’t go with them?’

  Marie-Laure shook her head. ‘No. But I see the invitation they are given. And I know exactly what this is because I am invited last year, in 2016. Same thing.’

  ‘In the same place?’

  ‘I don’t know if it is in the same house, but the invitation – it looks the same.’

  ‘But this year you were not invited and you didn’t attend?’