Now She’s Gone: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

‘Because you don’t want them to think I didn’t supervise you adequately, or…?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Not exactly. It’s just, I want it to be just between you and me. But Charlie and I both agreed it was the most badass thing we’ve ever done.’

  Rachel smiled and looked up at him, this child of hers who towered over her. ‘Well, I’ll take that as a good thing.’ She leaned into him and hugged him hard, inhaling the now-familiar smell. ‘But promise me you’ll never ignore an order again.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And I’m so glad you came back. Really. It means everything.’

  Joe sensed the emotion in her and stiffened, pulling away in order to shoulder his rucksack. ‘Okay, cool, well I guess I’ll see you in London?’

  ‘Safe trip.’ She kissed her fingers and waved them as he trudged away. ‘See you in London.’

  * * *

  Celia Pownall was still working at 8 p.m., long after Kirstie Blair, Ben Tulloch and Morag Sillars had gone off-shift. Rachel hung around in the incident room, reading and re-reading the case file. She was exhausted after the events of the previous twenty-four hours, but didn’t feel she could go back to the hotel and leave Celia alone. She couldn’t even rely on Brickall. His bag and jacket were still on a chair, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Eventually Celia appeared and tapped gently on the open door. ‘Rachel… I think you should come and see this.’

  They went down to the interview room and sat together in front of the screen. Celia clicked on a thumbnail and a black and white video clip began to play. It showed a young girl on her back, motionless, possibly unconscious. Her mane of long blonde hair fanned out over the edges of the bed. Two men came into shot with their backs to the camera. One of them unceremoniously stripped off the girl’s clothes, and the other started having sex with her unresponsive body. It was Emily van Meijer, being raped.

  Rachel watched in silence, her knuckles thrust into her mouth.

  ‘I think this is one of the girls?’ Celia said quietly.

  Rachel nodded, her hand still in her mouth.

  ‘It was sold as a virginity-taking. Live.’

  Fresh fruit, thought Rachel, with a shudder. ‘When you say ‘live’?’

  ‘By that I mean, at the time it was happening, people were paying to watch it on webcam. Like the pay-per-view set-up you’d get with a boxing match. It’s not uncommon in child-porn networks.’

  ‘Dear God. Can you find the people responsible?’

  ‘Possibly. But it will take time: months probably. And there are almost certainly other organisations involved in supplying teenagers for the Edinburgh parties. The Albanians will be recruiting them from elsewhere too, as part of their network. Which will also take time to penetrate.’

  Brickall came into the room, freezing when he saw what was on the screen. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. Is that…?’

  Rachel nodded.

  Brickall rested his hands on the back of her chair. ‘I need to talk to you, Boss.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ she waved a hand, indicating the video.

  ‘Not this time, no. I’ve been to the forensic lab to chase up the cross-checked results after the search of the MacBain place.’

  Rachel swivelled in the chair to face him.

  ‘The fingerprints on the selfie stick found with Emily van Meijer’s body. They belong—’

  Rachel finished the sentence for him. ‘To Hazel MacBain.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Brickall stared at her. ‘How the hell did you know?’

  He and Rachel were back in the deserted Operation Honeycomb room, after Celia Pownall had left.

  ‘Couple of things. The first was something that came to me when I was re-reading Caitlyn Anderson’s statement this afternoon.’ There was an electronic clunk and hum as Rachel switched on one of the computer terminals and waited for it to finish booting up. ‘She said that the woman she saw with Bruno was fat.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘When we bailed Will MacBain he was whining about wanting to get to his son’s second birthday party. If Angus was born in September 2015, it follows that when Bruno died, Hazel would have been eight months’ pregnant. So at a distance, she would have appeared overweight.’

  Brickall was shaking his head. ‘But she was pulling Bruno from the car… and Hazel can’t drive.’

  ‘Can’t she? She certainly told us she didn’t drive, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how. When I looked in her wallet the last time we were there, I think I spotted a driving licence.’

  ‘That part’s easy enough to corroborate, at least.’ Brickall sat down and opened the PNC on the computer terminal. ‘We just need to check the Drivers File… do we know her date of birth?’

  Rachel shook her head, thinking back to her conversation with Greta Wheedon. ‘Only that she was born in 1985. It could be in her maiden name – Nevins.’

  ‘Here we are… yes, she holds a current UK licence. Valid since 2003.’ He turned and looked back at Rachel expectantly.

  ‘So – for one thing that solves the NPR mystery. Hazel could have been the driver of the family car when the number plate was picked up leaving Campbell Road.’

  ‘But that’s red. Caitlyn Anderson describes a brown car.’

  ‘Rookie mistake, young grasshopper…’ Rachel smiled. ‘Anderson also said the car was under a street light. Sodium lights will make a red car appear brown. Ever tried to find a red car in a car park after dark? They don’t look red. I can tell you that much.’

  Brickall was frowning with concentration. ‘So Hazel’s heavily pregnant, which would make it difficult for her to manhandle someone more or less the same size as her – bigger in Emily’s case: she was about 5’11” – unless she’s given them a dose of ethylene glycol in a sweet-tasting drink.’

  ‘Which would render them so incapable that all she has to do with Bruno is drag him to the water’s edge and push him in, and in Emily’s case, push her off the crags. Chucking the selfie stick after her to make it look as though she was attempting to take a picture of the city at night.’

  ‘But why? If her old man’s a paedophile, why would she want to protect him?’

  Rachel swivelled in the chair to face him. ‘Because she had too much to lose. She fought tooth and nail for her life of middle-class respectability and marital bliss. She must have found the porn on Will’s laptop. Or maybe she’d known about his proclivities for even longer… so when first Bruno and then Emily threaten to get the authorities involved, she knows her perfect little life is under threat. She has to shut them up, so that she and the saintly Will can go on pretending to be Scotland’s answer to Terry and June. She must have emptied the bottle of port used to poison Bruno before leaving it in his room, and in Emily’s case she bought a second bottle of Southern Comfort to allay suspicion. The one found in the drinks cupboard during the search was untainted, but their cleaning lady said she found a second, empty one in the rubbish. Hazel must have mixed the ethylene glycol into that one and put it somewhere Emily would be tempted to try it.’

  ‘Didn’t her friend say she wasn’t that keen on alcohol?’ Brickall reminded her. ‘It seems unlikely she’d help herself to the Southern Comfort.’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘We may never know what happened. Maybe when Emily tried to talk to Hazel about the party, she invited her upstairs for a drink and brought out the second bottle, which was already laced with ethylene glycol. After all, she’d tried it with Bruno and got away with it, only on that occasion she didn’t duplicate the bottle of port, she just washed out the poisoned one.’

  ‘Perhaps she needed to duplicate the bottle because her husband was partial to a drop of Southern Comfort and she knew he’d miss it if it was gone from the drinks cabinet?’ Brickall reached into his pocket and took out a packet of wine gums, dropping one into his mouth.

  ‘So you don’t think Will knew who killed the students? They could have been in it together.’

  Bric
kall shook his head, still chewing. ‘That’s not his style. He’s the man who hides behind a computer screen, remember? He’s a coward.’

  Rachel switched off the PC and reached for her bag.

  ‘So what are we going to do now?’ Brickall asked her.

  ‘Well, it’s nine o’clock in the evening, and everyone’s pissed off home. But we ought to speak to Morag before we do anything else.’

  She pulled out her phone and called DI Sillars number.

  ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Morag Sillars. Don’t bother leaving a message, because I willnae bother playing it.’

  They went down to the front lobby and asked the desk sergeant if he had any constables he could spare for an arrest. He shook his head.

  ‘All my units are currently out on jobs… piss-ups and punch-ups. The usual.’

  ‘Any idea where DI Sillars would be?’ Brickall asked him.

  ‘Aye, I do. She’ll be down the Stag’s Head.’

  They walked round the corner to the Stag’s Head pub. It was a traditional Victorian establishment at the bottom of Broughton Street, all dark-wood panelling, black and white checked floor and old-fashioned pub chairs. A TV screen in one corner was showing a football match. They fought their way through to the bar and found a lairy Sillars, straggly ponytail down, lipstick smudged, dwarfed by a loud after-work crowd.

  ‘We need to talk to you,’ Rachel mouthed. The music from the jukebox in the corner was so loud it was impossible to hold a conversation. She jerked her head in the direction of the door, and the three of them struggled out through the crush.

  ‘What d’yous two want?’ Sillars immediately lit a cigarette and puffed away on it silently while Rachel went through the evidence pointing to Hazel MacBain’s culpability.

  ‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘That’s quite a theory yous have got there.’

  ‘We need to bring Hazel in for questioning, but there’s no spare manpower back at the station.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s because Thursday’s the new Friday. Piss-ups’

  ‘and punch-ups. Yes, we know.’

  Sillars narrowed her eyes at Rachel.

  ‘Morag,’ Brickall wheedled. ‘Surely you can call in a couple of off-duty bodies? We need to get over there now.’

  She tossed her cigarette butt, and it fell to the ground in a shower of orange sparks. ‘I dare say I can. Leave it with me, and I’ll make a couple of calls.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Yous two go back and wait in the incident room and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Have you still got the keys for that unmarked pool car, or did you give them back?’ Brickall asked Rachel as they walked back to Gayfield Square.

  ‘Still got them…’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re not suggesting we go over to Campbell Road now?’

  ‘Why not? Will MacBain’s not there, remember, so it’s just her and two tiny kids. Two of us and one of her: it’ll be fine.’

  Rachel stared at him a beat. ‘Okay. But we’re going prepared.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Campbell Road was the archetypal sleepy suburban street, silent apart from the flicker and murmur of television sets from behind curtained windows and the occasional clatter of a fox rooting through bins.

  Rachel and Brickall parked outside number 34 and sat in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Brickall. Rachel nodded.

  They climbed out of the car and opened the boot, taking out stab vests and fitting airwave sets at the shoulder and attaching handcuffs to their belts. Rachel’s phone vibrated and Morag Sillars’ number flashed up on the screen. She hesitated, staring at it.

  ‘She’ll probably be looking for us.’

  Brickall snatched the phone and cut the call. ‘Come on; we’ve only got to get one small-ish pregnant woman into a police car. Let’s just get on with it before she offers a poisoned liqueur to anyone else.’

  He walked up the steps and rang the bell for ‘Enquiries’. There was no response. Brickall took a step back and tilted his head to look at the windows on the top floor.

  ‘Lights are on. Try again.’

  Rachel pressed the bell hard for several seconds, and banged on the front door. It opened, and Will MacBain stood there. The colour drained from his face when he saw who was standing on the front step.

  With impressive speed, Brickall pulled out his handcuffs and slotted them onto Will’s wrists.

  ‘Look, there’s no need for this. I just dropped by to make sure the children were okay. I’m staying round the corner.’

  ‘Will MacBain, I’m arresting you for violating the conditions of your bail. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. It’s a trip back to the nick for you, old son.’

  He led Will down the steps and out to the empty car, opening the rear door and guiding him onto the seat.

  ‘Might as well take the two of them in together,’ Brickall said when he re-joined Rachel. ‘A Mr and Mrs special. That would be fitting.’

  Hazel MacBain was standing in the doorway of the top-floor living room. As Rachel and Brickall came up the stairs, she called out ‘Will? What’s going on down there?’

  Then she saw Rachel and Brickall and her eyes widened, a surge of colour flushing her face crimson.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. There was an aggressive edge to her voice that had never been there before, and she backed away from them warily.

  ‘Hazel, we’re here to talk to you,’ Rachel said calmly. ‘We need to speak to you about the deaths of Bruno Martinez and Emily van Meijer.’

  The red colour intensified. ‘You’ve got no business being here! I want you to leave.’ There was a whimper from one of the children’s rooms, and she darted in there, coming out again with a sleep-tousled Angus in her arms. He was wearing a blue velour Babygro and had a security blanket clutched tightly between his chubby fingers. He whimpered at the sight of the strangers, and bored into his mother’s neck.

  ‘I said I want you to leave!’ Hazel spat.

  Rachel reached for her handcuffs, nodding to Brickall to indicate that he should take the child from his mother’s arms.

  ‘Hazel MacBain, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘No!’ Hazel screeched at Brickall as he reached for Angus. ‘Get away from me.’

  She backed into the kitchen, using the toddler as a shield, and pulled a large kitchen knife from a magnetic holder on the wall.

  ‘Hazel, there’s no need for this. Let’s just keep things calm here, eh?’ Brickall tried again to take the child, but she lunged at him with the knife blade, catching him on the wrist. As he swore and doubled up with pain, Hazel pushed past him and hurtled down the stairs, still holding Angus, who emitted ear-piercing shrieks of terror.

  She reached the ground floor, ran to the back of the passageway that led to the kitchen and yanked open the side door that gave access to the garage. Rachel and Brickall ran after her, leaving a trail of blood spatter from the cut on his wrist.

  ‘Fucking hell, it wasn’t supposed to go like this!’ Brickall muttered. There was just enough light coming into the garage from the main house for them to see Hazel pressed against the wall in the far corner. She gripped a squirming, distressed Angus with her left arm and held out the knife with her right.

  Rachel tugged the airwave from her shoulder and switched it on.

  ‘This is Control…’ a disembodied electronic voice crackled.

  ‘No!’ Hazel hissed. ‘Don’t call anybody. If you do…’ She brought the blade back and laid it against her son’s throat.

  Rachel and Brickall exchanged a shocked glance.

  ‘Hazel,’ Rachel said quietly. ‘You don’t want to harm your child.
You’re a good mother.’

  ‘I’m not though, am I?’ The glitter of tears was just visible in the half light. ‘I’m an evil person. I’m messed up, just like my dad. There’s something wrong with me, in here…’ She thumped her chest with the hand that held the knife, the blade coming within millimetres of Angus’ neck. ‘That’s what they used to say to me when I was in care. That I was a weirdo, not normal.’

  ‘Hazel,’ Rachel took a step nearer. ‘Give Angus to me.’

  The blade flashed as it went back to the child’s throat.

  ‘How do you think this can possibly end?’ Brickall asked her. ‘Come on Hazel, you’re not thinking straight. Think about what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s already ended,’ Hazel’s voice was thick with tears. ‘When he… when Will… started looking at that stuff… he spoiled it all. But I thought if nobody found out then we could go on as we were, and we could still have our lovely life together.’

  Rachel tried coming forward again, but instantly the knife was back at little Angus’s throat.

  ‘I want you to leave. Leave now, and it’ll all be okay. If you’re not gone in five seconds, then I’m going to do it. I will do it.’

  Rachel nodded to Brickall and the two of them started to back away slowly, still keeping their eyes on Hazel. As they were reaching the garage door, it cracked open and Will crashed through it, hands still cuffed in front of him. Without saying a word, he lunged at Hazel and tried to knock the knife from her right hand. She stumbled back then lost her footing and lurched forward, sinking the knife into Will’s chest as she fell.

  He collapsed onto the ground just as Rachel leapt forward and pulled Angus to safety, a dark lake of blood pooling around his body. Then the child’s high-pitched cries were joined by the scream of sirens.

  Thirty-Nine

  ‘Just what the fuck did you think you were doing?’

  Morag Sillars had pulled herself up to her full four feet ten inches and was bellowing at Rachel and Brickall. Paramedics were carrying Will MacBain’s body out of the house, covered in a blanket. Hazel had already been taken away in a van after being tackled by two officers in body armour, and a distressed Angus was being checked over by a third paramedic. A uniformed PC held a confused, sleepy Esme. The swoop of circling blue lights lit up the cordoned-off street, and there was a constant background crackle of police radios. Suited forensic officers shuffled between their van and the house.