Strike One.
DI Rachel Prince clipped the edge of a concrete column with the front offside wing of her car as she negotiated the overflowing underground car park. She was driving carelessly because she was late, and she was late because despite the rain she had hit a perfect stride and ended up running for forty minutes instead of twenty.
Strike Two.
Her kitbag caught in the lift doors as they were closing, requiring such force to free it that she crashed against the far wall. And then, since she was still in her running gear and trainers, her blonde hair scraped back in a high ponytail, she entered the fifth-floor office at a jog and attempted to vault straight into her desk chair. But her bag clipped the chair arm and sent it skittering to the right. Her backside caught the edge of the moving seat, then slid off. She tumbled inelegantly to the floor.
‘Morning,’ said DS Mark Brickall. ‘Strike Three, by any chance?’
He was making a calculated guess, since Rachel was usually punctual. The office rule was that if you screwed up three times on your commute to work and were more than ten minutes late, it was your turn to buy the drinks at their local pub, the Pin and Needle, that evening.
‘Strike Three,’ admitted Rachel, booting up her terminal. ‘It’s definitely that kind of day.’
‘Fucking weather,’ Brickall flicked a rubber band across his desk for emphasis. Raindrops were streaming steadily down the outside of the windows of the National Crime Agency and condensation was misting the inside. The NCA had been set up to tackle serious and organised crime, and its staff included police officers and ex-servicemen, but also civilian analysts and intelligence personnel. They were a cutting-edge team, and the atmosphere was usually lively, but with the backdrop of gunmetal February sky above an olive-drab river Thames, the effect today was that of being trapped in a giant grey box.
Brickall’s phone rang.
‘International Liaison, DS Brickall speaking… you’ll want my colleague.’ Brickall gestured to the receiver in his hand and mouthed ‘For you’.
Rachel straightened her chair and picked up. ‘DI Prince.’
She listened for a few moments, scribbling notes on a pad. When the call was over, she leaned back in her chair with her arms behind her head, her eyebrows raised.
‘Nothing like being given a bit of a wake-up on a Friday morning.’
‘Bit of a weird one, was it? Bloke sounded like a Yank.’
‘Correct. It was the Alien and Fugitive division at US Interpol HQ, no less. A Mis-Per found dead in unusual circumstances. A twenty-something female and – guess what – she’s a UK national. Looks like blunt force trauma, but apparently the body’s a bit too far gone to be sure. So they want someone from this end to go out and liaise with the local police department.’
‘And where would that be then?’
‘Los Angeles. Hollywood, to be exact.’
Brickall laughed. ‘Unbelievable. That’ll be one for Patten. He’s not going to pass up a chance like that: a jolly in Tinseltown.’
‘Except…’ Rachel said with a grin, standing up and collecting a pen and her notes, ‘I happen to know that his new baby is due next week.’
Commander Nigel Patten, Deputy Director of International Crime, glanced quickly away from his computer screen and started shuffling files in a transparent attempt at looking busy. Although he’d recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, he had a much younger second wife who was about to give birth to baby number two.
He waved at the chair opposite his desk, and Rachel sat down and filled him in on the little she knew of the case that had come in.
‘So they need someone from Investigation Support out there?’
‘I know that would normally be your call, but with the pregnancy…’ She summoned what she hoped was a caring facial expression.
Patten frowned. ‘Not great timing; you’re spot on about that. Danielle would have kittens if I left the country at this point.’
‘Or possibly a baby,’ suggested Rachel.
Patten sighed. ‘I suppose your firearms training might be useful. And if I remember rightly, you’ve done a stint in Crime Analysis?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I did a placement there soon after I came to NCA.’ She had started out as a regular beat officer before joining the Metropolitan Police’s CID and then Interpol, before it had been absorbed by the National Crime Agency. That had been nearly five years ago, when she was still in her mid-thirties.
Patten considered this.
‘Apparently, whoever goes out there needs to start out at Interpol in DC for a briefing,’ Rachel explained, ‘then fly to LA to help them fill in the gaps and liaise with the family.’
‘And you’re happy to go, Rachel? What about your promotion board?’
Following her investigation into a child grooming ring in Edinburgh, Rachel had been invited to apply to become a Detective Chief Inspector.
‘I’m still waiting for the date of the assessments to be confirmed, sir, but they won’t be for at least a month. I’ll be back by then.’
‘Okay, go and hand over your existing files and I’ll get Janette to book your travel.’
‘For today would be great, if she can swing it.’ Rachel looked over her shoulder as she left the office, ‘Oh and good luck, sir. With the new sprog.’
‘Jammy cow’ Brickall took some files from her and placed them at the bottom of the heap already on his desk. ‘You’d do anything to get out of buying a round. And if you think I’m actually going to do any work on these, you’re dreaming.’
‘No change there. You always were a lazy tosser.’ Rachel grinned.
‘And I hope the jet lag’s horrific.’
‘Sod off.’
She blew a kiss at Brickall over her shoulder as she hefted her bag and headed for the door. She knew the jealousy on his part wasn’t entirely faked. Rachel and Brickall both worked in the team that covered international coordination. They occasionally travelled to Interpol headquarters in Lyon, Rachel had been to Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands the previous year, and Brickall had recently attended a security briefing in Brussels. But this was the first time in their three years at the NCA there had been a long-distance case. The excitement gave Rachel an added bounce in her step as she ran down to the underground car park.
She honked and swerved her way through the three miles to her flat, and wasted no time once she was there; hurling her carry-on suitcase onto the bed and reaching into drawers and cupboards to fill it. No frivolous holiday brights or heels; just plain-clothes policewoman garb. Well-cut black trousers that flattered her athletic shape, plain white cotton shirts and T-shirts, her trainers and running gear and – her sole concession to California warmth – a bikini and flip-flops. Toothbrush, hair products and face wash, a minimal stash of make-up.
The kitchen, with its exposed brick walls and open shelves, was rarely used. The fridge was more or less empty already apart from the beer she stocked for her son Joe: no need to deal with leftover salad and half-used milk cartons. Rachel didn’t cook often. She didn’t know when she was going to be at home, so she’d got into the habit of surviving on takeaways and the work canteen. No young children, no pets, no spouse: leaving was gratifyingly easy.
Her phone buzzed as she was closing her case.
Okay if I crash tonight? Got Friday night drinks and it could get messy. J xx
Her son Joe was working as an intern at a management consultancy in Canary Wharf. He had been adopted as a newborn – when she was estranged from her ex-husband and Joe’s birth father, Stuart Ritchie – and had only made contact with Rachel the previous summer, when he turned eighteen. After navigating painful guilt on her part and bitter recrimination on his, their relationship had thrived, and he now occasionally spent the night in Rachel’s spare room when it was too late to catch the train back to his adoptive parents’ house in Sussex.
Packing ready to head to Heathrow early doors on a last-minute job – but use your key and help yourself to anything. xx
Once she’d sent the reply, she opened her taxi app, booking a car for the morning.
The next morning, as she was heading to the lift, she got another text. It was from Brickall.
I’ll miss you, you flaky tart.
Rachel smiled at the closing lift doors. She was sorry she wouldn’t be working with her right-hand man on this case, but that didn’t prevent her from being excited about escaping wintry London and getting her teeth into an intriguing international job. She typed a reply.
Get a grip, loser
Rachel woke from a thick, dreamless sleep. The hotel window was screened with fiercely efficient blackout blinds, so it was impossible to discern time of day. Her watch said 10 a.m., but after a few seconds of muzziness she remembered it was still set to UK time. The clock radio by her bed told her it was five in Washington DC.
She opened the blinds and looked out. It was dark, and very quiet. To her left was the empty splendour of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the mysterious blank space to her right was the Ellipse. She ordered coffee and juice from room service and switched on the TV. Only local news was available until 6 a.m., when national network coverage kicked in, so she watched the WLJA anchors expressing concern about a collision on the I295, and horror at a house fire in Clarksburg. The repetitive bulletins were punctuated with weather forecasts from the toothy weatherman, Brad, who told her it was going to be thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit and sunny.
She had emailed her contact at Interpol as soon as she landed at Dulles the previous evening, and at seven thirty there was a reply from him.
From: Robert J. McConnell
To: Rachel Prince
Apologies for the early shout, but assuming you’ll be on London time. Let’s meet for coffee – 8.30 too soon? Suggest Slipstream on 14th.
From: Rachel Prince
To: Robert J. McConnell
Your assumption was correct. See you at 8.30.
Rachel showered and dressed, and went down to the lobby carrying her sweater, jacket and scarf. The central heating in the building was set to sub-tropical, so within its confines it was impossible to wear anything warmer than shirtsleeves. The reception area was already teeming with people on weekend trips swigging the complimentary drip coffee, and busboys moving luggage on tall gilt trolleys. Rachel registered the doorman’s dismay with a smile as she stepped out onto the street in her T-shirt, then bundled herself into her warm layers on the pavement.
The air was sharply cold, but in contrast to London’s late-February drabness it felt powder-dry and bracing, the bare trees dark shadow puppets against a gleaming duck-egg sky. She enjoyed the brisk mile walk north along 14th Street, the pavements filling with runners wearing headphones and clutching take-out coffee cups. Arriving at Slipstream early, she ordered an espresso and sat in a corner with a copy of the Washington Post.
‘Rachel?’
She looked up to see a tall, tanned man extending a hand with a broad smile. ‘Robert McConnell. Rob.’
‘Thanks for meeting me at the weekend, Robert J McConnell,’ Rachel said, shaking the hand. ‘What’s the J for?’
‘Justin.’
She had a sudden, wrenching flashback to sitting in a bar in Edinburgh and asking Giles Denton the exact same question when they were embarking on a case together. It made her shiver, but she suppressed the thought instantly. She didn’t want to think about her brief liaison with child protection specialist Giles the previous summer, one that had hit major trouble almost as soon as it began. Not now; not ever. She wouldn’t be making a mistake like that again.
Rob sat down opposite her, tugging off a padded MA-1 bomber jacket with an Interpol logo on the left sleeve. Underneath he wore a fitted grey T-shirt which betrayed a gym addiction. Sod’s law that he’s really attractive, Rachel thought. A complication I really don’t need. He had grey eyes, slightly creased with tan lines in the corners, thick light-brown hair that sprung from his forehead with a life of its own. And, naturally, the standard issue good American teeth. He could have been a model for yachting apparel, Rachel decided. Despite herself, she shot a quick glance at the bare ring finger of his left hand.
He ordered filter coffee for himself and toast and jam for them both.
‘You need to eat at US mealtimes,’ he told her when she attempted a refusal, ‘Only way you’ll power through the jet lag.’
As they ate, he told her ‘I’ve got a written briefing note, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll just give you a quick summary so you can ask questions while we’re face to face.’
‘Go ahead,’ Rachel spoke through a mouthful of toast. Annoyingly Rob was right: she was feeling better now her blood sugar levels were heading up. ‘This jam is bloody delicious. Or jelly, I suppose you call it.’
He did not attempt to hide his pleasure at the way she was demolishing the food. ‘Glad I got that right. They make it in-house… Okay, so our victim is called Phoebe Stiles. Twenty-five years old, born in Weoley Castle, England.’
Rob pronounced it Wee-olly, making Rachel smile. He caught her smirk and paused. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘She was here on a temporary work visa. From what we know, trying to find film or TV work in Los Angeles. The LAPD will give you more detail on that. Her remains were found in a dumpster behind a Macy’s, very badly decomposed. The Medical Examiner estimated she had been dead between four and six weeks at that point.’
He paused again to let Rachel digest this. She put down her piece of toast.
‘There was no ID on or near the body, and the police had to rely on dental records. Fortunately, Ms Stiles had been seeing an LA dentist quite recently to get a set of veneers fitted, so a positive identification was possible.’
‘And the family have been informed?’
He nodded. ‘They’re on their way to Los Angeles now. The troubling aspect of this is that they claim to have had very recent contact with Phoebe, up to a few days ago. But from the condition of her remains, the Medical Examiner is one hundred per cent positive that this is an impossibility. But, again, they’ll be able to tell you more when you meet them.’
Rachel grimaced. ‘Family liaison work is really not my forte. But I’m definitely going to need to speak to them about the alleged recent contact with their daughter. It could generate a lead.’
Rob grimaced too, in sympathy. ‘There are a whole bunch of questions you need to ask. We were contacted because Phoebe was a non-US citizen, but another female victim around the same age showed up in San Diego a few months earlier – an American – and there are some striking similarities with the Stiles case.’
Rachel rested her chin on her hands, her interest piqued. ‘Really? That’s interesting.’
He drained his coffee and pushed a manila envelope across the table to Rachel. ‘There’s more detail in there. When do you fly out to LA?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘You’ll have a little time to read through this then.’
Rachel wiped the sticky crumbs from her lip with a napkin and their eyes met for an intense second.
‘Rob…’ Rachel interrupted her own train of thought. ‘Listen, thanks for this.’
‘Sure, no problem. Anything I can do; you have my email address, and my cell number should be on the email too.’
Rachel smiled weakly. ‘Great.’
For an insane split second she had been about to ask him if he fancied a drink later. But it really wasn’t relevant either way. Not only did she not have enough time in DC, but after Giles Denton she had vowed never again to become involved with someone working on the same case. That was her new, absolute rule.
He stood and held out his hand. Their eyes met again. ‘Good luck, Rachel.’
The three hours before check-out were spent sitting at the desk in her hotel room and reading through Interpol’s briefing note.
Phoebe Stiles. The name was familiar for some reason. Rachel took her laptop from her case and googled it. A huge hit of results, and a whole portfolio of images. A pretty, Cuprinol-tanned, fake-lashed blonde girl captured by paparazzi at D-list events, or as part of tabloid and gossip mag features. Of course. She was that Phoebe Stiles. A soap actress who had been sacked and then set off down the reality TV road, involving herself in more and more desperate attempts to take up column inches: drunken nights out, Instagram nudity, social media fights with rivals, on again-off again relationships with fellow reality show victims, plastic surgery and pregnancy scares. A career of sorts.
Rachel clicked on a tabloid headline: Why I’ll take LA by storm, by Phoebe Stiles. There was a photo of Phoebe, all duck lips, fierce brows and custard-blonde angel waves. She was, she said, fed up with the negative attention and lies of the UK press and was going to Los Angeles ‘to further my acting career.’ She had an agent there, and several projects were in the pipeline. She was excited about her future.
Rachel set up an alert for updates on her search, closed her laptop and zipped it into her case with a deep sigh. Phoebe’s future. Rotting in a dumpster at the back of Macy’s department store.
The bikini may have been a little optimistic, Rachel reflected, as she woke the next morning. The California sunshine was there on cue, but the air was cold enough for her to see her breath. She abandoned the planned dip in the hotel pool in favour of a run.
This was not the Hollywood she had pictured. She had envisioned gracious homes bordered by lush landscaping, sweeping boulevards fringed with towering fan palms and the pale Pacific beaches. It turned out those were all in Beverley Hills, Santa Monica and Bel Air. The LA police district dealing with Phoebe Stiles’s death was North Hollywood, a dusty, flat valley suburb of sprawling strip malls on the far side of the Hollywood hills. The ocean might as well not have existed, and there was only a distant glimpse of the San Gabriel mountains. Rachel ran past endless fast food and auto part outlets on Lakershim Boulevard before finally finding a small park, full of early Sunday runners like herself. She paused long enough to have a breakfast burrito and coffee, then went straight to the North Hollywood PD building on Burbank Avenue, pulling her Interpol warrant card from her fanny pack and showing it to a poker-faced desk sergeant.
‘Wait here ma’am: you need to speak to Lieutenant Gonzales.’
Frank Gonzales was a box of a man, as broad as he was tall. Sweat glistened on his round cheeks and on the edges of his black moustache, despite the morning chill and the air conditioning. He continued sweating once they were in his office and seated on either side of his desk. A lemon air freshener gave off an overpowering scent that filled the small room. Next to it were several framed family portraits with the awkward poses, forced grins and matching sweaters mocked in online memes.
‘Glad to have you here, Detective Prince.’ He was sombre as he shook her hand. ‘This is a difficult case. Sensitive, you know?’
‘Have Phoebe’s parents arrived?’
‘Yes, they flew in yesterday. They’re very distressed, very confused. As you would expect. One of my officers will take you to meet with them.’
‘Thanks,’ Rachel paused. ‘I’m here to do what I can for them.’
‘Appreciated,’ Gonzales pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face with it. ‘I think it will help them to speak to a law enforcement agent from their own country.’
Rachel nodded.
‘For now, there isn’t a whole lot we can tell them. The autopsy report hasn’t been super-helpful, I’ve got to tell you.’ He dabbed his top lip. ‘The remains were skeletal only, but skull injuries suggest cause of death was a blunt force trauma to the back of the head. As for what else she might have suffered – sexual abuse or torture – that’s impossible to tell.’
‘No third-party DNA?’
Gonzales shook his head. ‘No discernible traces. We tested the plastic sheeting and tape she was wrapped in but they were clean. I’ll let you see a copy of the report.’
‘And the photos, please.’
‘Sure. Give me the details of where you’re staying and I’ll have them sent over.’
‘And she was found behind a department store?’
‘Macy’s, just up toward Valley Glen.’
‘Anything on their CCTV?’
Gonzales shook his head regretfully. ‘Their recordings are kept for four weeks. We’ve checked everything they have. Nothing.’
‘How about where she was living?’
‘Same situation at the apartment block. We’re in the process of speaking to the other residents: that might give us something, but there were no reports of suspicious behaviour.’
‘I’d like to take a look at Phoebe’s apartment.’
He shook his head. ‘There’s really nothing to see. The CSI guys have taken as many samples as they can, which are still undergoing analysis. The place looks like it’s been cleaned though. Her laptop and cell have gone to the tech people for data analysis, and whatever they find looks like our best hope of moving this forward.’
‘I’d still like to take a look.’
Gonzales shrugged. ‘All righty then. I’ll have someone arrange it.’
‘And in my Interpol briefing, I was told there could be similarities between this and another case?’
Gonzales patted his armpits with his handkerchief. Rachel had never seen anyone sweat so much. ‘A body that was found in San Diego a few months ago. Database flagged up some similarities.’
‘Could you get me some more information?’
‘I’ll do what I can, but you gotta understand, it’s outside of LAPD jurisdiction. Crossing county borders… that’s a decision for the FBI to make.’
‘Anything you can get would be helpful.’ Rachel stood up. ‘I should go and change before I talk to the family.’
The first thing she was going to do was have a long shower. The blend of the drying perspiration from her run, Lieutenant Gonzales’ sweat sheen and the sickly sherbet-lemon aroma was making her skin crawl.
Gonzales heaved himself up and lumbered to the door to open it. ‘I’ll have an officer to you in an hour.’
Officer Dean Brading was already waiting for her in the motel reception after Rachel had washed and dried her hair and dressed in her preferred uniform of black trousers and white shirt. Clean shaven, with a mousey buzz cut and big, soulful brown eyes, he looked barely old enough to handle the 9mm Smith & Wesson on his belt. He addressed her as ‘Ma’am’, and only spoke when spoken to on their ten-minute journey.
Derek and Pamela Stiles were staying in a budget hotel on the outskirts of Studio City. Rachel had offered to go up to their room, but they insisted they would come down to the coffee area (it didn’t warrant the word shop) in the lobby. They appe. . .
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