‘Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary,’ Patten addressed the officers in the Major Crimes Investigation Support meeting room, ‘have decided in their wisdom to conduct another of their reviews into our effectiveness. Specifically, whether we are investing enough in equipment in order to support our officers. They also want to look at our extradition and fugitive protocols. So –’ he slapped a file on the desk for emphasis; something he was fond of doing – ‘we’ve got a lot to get through in the next few weeks.’

There was a collective groaning and eye rolling around the table.

‘Obviously, it makes sense for International Division to cover Ins and Outs.’ He used the favoured office slang for criminals crossing UK borders in one direction or the other – ‘so DI Prince and DS Brickall: can I leave that with you? Retrospective summary of all our files going back to whenever the hell HMIC were last here.’

Rachel and Brickall slouched back to their desks like teenagers who had just been given extra homework.

‘What do you want to do – Ins or Outs?’ Brickall asked.

Rachel shrugged. ‘I really don’t care.’ She realised as she said it that there were probably a lot more criminals coming into the country illegally than there were being shipped out.

‘I’ll do Outs then,’ said Brickall, also realising this.

‘Fine,’ she smiled. His mood had improved somewhat since he had talked to her about Shaun Rawlings’ release from prison, but she was keeping quiet about the American case anyway. She was, in effect, doing what Brickall had wanted and letting the matter go. He was right anyway; she was at a dead end. No more talk about Phoebe Stiles.

‘Coffee?’

He nodded, eyes fixed on his computer monitor, and she headed off to the communal kitchenette to put on the kettle. Reflexively checking her phone while the kettle boiled, she saw she had a voicemail that must have been left while she was in the meeting. The associated missed call was from Robert J. McConnell.

Her hands trembled slightly as she called voicemail.

‘Rachel, something’s… listen, you’re definitely not going to want to miss this. It’s probably best if I explain in an email, this is just a heads-up. Okay, take care now. Bye.’

Back at her desk, she checked her inbox. There it was, intriguingly entitled ‘You must see this’. She glanced over at Brickall, who was watching her expression closely.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing. Just an annoying email from my sister.’ She had indeed received an email from Lindsay that morning, demanding she disclose her plans for Easter, so this was not an outright lie. She closed her email down and stood up. ‘I’m going to start pulling up some archived files.’ She didn’t want to risk another confrontation, so Rob’s message was going to have to wait. But that didn’t stop her thinking about it.

---

As soon as she got home, she curled up on the sofa with her laptop and started reading.

Sending good thoughts? What on earth did that mean?

Rachel clicked on the link, which took her to a report on the Raleigh News & Observer’s site.

The photo of Melissa Downey, smiling and pouting for the camera, instantly put Rachel in mind of Tiffany Kovak. The boyfriend had the thick neck and heavy shoulders of an American football player.

She fired an email to Rob.

He replied a few minutes later:

She emailed again. CCTV images?

Rachel closed her laptop, changed into her running gear and headed for the Thames Path. It was nearly dark, and persistent drizzle made the air soupy and her face damp. The last of the office workers were hurrying to the tube station or over the bridge, some huddling outside bars and pubs to smoke.

I have to go out there, was the persistent thought in her head. She had tried to forget about the case – not perhaps as hard as Brickall would have liked her to – but it was no use. She could not, would not, let go.

---

As soon as she had parked her car the following morning, she went straight to Nigel Patten’s office. The desktop photos of Danielle and toddler Jack had now been joined by pictures of the new baby, as bald as his father.

‘Sir, you remember the Phoebe Stiles case. In Los Angeles?’

He steepled his fingers and looked at her wearily. ‘It was only a few weeks ago. I’m hardly likely to have forgotten.’

‘Interpol in Washington have been in touch, and it looks like there’s another related case.’

‘Where? You mean in the USA?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And is this another UK national?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘American this time.’

Patten frowned. ‘So why on earth is Interpol contacting you about it then? I’m not sure I follow.’

Rachel hesitated. He had a point. It wasn’t strictly a matter for an international agency. ‘I suppose because it has links to the Stiles murder, and she was British,’ she extemporised. ‘And I’m not convinced the man they’ve arrested killed Phoebe. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.’

‘So why exactly are we discussing this now, DI Prince?’

‘Because I’d like permission to go out there and continue helping with the investigation, sir.’

He dropped his palms hard onto his desk and sat upright, giving her the steely look he usually reserved for insubordinate constables. ‘Out of the question, not when we’re so busy. Permission most definitely denied.’

‘But sir—’

‘I said no, Detective Inspector. I need you here.’