Friday morning found Rachel driving on the LA freeway, badly. She still hadn’t mastered the skill of changing lanes without risking death, and exits seemed to come and go without warning. Since Officer Brading’s squad car was no longer at her disposal, she had decided to extend the rental period when she returned from San Diego the previous evening.

She missed the turn-off for Cypress Park and was forced to do a circuitous backtrack, arriving in the studio parking lot of Baker Boys Productions with clammy hands and jarred nerves. After composing herself for a few seconds, she headed into reception and flashed her warrant card. The receptionist – who Rachel decided was probably a Film Studies student doing an internship – was eager to please, and set about fetching coffee and finding someone who had worked on the Lovely Locks shoot.

‘Our in-house staff work on a rotating shift system,’ she explained apologetically. ‘And directors and producers are on freelance contracts. So the only employee currently here who was working on that day is Tamara. She takes care of wardrobe and make-up.’

If she did ‘Phoebe’s’ make-up, so much the better. ‘Perfect,’ Rachel smiled.

Tamara was a tall willowy girl with raven-black hair, wearing an embroidered red kimono and Doc Martens. ‘I don’t really remember it,’ she said unhelpfully. ‘Like, I’ve worked on tons of shoots since then. Like, literally hundreds.’

Rachel doubted this, but she had come prepared with stills from the shoot as an aide memoire.

‘Oh, right, okay,’ Tamara said when she saw them. ‘Yeah, I do remember her.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Quiet. Polite, but, like, very quiet. Didn’t say a whole lot.’

‘Accent?’

Tamara looked confused.

‘Did she speak with a British accent.’

‘Hmmm. Not really. Her accent sounded phoney.’

‘Phoney how?’

‘I dunno, just phoney. But tons of people in this town have phoney accents; I mean it’s hardly unusual. It’s pretty much, like, normal?’

‘Anything else you can remember?’

‘Um…’ Tamara reached in her pocket for an e-cigarette and started puffing clouds of cinnamon-scented vapour. ‘Helps me concentrate…’She screwed up her face. ‘I remember her getting freaked out when I did her eye make-up because she was, like, wearing contact lenses and she said the eyeshadow was getting in her eyes. And she didn’t want to have extensions put in. But that wasn’t a problem, because she had really good hair.’ More cinnamon smog. ‘Oh yeah, and there was the thing with the shoes.’

‘The shoes she wore in the commercial?’

‘Yeah, the call details supplied by her agent said she was a shoe size seven and a half, so we ordered them in that size, but they didn’t fit her. She needed, like, a nine? She said something about mixing up British sizes and American sizes. We had to phone a freelance stylist to find us another pair.’

‘Right…’ Rachel absorbed this. Marion Miller would surely have supplied Phoebe’s correct size details. ‘And where are the shoes now?’

Tamara shrugged, emitting a stream of vapour through her pursed lips like a boiling kettle. ‘Gone back to the stylist, I guess.’

‘And the dress?’

‘Hold on.’ Tamara went to fetch a file and checked the contents. ‘That was one of ours. It would have gone for dry cleaning. Could still be there?’

Rachel handed over a card through force of habit, even though this was now to all intents and purposes an exhausted lead. ‘Well thanks, Tamara. You’ve been very helpful.’

Tamara waved her spice-scented wand. ‘Hey, no problem.’

---

Visiting Phoebe’s former residence in the middle of the day would be unlikely to yield much, given that the apartments were designed for young professionals who would be at work. Rachel returned reluctantly to the Ventana Vista for a few hours.

She couldn’t settle. Any time spent doing nothing felt like wasted time now that she had a deadline for her return. She went for a short run in Valley Plaza Park then sat by the pool with her laptop, logged onto Facebook and started searching. There were over 500 Heather Kennedys, and after scanning through dozens of profile photos, her vision was starting to blur. She could find no Stacey Gunnarsons and only one Stacy Gunnarson, who looked as though she was aged twelve or thirteen.

She phoned Mike Perez, the IT guy, who picked up on the first ring. There was a roaring noise in the background.

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘At the race track in Long Beach. It’s my day off. You should come join me.’

Rachel adopted her most professional tone of voice. ‘Thanks Officer Perez, but I’m afraid that’s not possible. Are you back in Burbank Avenue tomorrow?’

‘Um… tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m not rostered on this weekend.’

‘Any chance you could meet me there, really quickly? I fly back to London on Sunday.’

Perez hesitated a second. ‘Sure. I have a bunch of stuff to do, but I could swing by there first thing. Nine o’clock?’

Vowing eternal gratitude, Rachel went out to her tank of a rental car and drove to Canton Place. There were forty apartments in the building, and her first round of knocking on doors led to only five being opened, two of whom were abusive and none of whom remembered Phoebe. Rachel waited in the driver’s seat of the tank for another forty minutes, listening to a Christian rock station on the radio, until at least ten cars had driven into the parking garage. Then she started again, excluding the doors that had been opened to her in her first round of knocking. It was pretty hopeless. Only a handful of residents knew who Phoebe was, and none of them could remember noticing anything over a month ago, despite the subsequent police presence.

Finally, she knocked on 509, the door opposite Phoebe’s own apartment, and a young bearded man answered. A dog yapped sharply in the background.

‘Yeah, I remember her,’ he said. ‘She was real friendly to start with, would say hi, you know? Nice smile.’

‘To start with?’

‘You know what; it’s weird that you mentioned it, but around the time you’re talking about, she kind of changed. In her attitude, you know? She kept her shades on, usually a baseball cap too, and she didn’t want to talk. Just kept her head down and hurried past. It only happened once.’

‘But it was the same woman?’

‘Yeah, it must have been. Long blonde hair. She was wearing the same T-shirt she always wore to the gym. It had “Karma” written on the front. It was round the same time someone sprayed paint over the camera in the garage.’

Rachel showed him Heather/Stacey’s selfie. ‘Well, yeah. That could be her. Hard to tell when she’s smiling and not wearing shades.’

‘Do you remember the last time you saw her?’

‘Maybe… ten days ago, couple of weeks… Jesus Christ, Van Damme!’ He turned to silence the yapping dog. ‘Will you cut it out!’

‘Did you see anyone else coming and going? Hear anything unusual?’

Beardy Guy shrugged. ‘Nope, don’t think so. There was a dude I think she was dating, but he always came off like an okay kind of guy.’

‘Ever hear them arguing?’

‘No, never. But mostly I have my headphones on. And then I guess there’s the dog. He’s kinda noisy.’

Van Damme let off another volley of yaps to reinforce the point.

‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.’

Beardy held up his hand for a fist bump or some other kind of hipster leave-taking, but Rachel was saved from getting it wrong by her mobile ringing in her pocket. She mouthed a goodbye as she answered it, heading back towards the elevator.

‘Hi, it’s Tamara.’

Rachel’s mind was a blank.

‘Tamara from Baker Boys. We spoke this morning, about Lovely Locks?’

Ah yes. The cinnamon-breathing dragon.

‘Only I went and, like, checked and the red dress used in the shoot didn’t go to the dry cleaners yet. I have it here.’

‘Fantastic.’ Rachel pressed her hand to her forehead, thinking fast. ‘Okay, first – do you know if anyone has worn it since Phoebe Stiles did her shoot? Second, do you think you can get it to me?’

‘Like, it’s possible, but I don’t think so. That it was used again. And yes, I can have it biked over.’

Rachel gave her the address of Ventana Vista Suites. God bless America and its twenty-four-hour service culture.

‘Also, I talked to the stylist, and she has the shoes. The larger ones that we had to borrow, when the first pair was too small. She works from her home in Topanga, but she says she’s happy for you to have them if someone can go pick them up.’

Rachel fumbled in her bag, found a biro and scribbled down the address. Back in the car, her GPS confirmed it was only about five miles away, so she drove to the stylist’s pretty whitewashed bungalow and collected the shoes. Beige suede: Prada. And only half a size smaller than Rachel’s own size. She resisted the temptation to try them on, placing the bag carefully on the clean rear seat of her car.

She sat in traffic for what seemed like hours, stopped to buy food, and finally reached the motel long after it had gone dark. Her phone rang again as she parked, and her heart sank when she saw the name on the call display. Her sister.

‘Have you forgotten what day it was yesterday?’

Skip the niceties and go straight into attack mode: that was Lindsay.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ Rachel said. This was true, sort of. She had remembered the second she saw her older sister’s name light up on her phone. ‘Mum’s birthday.’

‘She’s ever so upset not to have heard from you.’

‘Christ Lindsay, it must be –’ she checked her watch – ‘five in the morning in the UK.’ Only Lindsay, high priestess of passive aggression, would phone at such a ridiculous time.

‘I’m aware of the time difference, that’s why I’m ringing now. Mum told me you were in States.’

‘Exactly. I’m working.’

‘You could still have phoned Mum,’ said Lindsay sourly.

‘Look, things are… I will, okay, I’ll phone her. And I’m about to fly back, so I can see her soon.’

‘It’s not me you need to convince.’

‘Bye, Lindsay.’ Rachel hung up abruptly, annoyed at her sister for being right. She should have remembered her own mother’s birthday. There were amends to be made. As ever she’d been so taken up by her latest case that normal family stuff had taken a back seat.

‘Detective Prince.’ The receptionist stopped her on her way through the lobby. ‘This came for you.’ She held up a plastic garment bag.

Back in her room, Rachel found it strange looking at the poppy-red dress she had scrutinised on the screen so many times. The dress worn by Phoebe, or as it turned out, not-Phoebe. Without the ambient wind machines and lighting it seemed two-dimensional. Mundane. She didn’t want to contaminate it by touching the delicate silk charmeuse, but it was on a hanger which she removed carefully from the bag, having first slipped on some latex gloves. The label said it was Alexander Wang, US size 6.

Rachel hung it on the back of her wardrobe door, switched off her phone and sat back on her bed. She ate her solitary salad and then leaned back on the pillows, staring at the patch of scarlet silk until her eyes closed and she fell asleep.