‘Do you remember our friend at Bangla Stores?’

Rachel looked blankly at Leila Rajavi. She had returned to Eastwell at first light having barely slept, and was exhausted. Rajavi, too, looked tired and uncomfortable, repeatedly shifting in her chair and pressing her fists into the small of her back.

‘Sorry, cramp,’ she explained. ‘The place opposite Happy Nails. We used their security camera to pick up Michelle giving Stacey Fisher the cash.’

Rachel nodded.

‘The owner heard about Carly Wethers’ death, and remembered seeing her on his own camera footage. So he brought it in last night.’ She opened a file on her computer and Rachel stood up to see it better. Carly’s curls were partially obscured by her Peruvian-style knitted hat, but it was definitely her. She went into the salon and stood near the door, gesticulating at Michelle. Michelle stood up and said something back, shaking her head. The date on the footage was 1 December, about thirty-six hours before Carly died.

‘We’ll get a better idea what was said by interviewing the other salon employees,’ Rajavi said. ‘But this gives us a clear possibility that Michelle knew Carly Wethers was TruthTella.’ She winced again, and rubbed at her back, squirming in her chair. ‘And we have Carly’s DNA found on Michelle’s gloves, the ones in 16 Osborne Terrace. Plus, DNA from Lola Jade was found on the inside of that big purple suitcase.’

‘She probably used it to transport Lola from the house in Willow Way to their new rental. It must be just about big enough to fit a young child. God knows what she thought was going on, poor kid.’

Rajavi shuddered. ‘The good news is: the CPS are now happy that we have enough to charge Michelle with Carly Wethers’ murder.’ She gave a rueful smile.

‘The bad news is: we can’t find her,’ Rachel supplied. ‘She disappeared at exactly the moment that first leaked headline came out; the one we had to deny. I’ll bet my mortgage that’s what sent her to ground. Until then, I reckon she thought she’d pulled it off.’

‘They’re working on the log from the burner phone that was found at 16 Osborne Terrace, and the laptop data should be back…’ Rajavi waved a hand at DC Coles, who was holding up some papers triumphantly, ‘right about now.’

‘The browser history,’ he said, fetching a second copy for Rachel so that the two women could read in unison.

‘I love search-engine histories,’ said Rajavi with satisfaction. ‘They’re like how-to-commit-a-crime manuals.’

It was all there, interleaved with a myriad innocent domestic enquiries such as How to replace a fridge light and When is my recycling collected? Back in May, Michelle had asked the internet what dose of propofol would sedate a child weighing fifty-five pounds, and how long it would take to wear off. She wanted to know where to buy it online and how to inject it. Much more recently, she wanted to know what sort of implement would disable a Yale lock, how long suffocation by smothering took in a small adult, how to obtain a fake passport.

‘Jesus,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing her explain this lot.’

Rajavi turned to the last part of the printout. ‘Have you seen this? She’s been googling cheap long-haul flights.’

‘Let me guess – to Australia.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Because I looked up St Francis Assisi primary school in Inglewood, at two in the morning when I was still awake. It’s in Sydney.’

Rajavi went to give her a high-five, then turned away and grimaced.

‘Are you okay? Not a contraction, I hope.’

‘Just heartburn. And horrendous lower backache. All a normal part of late pregnancy, apparently.’

Rachel turned back to the printout. ‘There’s no sign of her booking any e-tickets, though… Of course not!’ She slapped her forehead. ‘She can’t use a credit card in her own name: that would leave a digital trail. She’s got to use cash: the cash she withdrew from the crowdfunding account. And that means using an agent.’

Rajavi read down the last page. ‘She’s googled “Travel agents near me” and then clicked on one in West Croydon called Magic Tours.’

‘Very apt.’ Rachel stood up and pulled on her coat. ‘Time for our own magical mystery tour.’

---

Magic Tours was at the down-at-heel end of the London Road. It had a scruffy shopfront and was just big enough to fit one desk and three chairs. This morning it was manned by a heavy woman with dyed auburn hair and a name badge that read Magda Sokolova. She was still in the process of opening up the shop, and reluctantly admitted Rachel and DS Rajavi, sighing at the inconvenience even after they had showed their warrant cards.

‘We need to know if you’ve completed a booking in the name of Hutchins.’

Rachel showed her a photo of Michelle Harper. ‘For this woman.’

Magda shrugged, her expression dour. ‘Yes, I have,’ she said matter-of-factly.

Rajavi, pressing her hands against her back, sighed. ‘We need the details, obviously.’

In no hurry to cooperate, Magda settled herself at her desk with exaggerated care and booted up her ancient-looking terminal.

‘Is slow,’ she commented unnecessarily.

Eventually her connection fired up, and after much tutting and frowning over the printer, which jammed repeatedly, she handed them the reservation details.

There were not two, but three tickets to Sydney via Dubai: one for Lauren Hutchins, one for Jasmine Hutchins and one for Lisa Urquhart.

‘Of course,’ Rachel observed. ‘She can’t risk travelling with Lola Jade herself: far too risky. And Lola can’t travel as Harry, because her official identity in Australia needs to be that of a girl. Harry Brown’s over and done with now.’

‘Did she pay cash for these seats?’ Rajavi asked.

Magda nodded. ‘Cash, yes.’ She said this as though it was not unusual to bring nearly seven thousand pounds’ worth of notes into the shop.

Rachel was reading the dates on the ticket, which had been printed in a tiny font. ‘Michelle’s flight’s tonight. And Lisa and Lola Jade tomorrow… Okay, we need to get a car over to Jubilee Terrace right now!’

Rajavi picked up the airwave set and called for a patrol car to go straight to Jubilee Terrace and arrest Lisa Urquhart for assisting an offender. While she was speaking, Rachel was re-reading the details.

She shot to her feet. ‘Shit!’ She clapped her hand to her forehead, waving the printout. ‘It’s the connection from Dubai that leaves tonight. The flight to Dubai leaves in…’ she squinted at her watch, ‘eighty minutes.’

They raced outside to the car, but Rajavi doubled up, wincing again and handing the keys to Rachel. ‘You drive. This heartburn is killing me.’

The airwave set crackled into life. ‘Attempt to locate negative at 17 Jubilee,’ said the muffled disembodied voice.’

‘Go for a warrant and set up an ANPR,’ Rajavi gasped, pressing her palm down hard on her upper thigh.

Rachel filtered onto the M25, switching on the light bar on the car’s roof and activating the siren. She glanced over at Rajavi, who was sitting in a strange position. ‘You okay, Leila?’

She responded with a strangled grunt.

‘Listen, even with the blues and twos on, it’s going to take at least forty-five minutes to get to Heathrow… I think we should call ahead and get Michelle held at the gate, in case we’re not there in time.’

Rajavi inhaled sharply and held her breath for a few seconds, letting it out in a rush as the pain passed. ‘I don’t think I can get one of our patrols to arrive there any quicker than we will.’

‘Try the Met’s Heathrow station. They’ll have someone on the ground at Terminal 3.’

Rachel glanced in the rear-view mirror and floored the accelerator up to ninety-five miles an hour, trying to remember when she had last used her pursuit-driving skills. She usually let Brickall do the macho car-chase stuff: it made him happy.

Rajavi threw her mobile down in disgust, still clutching at her abdomen. ‘I’ve got no signal.’

‘You’ll have to radio control and get them to phone it in.’

As they approached Heathrow, the M25 grew thick with people travelling for the Christmas holidays, and Rachel was having to use the lights to clear a path through the traffic, weaving from lane to lane and struggling to keep up her speed.

‘Oh… oh God!’

Rajavi had pulled her airwave set from the shoulder of her vest, but clutched it aloft as she stared down at her lap. A huge wet pool spread across the crotch of her trousers and over the seat upholstery, trickling down into the seat well.

Rachel glanced sharply across at her. ‘Please don’t tell me…’

Rajavi nodded. ‘My waters have gone.’

‘When are you due?’

‘Not for three weeks. I’ve been feeling crampy on and off for the past twenty-four hours but I assumed it was just Braxton Hicks.’ She looked at Rachel. ‘Those are practice contractions.’

‘I know what they are,’ said Rachel tersely. She had to keep her eyes on the road, but was aware of Rajavi tensing up and catching her breath. ‘This is no practice… Is that a contraction now?’

‘I think so.’

Rachel stretched across her and took the airwave set, pressing the button and holding it against her left ear as she steered with her right. ‘Control, this is 1819 Prince. I need a location ID for nearest maternity hospital…’ she consulted the GPS, ‘in the Byfleet area. And a unit to Heathrow Terminal 3 to intercept Michelle Harper, checking in for flight EK209.’

‘It’s okay,’ panted Rajavi. ‘We don’t need to stop now; we’ll be at Heathrow in half an hour or so, and they have medical facilities. Anyway, nothing’s going to happen for hours yet.’

‘Are you sure?’

Rajavi spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Sure. I’ll be fine. Just keep going.’

‘Sorry, cancel that.’ Rachel switched off the radio set and returned her hand to the steering wheel, but she still glanced at Rajavi every few seconds. Her fists were pressed against her upper thighs, and sweat was breaking out on her forehead.

‘Leila? You sure you’re okay to keep going?’

The DS managed to nod her head, but she was holding her breath so forcibly she couldn’t speak.

‘Leila? Talk to me!’

As they approached Junction 14, Rajavi finally let out a long, low moan and began to pant.

‘I think it’s coming,’ she said, her dark brown eyes wild with panic. ‘The head’s really low; I can feel it between my legs.’

‘Oh fuck.’

Rachel screeched onto the hard shoulder, hit the hazard lights and snatched up the airwave set again, barking at them to dispatch an ambulance. Then she half pulled, half lifted Rajavi out of the front seat and laid her along the rear passenger seat, removing her boots, underwear and trousers and arranging her own coat across Rajavi’s lower abdomen in a makeshift attempt at modesty. She had undertaken five days of intense medical training in order to become an authorised firearms officer, but – unsurprisingly – it did not cover delivering babies. That scenario had been touched on during her training at Hendon, but she remembered precious little about it.

‘It’s fine,’ she said to Rajavi, even though it very much wasn’t. ‘I’ve got this.’

She retrieved the medical kit from the boot of the vehicle and pulled out a sterile pad, which she placed under Rajavi’s hips, and a foil heat blanket to wrap the baby.

‘Don’t try and fight it; just go with it. If your body’s telling you to push, then you have to push.

Rajavi bellowed in fear and pain, and a few seconds later Rachel was astonished to see a glistening purple-black dome appearing between her legs, topped with dark wet hair. She took surgical gloves from the medical box and pulled them on, reaching in quickly to guide the head’s crowning. Rajavi lowed like a wounded farm animal.

‘Don’t push too hard,’ Rachel said, hoping this was right. ‘Nice and gently does it.’

There was a pop and a gush, and the baby slid out into her hands, little fists clenched, curled body seeming strangely small compared to the head. As she cleaned it off with another of the pads, rubbing briskly at the chest, the baby gave a gargling cry, quickly drowned out by the howl of an ambulance siren. A green-suited paramedic rushed over and took the foil-wrapped baby from Rachel’s hands; it looked for all the world like a plump oven-ready chicken.

It was only when she relinquished her hold that Rachel realised quite how hard her hands had been shaking. She took some deep breaths to dissipate the build-up of adrenaline.

‘Is it all right?’ whispered Rajavi, trying to sit up.

‘He is perfect.’ Rachel squeezed her hand. ‘Congratulations: you have a son.’