‘I’m sorry, the flight had already gone by the time the request came through.’

‘And “Lauren Hutchins” was definitely on it?’

Rachel was met at the entrance to Terminal 3 by the on-site liaison for the Metropolitan Police, and an Emirates flight dispatcher.

‘She was.’ The dispatcher nodded. ‘And two items of luggage.’

Rachel had been expecting this to happen, given that she had waved off the ambulance bearing Leila Rajavi and her new son at more or less the same time the gate was due to close.

‘The positive is we currently know exactly where she is,’ added the police officer, who introduced himself as PC Ryan Mead. He pointed out of the viewing window at the sky above the runway to make his point. ‘And when that flight lands, she’s not going anywhere. Will you have her picked up in Dubai?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Dubai isn’t a member of Interpol, so we have no jurisdiction. It’s going to have to be Australia. So this development is completely embargoed for now, okay? Whatever you do, don’t let the press get hold of this. It’s because of a recent press leak that she’s decided to do a bunk now.’

They both nodded solemnly.

‘The last thing we want is Harper getting wind of us having a blue card out for her, and not reboarding in Dubai. If it’s Australia, that gives me a bit more time to organise the warrant. I’ll speak to my contact at the National Central Bureau in Sydney in a minute. But first…’ Rachel turned to the airline representative, ‘can I see your security cam footage from the check-in desk?’

She was taken to the airline’s control centre and shown the images that were captured as standard procedure when passengers checked their baggage. Michelle was wearing over-the-knee boots and skin-tight jeans, and had her face partially concealed by the ant sunglasses. She kept the interaction to a minimum, taking frequent furtive glances around at security staff and her fellow passengers. Rachel stopped the recording on the frame when the cases were handed over to be weighed. They were two large Louis Vuitton knock-offs. No big purple polycarbonate case. The one in Osborne Terrace, now in the Surrey Police forensic lab, was proven to have contained the person of Lola Jade at some point. So where was the second purple case?

PC Mead was looking at the arrest paperwork that had been sent through. ‘Michelle Harper… Hold on, isn’t she the one whose little girl went missing. Lola Jade?’

‘Yup.’ Rachel nodded as she searched through her phone for the number of her contact in Sydney. ‘The very same.’

‘So if the mother’s on her way to Australia, where’s the kid?’

‘Due to follow on with her aunt,’ said Rachel. ‘Who must know where Lola is right now.’

---

With nothing more she could usefully do at the airport, Rachel drove back to Eastwell. She felt she ought to return their squad car, and break the news that their colleague had successfully – if unexpectedly – become a mother.

As she approached Eastwell from the north-west, the car radio set crackled into life. ‘Suspect Lisa Urquhart mobile, heading north-west on the A420, over.’ Her trained ear picked up the faint sound of a police siren, probably a few hundred yards away. A car sped past her on the opposite carriageway, exceeding the speed limit. She caught a flash of cyclamen hair through the front window, and recognised the beaten-up blue VW Passat belonging to Kevin Urquhart. Kevin was at the wheel, with pink-haired Lisa beside him. A police squad car followed, lights flashing.

‘Christ on a sodding bike!’

Rachel executed a brisk U-turn and followed at a safe distance, switching on her own lights and siren. The blue Passat picked up speed as the police squad car closed the gap, causing it to veer erratically across the lane to the right. The steering was corrected – over-corrected – and the back wheels hit a patch of melting slush at speed, sending the car spinning, sliding and eventually flipping over into the ditch, plumes of steam punctuating the December air. The squad car swerved and braked, narrowly avoiding hitting the same slippery patch.

‘Jesus!’ Rachel pumped her brakes and skidded to a halt as safely as she could, hitting her hazard lights and jumping out of the car. She pulled fluorescent bollards from the boot and dropped them across the road behind her, forcing all the traffic in her wake to slow down and form a queue. The officers in the pursuit vehicle were already out of the car, one shouting into a handset and the other scrambling down the bank towards the crashed Passat.

Rachel ran in the same direction, her boots sliding on the frosty tarmac. Kevin Urquhart was moving slightly, blood trickling down the side of his neck. Lisa Urquhart was motionless, thrown forward so far that her head made a pink patch on the windscreen.

‘Is she alive?’ Rachel asked, reaching her warrant card from her back pocket and holding it up.

The officer shook his head slowly. ‘Hard to tell. Touch and go, I reckon.’

‘No one in the back of the car?’

The officer scrambled further down the bank and cupped his hands against the glass. When he stood up again, he shook his head. ‘No. Small mercy, eh?’

‘Check the boot!’ Rachel urged.

There was a short struggle, followed by swearing, and eventually the boot lid was prised open. The officer staggered backwards under the weight of a suitcase. Rachel reached over and took it from him, pulling it up the side of the bank and laying it down on the gravelly edge of the lay-by. She unzipped it to reveal a tangled mess of patterned neon beachwear, flip-flops, large grey bras and sun cream.

‘Looks like they were off on holiday. Why, what were you expecting?’

‘I thought there might be… Never mind. Was that it?’

‘Empty apart from the case.’

Rachel gave him a weak smile. ‘Thanks for checking.’

More sirens wailed in the distance, and for the second time that day, Rachel watched as an ambulance pulled up, followed this time by a fire engine. The fire crew set about cutting the Passat apart and removing the passengers. Kevin was lifted out first wearing a neck brace, badly injured but conscious. It took longer to remove Lisa. She lay on the back board, her hair fanned out like the petals of a chrysanthemum, lurid against the greyish white of her face.

While the paramedics worked at stabilising her, the police finished photographing the wreck of the blue Passat and the fire crew set about winching the car from the ditch and loading it onto the recovery truck that had just arrived.

Rachel hovered near Lisa as the crew established cardiac output then lost it, employing the defibrillator to get it back again.

Eventually one of the paramedics shouted, ‘Okay, she’s back. I’ve got a pulse.’

With an oxygen mask over her face and a fluid drip attached, Lisa was loaded into the back of the ambulance and it sped away.

Rachel watched it go, a heavy sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

---

‘I could put a nip of something stronger in there. You look like you need it.’

DS Rajavi’s colleague, DC Matt Coles, brought Rachel a mug of scalding tea with two sugars in it, and waggled a silver hip flask in her direction. ‘Scotland’s finest.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Not while I’m on duty, thanks. But you’re right, I could do with it. It’s been one hell of a day.’ She swigged her tea. ‘So far. It’s not over yet.’

She had broken the news of Rajavi’s baby – met with whoops of jubilation – and the Urquharts’ crash – met with anger and consternation – when she eventually got back to Eastwell police station. She had no idea what time it was, only that it was almost dark.

DC Coles sat down opposite her. ‘I hate to drop even more on you, but there are a couple of new developments.’

‘It’s fine.’ Rachel sipped her tea, fantasising that it had whisky in it. ‘Go on.’

‘Our enquiries from the area where we found Michelle’s car have thrown up a lead. The manager of a small hotel about half a mile away phoned and reported booking out a room to someone matching Michelle Harper’s description. I went to speak to him this morning, and I’ve got his MG11 if you want to take a look.’

He handed Rachel a copy of a witness statement form.

I work at the Crossgates Manor Hotel, Feltham, as assistant manager. On 19 December 2016, I was at the reception desk when a woman came in with a little boy. She had three cases with her: she was pulling two and the little boy had the other. I’d say the child was about seven or eight years old, quite stocky, with short brown hair. The child didn’t speak, and I thought he seemed unhappy. The woman reserved a room in the name of Lauren Hutchins. She showed me a UK passport in that name. She said she wasn’t sure when she was leaving and asked if it was okay to pay for the first two nights up front. I agreed and she paid for the room in cash. At 6.30 a.m. this morning, 20 December, as I was unlocking the reception desk, she came downstairs with a large purple suitcase. I asked if she wanted a taxi, but she said that she had already ordered one and would wait for it outside on the street. She said she was coming back shortly and would settle the bill then. The child wasn’t with her, but I didn’t give it too much thought as she was coming back.

At 8 a.m. she returned, and around an hour later came downstairs to settle the bill, with two more cases. I asked where her son was and she said he was playing outside. There is a small garden at the rear of the property. She paid the outstanding amount on the bill, in cash, and didn’t want a receipt, but asked me to call her a taxi for the airport. The taxi arrived ten minutes later and she went outside with the luggage. When the chambermaid went to clean the room at 11.30 a.m, it was empty.

This statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything in it which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

Signed by: Piotre Zelinski

Witnessed by: DC 4371 Coles

I work at the Crossgates Manor Hotel as a part-time waitress. On the evening of 19 December, I was on duty in the restaurant. A woman came downstairs with a child and sat at a table for two. I don’t remember the exact time but the restaurant was about to close so it must have been around 10.30 p.m. I thought it was a bit late for a small child to be eating. The child was wearing pyjamas with unicorns on. They looked like girls’ pyjamas but the child’s hair was cut like a boy’s. He didn’t speak, and from his eyes I thought he looked as though he was sedated. She ordered a pizza for the child but he barely ate any and his head kept drooping onto the plate, like in those YouTube videos of toddlers falling asleep in their dinner. I made a comment about it being past the child’s bedtime and the woman told me it was none of my business. She paid with cash but didn’t leave a tip.

The second statement was signed by a Jessica Kingdon.

Rachel handed them back to Coles. ‘Well, we know where Michelle Harper is now, at least. But we need to know what she did with the purple suitcase.’

He stared. ‘Are you saying…’

‘That Lola Jade, the “boy” with the short brown hair, was in it? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘Okay, well maybe this will help.’ Coles handed her another document, which Rachel recognised as a telecoms intelligence unit log. ‘The phone that was found in Osborne Terrace has just been analysed by our TIU. The texts are all to one number, which we’ve identified as belonging to Lisa Urquhart. That’s the one called Phone B; Phone A is Harper’s burner.’

Rachel skim-read through them. The first two texts were from three days earlier, on 17 December.

Phone A: Can’t drop LJ with u: too risky. Pigs watchin ur place.

Phone B: Where will u take her then? There’s 24 hours before she and me fly.

Phone A: Will find somewhere to leave her safe. Is only for a little while. Will make sure you have full deets don’t worry! X

The next day, Sunday 18th, there was a call from Phone A to Phone B lasting twelve minutes. At 8.20 a.m. that morning, there was a final sequence of texts.

Phone A: Okay, she is there safely, in place we discussed. But please, NOT FOR LONG, okay? Gave big dose of stuff to last till you can fetch her but make sure you’re not late because of suffocation risk. And don’t tell Kev.

Phone B: Don’t worry, he thinks I’ll just be picking up some of your XS luggage to take with me. Still thinks it’s a girls’ trip! X

Phone A: Okay, well be careful Leess. Please. Tickets and L’s passport are in zipped pocket of case.

Phone B: Not long now! Can’t wait babes. X

Phone A: Whatever happens make sure you don’t screw up collecting L. Can’t tell you how URGENT this is. Nothing must go wrong.

Phone B: Don’t stress, have memorised address of place like you said and will leave plenty of time to get there. X

Phone A: Nearly there now. Fucking Gavin; he’s going to have no idea.

Rachel tossed the printout onto the desk and grabbed her bag and keys, trying to remember where she had left her car that morning.

‘Code red, Constable!’ she snapped, when Coles didn’t immediately jump to his feet. ‘There’s only one person who knows where the case is: Lisa Urquhart.’

‘Two people if you count Michelle Harper,’ Coles pointed out. ‘Why don’t we try asking her first?’ He was pulling on a jacket and hat as he spoke. ‘She’s going to have to talk to us when she finds out her daughter’s at risk.’

Rachel consulted her watch. ‘Michelle will be arriving in Dubai around now. But like I said before, we don’t have any jurisdiction there to intercept her.’

‘No, I meant we can call the plane. When she takes off for Sydney.’

She stared at him. ‘Christ, of course! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?’

Coles had already started running out to the car park, climbing straight into a patrol car.

‘So how does it work?’ Rachel asked as she jumped into the passenger seat and they headed, lights flashing, to Heathrow Terminal 3.

‘Any ground station – like an airline dispatcher or a control tower – can establish two-way communications using VHF frequencies. Well, sometimes they can; it depends on the range.’

‘How do you know all that, Einstein?’

‘My dad used to be a pilot.’

They left the car in an emergency bay and ran to the Emirates control centre, only to have an apologetic ground-crew supervisor explain that because Michelle had just boarded her connection from Dubai, her flight was automatically out of range of the UK ground antenna.

‘But you can try MedAire,’ she suggested. ‘They have special satellite phones to communicate with all aircraft about medical emergencies. Their operators are based in Farnborough, but they have a rep here, I believe.’

‘I’ll go,’ offered Coles, taking in Rachel’s washed-out face. ‘Why don’t you go and track down some coffee?’

He returned fifteen minutes later, shaking his head. ‘They haven’t been able to make contact with the flight – something about weather conditions – but they’re going to keep on trying. Should we wait here?’

Rachel shook her head firmly, handing him a paper cup of coffee. ‘We can’t afford to sit around and wait: this is too time-critical. We’ll have to try the only other person who knows where that suitcase is.’