‘So – what are your plans for Christmas? Doing anything nice?’

Rachel and Brickall were sitting in a transport café a few yards from West Middlesex University Hospital. Her second hospital of the day, Rachel thought. It would have been the third if she’d gone with Rajavi to the maternity unit. Except, technically, it wasn’t the same day. It was now 4 a.m. of the next day, 21 December. She could barely keep her eyes open.

‘I’m going to my gran’s,’ said Brickall.

‘Your gran? I thought she was dead.’

He shook his head. ‘That was my mum’s mum. This is Dad’s mum, Nana Brickall. She’s not dead, she’s in Worthing. Which pretty much amounts to the same thing.’

‘What do you think will happen to Lola Jade now?’

‘You mean if she survives?’

‘The doctors seemed fairly confident.’

Brickall shrugged. ‘Her dad’s in the clink and her mum’s headed that way. For a long time.’

‘And her aunt and uncle are likely to go down for assisting an offender.’ Rachel sighed, and took a gulp of her tea. It was stewed, but hot at least. Brickall had ordered sausage, egg and tomato with two rounds of toast.

‘What?’ he said, catching Rachel’s incredulous look. ‘Rescuing damsels in distress in the middle of the night gives a man an appetite.’

She swatted the side of his arm. ‘Don’t you dare, you sexist wanker!’

He grinned, shoving buttered toast into his mouth.

‘Seriously, though, thank you. I’m not sure I could have done this without you.’

He shrugged. ‘You’d have got there in the end.’

‘But probably too late.’

‘Just don’t tell anyone, okay? If it gets back to Patten that I helped you while I’m suspended, it’s not going to do me any good at all. In fact, quite the opposite. Conducting enquiries on a case when you’re officially removed from duty is another potential bloody disciplinary.’

‘My lips are sealed. I never saw you.’

Brickall offered her a triangle of toast and she took it, suddenly starving.

‘So, which of your many suitors – or stalkers – are you spending the Christmas break with?’

‘None of them,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘And I couldn’t be happier about it.’

‘So a jolly family Christmas chez Prince in Purley?’

‘Chez Reynolds actually.’ She sighed. ‘Mum and I are going to my sister’s house.’

Brickall raised his mug of tea in a toast, waiting for Rachel to do the same with hers. ‘Merry fucking Christmas to us.’

---

Christmas at Lindsay and Gordon Reynolds’ house was all about perfection.

At least that was how Lindsay saw it. To Rachel, it was all about fussing. Every year her sister wrote a long list entitled ‘Christmas: To Do’ and pinned it to the fridge. This was an excessively long schedule of details to fret over and get annoyed about if they weren’t exactly as ordained when the list was written. At 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve, mince pies were served while they listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King’s College, Cambridge. Woe betide you if you didn’t actually feel like eating a mince pie at that time. Such subversion would send Lindsay off into a spiral of fury.

A ham with Cumberland sauce was served on the evening of Christmas Eve, followed by fruit salad, and at 11 p.m., once six stockings had been hung in the proper formation, and correctly labelled, a party set out to the local church in Oxted for midnight mass. Rachel usually swerved this part, having not a religious bone in her body.

News bulletins were to be watched at 6 and 10 p.m. without fail, and this year they were dominated by the story of Lola Jade’s rescue. The same piece of footage, of Michelle Harper being arrested at Sydney airport, was played over and over again. Michelle glared at the camera, looking furious rather than cowed, before an Australian police officer raised his arm to shield her face from the flashbulbs. Journalists camped out in Eastwell, outside Willow Way and in front of West Middlesex University Hospital, speculating endlessly about what was being called ‘the sensational twist in a story that’s gripped the nation’.

On Christmas morning, it was compulsory to gather on Lindsay and Gordon’s bed at 8.30 a.m. to open their stockings, with carols playing on the radio. Then Tom and Laura – Rachel’s nephew and niece – were tasked with collecting, smoothing and folding all the discarded wrapping paper, and making orderly piles of everyone’s presents.

After breakfast – smoked salmon and scrambled egg, whether you fancied it or not – there was veg prep and table-setting, which involved lining up knives, silverware, mats and crackers at regimented right angles. Then, once the Labrador had been walked, ‘bubbly and nibbles’ was served in the living room, with the adults watching the two children solemnly opening some of their presents. The turkey was carved at two on the dot, accompanied by the wearing of paper crowns, and underdone kale the texture of wet tarpaulin. Even sprouts would have been preferable. Rachel laid into the claret, checking her watch frequently to see if another half-hour had crawled by.

Then after force-feeding of Christmas cake and chocolates and a compulsory game of Trivial Pursuit, Lindsay pounced on the TV remote. ‘What time’s the news on? Isn’t it normally early on Christmas Day?’

She switched it on. Another reporter earning double time on an outside broadcast, this time with the all-too-familiar backdrop of Eastwell police station.

‘… and inevitably the question is being asked: why did it take so long for Surrey Police to find Lola Jade Harper when she was right under their noses?’

The feed cut to a live shot of the outside of 16 Osborne Terrace, complete with police cordon, then an image of Lola’s sad face flashed up on the screen. It was taken from the studio portrait of her in her shiny princess dress. The police press office must have released it.

‘So, all of us are left wondering—’

Rachel stood up and switched off the TV.

Lindsay stared at her, aghast. No one but her ever had remote-control privileges.

‘Rae, we were watching that!’

Rachel threw down the remote and stormed into the kitchen. She made a point of not discussing cases with her family, so none of them knew about her involvement in the search for Lola Jade.

‘Absolutely typical!’ She could hear Lindsay’s strident tones, getting louder, which meant she was heading for the kitchen. ‘She contributes nothing to the Christmas preparations – nothing whatsoever – then she shows up here and starts throwing her weight around, playing the big I am…’

Sure enough, Lindsay strode into the kitchen. ‘Family means nothing to you, as we all know only too well.’ She loaded the words with meaning. ‘But for the rest of us, this is supposed to be a special time. Can’t you make just a bit of effort to fit in?’

Rachel didn’t answer. She knew that whatever she said would just inflame her sister more.

Lindsay opened her mouth for another rant, but before she could speak, Eileen Prince came into the kitchen clutching a glass of sherry in one hand and a holly-strewn paper napkin in the other.

‘You all right, love?’ She addressed her younger daughter.

‘Everyone always jumps to the defence of poor little Rachel. Never mind about me!’ Lindsay turned on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen.

Rachel attempted a smile for her mother. ‘I’m okay. Just really, really tired.’

Eileen gave her a shrewd look. ‘You’re upset about that little girl, aren’t you? She one of yours?’

Rachel nodded again.

‘What you need is a nice mug of Horlicks, a custard cream and a night in your own bed.’ She patted Rachel’s behind. ‘Run upstairs and get your stuff. Gordon!’ Her mother stuck her head out into the hall. ‘Would you call me a taxi, dear?’

Rachel came downstairs with her bags to find Lindsay standing in the hall, arms crossed, face like thunder. She was still wearing a bright green paper hat, which undermined her hauteur.

‘I’m surprised at you, Mum.’

This was undoubtedly true. Eileen Prince never made a decision without Lindsay’s approval, and always did what she was told while under her eldest daughter’s roof.

‘Your sister needs to rest,’ said Eileen with uncharacteristic defiance. ‘She’s not the sort to ever mention it, but she’s been through a trauma.’