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  ‘Yep. You coming?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve still got a week of leave. I think I might go back to Los Angeles for a while. I’ll retrace Phoebe’s steps, see if there’s something I missed.’

  ‘Share a ride to the airport then, Miss Tenacity?’

  * * *

  They went through security together. When they reached the departure gates, the flight for Dulles was a left turn, and the one to LAX to the right.

  ‘I guess this is it then.’ Rob put down his case to sweep Rachel into his arms, just as he had when she arrived in Washington two days earlier. ‘Time to say goodbye.’

  ‘I never say goodbye.’

  ‘Not in your nature, right?’ Rob laughed, and patted her shoulder. ‘Thanks for being such an amazing teammate.’

  She smiled, reaching up and kissing him swiftly on the cheek. ‘No, thank you. You’ve been an incredible sport about all this. I truly appreciate all you’ve done.’

  Before he could say more, she turned on her heel and walked off to her gate without looking back. Sitting in the waiting area with twenty minutes to kill before her flight boarded, she pulled out her mobile and tried calling Brickall. Perhaps he would be mollified if she told him she might be heading back to London sooner than planned. The call rang a few times, then was cut.

  ‘Rachel!’

  She swung round. A slightly breathless Rob stood there beside her.

  ‘If you think you’re going to get a goodbye out of me at the eleventh hour, forget it. I told you; I don’t do them.’

  He was shaking his head vigorously. ‘No, that’s not it, I’ve just had a call. From my co-worker. A familial DNA match has come through on CODIS.’ Rob reached down and pulled her to her feet. ‘This is huge! We’ve got someone related to Miss XX.’

  Part III

  ‘Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!’

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘A twenty-five per cent match? What does that mean for us?’

  Rob and Rachel were sitting in a fast food concession in the San Francisco International Arrivals area, both of them no-shows for the flights they had been about to catch. A plastic basket of fries sat between them, and they were taking it in turns to pick at them, even though the food was cold and unappetising.

  ‘Okay, so from what the guy told me, only an identical twin shares one hundred per cent of an individual’s DNA.’ Rob took a gulp of his soda. ‘A parent or full sibling shares fifty per cent. For twenty-five per cent it’s going to be either a grandparent—’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Exactly. Or an aunt or uncle.’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible. If they were young enough.’

  ‘Otherwise it’s either a half-sibling or a first cousin.’

  Rachel stirred her paper cup of watery coffee with slow, deliberate movements as she absorbed this. ‘So, let me get this straight: the woman whose DNA was found on that lipstick and also the dress and shoes from the shampoo shoot, is either a cousin or a half-sister of someone on the national criminal database?’

  ‘Correct. Well, the science is a little bit more complex than those numbers suggest, but that’s the crux of it.’

  They looked at each other a moment. Rachel was unable to suppress an excited grin. ‘Narrowing down our pool of suspects from around a hundred and fifty million to… what?’

  ‘At most, ten?’ supplied Rob. ‘Probably no more than five.’

  She fished in her bag, pulling out her notebook and pen. ‘As breakthroughs go, this is pretty significant. So what do we know about the relative on the database.’

  ‘He’s called Ethan Rowe. Twenty-five years old. Caucasian. A long rap sheet of petty misdemeanors; arrested three weeks ago for felony arson, which resulted in his fingerprints and DNA being logged on CODIS.’

  Rachel wrote this down. ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘Pine Ridge Correctional Facility, awaiting trial.’

  ‘Which is… where?’

  ‘It’s in Oregon. Near a city called Madras.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Well, we’re on the right coast, at least.’

  ‘It’s about five hundred miles from here. Close enough.’

  ‘So, assuming we can go and talk to him, what are we going to say? We can’t blow our cover by telling him we’re cops, because it would only take one phone call to his half-sister or cousin and…’

  Rob looked down at his hands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rachel, I’m not going to be able to come with you. I have to fly back to DC today.’

  ‘Can’t you at least come with me to see Rowe? Twenty-four hours more?’

  ‘I can’t. It’s… family stuff.’

  Rachel remembered the reminder on his phone. Annie’s birthday.

  ‘It’s your daughter’s birthday?’

  He examined his fingernails, avoiding eye contact. ‘Not my daughter. My wife. We’re separated, but the kids really want me to be there. It’s…’

  ‘Complicated?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I see.’

  Rachel sat silent for a few seconds while she digested this. She had initially assumed from the absence of a wedding ring that he was single. Then – when she’d seen the picture of his children – divorced. But he was technically still married.

  ‘There’s something else, too,’ Rob went on. ‘You know I’ve been doing this on my own time, because it’s no longer an Interpol matter. Just like you have.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now we have this break, and a there’s a real chance of proving our theory, I have to hand over the evidence to the FBI.’ He looked into her face. ‘I have no choice Rachel, you know that.’

  ‘I’m still going to go and see Ethan Rowe,’ she said stubbornly, forcing herself to forget about Rob’s private life. ‘But I’m going to need your help to get in there.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Please Rob. I know you want to solve this case as much as I do.’ She gave him a half-smile. ‘Otherwise why would you even be here?’

  * * *

  Madras, Oregon called itself a city, but with a population of only 6000 souls it felt more like a large village, marooned on a flat valley floor. There was a broad main street with a couple of gas stations, a drugstore and a supermarket, a small park and little else.

  There were no hotels either, but Rachel found herself a room at the Sweet Briar Inn; the town’s only bed and breakfast. It overlooked a park and had roses in the front garden with a deep porch that featured a swing seat. The interior was a riot of overblown faux-Victoriana; all fussy chintz and lace with a ‘parlor’ downstairs and ‘boudoirs’ upstairs. Rachel took a photo of the lace-draped four poster in hers and sent it to Brickall with the caption ‘I keep expecting Norman Bates’s mother to appear.’

  She whiled away an hour or so checking through Melissa Downey’s social media pages. The content was predictable and innocuous enough, but she did find a comments thread on a pageants forum where she and one of her friends were mocking a contestant who was very overweight. Melissa had used a whale emoticon, followed by a laughing face. So, superficially sweet Melissa was a fat-shamer after all. Not a surprise, perhaps, but oddly disappointing.

  The ornate mahogany cabinet turned out to be concealing a TV, so after a long soak in the claw-foot tub, Rachel lay in front of the news sipping her turndown glass of cherry wine, and thinking about Rob arriving home to his estranged wife like the perfect civilised co-parent. Helping wrap his daughter’s gifts, blowing up balloons, greeting guests. As though he hadn’t just chased halfway across the country with an Englishwoman he barely knew.

  But this was who Rob was, and she was in no position to change things, or even to be shocked. Someone of his age was going to have baggage, just as she did. That was something Rachel had taken as read when she met first met him, despite the lack of weddin
g ring. His situation was complicated, so it was just as well she had followed her professional instincts and avoided getting involved. No regrets, she told herself. Well, maybe just a few.

  She consoled herself by eating the home-made truffles that had been left on her pillow. They shed crumbs of chocolate which melted and left dark smears on the lace bedclothes when she eventually drifted into a restless sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Saturday afternoon was family visiting time at the Pine Ridge prison. Rob had taken the time before his flight to make phone calls to his contacts, with the result that Rachel would be permitted to visit on Saturday morning. According to his email, it would be more ‘convenient’ for her to be there on Monday, but she was adamant that she couldn’t wait a further forty-eight hours. Her time was a precious commodity.

  The cover story, constructed with the prison governor’s collaboration, was as follows: she was an academic conducting research into the effect of incarceration on the families of inmates. It was decided that this would explain her English accent, among other things. The prison authorities would tell Ethan Rowe that he had been randomly selected to take part in the study. His cooperation would be encouraged, but could not be forced. The challenge for Rachel would be to get as much information as possible from him without raising his suspicions.

  After turning down the absurdly indulgent ‘Sweet Briar Break-your-Fast’ of fruit compote, coffee, muffins, omelettes, hash browns and pancakes with syrup, Rachel helped herself to a take-out coffee and an apple. As an afterthought she grabbed a couple of packets of M&M’s from the entrance hall’s self-styled ‘Treat Table’ as she headed out to her car. Madras had had an airbase during the war and retained a tiny airport. That tiny airport had a single rental car franchise whose sole available vehicle was hers for the duration of her trip.

  She headed due east out of Madras, and after driving for fifteen minutes came to a halt at the wire fence surrounding the Pine Ridge Correctional Institution. You couldn’t really miss the place.

  ‘Nature of your business?’ enquired the corpulent corrections officer in the bulletproof reception cubicle. He had a thatch of silver hair with a matching beard, and wore a badge that said ‘C.O. Ernest Dwyer’. If the guards’ uniforms had been red, he would have been a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

  ‘I’m here to see Ethan Rowe.’

  ‘Ah…’ He gave Rachel what bordered on a wink. ‘You’re the lady that’s coming to talk to Rowe. Come with me, Miss.’

  Ernest led her down the corridor to a windowless, featureless interview room. The place smelt of disinfectant, urine and despair. She sat on one of two plastic chairs and waited. Ten minutes later, Rowe shuffled in, wearing leg irons and handcuffs. The corrections officer removed the hardware and left the room with a small nod at Rachel. ‘I’ll be right outside.’

  Rachel gazed at her subject with ill-concealed curiosity. He was around her height and his build was slight; his orange jumpsuit hanging off him. His hair was thin and mousey, and an unconvincing fluffy goatee beard covered a weak chin. The only striking thing about his face was his eyes, which were a startling jade green.

  ‘Hello, Ethan,’ she extended her hand.

  He refused to take it, looking down at his lap.

  ‘My name’s Miss Prince. I’m studying inmates and their families, and I’m here today to talk to you about yours.’

  ‘They said I din’t have to talk to you.’ His voice was thin and hoarse, with a faint hillbilly twang.

  ‘It’s not going to take very long; I only have a few questions.’

  Rowe slouched back in his chair, ankles crossed, chin thrust up.

  ‘Can I start by asking you about your parents?’

  He did not reply, half closing his eyes.

  ‘Ethan?’

  Silence.

  Rachel tried another tack. ‘How are things in here? How are they treating you?’

  There was no response. Rowe affected a catatonic state, his eyes now mere slits. She rummaged in her bag for one of the packets of sweets she had taken from the B & B. Tearing it open, she pushed it across the table to him. ‘Go ahead, help yourself.’

  He rocked forward in his chair so that he could slide his hand into the bag and take a fistful of the garishly coloured treats. Leaning back again, he opened his mouth and dropped them in one by one. Then he repeated the process. Rachel waited patiently for the sugar surge to take effect.

  ‘So waddya want to know?’ he asked eventually, chewing with his mouth open.

  ‘Tell me about your parents. How do they feel about you being in here?’

  ‘Mom died when I was nine.’

  ‘And your father?’

  He gave an insouciant shrug. ‘Never knew him. He split when I was a baby.’

  ‘Do you know his name at least?’

  ‘Raymond. Raymond Rowe.’

  ‘And your mother was?’

  ‘Kathleen.’

  ‘Tell me what happened when your mother died. Where did you go.’

  ‘My gramma raised me mostly. Was in foster care a bit.’

  ‘And how about siblings?’

  He stared at her blankly with those disturbing green eyes.

  ‘Brothers and sisters.’

  ‘Don’t have any.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, my mom had a couple of babies with my stepdad. Don’t really know ’em.’

  ‘Boys or girls?’

  ‘Two boys.’

  ‘So you have half-brothers?’

  Rowe had returned to his heavy-lidded stupor. Rachel reached for the second bag of M&Ms and pushed it towards him. ‘How about half-sisters?’

  He frowned. ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘And cousins. Do you know how many you have?’

  Rowe filled his mouth with sweets and chewed for a couple of minutes. When he had swallowed he said. ‘There’s my cousin Rainey. She used to stay with Gramma too sometimes.’

  Rachel paused, pen over on the page. ‘And how old is Rainey?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Don’t know for sure. Around the same age as me.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives now?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Rowe checked the bag, and realising he’d eaten all the available sugar, turned and bellowed ‘Guard!’ in the direction of the door. When the prison officer came in, Rowe stood up. ‘I don’t want to talk no more.’

  ‘Just a couple more questions,’ Rachel pleaded.

  But Rowe was holding up his wrists in readiness for them to be re-cuffed. ‘I said, I’m not going to talk no more,’ he enunciated slowly. ‘This stuff is stupid.’ The prison officer gave Rachel an apologetic look and led him out of the room.

  * * *

  ‘Get what you need, Miss?’ beamed Officer Dwyer as Rachel returned to reception.

  ‘Not really. But I don’t think I’ll get any more out of him.’

  ‘He’s a tricky little weasel, that one,’ sympathised Dwyer, checking her bag and then opening the main gate for her.

  ‘Does he get any visitors?’

  ‘His grandmother comes on Saturday afternoons. Lives quite near here. Nobody else.’

  ‘And visiting hours are?’

  ‘Starts 1 p.m. She’s pretty much here on the dot of quarter after one every time.’ He reached out his visitors’ logbook and looked up the relevant page. ‘Norma Starling’s the name.’

  Rachel checked her watch. It was still only eleven fifteen. Did she really want to wait here for another two hours? She could always drive the nine miles back into Madras and return again later. On the other hand, what was there to do in Madras when she got there? And if she ended up missing Ethan Rowe’s grandmother by a few minutes, she was certainly not in a position to return again the following Saturday.

  Her policing instincts kicked in. She would sit and wait. She occupied herself by sketching out a basic family tree with the limited information she had. Norma Starling was almost certainly Kathleen’s mother. She drew a line
from Raymond Rowe to Ethan, and placed cousin Rainey off to his right, two rungs down from Norma, with a big question mark next to her name. One of her parents would have to be a child of Norma’s too. There were five names on the tree, for now. A fair start, she decided.

  There was a knock on her window. Santa Claus stood there with a cup of coffee and a doughnut. She rolled the glass down.

  ‘You look like you could use these.’

  ‘Officer Dwyer—’

  ‘Call me Ernie.’

  ‘Thank you, Ernie. Very kind.’

  ‘And if you need it, come find me and I’ll take you to the staff bathroom.’

  The coffee was very welcome despite being lukewarm and slightly acid, and Rachel drank it straight away. She had not intended to succumb to the doughnut, but after an hour passed she was not only bored but genuinely hungry, so she polished it off and followed it up with her breakfast apple.

  First rule of stakeouts, she heard Brickall’s voice saying in her head. If you’ve got it, eat it. This prompted her to check her phone, but there was no response to the photo she had sent him. She photographed her empty coffee cup, the sugary doughnut wrapper and the apple core and sent it to him captioned ‘The stakeout diet.’ She fully intended to keep the message-bombing going until he caved in and replied.

  She had intended to start researching cousin Rainey, but the sun coming through the car window was warm, and the prattle of the radio soporific. Despite herself, she started to doze. She was woken by more rapping on her window.

  ‘Miss, thought you’d want to know that Miz Starling’s just gone in to visit her grandson. She’ll probably be out in no more’n twenty minutes. He’s no talker, as you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Ernie. Very kind.’ Rachel straightened herself up, then climbed out of the car to stretch her legs. She waited, leaning on the bonnet for fifteen minutes until a scrawny woman with wispy, greying hair walked out of the gate and towards one of the parked cars, leaning on a stick. She wore a floral top, polyester trousers that were several sizes too large for her, and open-toed slides which revealed painful-looking bunions.