The Rift Cover Title Page Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Acknowledgements Canelo Crime About the Author Also by Rachel Lynch Copyright Cover Table of Contents Start of Content Chapter 1 Major Helen Scott made her way to the embassy on foot and took it slowly, not wanting to work up a sweat before she got there. The Paris summer was desperate to stick to her clothes, and she was grateful for the breeze that made her shirt billow and her hair waft. She wore large sunglasses and watched oblivious strangers from behind. She was fairly small of frame and, if asked, a passer-by would never guess her line of work. She dressed like all those who worked in any international police force: as Mr and Mrs Grey. Her wardrobe was made up of dark trousers and light shirts, as well as bland jackets, to conceal weapons when needed. Her hair was light brown from the summer sun, and she only tied it back when working in the field, which, thanks to her success, she hadn’t done for a while. She wore little make-up: a little mascara and lip gloss, and a few sprays of her favourite Jean Paul Gaultier. At thirty-five, she felt at the height of her employability and walked with easy confidence. The district was a smart area of the city, full of young, upwardly mobile couples, cool families determined not to leave their fancy apartments for the suburbs once children arrived, and diplomats. The tall white sandstone Haussmann buildings provided shade, and she peered up to the balconies above, typical in their style and reminiscent of the upmarket Palermo district of Buenos Aires, where she’d stayed when she’d worked in close protection for the Defence Attaché there. Most, if not all, of the ornate iron-barred platforms were decorated lavishly with lush greenery and summer flowers, and a heady scent wafted down to the street. She wondered what it might be like to live here and lead a sedentary life for a while as she ambled past the trees planted every couple of yards, offering further shelter and cooler air under their canopies. Always alert, she absorbed the lay of the streets – their corners, doorways, places to lurk undetected – and the cars driving too slowly. Few people walked the pavements, not only because those with any sense left the city in these hot summer months, but also, this wasn’t a tourist area and no one strolled about, taking pictures or seeking restaurants. It was a residential and business district. On streets such as this, Paris took herself seriously. Upon arriving at the ambassador’s residence, next door to the embassy, she checked both directions flanking the mighty doorway, and buzzed the intercom. She waited, clocking a car approaching down the street. It passed. The outer door opened, and she stepped inside, where she was greeted by a security guard, who allowed her to enter into the initial security checking area. She handed over her belongings and passed through the body-screening stand, which showed up any metal objects hidden under her clothes, as well as if she had a colostomy bag or prosthetics. It was standard. A quick body search followed and then signing in, scanning of passport and retina login. Once through, she was handed back her possessions and was escorted to a large hallway to sit on a Chesterfield sofa to wait to be called into the ambassador’s private office. Officially he worked next door in the chancery, but in reality, he spent most of his time in here, at the Hôtel de Charost, surrounded by lavish rococo and baroque furniture and antiques. Sir Conrad Temple-Cray was an officious man who kept time, and it wasn’t long before she heard doors opening and the swish of air created by a man with intent. The diplomat had a long and illustrious career with the Home and Foreign Offices, and Helen had come across him several times in a professional capacity. His reputation was well earned and despite finding him eccentric, she respected his office. ‘Major Scott,’ he boomed, his voice echoing off the marble interior. He extended his hand, and she stood to take it, matching his strength. He looked her in the eye and nodded. His skin was tanned, and the wrinkles etched deeply into the sides of his eyes and cheeks gave him the air of a smart grandad. He wore tweed – despite the weather outside – and corduroy trousers, together with a crisp white shirt and bright tie, no doubt bought by his wife. It was every civil servant’s nod to individuality: a few flowers and stripes here and there. He led her into one of his no doubt numerous reception rooms, where there was a desk, filing cabinets and a vast bookcase covering one wall; she guessed this was where he worked. It was chilly inside the old chateau-style building but it was a welcome change to the temperature outdoors. She knew they’d take afternoon tea on the lawn, so she made the most of the cool air while she could. ‘Great job,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the report she’d submitted on his security set-up, or simply the fact that she’d turned up. One never knew with ambassadors: they didn’t have to divulge anything. She’d been sent by the Ministry of Defence to conduct a security review for the upcoming NATO summit that was being held at the Palace of Versailles the following week. As an officer in the Royal Military Police, she’d found herself between permanent placements, which came up every two years. It was up to her desk officer in Glasgow, who managed all the careers of majors in the army, to find her
