by Fiona Barton
But he had clearly forgotten to brief DS Salmond.
He knew she was keeping the rabble in the incident room from his door out of kindness, but Sparkes lost it when he overheard his detective sergeant telling a colleague, “You’ll have to come back later. He’s not having a good day.” He could picture her caring look and shouted, “Salmond, get in here.”
When she put her neatly groomed head round the door, he wiped the smile off her face.
“You are getting right up my nose, Salmond. Stop telling people to leave me alone. Go and do something useful. I feel as if I am being quarantined.”
The DS tried to laugh it off, but Bob knew he’d been too rough. He stood to stop her leaving.
“Sorry. It’s just, when you are talking about me, you sound as if you are dealing with a jumper on a bridge. I’m all right.”
“Okay, boss. Point taken. I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got reports to finish.”
“Tell me what you are up to.” He pointed to a chair.
Salmond sat and crossed her arms. Still defensive, Bob thought.
“Come on, Zara. Remind me.”
“Well, I’m chasing up the final results on the drugs bust out at Portsmouth.”
“It’s a bit slow, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Well, people have been off for the summer holidays.”
“Anything to worry about?”
“No, all looks tidy. Oh, and we’ve had a report of two girls from Winchester going missing.”
“Missing? How old?” he said, immediately on full alert. “When did this come in? Why didn’t you tell me straightaway?”
“They’re eighteen and missing in Thailand.”
“Ah,” Sparkes muttered, his mind slipping away to the meeting with Eileen’s consultant later.
“Bit off our patch, but I’m up for it if you want to send . . .” DS Salmond said, a shade louder to show she’d noticed his eyes glazing over.
“In your dreams, Zara. Anyway, you’ve just been away.”
“Hardly a holiday, boss. When Neil said Turkey, I thought sun loungers. We spent most of the time looking at ancient latrines for his Year Ten’s project. In one-hundred-four-degree heat.”
“Latrines? Excellent. Any photos?”
Salmond laughed. “Neil’s got loads. I’ll ask him to send you a selection.”
“Yeah, no hurry. What about these girls, then?”
“It’s only been a week but the parents are twitchy. Girls are away for the first time and didn’t ring for their A Level results yesterday. The dad of one of them phoned it in this morning and I’m passing on the details to Interpol, but my bet is they’ll be on a beach somewhere. Lucky them.”
“Yes, lucky them. Well, let me know any updates. The media will be all over this if it develops—you’d better brief the press office.”
And he winked to let her know they were all right.
* * *
• • •
“Quick update, sir,” Salmond said twenty minutes later. “The press office was briefed about the backpackers and there’s a Facebook campaign already running—the family are doing it.”
Sparkes pulled a face.
“It’s a good idea, sir. That’s where kids who might be sitting in a bar next to Alex and Rosie will be looking.”
“Yes, them and every weirdo and glory seeker on the planet, offering fake sympathy and sightings just to be part of the drama. And then there’ll be the trolls, blaming the parents for letting their kids go traveling, calling the girls sluts and whores. God, who opened the microphone to people like them? At least before social media you didn’t have to hear this stuff. They could sit in the snug of their local pub or their front room and spout their bile.”
“Anyway . . .” Salmond said. “Moving on . . .”
“Yes, let’s.”
* * *
• • •
Sparkes was looking at reports on-screen, his head elsewhere.
He leaned back, stretched out his arms to touch the computer, and then took them over his head, making his back click. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and he could no longer get out of his chair without an involuntary groan. He felt old. Really old.
Eileen had said he needed more sleep that morning when he’d gone in to see her, but he’d waved her concerns away. “I’m fine, love. Why are we talking about me? Let’s concentrate on you and getting rid of this stupid infection.”
She’d lain back on her pillow. “I am trying, Bob.”
He tried to focus on the words on his screen, but his head was full of the growing fragility in his wife’s eyes. They were sinking into her head, away from him. It was as if she were being hollowed out. He flexed and clenched his fingers.
Not now. Can’t think about it now. It’ll be all right.
He tapped the touch pad to awaken his screen and a photo appeared. DS Salmond had uploaded images of the missing girls and the link to the Facebook page the O’Connors had set up.
Sparkes looked at their faces and sighed. He clicked and began reading, starting with Alex’s last Facebook post and e-mail home on Saturday, August 9.
Alex O’Connor . . . is planning to celebrate ( !) her A Level results with her bezzy in Ko Phi Phi, “gazing out at monolithic rocks in an azure blue sea” according to Lonely Planet . . .
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Subject: Results
Hi Mum and Dad,
Still in Bangkok—so much to see, we’ve decided to stay longer—but planning to move on in time for the results! Everything crossed that I get into Warwick. Will ring like we said about 12noon your time (1800 here) to open the envelope together. Like the Oscars! Text me if the post arrives earlier!! Love you, Alex xx
Ps Seeing elephants tomorrow. Another bucket list item ticked off . . .
The SOS was then sounded by Alex O’Connor’s brother, quietly at first. More of a nudge, really.
Hi Alex. Haven’t heard from you for a few days. Where are you now?
We can’t get through on your phone. Mum’s a bit worried. Can you message us.
Alex?
Alex??
FFS ALEX. CALL!!!!!
The capitalized scream marked the tipping point when the gentle reminders became a full-throated roar of panic.
It’s been 4 days since anyone saw my sister and her friend. Please keep sharing and posting.
It’s been 5 days.
6 days.
And the “community” had kicked in:
Let your families know you are OK, Alex and Rosie.
Please.
Was that you I bought a drink for last night in Oxxi’s Place? Ring your parents.
They just want to know U R safe.
Don’t be so selfish. Contact your family.
The parents will give them such a rocket when they turn up, he thought. Causing all this fuss. Bet they wish they’d never agreed to let them go.
He’d never had to struggle with such a decision. His children hadn’t been the adventurous sort. He couldn’t even remember discussing gap years with them. His son, Jim, had been set on going to university and getting on with his career in accountancy, and his daughter, Sam, had already fallen in love, so she wasn’t going anywhere.
Wonder if their lives would have turned out differently if they’d gone to Thailand, he mused, idly scrolling back through the messages. Kate Waters’s son had gone. She’d confided in Sparkes when she and he last met to discuss a case. He didn’t normally get into personal stuff with reporters, but Kate had clearly needed to talk, and had told him about the silences from Jake stretching into months. And how she secretly worried he was struggling but didn’t want to admit it to her husband.
Sparkes hadn’t liked to say his secret worry about his son was
that he was getting old before his time. He was only in his thirties, but his hair was thinning and he wore slippers in the house.
“They’ve got oak flooring,” Eileen had said when he’d mentioned it. “He’s fine.”
But he was never going to go to a Full Moon Party.
Perhaps they’d got off lightly. He flicked back to look at the laughing faces of the missing girls. Fresh faces. Lost children.
Where were they? He’d ring Kate later and tell her about the story. Get things moving.
FOUR
The Reporter
FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2014
Joe Jackson is sitting in my chair to watch the newsroom television and I swat him as I pass, catching his shoulder.
“Oy, Jackson! Out!”
He grins up at me and pushes back from the desk, freewheeling out of my way, and I see Jake in my head, messing around, hair in his eyes, teasing me.
“Get on with your work,” I growl.
“I’m making calls.” He shows me his mobile as proof, jumps up, and pulls my chair back into position. “Nothing much to tell, yet. I’ve got a bit of time before the Sunday-for-Monday news meeting. I hope Terry doesn’t call it early.”
As if by magic, the news editor appears from the Goldfish Bowl, his glass-walled cubicle of an office.
“He’s bugged our desks, hasn’t he?” Joe murmurs, and I nod.
“What are you whispering about?” Terry shouts across. “It’d better be a story. Your hit rate is a joke, Jackson.”
As the youngest staff reporter in the newsroom, Joe Jackson is an easy target for so-called banter. Bullying, if we’re being honest. Joe and I had had a prickly start when he’d been assigned to me for work experience—I told Terry I didn’t have time to run the office crèche, but the editor had insisted—and he’s grown on me. I know the other reporters call him my “office son” or “the chief reporter’s bitch,” but I ignore it. I hope he does, too. I keep telling him they’ll get bored and find another game.
“Here, put this up to Terry,” I say, slipping a cutting across the desk. “It’s got follow-up written all over it.”
“Thanks. I owe you another one.”
“Put it on the slate. Now make a call on it so you’ll sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
I flick a quick look at Terry. He’s heard it all. He hears everything. He pulls a face. “Soft touch,” it says. I shrug back and pick up my phone to avoid talking to him.
I scroll through the contacts, looking for a likely target, and stop at DI Bob Sparkes. I see his name most days—I’ve filed him under his first name to keep him near the top of the list. But today I don’t go past. I press it. I need a friendly voice this morning. And he might have a story.
Bob Sparkes and I have enjoyed—or maybe he’d say endured—the sort of forced intimacy that working on difficult cases brings. It’s a reality of life that detectives and reporters find themselves knocking on the same doors in search of the facts and cooped up in the same pubs, courtrooms, and canteens.
For some officers, reporters are a cross to bear and they make us sweat for every piece of information, but Sparkes is a generous copper. He knows what we need to tell the story and is usually happy to oblige. He doesn’t play games.
“Suits all of us to work together,” he said once. “The police get the publicity they need for the investigation—and some recognition for the work done—and you get your story.”
And he deserves the recognition. He works his socks off to get a result.
I’ve seen him do it. Eight years ago, in the Bella Elliott case, he spent every waking hour looking for the missing toddler, thinking about her. He said he dreamed about her, too. And even in cases he wasn’t running, he’s acted as my touchstone. When I was trying to find the identity of a baby whose remains had been found on a London building site in 2012, he’d been there on the end of a phone. He didn’t have to do it, but I’d relied on him for grown-up advice when I got too involved. Too close to see what was in front of me.
It’s not exactly Holmes and Watson, but we rub along.
Of course, it means that he knows far too much about me. I know I overshare sometimes, telling him my private thoughts and domestic problems, but I trust him.
* * *
• • •
The phone rings. “Kate!” the voice says sharply, startling me.
“Good grief, Bob—have you been issued with new psychic powers? I was just about to ring you.”
“Ha! Must have been thinking about each other at the same moment.”
I can feel myself blushing. For Christ’s sake, get a grip, woman!
“Thinking about me? In a good way? Or cursing me?”
“In a good way, Kate,” he replies evenly. He doesn’t do flirting. Never been a swordsman.
I try not to smile—he’ll hear it in my voice.
“Go on, then. What were you thinking?”
“I’ve got an inquiry that you might be able to help with. Two teenage girl backpackers in Thailand have been reported missing by their families. They haven’t been in touch for a week, so it’s early days, but they missed getting their exam results yesterday and their parents are very anxious. My sergeant thinks they’ll probably turn up with a hangover, but a story might winkle them out of whichever bar they’re sitting in. Anyway, I thought of you. And Jake.”
Bob Sparkes knows about Jake. How he dropped out of university and about the row it had caused—I’d told him after the result in the Building Site Baby case, when we’d had a quiet drink to decompress. He’s got adult kids, too. He knows how god-awful being a parent is sometimes and he listens carefully. He always listens well, Bob. A trained ear. But he hasn’t told me about Eileen’s illness. I found out about the cancer from another copper. I was shocked—more that Bob hadn’t confided in me than by the cancer, if I’m honest. I’ve tried to prompt him to tell me since then, mentioning Steve and his work in oncology a couple of times. But Sparkes has never taken the bait.
* * *
• • •
“Sure. How old are the girls? Are there photos? Where are they from? Can I speak to the parents?”
“Good grief, Kate. Slow down. You’re like a greyhound out of the traps. They’re eighteen and from Winchester. Look, I’ll send you the details as soon as we get off the phone.”
“Great. Are you putting it all round?” I have to ask.
“Yes, the press office is writing something to put on the tape at the moment.”
“Any chance you could give me a couple of hours’ head start, Bob?”
There’s a pause. I wait him out.
“Go on, then,” he says. “It’s hardly breaking news. I’ll ask them to hold on to it until after lunch.”
“Brilliant. Thanks, Bob.”
“Anyway, how is Jake?”
I’ve forgotten my son, pushed past him in the rush to write about someone else’s child. What sort of mother are you?
“Er, not sure. He rang in the middle of the night a few weeks ago—first call for months—but it sounded like it was from some jungle outpost and I lost the line.”
“What a shame. Still, he did call.”
“Yes, he did. I have to be grateful for that, I suppose.”
“The parents of Alex O’Connor and Rosie Shaw would be, Kate.”
I can hear the edge of censure in his voice and try not to react. I scribble down the names.
“Yes, well . . . okay, send the missing girls’ stuff as soon as you can—I’m sure I can get it in the paper. There’s nothing else happening. And, Bob, thanks for holding it. I appreciate it.”
* * *
• • •
I open my laptop to wait for his e-mail. My inbox has filled again. It’s been only half an hour since I weeded through the overnight mass mailings, but there are a dozen new P
R puffs for television shows and celebrities selling ghosted memoirs with promises of “amazing revelations.”
“I don’t know why I’m getting so much showbiz dross,” I regularly grumble to Joe. But actually I do. My name has joined a list of journos who write the celeb stories. I’m a marked woman. I used to be a serious reporter, whatever that means these days.
I spent yesterday afternoon writing a “heartwarming”—in my head I am raking the air with ironic quotation marks—picture story about a dog adopting ducklings.
“It probably ate them after the photographer left,” I’d told Steve when I’d got home. “God, I hate August. Bloody Silly Season. We are in a news-free zone, scratching around for stories when the whole country has gone on holiday. The editor gave me back one of my old spreads this afternoon. He must have stashed it in his bottom drawer in the New Year. Told me to dust it off so he could put it in the paper. I had to make sure no one in it had died in the meantime.”
Steve had poured me another glass of sauvignon blanc and clinked glasses in sympathy.
* * *
• • •
I deleted the offending e-mails without opening, my eye automatically on alert for [email protected].
His e-mails are never in answer to my or Steve’s regular messages. When they arrive, they’re short and to the point—two or three sentences, more a telegram than a letter—telling us he’s still alive and, clearly, not thinking about us. We still pore over them, looking for meaning in every word.
It’s been two years since he embarked on his journey “to find himself” in Southeast Asia. He should have been studying for his bar exams this year. He’d been doing so well at university before . . . We’d dreamed of him becoming a barrister. We were excited for him. I suppose, looking back, maybe we were more excited than he was. But he always did relaxed and cool. Used to drive me mad. He was a lucky boy—bright and lucky—but he wasn’t grateful. He had it too easy, maybe. He’d never had to struggle to get top grades, as his little brother had. It was Freddie we worried about. Steve and I tried to hide it from him. We kept our agonized discussions about his future for after he’d gone to bed. Poor Freddie. Always in Jake’s shadow at school. Then, out of the blue, Jake had come home and casually announced he’d jacked in his degree and was going traveling.