by Fiona Barton
Shaw started to shake, his mouth twitching and his hands making the table tremble.
DS Salmond leaned forward into his eyeline. “This must be very upsetting for you, Mr. Shaw. Shall I ask your wife to get you a glass of water?”
He blinked. “No, I don’t want Imogen to hear any of this. She’s very emotional at the moment, with the baby and everything. Oh God, this is unbelievable. My daughter is missing and you are looking at my bank account. What sort of people are you? Can’t you see that I am devastated?”
Sparkes made sure he didn’t catch Salmond’s eye.
“Of course. But, we have to act on information received, Mr. Shaw. You do understand?”
If he did, he didn’t want to discuss it further.
“I’ll speak to my mother and get this cleared up. I’m sure she’s made a silly mistake.”
“Right,” Sparkes said. “We will also be contacting her.”
“I need to get back to work now,” Mike Shaw said as he rose.
Both officers nodded. “Well, thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch,” DS Salmond said.
The new Mrs. Shaw was hovering in the hall when they emerged.
“Is everything all right, Mikey?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” her husband said, ushering the police officers through the front door.
* * *
• • •
“Well?” Salmond said when they were in the car.
“My gut doesn’t like him either,” Sparkes said quietly. “And what the hell is Elephant’s Breath?”
BANGKOK DAY 9
(MONDAY, AUGUST 4, 2014)
https://www.facebook.com/alexoconnor.333
Alex O’Connor
August 4 at 0718
. . . is eating duck feet and living the dream
She wasn’t sure if it was duck’s feet but it was something unidentifiable and it sounded more exotic than noodles. Certainly more exciting than Rosie’s Maccie D’s.
Alex had got into the habit of getting up as soon as it was light every day to walk round different parts of the city, while it was quiet and cooler. Mostly she went on her own, wandering by the river, catching boats to somewhere new, and taking photos she posted on Facebook and Instagram with emojis of champagne bottles and stars.
She should have been on a beach by now but Rosie wouldn’t budge. She was having too good a time to want to leave. And Alex was too nervous to continue alone. So she carried on writing variations on Alex O’Connor . . . is having the time of her life on her timeline and counted the Likes, the Loves, the funny comments, from her friends and passing strangers. They helped bolster the fiction. She kept Alex O’Connor wishes she’d never come to herself.
The truth didn’t have a suitable emoji. She was unhappy and homesick. This trip wasn’t what she thought it would be. And she was beginning to admit to herself that she should never have come with Rosie.
Alex didn’t talk about it to anyone but Mags. Thank God for Mags . . .
She couldn’t tell her mum and dad the truth: Rosie is legless and sleeping her way through the boys in the guesthouse. This isn’t why I came to Thailand. She’s ruining everything. I could kill her.
They might insist on them coming home. And she was still hopeful in a tiny corner of her brain. She’d give it another week. And Mags could be her listening ear—she didn’t know anyone well enough yet at the guesthouse.
The English lad from the first night had started appearing on the next stool at the bar more often. And sometimes, when she came down for her walk, he was downstairs and offered to go with her. He called himself JW, which made Alex hide a smile the first time. He didn’t have much to say but was always pleased to see her. Maybe he was lonely, too?
She tried to encourage him to talk, just to be kind more than anything, and he started to open up, telling her about his trip, testing her reaction with a flick of his eyes. He was traveling alone. “Wow, you’re brave,” Alex had said longingly. And he’d smiled shyly. Pleased.
He’d sort of adopted her, telling her about his security measures—keeping his stuff safe and private. Alex had half-listened as he enumerated his precautions: watching the other people in the shared dorm, putting his money and passport in a special belt he’d bought, never taking it off. When she heard him say something about putting it in a plastic bag when he had a shower, she clicked back into the conversation.
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” She’d laughed. His eyes had flicked away.
“But you can never be too careful,” she’d added quickly.
“No,” he said. “Not in a shared room,” he said and took a swig of his water.
“The Dutch schoolboys are using lockers out the back. Dummies. No one uses lockers. Everyone knows that’s where your things are and it is the easiest thing in the world to open the lock.”
“How do you know about lockers?”
“Stuff I’ve picked up along the way,” he said.
She shouldn’t have encouraged him, really. It wasn’t kind. But she needed someone to talk to. And he was sweet. He listened, laughed at her jokes, hung on her every word. He’d taken over the role she’d expected Rosie to play.
She knew she wouldn’t have done half the things she’d done so far without him. And he seemed to like her company, too. Perhaps a bit too much. She’d tried to keep things as friends, but it was becoming obvious he wanted more. He said she could call him Jamie but only when they were on their own.
They’d talked about lots of things in the way that lonely people do; revealing themselves too quickly in the rush for instant intimacy. He’d told her on the second day that he liked that no one knew who he was in Bangkok. No one was judging him. She’d thought she understood and she agreed, and as they’d walked on she had pointed out the weird and wonderful things on street stalls—scorpions, ducks so neon orange they looked as if they’d been painted. The heads were left on. Lolling there in front of her with eyes all covered with a white film.
“It’s not like Tesco’s,” JW said. “You can see they are dead animals.”
When they went out at night, the whole place changed. It got dark so early, even though it was summer all the time, and all the creeps and sex tourists came out of their hiding places.
She e-mailed Mags about them:
You can spot them a mile off. Old, white, fat, and tattooed. And desperate. They look like they’re enjoying themselves, laughing and talking too loud, but they must know everyone hates them. Don’t they? The tiny women who look like children hanging on their arms hate them.
Her real traveling companion didn’t even stir when Alex got up and clattered around the room. She’d usually been in bed for only a couple of hours by then, anyway. They were seeing each other less each day. And when she said something about a sunset or a pavement fish stall, Rosie rolled her eyes.
It was just like the walk-to-school thing. Being away from home had not made them BFs. If anything, it had magnified the yawning differences between them. Alex found herself cast as the boring older sister, always seeing the negatives, while Rosie was the fun girl having a wonderful time.
Rosie liked telling people she was a free spirit. Alex thought she sounded like an idiot and that being a free spirit seemed to mean getting drunk as often as possible. But if Alex tried to warn her about anything, such as getting her drink spiked by strangers, she’d go all sulky and say it was like being on holiday with her mum.
She wanted to tell Rosie that the thought of being free to do anything she wanted had kept her going when she was stacking beans at Asda. But she couldn’t. And she certainly couldn’t tell her that she’d been put in charge by the mothers, hers and Rosie’s. They’d sat her down and said, “You will look after Rosie, won’t you?” As if she needed protecting. And it was like they’d planted their radioactive seed of fear deep under her skin.<
br />
THIRTEEN
The Reporter
MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 2014
“This is a waste of time. They’ll turn up,” had become Don’s mantra.
And they do, today.
The news came this morning. Don rang me as I was getting up.
“They’ve been found,” he said. “But they’re in body bags.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Where? What happened?”
“There was a fire in one of the crummy hostels off Khao San Road. It happened on Friday but the cops have only just found bodies. They say there was no register or anything and the building was unsafe to enter until today.”
“How many dead?”
“Just two so far.”
“And it’s definitely Alex and Rosie?”
“There’s no formal ID yet, but the word is it’s them. I wonder if the parents have been told.”
I’d had the exact same thought. I didn’t want to ring them in case the police hadn’t made the call. I’d done it once in my career and never forgotten the stomach-lurching realization that the person on the end of the line had no idea her husband was dead. And the frantic backpedaling as I tried to end the call without breaking the news.
* * *
• • •
I ring Bob Sparkes to see what he knows. It’s early—not even eight a.m. yet—but he won’t mind. He’s bound to be at work already.
But when he picks up, he sounds as if he’s in an echo chamber.
“Bob, can you talk?”
“Not really. I’m at the hospital.”
“Oh God, sorry. Have you had an accident?”
“No. It’s Eileen. Look, I’ll call you back.”
“’Course.”
And he’s gone.
* * *
• • •
I dial the O’Connors’ number slowly, practicing the words I’ll use depending on how they answer the phone.
If Lesley says, “Hello, Kate. You’re an early bird,” or similar, I’ll pretend it’s a routine check call before she leaves for work. Say I’ve heard there’s some activity in Bangkok, get her to ring the Foreign Office. If she’s in tears . . .
A stranger answers. An old woman. And I think for a moment I’ve misdialed.
“Sorry, I wanted to speak to Lesley but I think I might have the wrong number.”
“It’s me,” Lesley says. She knows.
“The police are here, Kate. They say there was a fire in Bangkok and two bodies have been found. It’s two girls. They’re the right age, and they say they’re ninety percent sure. So there’s still a chance. They might need to use medical and dental records.” Her voice sticks on the word “dental” and I try to speak, to comfort her.
“I am so sorry, Lesley. I really hoped . . .”
“We all did. We’re going out there today. I’ve got to go, Kate. To be sure. And to bring her home if it is . . .”
* * *
• • •
Terry is quietly thrilled he’s got a splash this early in the day.
“Fuck,” he says. Hyperbole is not his thing.
“Do the families know? Have you spoken to them?”
“Yes.”
“Great. File it asap, before the others are all over it. Ring me afterward.”
* * *
• • •
When I finally run out of patience and phone Bob Sparkes back, he doesn’t mention Eileen or the hospital.
“Kate, sorry about earlier. You’ve heard?”
“Yes, I got a call from our bloke in Bangkok.”
“Right. We were alerted overnight and I sent DS Salmond round to tell the families. She’s still with them, I think. They were completely unprepared for this. We all were, really.”
“I know. I called Lesley just now and she sounds terrible. I’ve just filed the story.”
“Have you? It’s not confirmed yet, Kate. The bodies have to be formally identified.”
“I know, I know. I’ve written it carefully. But it’s them, isn’t it?”
“I think the odds are it is,” he says cautiously. “The descriptions match the missing persons reports.”
“For goodness’ sake, Bob. I’m not going to quote you. Anyway, the families aren’t waiting,” I add. “They’re flying out there today.”
And I’m going, too.
* * *
• • •
“Nina will sort out tickets for you,” Terry says when he emerges from the Editor’s office with the okay for us to go.
“Thanks, Terry,” I say, wrestling my overnight bag out of my desk drawer.
“You get on your way. The picture desk is getting hold of Mick, and I’ll get Joe working on it at this end.”
Joe jumps up, then tries to disguise his excitement.
He’s learning, I think. Doesn’t pay to look too eager.
My young protégé sniffs like a pro and mutters, “I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks, Joe,” I say. “Everything I’ve got from Don and Lesley is filed and on the website. I’ve tried her again but she and Malcolm are packing and getting sorted, so you need to speak to their son, Dan. He’s the one in charge of the Facebook site.”
“On it like a car bonnet,” Joe says, scribbling down Danny’s phone numbers. “Wish I was coming with you.”
The only Foreign he’s been on was to the Jungle in Calais to interview refugees. “I went further on a school day trip,” he’d complained to me.
“They’re not sending anyone anywhere, Joe. It’s not personal. It’s a question of money,” she’d explained patiently. “We used to be on planes everywhere but the accountants are asking, why pay for tickets when we can do the whole job online? I travel so rarely now I’m about to be busted down a tier on my airline loyalty cards.”
“Next time,” I tell him and head off as the adrenaline around the possibility of a real story in August mounts in the newsroom. I call Steve before I get in the lift.
“I’m going to Bangkok, love,” I say. “It’s ninety percent sure it’s the two British girls who died in the fire. The families are going to carry out the formal identification.”
“I knew this would happen,” Steve complains. “It always bloody happens. As soon as I buy tickets to anything. We’re supposed to be going to that David Tennant play tonight.”
“Sorry, Steve. Take one of your mates at work instead. Take Henry. Look, this is a good story—and the parents are flying out tonight. I’ve got to go.”
“Well, ring me when you land.”
“Of course. Oh, and, Steve, can you pay the credit card bill? And I was going to ring about getting rid of that old fridge. Number’s on the top.”
“Yes, yes. How long will you be away, then?”
“Not sure. A few days—a week at the outside.”
I hear my husband sigh.
“I know it’s a pain but I’ve asked to go on this story so I can try to get out to Phuket while I’m there. It’s only an hour and a half from Bangkok by plane. I’m going to see if I can find Jake and talk him into coming home.”
“Right. It’s a lovely idea. But don’t build your hopes up, Katie. He is an adult, not a little boy. Look, I’ve got to get back to work. Have a safe trip. And ring me.”
In the taxi to the airport, I sit in silence, looking at a photo of Jake on my phone and imagining his surprise when I turn up at his project. If I can find his project. But I brush it aside. I focus on him laughing and me crying when we see each other. I hope it will be like that.
FOURTEEN
The Detective
MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 2014
DS Salmond had been the obvious choice to send to tell the families. Sparkes would have gone himself, but Eileen had a meeting with the consultant and he’d wanted to be there to hear the latest pro
gnosis. He’d been sure it was going to be bad news.
Anyway, Salmond was better at that kind of thing than he was. She had the knack with the bereaved. Where some coppers were stiff and uncomfortable around grief, and others overinvolved, she managed to be warm and professional. He couldn’t say where he fit on that sliding scale.
“They are still running on nervous energy, putting off the moment when it sinks in,” she’d said when she returned to HQ.
“Did you see Mike Shaw?”
“Yes. I went to his house last. He was in shock, I think. Jenny had phoned him before I got there. He’s going with her and was trying to get ready. His new wife wasn’t happy, so I didn’t stay long.”
Salmond had gone to leave but had stopped. “Oh, and he said his mother had remembered lending Rosie the money.”
“What? He said that while you were telling him his daughter’s body had probably been found?”
“I know. Well, he did. And I’m certainly not ringing Constance Shaw about it today.”
“No. But don’t lose sight of it, Zara. It needs tidying away eventually.”
* * *
• • •
He sat thinking about the girls. Not in a bar, causing their parents heartache, but in body bags. Every fiber of his detective brain was engaged. Where? How? Why did these girls die? Fire was a horrible killer. Nothing swift or unfelt. It looked as if they’d been unlucky, wrong place, wrong time. But . . . He searched for details but there was nothing to snag his attention. The problem was that he was doing it thirdhand, reliant on reports of reports via the parents at this stage, each fact filtered through different eyes and imperatives. He wanted to be there, seeing the scene, gathering the evidence, talking to witnesses, not in this stuffy office reading e-mails. He shrugged stiff shoulders and tried again. But as he read, his mind wandered back to Eileen. He’d been right. Time was shortening.