by Fiona Barton
“Had Jake been at the guesthouse long?” he asks, burrowing into my silence.
“I just don’t know, George. He’s an adult. He stopped checking in with us when he left home.”
“’Course,” George says swiftly. “Can’t wait for ours to fly the nest.” And he stops. He knows he’s said the wrong thing.
“Better get back to the phones,” I say, as if I am letting him off the hook.
In my room I scroll through the stories about the earlier death. But what they don’t know is that my boy was there. And ran away that time, too.
I go back to my list and ring another wildlife project in Phuket. I’m just filling time, I know. He was never there. He was living another life while we told people his lie.
* * *
• • •
There’s a knock on my door and I open it to find Louise with that “I’ve got a story” look on her face. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it.
“I’m a bit busy, Louise,” I say, but she’s ready for me.
“It’s important you hear this, Kate. Before it’s on the net.”
“Hear what?” I say, falling for it. I should know better, but it’s irresistible. I want to be in on the secret.
“We’ve found Jake’s Facebook page.”
“Oh, that!” I almost laugh. I’m on safe ground. “He hasn’t used it since he went away. He hated all that. He told us . . .” And I’ve looked, over and over.
Louise half-smiles back. “Not that one—not the one in his real name. The other one. He’s Jake Sherwood to his Facebook friends.”
“Sherwood?” I gulp. It’s my maiden name. “How do you know it’s my Jake?”
“It’s him.”
“How did you find him?”
“My geek in the office tracked him down. Well, I spoke to a friend of Jake’s here—a little wanker called Ross who tried to pretend he’d never heard of him. You can always tell when they’re faking, can’t you? I got him chatting about other stuff, got his name and where he’s from, and he led us to online Jake.”
“And is Jake posting?” I ask. “Do you know where he is?”
Louise shakes her head. “There’s been nothing new since the fire. But there’s other stuff on there.”
My stomach tightens. “Other stuff? What stuff?”
“You’d better have a look. It’s not pretty.”
“Just tell me,” I snap.
“He says he had to leave Phuket in a hurry. We’ve enquired at a bar he mentioned in a post and the owner says Jake worked there but left over a year ago. He told people he’d been robbed and the local mafia had threatened to kill him because he owed them money. Sounds like he may have got himself in trouble with the wrong people . . .”
Don’t say anything. Don’t give her anything she can quote.
I try to keep my face impassive. “Okay. I’ll look at it myself.”
“And there are photos . . .”
“I imagine there are.” I edge the door shut. “Thanks for telling me, Louise.”
Now sod off.
She turns and says urgently, “You need to look at them, Kate. They’re going to be published.”
I close the door as she’s still talking and rush to my laptop.
When I find his page I start to cry. He’s there. At a party on a beach, lit by a bonfire. His hair is waxed into stiff little horns. His eyes are black with eyeliner. And the caption reads, “I’m a twisted firestarter.”
THIRTY-ONE
The Reporter
THURSDAY, AUGUST 21, 2014
The picture is on the front of almost every paper. Of course it is. Even the Post. With Joe’s byline and the headline “Is This the Missing Witness in Backpacker Fire?”
I ring and wake my office son.
“What the hell is this?” I shout into his ear.
“Everyone had the photo, Kate. An agency put it all round and I had to file copy to go with it. I tried to play it down, but Terry gave me an earful. Told me to harden up the story. I’m sorry, but it’s such an incredible picture.”
“Yes, but taken more than a year ago, according to Facebook. And he’s dressed up as Keith, the lead singer of the rave band the Prodigy.”
I knew as soon as I saw it. It was a family joke—after one of Jake’s teachers called him a child prodigy at a parent evening, we started to tease him, calling him Keith, whenever he got a bit big for his boots. Jake loved it. He and Freddie used to dance round the kitchen, howling the words to “Firestarter.” Bloody stupid song.
“Oh yeah,” Joe says and starts singing the mindless chorus.
“Shut up, Joe. This isn’t helping.”
“Sorry. Look, I did say it was an old picture in the copy. I said it was taken a year ago in Phuket. Not sure if that was edited out . . .”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Because I knew you’d give me hell. I’m in an impossible position; you must see that. I’m working on this story, not living it with you. I have to do what the news editor tells me—he’s my boss . . .”
“Whatever, Joe.”
The hunt is on. Jake won’t show his face now. Who would?
“Do you want to say anything? Give his side of the story?” I can hear the hope in Joe’s voice.
“Sod off. I don’t know what his side of the story is. And that’s off the record. Everything is off the record. You do know that?”
“Yes, yes. I know, but do the others? What are you going to say to them? Some of them have been sent to Phuket. One of Don’s boys is going for us. Terry wants me to stick with the parents.”
“Oh God, has Lesley seen this?”
“I don’t know.”
I put the phone down on Joe and ring up to the O’Connors’ room. Malcolm answers.
“Kate? We wondered if we’d hear from you today. Have you seen your son in the papers?”
“It’s a fit-up, Malcolm. He was at a Halloween fancy-dress party over a year ago. He’s dressed as a singer. Keith from the Prodigy. ‘Firestarter’ is the title of their biggest song. This was a joke. Nothing to do with what happened here. You do understand that?”
But the phone has gone dead.
* * *
• • •
The others come knocking. Tap-tap. Rap-rap-rappity-rap. Bang-bang.
They don’t know for certain I’m in here, so I sit tight. But it gets harder. It is suffocating. I feel the room getting smaller and the walls thinner as they call through the door. “Kate! I know you’re in there. Come to the door!” When that fails, there are the whispered entreaties: “Kate, it’s me, George. Look, I can make things better. We need to talk.”
I know if the tables had been turned, I would be there, ringing my hotel room throughout the night, doorstepping me at breakfast, slipping notes under my door.
I can hear myself on the other side of the door. I wonder how long they’ll stay there. How long would I stay?
I listen to the conversations outside in the corridor.
“Do you think she’s in there? I can’t hear anything.”
“She must be in pieces,” someone else says.
“I bet she’s filed it, though,” Louise snaps. “She won’t let a little thing like being his mother stop her.”
I have my hand on the door handle, ready to wrench it open and give her a piece of my mind. But I stop.
She knows you can hear her, stupid. She’s trying to goad you into saying something.
My phone rings. I’ve put it on silent so the reporters can’t hear it.
It’s Joe’s number. I tiptoe into the bathroom and close the door in slow motion.
“Kate,” he says when I finally answer, “are you okay?”
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“I’m going to come and say I’ve heard from
you,” he replies. “That you are going to the embassy. Hopefully that will shift them.”
“Well, it could work, but then what?”
“Mick has booked you into a different hotel under his name. Get your stuff together, ready for when the pack leaves.”
“Thank you, Joe.” I can’t say anything else. Emotion is choking me.
“You’ll hear me outside in a minute. Mick will knock three times when they’re gone.”
* * *
• • •
Two minutes later I hear him arrive. George calls to him: “Joe, come and get Kate to talk to us. She needs to say something.”
“I’ve just spoken to her. On the phone. She’s not here. She’s gone to the embassy to talk to Clive Barnes.”
“Fuck,” Louise says. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t be screwing with us, would you, Joe?”
I hold my breath. I’m not sure he is up to screwing with someone like her.
“Shut up, Louise. You think everyone’s like you.”
Good boy. How could I doubt you?
“You can stand outside an empty room if you like. I’m going to the embassy.” And I hear him walk away.
There is a moment’s silence and I grip the edge of the bed harder.
“Wait for me—we can share a cab,” George shouts down the corridor, and they all move off, grumbling and swearing.
* * *
• • •
The three knocks make me jump. I pull the door open a crack and there is Mick.
He gives me a quick hug. “Come on, let’s go and play hide-and-seek with the wicked press,” he says, picking up my bag. “I’ve got a cab waiting at the back entrance. Just in case they’ve decided to doorstep the front . . .”
He keeps up his banter in the taxi as we wind through the streets to a small, anonymous hotel.
He’s already checked us in as a couple—Mr. and Mrs. Murray—and I lead the way up the stairs to the room.
“Right, got to get back to work or they’ll be suspicious,” he says. “But ring if you need me. I’m saving your number on my phone as Mum so no one sees it’s you. I’ve told Joe to do the same. He did well, didn’t he? Chip off the old block . . .”
“Not like Jake,” I say.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Kate. He was at a party. I expect everyone was dressed up. He’s just been unlucky.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him anymore. Go on. I’ll be fine. And thank you, Mick. You are brilliant.”
“The top banana, that’s me. Keep your head down.”
* * *
• • •
I can’t ring Steve to let him know I’ve moved—he’ll already have started ward rounds—so I lie on the bed and try to get my thoughts in order, but everything is dancing about in my head.
Why has Jake run away? Traumatized, the doctors say. That’s it. He can’t bear to remember that night. He must be so frightened. Or is he ashamed?
* * *
• • •
I try Lesley’s mobile. She’ll see it’s my number and I keep my fingers crossed she’ll pick up. It rings out too long and I am about to hang up when she finally answers, slightly out of breath.
“Kate? Sorry, I had to go in another room. Malcolm doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“I understand that, Lesley. The story today must have been a horrible shock for all of you. Thank you for taking the call. You know that photo was taken ages ago? At a party?”
“Yes, yes. But it shook us up. Planted doubts in our minds. Malcolm keeps asking me if the fire could have been started deliberately. But the police would know, wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose so, Lesley. Have you spoken to them today?”
“Malcolm did. They still say they think the fire was an accident. There is no new evidence.”
Relief sweeps over me, making me trembly, and I fumble the phone.
This is ridiculous. Pull yourself together, I tell myself. Of course it was an accident.
“It must have been terrible for you as well,” Lesley says. “Seeing him like that.”
We are still on the same side, then.
“I’ve moved hotels to get away from the reporters,” I tell her, and she snorts in reply.
“Welcome to our world. We’re getting on with the paperwork. The insurers are sorting out bringing the girls back and we are making funeral arrangements at home. I think keeping busy is all we can do.”
“If I can help in any way . . .”
“Probably not at the moment. I’ll have a word with Malcolm. He’s so on edge. Normally he’s the calm one, but the pressure is too much. We just want to go home.”
“Of course you do. Have they said how long it will take to sort out?”
“A few days. Everyone is being so kind. We had a call from Hampshire Police. That nice DI Sparkes. Just to see how things are going and to pass on his condolences. But we need to see Dan. He’s having to cope with it all without us and we never seem to be in the right time zone to speak to him.”
“You’ll be home soon,” I say.
When she’s finished, I start to dial Bob Sparkes. It’s eight thirty a.m. where he is. I need to talk to a grown-up.
THIRTY-TWO
The Detective
THURSDAY, AUGUST 21, 2014
He’d wondered when she’d call.
The first stories about Jake’s involvement in the fire had brought Zara running—running—up the corridor yesterday. He’d thought there must have been a terrorism alert at the very least and had met her at the door.
“What?” he’d shouted, blood pumping.
“Kate Waters’s son. He was in the Bangkok fire with the girls. He tried to pull them out.”
“What?”
“Your favorite reporter, sir. Her son Jake is in most of the papers today. He was there the night of the fire.”
Salmond’s eyes had been practically on stalks with excitement. Sparkes had groaned loudly.
“For God’s sake, Zara. Calm down. I thought you were hammering down the corridor because of a lockdown situation. And she’s not my favorite reporter.”
“Sorry. I just couldn’t believe it when I read it.” Salmond had gone pink with exertion and embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ll go and do something useful.”
“Good.”
After she’d gone, he’d found the stories and read them carefully, allowing himself a private “Bloody hell!” He’d almost rung Kate to tell her he was glad Jake was okay, but Salmond’s “your favorite reporter” had galled him. Was he that transparent? Anyway, she wasn’t. He’d speak to her when she got back from Thailand with her hero son.
* * *
• • •
But this morning, the sound of his sergeant haring down the corridor a second time was enough to tell him there was more to come.
“He’s not a hero now,” she said, pretending she’d just been passing despite the damning evidence of her flushed cheeks. “He’s a Twisted Firestarter according to the press. It looks like he’s gone on the run. Wait until you see the photo!”
“Thank you for that news flash, Zara. I’ll have a look in a minute . . .”
He searched for it as soon as her head disappeared, and found it was dominating the websites of all the tabloids. It was grotesque. He didn’t know what Jake Waters looked like, but he hoped this wasn’t his normal look. Sparkes read the stories, noting the “No comment” from the Thai police, and looked back at the picture, trying to see Kate in the heavily made-up face. But there was nothing of her round the eyes or mouth.
Still, his son didn’t look much like him—took after Eileen’s side of the family. “God help him,” he told himself. “He would have had better hair if he’d inherited my genes.”
He wondered how the kids were today. Neither of them
had asked if their mother was being sent home for the last time, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell them. He thought they must know, but it was easier not to say it out loud. They would all take it one day at a time. He had the sensation of falling and he gripped the arms of his chair to save himself.
Jake Waters could be his displacement activity for the day. He was almost sure Kate would call now.
* * *
• • •
She did, forty minutes later.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Bloody awful, Bob. Have you seen the papers?”
“Yes. My DS just clocked up a personal best getting the latest news to me.”
“It’s a complete farce. This bloody photo was taken more than a year ago. It’s nothing to do with the fire. Poor Jake is having his life trashed over a picture taken at a stupid beach party.”
“I have to say I was surprised when I saw it. The reports I read yesterday said how brave he’d been.”
Kate sighed heavily, making the phone line whistle. “That came from one of the doctors. They said they thought he must have been injured trying to get people out of the fire. And everyone went with it. For twenty-four hours. Until this photo was found. Classic hero-to-zero maneuver.”
“Well, you know better than I do what the press gets up to when they get bored . . .”
She went silent.
“So, have you heard from Jake?” Sparkes continued. “Why do you think he left the hospital like that?”
“I have no idea. I’m so worried about him. But I could also wring his neck. Why the hell doesn’t he come forward? They’re saying he’s on the run, but it’s ridiculous. He’s an adult and he has chosen to discharge himself from hospital. It’s hardly a crime.”
“Quite. But it’s strange that he was allowed to leave—and hasn’t turned up.” Sparkes weighed his words carefully. If it’d been his investigation, he’d have made sure a potential witness didn’t disappear.
“Was he badly injured?”