by Fiona Barton
He sits down wearily, exhaustion dragging his eyes into the pouches beneath them. “I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours. Horrible surgery list today,” he says.
I keep quiet about my woes. They are pathetic in comparison. I’m on light duties at work, kept away from anything meaningful by Terry. I’d had to insist on coming back, pointing out that I wouldn’t be working on the fire—and that they needed me. “It’s not as if you are mob-handed, Terry,” I’d said. “I’ll do rewrites if you like. I need to keep busy.”
The Editor had me into his office on my first day back—just for a two-minute chat, to reassure me of the Post’s commitment to me—but he’s avoided me in the days since. And my name is not going in the paper.
“Best to keep a low profile for a bit, Kate,” Terry advised. So I’ve spent the past ten days bashing out fluff and battling with celebrity agents who want to tell me what I can and can’t write.
* * *
• • •
“You win. You had the worst day,” I say.
Steve is staring into his glass.
“Cheers.” I clink his glass of sauvignon blanc with mine and we each take a mouthful.
“Anyway, what do you want for dinner? There’s the rest of the fish pie to finish. Or we could order a takeaway.”
“Don’t mind,” Steve says. “Anything will do. You look tired, love.”
“I am,” I mutter. “I’ll stick the pie in the microwave.”
“Okay. Any messages on the answerphone when you got in? Anything in the post?” he asks, as he always does.
“Your mum left a message about Sunday. Looking forward to seeing us, et cetera. A reminder about the home insurance and one from the dentist about my next checkup. And there’s a speeding ticket.”
“Kate! Not another one,” he says. “Why do you have to drive like Jenson Button all the time? It is costing us a fortune in fines.”
“Shut up and drink your wine,” I say. “Anyway, it might have been yours. I didn’t read on.”
“Where is it?”
I find the limp envelope on the counter, hand it to him, and turn back to the fridge, searching for vegetables I’ve forgotten to buy.
“Well?” I say. “Who is the guilty party?”
“It’s Jake,” Steve says.
I stare at him.
Steve holds up the sheets of paper as proof.
“This speeding ticket is for him. Our son was apparently driving at eighty-two miles per hour on the A3 on August the twenty-sixth. That’s last week. In a hire car. The car company has passed the ticket on.”
“Jake?” I say. It’s the only word I really heard.
“Jake,” Steve repeats and takes my hand.
“He came home . . .”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Detective
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2014
He and Salmond had been to see the families the day after they’d returned and the two mothers had welcomed them eagerly.
“It is so good to finally be able to talk to a detective who knows what he’s doing,” Lesley had said as her opening gambit.
Sparkes had smiled encouragingly, but he hoped this was not just going to be foreign-police bashing.
“We’ll listen to what they say before making any kind of judgment,” he’d told Salmond on their way there. “But the families weren’t there when it happened, so let’s not lose sight of the fact that this is all thirdhand information.”
Malcolm O’Connor had sat nodding his agreement as his wife and neighbor set out what they knew. Or what they thought they knew. Hard to be objective about the evidence when your emotions are fully engaged, Sparkes thought.
“As we told you on the phone, they were not clothed when they were found, Inspector,” Lesley O’Connor had said, marking off “the facts” on her fingers. “But the police over there refuse to investigate whether there was a sexual assault.”
Sparkes noticed that Malcolm O’Connor had automatically looked up at the ceiling at the mention of sexual assault.
Always hard for fathers, flitted through Sparkes’s head. He saw that Lesley hadn’t noticed. She was focusing on itemizing the catalog of mistakes by the Thai police.
“They only taped the scene off for twenty-four hours and then anyone was allowed to walk all over any evidence. It was completely unprofessional. They made no effort to find witnesses. No one else who was at this supposed party has come forward. There must have been others staying at that guesthouse, but the only person we know about, Jake Waters”—she spat the name—“has gone on the run.”
“I’m not sure ‘gone on the run’ accurately describes it, Mrs. O’Connor,” Sparkes had said, putting his hand up to stop her. “Jake Waters discharged himself from hospital. And hasn’t been in touch with his family or the police. He may not know we want to talk to him.”
“Well, he must be living on a desert island, then.”
“That is possible in that part of the world, as I understand it,” Sparkes said carefully.
“Inspector, it’s been all over the Internet. The press think he has questions to answer,” Jenny had added.
Luckily, the press are not the final arbiters, he thought. God help us if they donned horsehair wigs officially.
“And the girls have been slandered by the Thai police. They’ve made them out to be bad girls so they can blame them and cover up the truth. Can’t you see?”
Lesley’s voice had risen as the accusations tumbled out, and she’d half-stood as she made her final plea. Malcolm O’Connor had reached for her arm and gently pulled her back into her seat.
“I understand how upset you are,” Sparkes had said. “You want answers. We all do. And we will try our best to find those answers. The results from the postmortems will help establish how your daughters died.”
The word “postmortem” had silenced everyone, and Lesley started to cry.
“I can’t bear it,” she’d sobbed. “I know you have to do it, but I don’t want anyone to touch Alex again. She’s been handled by police officers, mortuary assistants, embalmers, the undertakers. And someone at that guesthouse. Somebody stripped Alex and Rosie and wrapped them in coconut matting. But what else did they do? I keep thinking about hands on her skin. And I can do nothing to stop them.”
“But this needs to be done, love,” Malcolm had said firmly. “I wish it didn’t, but we need physical evidence. Alex has the key to what happened.”
“And Rosie,” Jenny had added. “They would want us to know, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, Jenny,” Malcolm had answered. “They would.”
Sparkes had listened to them rationalizing everything so they could bear it.
* * *
• • •
“Where is Jake Waters?” Sparkes said now. “What did he see?”
“He’s probably still in Southeast Asia,” Salmond replied unnecessarily.
“We don’t know that. We need to talk to his mother, to make sure she hasn’t heard from him.”
“I thought you had,” Salmond said slyly.
“Not officially. Not as part of our investigation. We need an update on the Bangkok situation. They might have heard something and not bothered to tell anyone. You set up the liaison with the Thais and I’ll talk to my mate at Interpol.
“And we need sight of the girls’ e-mails, texts, WhatsApps, Facebook, tweets. We’ve got passwords from the parents, haven’t we?”
“We’ve got Alex’s—she always used the same one for everything. Jenny Shaw said she doesn’t know Rosie’s.”
“Well, make a start with Alex.”
“On it,” she said and scurried out of the office.
* * *
• • •
She returned looking harassed. “DC Collins is mining the online stuff—he’s brilliant at it.”
“Police Colonel Prasongsanti of the Crime Suppression Division has no information on the whereabouts of one Jake Stephen Waters, DOB March 15, 1992,” Salmond recited.
“Okay, I’ll phone Kate Waters. I’m not going to jump in the car—it’s a bloody long way to go to find out she has heard nothing from him.”
“Maybe I should do it, sir. It would make it more . . . more formal.”
“Go on, then.” Sparkes read the number from his contact list and the sergeant dialed and put the call on loudspeaker.
“Hello. Kate Waters.” Her voice was brisk.
“Hello, Mrs. Waters. It’s DS Zara Salmond from Hampshire Police.”
“Hampshire Police?” Sparkes could hear Kate orienting herself. “DI Sparkes’s colleague? We’ve met, haven’t we? Must be a couple of years ago now. Was it in court?”
“Yes, that’s right. The Building Site Baby case, if I remember. Look, I’m ringing because Hampshire Police have started their own investigation into the circumstances of the deaths of Alex O’Connor and Rosie Shaw.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Sorry, yes. I just wanted to move away from my desk. I thought the investigation was closed.”
“It is in Bangkok, but the bodies of the two girls have been repatriated and the coroner has asked us to open an inquiry.”
“Of course. Sorry—I’d forgotten how that worked. So, how can I help you?”
“We would like to locate your son Jake Waters,” Salmond said smoothly.
“You and me both,” Kate muttered.
“To ask him about the night of the fire in Bangkok.”
“We don’t even know if he was there, DS Salmond.” Kate’s voice fizzed.
“Which is why we need to speak to him, to check where he was. He could be an important witness.”
“Okay.”
“Have you had any contact with your son, Mrs. Waters? Have you any idea where he is?”
“Does Bob Sparkes know you are calling? We’ve already been in touch on this matter.”
“Yes, DI Sparkes is aware of the request.”
“I would rather talk to him, if you don’t mind.”
Sparkes shook his head.
“He’s not available at the moment, I’m afraid.” Salmond was crisp and to the point. “So, have you heard from your son?”
There was the slightest of pauses.
“No, I haven’t.”
Sparkes scribbled Has anyone else? on a piece of paper and waved it under Salmond’s nose.
“Has anyone else heard from him?”
The hesitation again.
“I’m not sure,” Kate said.
“Not sure? What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it means anything, but I’ve heard he may be back in the UK.”
Sparkes’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair.
“What makes you think that?” Salmond asked.
“He’s had a speeding ticket.”
THIRTY-NINE
The Reporter
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2014
DS Salmond had wanted me to come in immediately when she phoned yesterday, but I asked if we could postpone it till this morning. I pointed out I was a good couple of hours away and I had to finish a story. I didn’t tell her I was writing some nonsense about the hottest Augusts in history. I wanted to keep the upper hand.
We made an appointment for eleven today. I told Terry I had a doctor’s appointment and he waved it through. He doesn’t want me in the newsroom.
My return has been much more difficult than I’d imagined. Steve had warned me but I suppose I’d been looking forward to coming home to the mother ship, to being surrounded by friends and colleagues. But my experience with the pack has left its mark. I’ve become wary of those innocent-sounding openings.
“You must be devastated, Kate,” Gail, one of the feature writers, a woman I’ve known since we learned shorthand together, had said as she hugged me. “And poor Jake. Having those terrible things said about him.”
I could feel myself tense as I waited for the dewy-eyed sympathy to turn to a grilling.
The thing is, we just can’t help ourselves. We want to know everything, and I know I would have asked some of the same questions: “Didn’t you know about the university issue?” “What do you think he’s been doing out there?” “Do you think he had anything to do with the deaths?”
When I didn’t come up with the goods, people backed off and started talking about me instead. I got worn down by the bone-aching awkwardness of it all. I’d walk into a room and the conversation would stop.
I became paranoid when people looked away, pretending to be busy. I couldn’t decide if it was because they think Jake’s bad or I am.
* * *
• • •
I’m still asking myself the same questions. Searching for answers, writing e-mails to him every day, begging him to get in touch. I’d hoped Freddie might have heard something, but he says not. We’ve packed him back off to university—he said he’d stay with us but I could hear the reluctance in his voice. He needs to be back in his normal life. He couldn’t do anything but sit around the house here, trying to make us feel better. He’s a lovely boy but patience isn’t his strong suit. I think the agony of the wait for news was wearing him out. We ended up following each other from room to room, making endless cups of tea, watching Antiques Roadshow so we didn’t have to talk. Because there are only so many ways to say “This can’t be happening.”
Platitudes were the safe option. But the atmosphere grew thick with what was going unsaid. I found myself wondering if Freddie had secret moments of glee—at seeing the golden boy of the family knocked off his pedestal—but I beat myself up for even thinking it. He loves his brother.
* * *
• • •
Ironically, I feel most comfortable with the one reporter I can hold responsible for Jake’s notoriety. Joe quietly brings me coffee and gobbets of the office goss.
I’ve decided to keep a low profile until this whole thing is over. Until we get the inquest verdicts of accidental death and the girls can be buried. Then I’ll make them all suffer for having suspected him. When it’s finished.
* * *
• • •
Steve was relieved when I told him about the call from Hampshire Police. He’d wanted to ring them as soon as we got the speeding ticket but I’d said no.
“It’s probably a mistake. I’ll ring the car hire people. And if it really is him, there’s a chance he’ll get in touch. Or come home. He won’t if I tell the police and it gets leaked to the press. It will all blow up again. Please, let’s wait.”
I’d rung the car hire company right away and waited while Vivaldi’s greatest hits played on a loop. Not the Nigel Kennedy version. My head was full of Jake and, as I smoothed the creases out of the official letter on my desk, I stroked his name with my finger. I’d told myself it must be an administrative error. Insisted. And Steve had gone along with it because the pain involved in admitting our son had returned home without telling us or making any contact was too much for either of us to bear. So, admin cock-up it was.
The person at the other end finally announced herself and I explained.
“I’ve received this letter,” I said. “It says my son was speeding in one of your cars. But he’s in Thailand. So it must be a mistake.”
“Do you have a reference number?”
Ten long minutes later, the woman at the car hire company had moved from professionally caring to “computer says no” mode. She had begun using my name in every sentence—never a good sign—and wouldn’t budge from the official line that the speeding fine was a police matter.
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Waters, that I ca
nnot discuss this any further with you—only your son.”
“But he’s in Thailand.”
“He’ll have to take it up with the police, Mrs. Waters. They issued the speeding ticket, not us. We are just passing on the correspondence to the person who hired the car,” she repeated.
“I see.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with at this time?”
“Is that a joke?”
The phone went dead.
I was still trying to decide my next step when DS Salmond had phoned to ask a direct question and I knew I couldn’t lie.
* * *
• • •
I’ve got the letter in my bag. And the envelope. But I imagine DS Salmond has already been in touch with the car hire people. She sounds like the efficient sort.
She comes out to the reception area of the police station to meet me and guide me through to an interview room. Bob Sparkes is already there. He looks up from his folder and smiles.
“Hello, how was the drive?”
“Good, thanks.” I’m about to call him Bob but it suddenly doesn’t feel right. I settle for not calling him anything.
DS Salmond is asking the questions, anyway.
“When did you receive the notice from the car hire firm?”
She must know already if she’s any kind of detective, but I play the game.
“It arrived in the post on Monday morning but I didn’t see it until I got home after work. I thought it was for me. I get a few . . .”
“When did you realize it related to your son?”
“A bit later that evening. My husband spotted his name on it.”
“But you didn’t contact the police?”
I glance across at Bob Sparkes, but his face is giving nothing away and he looks down at a piece of paper.
“Well, I couldn’t believe it was right. I wanted to get in touch with the hire people to check if there was an error. Of course, they wouldn’t discuss it with me. They said they could only talk to Jake. And that it was a police matter.”