by Fiona Barton
The faces staring up at him looked lost in his fog of words. Why hadn’t he kept it simple?
“Sorry, what I’m saying is that it appears both girls were already dead when the fire started,” he clarified, and the faces lit up with understanding for a split second, then collapsed.
“They were murdered, weren’t they?” Jenny Shaw blurted. “Somebody killed them and set the place on fire to hide what they’d done.”
“How did they die?” Malcolm murmured.
“We are not sure about Rosie yet, but there are signs that Alex may have been strangled,” Sparkes said, keeping steady eye contact with Malcolm O’Connor. The father’s jaw pulsed and his lips pursed to contain his grief.
“Strangled. Who strangled our darling girl?” Lesley screeched. “Where is Jake Waters? He must know something. Only the guilty hide, don’t they?”
“Or the frightened,” Sparkes added.
“What would he be frightened of? The truth?”
“We need to take a step back here, Lesley. I know how devastating this news must be, but we need evidence, not guesswork and accusations, at this point. Let’s wait for the report from the lab to see if there’s anything to prove who was involved.”
“But how long will that take?” Lesley wailed.
“The full report will take another four to six weeks, as you’ve probably been told by Wendy. But we’ve asked the lab to prioritize some of the tests. We may have results next week, but I can’t promise.”
“But what about Rosie?” Mike Shaw asked from behind Sparkes. He was standing near the door as if about to make his escape. “Was she strangled, too?”
Sparkes turned to him. “We don’t know yet, Mike. There are no visible signs of injury on her body,” he said carefully. “But the labs may help us understand how she died.”
They all fell silent, struggling to absorb the tsunami of information.
It was Malcolm O’Connor who spoke first.
“Why didn’t the Thai police find this out?”
“I don’t know,” Sparkes said. “We will be sharing these findings with them and talking to them.”
“You might as well not bother,” Lesley said. “They don’t care what happened to the girls. But you do, don’t you?”
* * *
• • •
It was seven thirty when they emerged, but Sparkes was not ready to go home. One more thing. He liked a tidy desk.
“Right, quick trip to southeast London,” he said and pretended not to hear Salmond’s muttered “You’re kidding.”
“I thought you needed to get home, sir,” she said.
“I do, but Sam is with her mum. And I want to get things finished.”
He rang to tell Kate they were on their way.
“Is your husband home?”
“My husband? Have you found Jake? Can’t you tell me what’s going on?” Kate had pleaded.
“No, it’s best to talk face-to-face.”
* * *
• • •
Kate Waters’s house was not what he expected. He thought journalists and hospital consultants earned a fortune, but this was a modest terrace, probably ex-council, within a shout of the market traders in Roman Road. Still, London prices meant it was probably worth three times as much as his place.
There were red geraniums wilting in a terra-cotta planter on the windowsill.
“She wants to water those,” DS Salmond said, pushing the bell.
Steve Waters greeted them at the door. He was shorter than Bob Sparkes and the detective felt unaccountably pleased.
“You must be DI Sparkes,” he said pleasantly. “And DS Salmond. Please come in, both of you.”
Kate was sitting quietly in the living room. The television was on and her laptop was open on her knees. She closed it, muted the telly, and stood when the officers entered.
“Hello,” she said. “You made good time.” She sounded very calm, but Sparkes noticed the hint of a tremor around her mouth.
“Come and sit down and tell us what this is all about.” Steve Waters guided them to a sofa.
“This shouldn’t take long—thank you, Dr. Waters.”
“It’s Mr. Waters—sorry, not important. It’s just, surgeons are misters for some reason . . .”
Of course they are. Sparkes cursed his stupidity.
“Yes, sorry. Well, anyway. The postmortems of Alex O’Connor and Rosie Shaw were carried out today.”
“Ah!” Kate breathed.
“It appears neither girl was alive when the fire started.”
Kate held his gaze.
“How did they die, then?”
“There are still tests to complete, but we have strong indications that one of the girls was strangled.”
Steve Waters gasped.
“And you have come all the way from Southampton to tell us this?” Kate said. “Why?”
She knew why. Sparkes knew that she knew.
“Is this about Jake?” Steve asked quietly.
“Yes, Mr. Waters, it is. We are launching a murder investigation and this development has made it even more urgent that we speak to your son. To see what he may have seen or heard in the days and hours before the fire.”
“Of course,” Steve said.
“We also need a sample of Jake’s DNA—from a hairbrush or toothbrush, that kind of personal item.”
“You want his DNA? Absolutely not,” Kate said loudly. “You just said you wanted to talk to him as a possible witness. What are you not telling us? The Thai police have not accused him of anything. It is only the papers who’ve pursued him. And there is nothing to connect him—”
“We are gathering evidence all the time, Kate. The picture is getting clearer about what happened to Alex and Rosie. A DNA sample could rule him out of our inquiries.”
There was a pause.
“We haven’t got anything, anyway,” she said, but she sounded less sure now. “He didn’t leave a toothbrush here—he’d left home. And we’ve cleared out his room.”
“You’d be surprised what we can get DNA samples from. Can I send someone from forensics?”
“Oh, all right, then. If it will help rule him out.” He could hear the fear in her voice, feeding her aggression.
“What else have you found out?”
“We’d prefer not to disclose that at the moment,” Sparkes said firmly, giving his sergeant a warning look. He didn’t want to say anything about the sex swabs.
“I see,” Kate said.
“When are you putting this out to the media? Are you holding a press conference?” She was back in charge of the conversation, and Sparkes found himself sitting up a bit straighter. He wondered if this was how her interviewees felt.
“Oh God!” her husband whispered to himself.
“They’ll have to have one, Steve. It’s the next step,” Kate said.
“Yes,” Sparkes said. “We’re planning one for the morning. We’ll be asking for the public’s help in tracing Jake—and any other possible witnesses.”
“Who else are you looking for?” Kate asked.
Ever the reporter.
FORTY-THREE
The Reporter
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2014
When they’ve gone, I go into the downstairs loo and lock the door. I can’t bear to see Steve. He’s sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands and I think he may break down. I’ve seen him cry only a handful of times since I met him—when the boys were born we’d cried together, then when his dad died last year. And when I left him that time. The boys had been small and he’d never been there—always at work or thinking about work. I’d just wanted to make him realize, but I’d gone too far and it had taken months to get us back on an even keel.
I felt detached when Bob was telling us about the postmortems. I sort of
clicked into reporter mode, weighing the information, writing the intro in my head. But this is us. Not some story to be picked over for the best quote.
They’ve found someone’s DNA on the girls rings in my head like an alarm. They will know who did this.
Get a grip, Kate, I tell myself in the mirror. Jake had nothing to do with this. And Steve needs you.
He looks up when I come back.
“What are we going to do, Katie?” he says. I knew he’d ask that. He wants me to take charge of this, to make it all right.
“What are we going to tell people?”
“Well, they know the police want to talk to Jake. It’s been all over the press.”
“But they don’t know the girls were murdered, do they?”
“One of them,” I say. “One of them was murdered. We don’t know about the other one.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kate. Stop nitpicking. One girl or both girls—it doesn’t change anything, does it?”
It doesn’t. “I’m sorry. You’re right,” I agree. “We need to tell the family quickly. Now. You ring your mum and I’ll ring Freddie.”
We pick up our phones and I go into the hall. I can hear him apologizing to Dorothy for ringing so late. She’s probably in bed. We should have rung tomorrow morning. She won’t sleep now.
“Sorry, Ma,” Steve says. “Just wanted to let you know that there’s been some news about the fire in Bangkok. Well, I suppose it’s about Jake in a way . . .”
Freddie picks up and I’m immediately thrust into the surround sound of a rowdy pub.
“Mum! Has something happened?”
I want to shout “No”—he’s too young to bear the full load of my fears—but he is part of this. “Sort of. Can you go somewhere quieter for a moment, love?”
“Have you heard from Jake? Has he turned up?”
“No, not yet. There’s some stuff that’s going to be in the papers. One of the girls was murdered.”
“Not Jake . . .” he whispers.
“They don’t know who killed her, Freddie. But they are going to announce a murder investigation in the morning and say they urgently need to speak to your brother. I wanted to warn you.”
“Oh, Mum!”
“I know, love. I know. They want a DNA sample. To rule Jake out,” I say and hear how hollow this sounds. “But we haven’t got anything left of his at home.”
“I have,” Freddie says. “I’ve kept some of his T-shirts and that baseball cap he wore to annoy you.”
“Have you? I didn’t know.”
“Yeah,” he says, and I hear the tremble in his voice. “They’re in my cupboard. Stupid, I know, but they smelled of him. I missed him, Mum.”
And I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too busy putting on my own brave face.
“I’m sorry, Freddie. We’ll find him.”
* * *
• • •
Later, Steve and I sit hugging our cups of coffee in silence.
“He had nothing to do with this, Steve,” I say again.
“No.”
“I’m going to find out who did do it.” And I suddenly feel lighter. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find the people who were at the guesthouse. Find the others. That’s what I’m good at.”
Not being a mother, plainly. But I can do this.
“Katie,” Steve says, “you can’t make this right by banging on doors and hounding policemen. Jake is our son. We are responsible for him. And if he has done something wrong, we have to stand by him and help him take his punishment.”
I stare at him. He doubts Jake. He can’t be part of my plan, and I draw the fences around me closer.
* * *
• • •
I ring Joe Jackson from the kitchen and give him the heads-up about the postmortems.
I can hear the excitement in his voice building as I drip feed him the details I’ve decided to share.
“Dead before the fire started?” he says. “Strangled? Bloody hell. And I can file this now?”
“Yes, Joe. It’s going to be put out there by the police in the morning. You’d better ring the O’Connors and Shaws straightaway. You can include a quote from me, that this must be a heartbreaking development for the families but there is nothing to connect my son with these deaths.”
“Got it.”
“And, Joe, you owe me big-time now. I’m going to call in favors. Understood?”
“Absolutely. Happy to help.”
We’ll see.
BANGKOK DAY 17
(TUESDAY, AUGUST 12, 2014)
Mama had given her a hard look when Alex asked for her own room.
“You are not sharing with Rosie?”
Alex had given her a hard stare back.
“No. I need another room. Just for me.”
She was not in the mood to explain or discuss. She needed her own space. End of.
* * *
• • •
Rosie’s confession had left her shell-shocked. She’d realized she didn’t really know this girl sharing her room, but nothing could have prepared her for what Rosie had revealed.
Her friend had stopped crying abruptly, perhaps realizing Alex wasn’t buying the little-girl act, and wiped her eyes on her T-shirt.
She’d lain back on the pillows, speaking to the ceiling, maybe so she didn’t have to see Alex’s reaction, and announced that she’d had to get away from home because she was going to fail her A Levels.
“I don’t care, but my mum is going to go mad.”
“How do you know you’re going to fail? Maybe you’re just being paranoid,” Alex had said.
“I wish. I missed an exam. A whole paper. I went to a party that turned into an all-nighter. I hooked up with someone and didn’t wake up in time. Mum thought I was on a study weekend with my biology group. But I needed to have some fun. I was sick of studying. I don’t want to go to uni anyway. That’s what my mum wants, not me.”
Now that she’d started, Rosie almost looked like she was enjoying herself. She was the center of attention again, where she belonged. And everything was someone else’s fault. She was always the innocent victim.
“Never mind that. What about my money? Why were you stealing from me?”
“I wasn’t stealing it. I told you I was borrowing it. I’ll pay you back, Alex.”
“When?” But Rosie was telling the bare lightbulb hanging over her the next installment of her sob story.
“I had to, Alex. Everything cost much more than I thought. The tattoo was four thousand baht, remember? Even though I didn’t get the big one.”
“You didn’t have to have it done,” Alex exploded, but the excuses continued to flow as Rosie examined her glittery fingernails, which she’d spent the afternoon painting.
“And everyone is ripping me off.”
“Who?”
“Well, the tattoo place. And . . . and the scooter bloke.”
“What scooter bloke?”
For the first time, Rosie sat up and looked at her.
“It wasn’t my fault, Alex. Honest. I hired a scooter from him. Lars wanted to ride round Bangkok on one, but he didn’t have enough money for the deposit, so I paid it. It was a proper rental shop and we were having a great time, but we left it outside a bar while we had a drink. It was all locked up, I swear. But when we came out, it was gone. The bloke went mad when we told him. He turned round and said I owed him thousands of baht to replace it.”
“Seriously? What were you thinking? It’s one of the best-known scams in Thailand. It’s on every travelers’ forum. These con men have duplicate keys to the bikes and steal them themselves, then charge you.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Whatever. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d go mad. I thought I could sort
it out myself and you wouldn’t need to know.”
Alex almost laughed. Almost.
“Did you tell the police?”
“I wanted to, but the scooter-shop man has my passport. I had to leave it as a guarantee when we hired the bike. I asked Mama if she’d come to the police with me, but she said I’d be arrested if I didn’t have a passport. And that the police would probably plant drugs on me. But she said if I gave her money, she’d pay them off. She’d sort it out. She said she’d make sure I didn’t get into trouble. She says she’s done it for foreigners before.”
Rosie stole a look at Alex before collapsing back and burying her face in the pillow.
There was a stunned silence. All Alex could think was, You’ve ruined everything.
“I should have told you,” Rosie said quietly.
“You think? Have you told your mum?”
“Of course not.”
“What about your dad? Maybe he could lend you the money to get your passport back.”
Rosie sat up and tried to laugh. “He won’t. I had to threaten to tell Imogen about his latest girlfriend to get the money to come here in the first place. I saw him snogging one of the shop assistants in a car outside his work. It was a bit of luck. He’d never have paid up otherwise. But he gave me the money to shut me up and get me out of the way. I don’t know where he found it. He said he was completely broke, living on credit cards. But he did.”
Alex stared at her, Who are you? running through her head.
* * *
• • •
“Here.” Mama thrust a key into her hand. “Ground floor. Through there.” As she pointed, Alex noticed that her silver-painted fingernails matched Rosie’s. Thick as thieves, she thought. Thieves anyway.
“Thanks.” Alex shouldered her hastily packed bags and tramped off into the gloom at the back of the guesthouse.
Rosie came clattering down the stairs, calling her name, but Alex ignored her. She was too furious to say anything sensible. She’d tell Mags all about it.