by Fiona Barton
“The police? When did you do that?” I ask.
“Just this morning, actually. I thought that was why you got in touch.”
“Right,” I say. Moving swiftly on . . . “Anyway, it was a very good thing to do, Mags,” I say, and she looks grateful.
“I’m not sure Jenny, Rosie’s mum, will think so.”
“Why? Because the e-mails said Rosie was having a wild time?”
“Well, yeah. But more because she’d stolen money from Alex and blackmailed her dad into paying for the trip.”
Mags picks up the last of her onion rings and dips them in tomato sauce while I try to keep my face straight.
“That would be upsetting,” I admit. “When did all this happen?” I say.
“It was in the last e-mail I got from Alex. A couple of days before the fire. She wrote to say she’d just caught Rosie trying to get off with the bloke Alex liked and then going through her handbag. She’d stolen nearly two hundred pounds. Spent it on a tattoo and God knows what. And then Rosie had turned round and said she’d caught her dad kissing another woman and she said she’d tell his new wife if he didn’t give her money. Alex was so shocked. She told me she was going to leave Rosie there. She was considering coming home. Then nothing . . .”
“Wow,” Joe says. “That’s insane.”
“I know. I’d never have believed it if Alex hadn’t told me herself. Look, here—you can read the e-mail.”
Good boy, Joe.
Mags hands him her phone and he scrolls down, tutting and raising his eyebrows like a pro.
“You don’t mind if I take a copy of this?” he says, and Mags shrugs.
“Sure.”
“I’ll forward it to my e-mail and I’ll put my number in your phone so you can contact me again.”
She smiles and twirls a lock of hair between greasy fingers.
“Can I take a photo of you?” he asks, picking up his own phone.
BANGKOK DAY 17
(TUESDAY, AUGUST 12, 2014)
Alex’s new room was next door to the dorm and she could hear the murmur of the boys’ voices as she vented her anger in an e-mail to Mags, listing Rosie’s crimes in capital letters and ending I HATE ROSIE. I COULD KILL HER.
* * *
• • •
She wondered if she should tell someone else about the missing money. About Rosie. About Mama.
Maybe Jake can help. But what can he do? The money’s gone. I’m never going to see it again. But people should know what’s going on. Shouldn’t they? Mama could do it to them, too.
Alex went to stand in the shower, wanting to block out her thoughts and sluice off the sour stickiness of her spent fury. It was a horror show in there, the smell of slimy tiles and testosterone marking it out as the boys’ bathroom. She automatically blocked holes in the plasterboard walls with new twists of toilet roll before taking her clothes off—she was careful since the shadow at the window of their room. She closed her eyes and tried not to breathe until she was under the cold water.
She didn’t want to get dressed in the swamp, so she wrapped a towel around herself, grabbed her clothes, and crept back to her room. But as she turned the key, Jake suddenly appeared from the dorm.
“Alex? What are you doing down here? Don’t tell me you’ve used our shower? That must have been traumatic . . .”
She clutched her towel and clothes tighter, her exposed skin prickling under his intense gaze. “Er, I’ve moved into my own room. Look, I need to get dressed.”
“Are you okay? You look upset. Are we still going for that drink tonight? When I’ve finished my shift? Come and find me in the bar when you’re dressed.”
She nodded and got through the door as quickly as possible. He was so nice. Maybe he’d know what to do.
* * *
• • •
The beer was poured and ready for her on the counter when she emerged. The bar was busy and Jake was serving, so she perched on a stool and waited. Across the room, she could see Rosie deep in conversation with Mama. They looked up as if they could feel her eyes on them, but Alex turned back to the bar. She didn’t want to talk to either of them.
Keep calm, she told herself. It’s not you who has done anything wrong. So why did she feel like she had?
“All right?” Jake asked when the crowd thinned. “Is your beer still cold? Jamie bought it for you.”
“Yes, thanks.” She turned to seek out Jamie. He was sitting alone and stony-faced at a table at the back of the room. She raised the glass in thanks to him and took a sip.
“So, what’s going on? Why have you moved out?” Jake said. “Although I can probably guess . . .”
“Can you? I doubt it . . .”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’ve heard you arguing . . .”
“It’s a long story,” Alex said, suddenly unsure of what she wanted to tell.
“We’ve got all evening—I finish in a couple of hours,” Jake said and smiled.
It was the smile that did it. It made Alex melt inside.
“Rosie has stolen my money,” she said.
“Rosie? Really? Are you sure?” He looked over at the accused, and Alex saw her former roommate raise her head. She must have heard her name. Rosie pulled a face and turned back to the ever-attentive Mama.
“Yes. I caught her going through my bag. And she admitted it. But that’s not the worst thing. She’s been scammed out of a load of money by some bloke who rented her a scooter that got stolen.”
Jake’s lovely eyes narrowed.
“And Mama has scared her to death saying the police will get involved and plant drugs on her.” She didn’t get to tell him about Rosie paying Mama to help her. A customer took him off down to the other end of the bar to make a complicated cocktail before she could continue, and she sipped at her beer again. It was flat. She took a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the counter.
When Jake returned, he picked up the conversation as if there’d been no break. “Well, the scooter thing is in the Ladybird book of scams, but getting arrested? Perhaps Rosie is ramping it up to distract you from the fact that she’s nicked your cash. Make you feel sorry for her. She pulls the little-girl-lost thing quite a lot, I’ve noticed. She’s a bit of a nightmare, really, isn’t she?”
“I thought I was the only one who knew,” Alex said gratefully. “She said you all thought I was a misery, bringing everyone down.”
“I wouldn’t believe everything she says. No one thinks that. We all think you’re a hero, coping with Princess Rosie.”
Alex tried to smile.
“What about the money, though? Have you got enough to carry on? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could talk to Mama about it,” he said carefully.
“Mama? I think she might be part of the problem.”
“What do you mean? She knows a lot of people; that’s all I’m saying. She knows how things work. She’s helped me in the past.”
“How?”
“Well, things got a bit sticky last year. The police were being difficult about my visa and she sorted it out. I owe her.”
“Well, she’s made it clear she doesn’t like me. I’ll think about it.”
“Got customers. Let’s talk about it later,” he said as a crowd of noisy travelers flooded in.
* * *
• • •
Later, she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she’d started to feel ill. The evening had seemed to disappear. It had blurred at the edges at some point. She remembered Mama’s face, looming up at her, but Alex’s mouth had felt as if it had stopped working, so words fell out half-formed, and she was swaying dangerously on her stool. She needed to get to a toilet, but she didn’t know where she was. Was she still in the bar?
“What’s happening to me?” she’d wanted to say
, but all she’d heard was a series of slurred sounds. She’d felt hands lift her. Then nothing.
* * *
• • •
When she woke the first time, her head was hammering, and when she tried to push herself up, she vomited on the floor by the bed. She felt too weak to care and closed her eyes against the daylight. When she woke the second time—was it the second time?—it felt like it was getting dark again and the vomit had gone. A plastic bowl was beside the bed.
She tried to get up, but her legs shook too much and she crashed back down. The sound brought Jamie to her door.
“How are you feeling?” he said. “You look terrible. I’ll get you some water.”
Alex didn’t speak. She opened her mouth and immediately retched. Her ribs and stomach muscles felt bruised and she ached as if she’d been punched repeatedly.
“Lie still,” Jamie said. “I won’t be a minute.”
“What happened to me?” she croaked when he returned with a glass.
“I don’t know. Maybe you ate something bad. You collapsed near the loos. You poor thing. You’ve been so sick.”
She tried to remember what she’d eaten. The peanuts? She’d had only a couple of handfuls. But her head hurt too much to think.
“I put you to bed. I’ve been popping in and out to make sure you’re okay.”
Tears leaked out of Alex’s eyes onto the pillow. “I feel so ill,” she said. “I wish my mum was here.”
Jamie sat on the bed and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.”
“Does Rosie know I’m ill?”
When Jamie didn’t answer, she gripped his arm. “Tell her to text our mums to let them know we’re okay. I didn’t do it yesterday. They’ll worry. And Rosie never remembers. And don’t say I’m ill. My mum will fret.”
“Will do. Now, sleep.”
Alex lay as still as she could to avoid triggering the retching. She reached a hand under her pillow for her phone, but it wasn’t there. She’d find it later, she told herself.
FORTY-NINE
The Reporter
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Joe is going to drop me back home, but as we drive up the street, I see reporters sitting on my garden wall. “Reverse ferret,” I say, ducking down into the footwell, and Joe drives past and turns into the next side street.
“How many were there?” I say as I scrabble back into my seat.
“Three. And a photographer. It’s probably the agencies. They looked very young.”
I almost laugh. “Like you?” And he grins at me.
“Ah, but I drive like an old man . . . Where are we going?”
“Just to the corner. Leave me here,” I say when we get to the end of the alleyway at the back of my terrace. “I’ll ring you when I’ve combed through the e-mails.”
He’s forwarded the whole e-mail thread to me, thousands of words in scores of messages that began on July 27 and unspool to August 12. We’ve agreed he won’t file anything from them yet.
“There’s a lot of work to do, Joe. None of this info has been checked—especially stealing the money. Alex O’Connor could have made the whole thing up. We need to work it first.”
He’d nodded, but I could see the disappointment.
* * *
• • •
I creep along the back of the houses, waving to next-door Bet in her garden. She’s putting washing out and waves at me. I put my finger to my lips and point to the front of the house, and she smiles conspiratorially and beckons me into her kitchen.
“Come in,” she says, pushing her moggy, Albert, off a Formica stool. “Take the weight off your feet.”
“Have they bothered you, Bet?”
“They’ve tried. I told them to eff off. Bloody vultures. One kid called me ‘love.’ Cheeky bugger.”
I smile at the thought of someone trying to butter up Bet. God knows, I tried at first, when we moved in a million years ago. But she can spot insincerity a mile off and is impressed by nothing. She’s what my dad would have called “her own person.”
She’s looking at me for my response, but I can hardly join in slagging off the press.
“They’re just doing their job, Bet. They’ll push off eventually. Ignore them.”
“Hard when they are saying those things about Jake. I told them. He’s a lovely boy. Known him all his life and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Her words are unexpectedly kind and I don’t manage to steel myself in time. As I sit and cry, she rummages for tissues, then brings pink loo roll instead.
“Better out than in,” she says as consolation. “You mustn’t hold things in. Bad for you.”
I sniffle pathetically and try to pull myself together. “I’d better go, Bet. I’ve got to make calls to the family.”
“Take this packet of biscuits. I bet you’re not eating properly.”
I tuck the digestives into my handbag.
“Will you be talking to Freddie? Give him my love, won’t you? How is he doing? What does he think about it all?”
“He’s being very supportive,” I say. But I don’t really know what Freddie thinks anymore. I wonder if he blames me for Jake staying away, getting into this mess. We’ll have to be very careful about what we say to each other. I’ll try to protect him, but perhaps he’ll do the same for me. He might be more open with Steve. They can talk about me. I’ll ring him again tonight.
* * *
• • •
I hurry round to my back gate and lock it behind me. We don’t usually lock it—never had to before. The boys used to ride their bikes home from school and stick them in the shed before bursting through the back door. It’s been so long, the key has got rusty in the keyhole and I struggle with it. Then I stand in the sunshine for a moment, hidden from everyone by the tall brick walls that separate the gardens and watched by Albert, now lounging on our shed roof. I need time to think. Except thinking takes me back to the boy Jake was. Where is he now? What did we do wrong?
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath.
The list, Kate. Back to the list.
I fetch my laptop from the sitting room. This morning before Joe and I left, I’d drawn the curtains to keep out prying eyes and lenses, but coming in from the bright sun, I am blinded by the sudden darkness. I feel my way to the sofa and open the lid of the computer. I go to sit down but I can hear them talking outside. I think I even recognize voices. It is so surreal to be cowering in here with my friends outside, but I straighten my shoulders and walk away from them.
I’ve got a job to do, too.
It is a fishing operation, casting my net across every word contained in this stream of teenage consciousness.
I copy the e-mails into one document and search for different keywords. I start with “Jake.” I have to. I need to know what the police know. His name comes up repeatedly but I notice she also she calls him JW. Mostly in the later e-mails. JW this, Jake that. Alex seems of two minds. Sometimes she is all about my son, talking about how kind he is, his lovely eyes, his beautiful hands, how she hopes he will ask her out. How she tries to catch his attention. What he said, how he looked at her. My son the heartthrob. But at other times she is impatient with him, complaining that he is in her face. Girls, I think. Not that I know. Never having had one.
It is only later that I realize Jake is also referred to in the first e-mails when Alex talks about someone called the Stoner, who sits smoking joints in the dorm when he isn’t clearing tables. It’s him. I put this other Jake away and move on.
A search for “Lars” leads me to his friend Diederik. They were moving on to Myanmar. And there’s a reference to Amsterdam—“Suppose he smokes dope all the time at home—he says everyone does it in Amsterdam”—and Lars’s plan to study sound engineering when he gets back. Alex doesn’t sound impressed by him. She says she’s
frightened for Rosie, that she’s so out of control, doing drugs with Lars. She must have expected drinking and clubs—what teenager wouldn’t? But she’d been put in charge of a girl she didn’t really know. Alex’s fears are spelled out in full and I feel for her. She was so out of her depth. At eighteen to be dealing with this must have been terrible.
Bloody Rosie, I catch myself thinking. Stop it, Kate, you’re getting too involved already . . .
On and on the e-mails go, with Rosie spinning further and further out of control in Alex’s innocent eyes. “It’ll be all right” became her mantra, and I can picture her crossing her fingers when she was thinking it, like in a child’s game. But the growing sense of impending doom shouts out at me.
Why didn’t you do something, Alex? If only you’d rung home. Your mum could have told you what to do. That’s what mums are for . . .
I find another bit about Lars—Rosie was sleeping with him by then, according to Alex.
Went up to our room today and walked in on her and Lars. Soooo embarrassing. Rosie shouted at me to get out. I mean, it’s my room, too. Lars came out still putting on his shirt and said sorry. Rosie pretended nothing had happened when I went in. She’s weird like that. She said Lars was taking her to another club tonight. He’s going to do some DJing. He calls himself DJ Rappo. Crappo, more like!!!
I google “DJ Rappo, Lars, and Amsterdam.” He’s there, smiling sleepily at me from his profile picture. Lars De Vries. He’s got his own website. “Thank you, social media,” I hear myself say out loud.
* * *
• • •
I’ve got there ahead of Joe. He’s annoyed to be a step behind—“I had to drive back to the office, Kate. Cut me some slack”—but as excited as I am when I give him the name. “Okay, I’ll ring whoever we use in Holland. Who do we use?”